Laurel Massé

Expectancy

Advent. Waiting for something.

We wait for God, who is always with us. to come to be us, to be one of us, to join us in the web of senses through which we experience the world, and with which we try to capture and comprehend God. The language of the body, through the body, is the language we understand, for better and for worse.

We wait for God to come to us, take on our vision, and teach us how to use our eyes. If, in the Incarnation, God's human eyes are like our human eyes, then what is to prevent us from seeing as God sees? Only the hardness of our hearts, which we are promised can be changed. I will take away your hearts of stone and give you hearts of flesh (Ezekial 36:26).

We wait to be shown that what God asks of us can be done by us, in our bodies, in our senses, in our earthbound lives. We can love each other right here. We can hear each other right now. We can touch in comfort and blessing with the hands we have in this life. Jesus comes and shows us the way.

Christmas is an extravagant celebration of the Word made flesh. Come, Lord Jesus.

Here I am... wasn't I?

It's very hot in the city this morning, and has been for a couple of days. I live on the top floor of an older building, right under the roof, where it heats up early and stays hot late. My air conditioner won't be installed till after the weekend. All this to acknowledge that I am not at my best. Now, my grandparents lived on the top floor of a 6-floor walkup in Washington Heights for many years, and they never had air condioning. The hardiness genes must be deteriorating with each succeeding generation. 

Whatever the reason, I had a spiritual meltdown yesterday. On a break from working on a friend's recording project, I heard another recording the engineer has been working on. The track was swinging, one of the singers was terrific - great intonation, hip choices, totally in the groove.. The other was not. This other, albeit a very fine theatrical singer, Did Not Swing. Was not in tune, either. I heard all that, and felt envy - envy that that one singer was getting to record in my genre (mine mine mineminemine waaaaah!) while I cannot afford to, frustration that agencies and labels have not been interested in me since I left the Transfer, exhaustion from having to do everything by myself. I was just a mess inside, and probably at that moment had all the emotional and spiritual maturity of a two-year old. The only credit I can claim is that I did not fling myself to the floor and wail. And that I probably would not have done so even if I had been alone.

The sting is this: I actually don't believe in the competition model of the arts, and I don't accept the limitations of genre, either. In fact, I believe that one must offer real support to one's fellow artists, and honest encouragement when they stretch beyond their perceived limits, and generous, genuine rejoicing when they have opportunities and successes. Let's face it - it is easy to find folks in your field who will whine in harmony with you. It is being honestly celebrated by your peers that is scarce. So my inner behavior was completely contrary to my profound convictions.

I have been wondering all night and this morning about this. How can I seem to have come so far, and then step in my own leavings? Conversion is not a single event. That's what I am forced to remember. It is a daily, hourly, every-minute event. Think it's done? and it ain't, and here's proof: my inner Waaaah! Of course that's found throughout scripture, with St. Peter is the all-purpose example. Lived with the Lord, loved the Lord, and the minute he thought his own skin was at risk, he denied ever having met the man.

In dog training (ride with me on this) I learned that mammals under stress revert to earliest learned behavior. And what is our earliest learned behavior, us humans? Crying to get what we want. And being afraid of being neglected, uncared-for, unloved. And that is the territory I visited yesterday. In the studio, no less, which I must add is like a sanctuary to me. A place of shelter.

Well, waiting in the mailbox for me when I got home was a copy of James Alison's On Being LIked, which has been recommended by a friend with whom I have been musing about the Atonement and substitutionary sacrifice. I opened the book briefly to sniff at it (doesn't everyone?) and "happened" to open it to these sentences:
In other words, we are taught to be loving lookers at what is by the One who is calling into being and loving what is. We are taught to see and delight in what is by the One whose delighting is what gives it, and us, to be.

Oh. Lord, I believe with all my heart... and help me in my unbelief. Lord, be my vision.

I am saving the rest of that book for July because of the ongoing One Good Book Experiment. My final word (at least for now)about my envy fit (see? it's not even green anymore) is the Word that knocked me back into a better balance this morning. It is in John's gospel, chapter 3: Now a discussion arose between some of John's [the Baptist's] disciples...so they went to John and said, ""Rabbi, the man who was with you on the far side of the Jordan, the man to whom you bore witness, is baptising now, and everyone is going to him." [Here is where John could have said "Going to him? But I'm the Bapist. Waaah!"]. He replied, "No one can have anything except what is given to him from heaven.... It is the bridegroom who has the bride; and yet the bridegroom's friend, who stands there and  listens to him, is filled with joy at the bridegroom's voice. This is the joy I feel, and it is complete."

uh oh...

I have this evening finished reading what Christians call the first five books of the Old Testament, and what Jews call the Law, or Torah. Steeped as I am in English murder mysteries and books about dogs, I cannot pretend to much knowledge about how this body of work is read and understood from the Jewish traditions. My own Bible's notes call it "the memorial of the beginnings of God's people". They were bloody beginnings. I find this very difficult reading, and it has been slow going. Slow, and riveting, once I stopped my ears to my imaginings of the struggle of animals in the thousands that were being sacrificed. I am hoping that some of you will join in here, and help me understand what I am reading. Am I wrong to see this as a practice of substitutionary sacrifice? You must not deliver your children to be slaughtered for the god Moloch, for I am your God, but I know you have to kill something because you humans are like that, and it takes blood to get your attention, so sacrifice the firstborn and perfect of your herds and flocks for me instead.

Beyond this, though, lies a story of a people being chosen. Wanted. Desired. It also is a story of screwing up a relationship over and over, of being repeatedly unfaithful and untrustworthy, and being taken back, but with ever more conditions. "OK, but now you have to do this and that". Hence Leviticus and much of Deuteronomy. The Israelites are told over and over that God will take care of them, cherish them, put them above all other peoples if they are faithful to him, and castigate them, punish them, kill a generation of them, and keep some of them forever out of the land flowing with milk and honey if they are not faithful. And they keep wandering off.

While I have been reading this, my church has moved through Easter season, and I am also reading and hearing the New Testament. Christ has died, Christ is risen, and now we are in a waiting time before he sends the Comforter, the Holy Spirit that he promised to us, promised to send to us because he loves us. Loves. Loves. Us. This also is hard reading, because it is initiating a gnawing, a restlessness, a radical discomfort. I am not sleeping very well, actually. How does one respond to this extravagant love? Of course, I don't really mean some abstract theoretical "one". I mean me.

In the most recent edition of her brilliant radio program Speaking of Faith , Krista Tippett interviews 'new monastic"  Shane Claiborne, who quotes the Danish philosopher/theologian Soren Kierkegaard as saying: "The Bible is very easy to understand. But we Christians are a bunch of scheming swindlers. We pretend to be unable to understand it because we know very well that the minute we understand, we are obliged to act accordingly."

a very good book?

I don't know about The Bible. Is it THE good book? Is it so good that one would want to - or be able to - read no other book for a set period of time? I wonder.

I have met evangelists of various stamps who read nothing but the Bible. Novels are sinful, science is errant, only the Good Book is a...well, a good book. In a less-than-spiritually-evolved way, I have thought they were idiots. Dear idiots, though - anyone willing to pray that a complete stranger will come to see the light has to be held as dear. But they seemed ill-informed and of course poorly-read.

It is rather too late for me to have read only the Bible in my life. Anyone who has ever helped me move knows that. Household effects, 10 boxes. Books, 50 boxes. And I have a pile of books to get to on my bedside table. And I am living in Manhattan. We have lots of books here in Manhattan. Is it possible, would it be possible for me, compulsively hyper-literate me, to read only the BIble for, say 6 months? No, no, I meant 2 months (I scared myself). Starting after I finish what is on the bedside table and the books I ordered from the library?

There are complications - what about the newspaper? That's OK. It's not a book! And it may be irresponsible to be ignorant of current events. And The New Yorker. That's OK too. Probably. And Country Living's fine, because I only look at the pictures. And what about biblical commentary? And what if I get a cold for which the cure is reading English murder mysteries? Ooh. This is like peeling very fresh hard-boiled eggs. Little tiny pieces of shell that do not want to let go.

It's just an idea. I was reading David Plotz's Slate.com series, "Blogging the Bible" several months ago. Mr. Plotz is reading the Old Testament through for the first time, as an adult, and posting his responses to that book. It's fascinating. This week I am reading Julie Powell's book, Julie & Julia. She had an idea... and rose to the challenge of cooking through every recipe in Julia Childs' masterpiece, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, in one year. She kept a running blog, and since has published a sharp-as-Romano-cheese book of her experience, subtitled "365 days, 524 recipes, 1 tiny apartment kitchen". It, too, is fascinating, though I am not likely to duplicate the feat. My tiny kitchen measures 4' x 5' empty. Add appliances, and I am left with 2' x 5' set up pretty well for a right-handed person. I am left-handed.

What I bring to my reading that David Plotz and Julie Powell did not have is prior experience. I have already read the Bible, even Leviticus (!) a couple of times in a different translations, and from different points of view (Congregationalist, Lutheran, Episcopalian, Catholic, Goddess, panentheist, Joseph Campbell devotée). I have read the writings of many a wild saint, and the more copious writings of many a covertly-wild scholar. So I am not exactly innocent and fresh. But I have lived a span of days since those readings, and the Good Book was never the Only Book. What if I take on the task of reading this work that has influenced our western culture more than any other book AS IF it was the only book in town? Would it expand my understanding of the universe?

OK. Perhaps you have decided "she's mad, I tell you, quite mad", or you are thinking, 'well, you own the books on the bedstand, so you can read them later, after, if you still want to", or "do you really think we want to know this about you, or want to read about it?" or something I have not imagined yet. But as a performer, it is part of my job to presume you are thinking about me. And I am thinking about reading a book.

a tear in the fabric

My dear friends, there is shocking and confusing news from Blacksburg, VA, where 33 people died today at Virginia Tech.
I taught there a few years ago, invited by Professor Daniel Schneck to lead a workshop in improvisation for his engineering students.They were shy at first, and then they sang, and danced, and were so inspiring. The university was lovely, idyllic. We were in Norris Hall, the engineering building, the same building that is and forever will be the scene of today's tragedy. Haunted.
I ask you to offer whatever rituals are yours everyone involved: the victims, their families, and the community of Virginia Tech, and Blacksburg. And for the police, and the shooter. Everyone.
We don't know, we don't understand.

Sound of Silence

I hve just finished a week of recording as a background and occasional foreground vocalist. The arrangements were very taxing vocally, and so I decided to put myself on complete voice rest when not actually in the studio. No chatting. No phone. Seems like such a little and yet nearly impossible thing, but I know that Janis Siegel sometimes does this, and it works for her.

This "practice" had the immediate effect of allowing me to sing everything that I was asked to, effortlessly and without strain. Instant benefit. A few days had passed before I realized that I was receiving another and greater benefit. I was happier. Everything that had been overwhelming me became manageable. Or smaller. Or not all that important. My own practices seemed to deepen. The cat seemed happier, too.

I think I begin to see that the silence imposed by some religious orders has a luminous side. Something exists in the quiet that is not there in the noise. Or it is, but I don't notice it. I felt as if I was noticing more. More able to pay attention, less distracted. An article in th NY Times about multi-tasking says: The human brain, with its hundred billion neurons and hundreds of trillions of synaptic connections, is a cognitive powerhouse in many ways. “But a core limitation is an inability to concentrate on two things at once,” said René Marois, a neuroscientist and director of the Human Information Processing Laboratory at Vanderbilt University.

I think being quiet gave me one less thing to juggle, as there was no longer an obligation to comment on everything ... or on anything at all. So now I have a new motto: Sing or Shut Up. Would that be Canta aut Tace in Latin? Help me out, Educated Readers!

Of course, tomorrow night I am singing at the Metropolitan Room, and so will have to hope for the gift of honeyed speech between songs. But the next day...

transcendence

Have you ever seen a painting that haunted your inner vision, read a book of ideas that gnawed at you, heard music that would not let you rest but challenged you to risk immolation? When this happens, and it is rare, it is deeply unsettling and uncomfortable in a way that one can only hope will eventually lead to greater insight and better art. But there are no guarantees, and there is a whisper in your gut saying, "now what do I do?"

What, indeed.

This past Friday I had the great privilege of seeing Chris Thile and his new band, the Tensions Mountain Boys, at a house concert on the night before their Carnegie Hall debut. It is now Tuesday evening, and I am still wrestling with the experience. It was the most extraordinary concert I have seen in decades. On that long ago night, I finally saw Joni Mitchell in person. Jaco Pastorius was in the band, vibrantly alive. The Persuasions came out to sing Shadows and Light with her. This artist, who had been so important to me since her very first album, was transcendent that night. I cried from the joy of being hit by so much beauty at once and the pain of doubting that I would ever be a fully-realized artist. Not just singer. Artist.

Beauty isn't pretty. Beauty is overwhelming. And because we are equipped to handle only so much at a time, unexpected glimpses, overdoses, of beauty take our breath away. Bring us to tears. Knock us to our knees. I think this is why angels usually have to say "Fear not." And I have never met an artist who did not have to wrestle, at least now and then if not every day, with self-doubt of some sort. The tormenting question is "am I good enough?" Am I skilled enough to realize my vision? Can I put this into words and endure the endless process of revision? Can I get this sound that is in my head into my fingers, onto the page, onto the recording? And will I hold up, can I last long enough, will my voice hold out?

Joni's concert -  her work that seemed to me so fully realized - raised the doubt demons that had been hiding in my spirit, and it was not until I started singing a capella 20 years later, and had recorded Feather and Bone, that I felt I had done something as fully-formed. I am not saying I wanted to be like Joni, or that I envied her. I just thought that she was being Joni Mitchell with every fiber of her being and every morsel of her creative spirit, and I wanted to be fully Laurel in that same way, and it takes a long time.

I don't know if I can articulate what I am feeling. There are feathers and bones inside me all the time. Everything I have done since then rests on what that was to me, a glimpse of what I am when I get out of my own way, a taste of what I could do if I really committed.

I have done good work since then, I know, but I am being told is time to ratchet up. I know this because of what I heard and saw last Friday and what it has called up in me. Chris Thile, one of the finest mandolin players in the world, has taken his music far beyond boundaries, just right through them as if they are not there. And so they are not, not anymore. Chris and his band were extraordinary. I whooped and cheered at the concert, and I have been crying off and on ever since. It was the real deal. It was  straight on till morning. It was What We Are Here For. And so, like that Joni Mitchell concert so long ago, it was a great big smack-in-the-face gauntlet, and a challenge: What, Miss Laurel, are you going to do NOW?

And I don't know yet, and that is painful.

So Great a Cloud of Witnesses

There is another article in the paper today about the growing rift in the Episcopal Church here in America. At issue is - I think, as I am the new kid on the block - a changing definition of acceptable sexuality, and a wrestling with what this means. Can a spiritual leader, a priest, be female? Gay? Married? Same-sex married? Where is Scripture literal? Where is it not?

I have read the Bible several times over the past few decades, in several different translations. This reading informs my thinking, but it also tends to raise more questions rather than to answer them once and for always. That's OK. I can keep reading and reflecting, and I am not afraid of big long books. I read Gone With the Wind about 10 times in a row when I was  12, all 1037 pages, and devoured Atlas Shrugged a couple of times, too (before my mother wrested the book out of my hands saying, "I don't want you reading that. You are selfish enough already."). I can quote scripture to support every side of just about any argument. For me, this particular issue comes back, though, to tangible personal experience.

Since my spiritual path started to take form within Christianity, I have been welcomed into various congregations to rest a while before continuing on my journey. These resting places have been, in no particular order, Episcopal, Evangelical Lutheran, Roman Catholic. Though I have crossed paths with several clerics ill-suited to the ministry, I have been blessed to meet their opposites more often than not. I have been comforted, admonished, inspired and guided by priests and ministers who have each in their turn been profoundly important to my seeking and growth. They have been, in particular order of appearance: Married. Gay. Gay in a committed relationship. Married. Female. Female.

I have no idea, nor is it any of my business, who has or has not been celibate. What is my business is that these people, whom some would say are not worthy, not qualified to be priests at all, have borne witness to me of the unchanging love of God. The passionate, wild, tender, mothering, fathering, sustaining love of the Creator for all creation. They have comforted me through losses that I could not bear. They have celebrated joy with me. They have shown me, over and over, that God's kingdom is right here, right now, and now, and now, and that we are to pay attention to this dazzling, be part of this "ring of endless light". I can only hope to sometimes get out of my own way enough to continue and pass along what they have nurtured in me. I would not be here without them.

Restless Heart

About a mile north of my apartment stands the largest cathedral in the world, the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine. It is magnificent and beautiful and unfinished and fire-damaged and crumbling all at the same time. I have taken to visiting Mme. la Cathédrale frequently in the last few weeks. This is a little pilgrimage for me, not a very difficult one, though it is dreadful hard to pass the Hungarian Pastry shop without stopping in for a walnut macaroon. I am not making my way on my knees. I am not on crutches. I am not born on a litter and let down on ropes through the roof. I am just walking a few blocks through a bustling neighborhood to a big church on a hill (Morningside Heights) in a garden (the Cathedral Close). The pull to go there is strong, even though I know that officially-designated temples are not the only holy places. My apartment, my neighbor's apartment, the stage in any given venue, and the subway are all holy places. Perhaps there is no such thing as a place that is NOT sacred. God is everywhere. Churches are just buildings. I know this. I have touristed through hundreds of them.

Still, when I am there, up on the hill, it is easier for me to access the place in my heart where God resides, or at least the space I am trying to keep open. Let me tell you the big secret I discovered this afternoon - that particular Cathedral is also a small room, an intimate embrace. I feel like I am sitting on her knees, and she is whispering stories to me that tell of many things, including where I came from and where I am going, and that I do not go alone.