december 8th...

"i'm just sitting here
watching the wheels
go round-and-round..."

This day - each year - is pregnant with pauses -- for finding deeper meaning. John Lennon's "Watching the Wheels," is the perfect keynote for a number of reasons.

December 8th, 1980. Heartache. I was a 26 year old who thought she knew the world she lived in. Difficult as it was, it was graspable. Yes, as a generation, we had been through the assassinations of both Kennedy brothers and Martin Luther King, Watergate, and a confusing war that had taken our brothers and boyfriends before their time. But we had the Beatles. We had George's spirituality. We had John's imagination. We had Paul's sweet joy. We had Ringo's loyalty. We would be okay.

And then John was assassinated and something shifted for me. I struggled with finding a sense of meaning and clarity about "why?" A few years of beating at the air, and falling off the deep end. And the deep end really was quite deep. More like falling into an abyss of self and sorrow. I couldn't imagine anything -- much less a world of "all the people living life in peace..."

So what changed. I think, in hindsight, it was another December 8th. December 8th, 1984 -- and a global video conference, imagined by a group of men and women who believed that it was time:

“to live for all mankind"
 

And today, over three decades later, I have no doubt -- whatsoever -- that these two December 8th events are connected on my spiritual path.

I believe that John Lennon's passing dug deep into the soil of my heart. It was a painful cultivation beneath the surface of complacency. It was not enough to love the song, "Imagine," I wanted it to be real, alive, breathing in me, and in the world that I lived it. I was afraid that John's passing would mean the end of his dreams. Instead, I think, it stirred something in us that was sleeping.

Fast forward to 1984. I was raw with a desperate hope that felt like an exposed nerve. I tried every pain-killer to quiet its ache. Nothing was working. It pulsed and throbbed like a wound.

But somewhere, they were praying. They were listening, planning, reaching out with something that could not be commodified -- it was hope. The worldwide leadership of The First Church of Christ, Scientist was gathering its greatest resources, the hearts and prayers of its members, to recommit to its Leader, Mary Baker Eddy's vision:

“to live for all mankind"
 

Not just its own members, but all mankind. As one member of their Board of Directors put it, "the meeting reflected a  sense of spiritual urgency to address the needs of our fellow man at the deepest possible levels." They were casting their net wide - as fishers of men, and I was caught in their draught. 

Today, 39 years after John's assassination, his deep moral imagination for our world resonates like a tuning fork in our collective hearts.

Today, 35 years after the "to live for all mankind" video conference that circled the globe, a 19th Century woman's vision for humanity resonates at the core of my being.

I remember as a child hearing the statement:

“Nobody wins, until everybody wins."
 

I believe this to be true. If my God isn't All-in-all -- and all, for all; well, it's not a God I can love, trust, or worship. But He/She is. Eddy states in her primary work, and the books that guided those 1984 visionaries:

“Love is impartial and universal
in its adaptation and bestowals,
it is the open fount which cries,
Ho, everyone that thirtieth,
Come ye to the waters..."
 

Imagine all the people living life in peace. Imagine all the people free from persecution. Imagine all the people sheltered and fed. Imagine all the people having access to educational opportunities, healthcare, seniority filled with wisdom and love -- rather than dismissiveness and isolation.

Just imagine. Then, live for all mankind.

December 8th is a day of new birth, of fresh opportunity, and great moral awakening for me. It is a day for imagining all the people living life in peace -- and then doing all that we can to make it true.

offered with Love,

Kate

"yesterday, came suddenly..."

"yesterday,
came suddenly..."

If you are "of a generation" that grew up loving four boys from Liverpool, and haven't seen Danny Boyle's new film  "Yesterday," -- trust me, you must. And that said, you might want to stop reading here. I am going to reveal two moments from the film that took me apart. In an empty theater.  In rural New England.

Suffice it to say, I loved this movie. It was such a surprise for me. Not just the brilliant performances, the surprising plot, the sweet love story, and the absolutely remarkable music - but the way it affected me.

As I said, it took me apart, and put me back together. Spoiler alert: this is where, if you haven't see the film, and you don't want to know what - for me -- were the heart-shattering and hope restarting moments you should stop reading.  Now.

There are two scenes. And they are related. The premise of the film is that there has been a global black-out, and during those twelve seconds, a young man is hit by a bus. When he recovers from his injuries, he seems to be the only person on earth who remembers The Beatles, or their music. He begins - reluctantly at first -- performing those songs. And he becomes an instant global phenomenon -- as everyone thinks that he is the world's greatest songwriter.

And just as he is starting to feel the depth of his ethical dilemma, he is approached by two other people who "remember." He thinks that they will expose him for the fraud that he is, but, -- and here is my first "lose it" moment -- they embrace him. They are just so very grateful that he remembers the Beatles and their songs, and that he is re-sharing those songs with the world.  Since neither of them is able to sing. At one point, one of them says:

"A world without the Beatles'
is a world that is infinitely worse..."

Yup. Totally lost it.

I had been feeling this way. Just sad.  Sad about a number of things that seemed to have been taken from us, or were fading from society's memory. This film reminded me that I have known a world with Beatles in it -- with happy, poignant, deeply moving songs that I have taught my children on long road trips with the "One" CD playing in an endless loop.  That I have known a world in which a respected person of color could become the President of the United States. I have known a world where "Love is love is love."  And I could never be made to forget.

The second paradigm shattering moment in this film (for me) is one that you - if you were a person of a certain generation - truly must see - not just read about. And if you haven't seen it, you really do want to stop reading here.  Please.  Do not ruin this moment for yourself.

At the height of his moral dilemma, Jack is given a slip of paper with an address on it -- by the two other people who "remember." Where he finds himself on the threshold of a small beach cottage along the English coast. He knocks on the door and when it opens, there is John. Yes, John Lennon. And this is where my heart broke wide open. Into ugly sobbing. In an empty movie theater. On a weekday afternoon.

I don't just mean a lump in my throat.  Or a few tears coursing down my cheeks. No. I mean chest aching, breath-taking, gasping sobs.

It took me by surprise.  Not just the moment in the film, but my response to it.  The actor who portrays John is so good, and looks so much like him, that for a moment I thought it was real. That they had actually found John. It was all a ploy.  A way to get John out of the public eye.  A way for him to be able to have a peaceful life. No, he hadn't been murdered outside the Dakota on a cold December night over forty years ago.

And that was when I saw that I wanted it to be real. I wanted it so badly. I hadn't realized how much -- until that moment. John's passing hadn't just been the passing of a controversial rock star for me. At the time, it felt as profoundly world-altering as the assassination of John F. Kennedy or a November "morning after" - not so long ago.

John represented bold hope and fierce love for me.  I think his love-rebellion was defining for a generation that had lived through the Viet Nam war, Kent State, Selma, and Watergate. His assassination shattered dreams. And not just our dreams of a future Beatles' reunion, but for a world that could "imagine all the people, living life in peace."

So, for the first time in forty years, I let myself grieve. I sat in that empty theater - while the film rushed on to its beautiful conclusion - and wept. I have spent the past week reminding myself that if it - the presence of good - has ever been, it can never be taken. John was the symbol, though not the substance, of all that he represented for me.  But that hope, those dreams, a fierce love -- those are alive in me.

Today, I will go back to the theater, and watch the last thirty minutes of the film through clearer eyes. I will be grateful that I have lived in a post-Beatles world where songs like "Blackbird," and "Imagine," -- and scores of other beautiful songs -- still exist.

And I will never forget that moment in an empty theater where, for a moment, time stood still and the impossible felt so possible. As if I had woken from a dream where John had been assassinated, to a world where he is living on the coast of England in a small cottage, advising celebrities and world leaders on the importance of caring about the things that really matter -- love, family, peace, honesty, commitment, promises, hope, compassion.

You may say that I'm a dreamer -- but now, I see, that I'm not the only one.  Thank you, Danny Boyle, for this brilliant film. Perhaps you have intuited what Mary Baker Eddy writes about in her tribute to the life of one of her most remarkable students, Edward Kimball -- who had passed on earlier that year:

"My beloved Edward A. Kimball, whose clear, correct teaching of Christian Science has been and is an inspiration to the whole field, is here now as veritably as when he visited me a year ago. If we would awaken to this recognition, we should see him here and realize that he never died; thus demonstrating the fundamental truth of Christian Science.

And elsewhere she further assures us in Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures:

"We must hold forever
the consciousness of existence."

This is not a suggestion, but a promise. The promise that all we have known and loved -- cannot be taken from us. We must hold forever the consciousness of its existence.  Forever.  We have the right to remember.

offered with Love,

Cate 

"i'm not the only one..."

"You may say I'm a dreamer,
but I'm not the only one.
I hope some day you'll join us,
and the world will be as one..."

It always catches me off guard. Early December, gray skies flecked with spitting snow, John Lennon's "Imagine," playing on the radio.  This version by the Haverbrook Deaf Choir and the cast of Glee, is one of my favorites. It reminds me of that day, 26 years ago, when as a young teacher I wept in front of my students.

I was teaching at an state institution for children who had been diagnosed with severe or profound developmental disabilities, and had been made wards of the state by their parents. For many of these parents, this was a devastating decision, but seemed to be the only way they could secure the treatments and services their children needed. Families visited, but the longer their children were institutionalized, the less frequent their visits became.

As a faculty, we were constantly looking for ways to bring warmth and normalcy to our students' lives -- and to our own sense of what it meant to be a teacher in such a difficult setting. Holiday decorations, songs, and art projects were an important part of keeping us all motivated.

That year, someone suggested that we hold a Christmas pageant and concert. Our audience would be made up of the residential, medical, dining, and cleaning staff, but it gave us something to work towards and brought so much joy to our students. Our class was working on a singing and signing a song. We chose Silent Night and put many hours into learning every word and choreographing the dance of hands signing in time with the music.

On December 8th we added another song. The shattering news of John Lennon's assassination changed everything. John Lennon wasn't just a pop icon, or a rock star, he was someone we looked up to. His message of social responsibility and peace resonated deeply with a generation shaken by the Viet Nam war. His death was shocking.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I felt as if all my hopes for world peace and kindness had been left on that sidewalk in front of the Dakota on December 8th, 1980. I didn't know what to do. That was when it came to me -- like a mission -- to teach my students another song. We would sing and sign "Imagine."  For the rest of the month, I would go in to work early and stay late. We would rehearse, and rehearse, and rehearse -- and then we'd rehearse some more.

Some days we would find ourselves helping to form signs with the hands of individual students dozens of times an hour.  Moving arms and fingers into shapes. It seemed like an impossible thing to ask of these children, but I think they caught the spirit of our need to "do this."

On the night of the performance in the small auditorium that doubled as a gym, my kids performed Silent Night to our ragtag audience. They grinned when the applause burst from the folding chairs in front of them. I was concerned that all of the excitement would distract them from our surprise. But they were undeterred. Once the applause died down, they looked up at me, smiled and stood very, very tall in the party clothes we'd gathered from the donation bins.

Their performance was hauntingly beautiful that afternoon. I don't think anyone would have said that they could understand the words, or thought that the signing was in sync, but it was sincere, and beautiful, and moving. They had worked so hard to honor my love for this man, and this song. This is what I remember every December 8th, when the sky is steely gray and a recording of "Imagine" playing on the radio reminds me that I was once a very young teacher with very big dreams for a world where "all the people were living life in peace..."

I am still that girl -- I still believe that we are capable of laying aside hatred for brotherly love. I still believe in "peace on earth, good will to men." I still believe that in the end, only kindness matters -- but that's another song. This is where I am ageless. The hope I have for our world, the trust I have in Love's power to move hearts, the confidence I have in the goodness of humanity -- this is what is eternal for me. This is where I am both a child and a sage, a dreamer and a scientist, a peaceful warrior and a conscientious objector.

Yes, you may say that I'm a dreamer -- but I know that I am not the only one.


offered with hope,

Kate