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

"All those years ago..."

"I'm shouting all about love,
While they treated you like a dog..,
when you were the one
who had made it so clear
all those years ago.

I'm talking all about how to give...
but you point the way to the truth
when you say,
"All you need is love."

Living with good and bad,
I always look up to you...
Now we're left cold and sad...
by someone who offended all.

Were living in a bad dream.
They've forgotten all about mankind,
and you were the one they
backed up to the wall...
All those years ago
You were the one who imagined it all
All those years ago.

Deep in the darkest night
I send out a prayer to you.
Now in the world of light
where the spirit, free of the lies
and all else that we despised.

They've forgotten all about God.
He's the only reason we exist.
Yet you were the one
that they said was
so weird...
All those years ago

You said it all,
though not many had ears,
All those years ago
All those years ago...."

I don't know that I will have much to say about the above lyrics...they have left me speechless tonight.  I hope you read them before you listen to this video link to the song, "All Those Years Ago."

This George Harrison song, has been a part of my muiscal memory for decades now.  I have such a lovely memory of hearing his friend, Paul, singing it during an amazing Wings concert at Boulder's Folsom Field in the early nineties.  And though I love the song...and remember singing along...I don't think I'd ever thought about the message.  That was, until I read a small descriptive note that appeared with a friend's posting of the video on Facebook. 

The note explained that "All Those Years Ago," was George Harrison's tribute song to his Beatles bandmate and friend, John Lennon.  Well, now I was thoroughly interested.  I have a particular soft spot for George, and the rest of the boys from Liverpool.  But as I listened to this song, I could almost imagine John, the disciple, singing this to Jesus, and it gave me chills. 

It reminded me of Mary Baker Eddy's statement:

"To suppose that persecution for righteousness' sake belongs to the past, and that Christianity to-day is at peace with the world because it is honored by sects and societies, is to mistake the very nature of religion. Error repeats itself.  The trials encountered by prophet, disciple, and apostle, 'of whom the world was not worthy,' await, in some form, every pioneer of truth."

I know that not everyone, who reads this post, may think that John Lennon, was a pioneer of truth...but, that 's not the point of this piece anyway.  Its purpose is to express gratitude for each experience of fellowship, brotherhood, friendship, and sisterhood, that every "pioneers of truth," throughout history, has known.  I am so grateful that Jesus had John...and Mary, that David had Jonathon, Paul had Silas, Mary Baker Eddy had Calvin, John had George, Paul, and Ringo... oh my goodness, so many wonderful examples of love, that it fills me to the point of overflowing tonight.  To think that their journeys were not without kindness, warmth, companionship, understanding, and fellowship...makes me weep.

It's something I'm thinking about as I walk my own journey with profoundly inspired thought pioneers.  If I am seeing each of my brothers and sisters as the Christ presence in my life...and in the world, I have to ask myself, "Am I being that friend, or sister, who observes, records, brings warmth, extends encouragement, comforts, defends, loves...beholds....their promise?"

This is the question I am in tonight...

Blessings,

Kate

"You may say that I'm a dreamer..."

"Imagine all the people,
Living life in peace....

You may say that I'm a dreamer
but I'm not the only one.
I hope someday you will join us,
and the world can live as one."

I love this original  John and Yoko video for "Imagine."   It is a song that I believe speaks to an imperative promise...and not a distant dream.  Poet and lyricist, William Knapp once wrote,

"The one far-off divine event is now. 
And that event is Love."

Today, these are the thoughts I am holding to in defense of my heart...and the collective heart of humanity. 

Gunfire at a community event, anger across the dinner table, violent wretching over the toilet...intolerance for the views of "the other side", misunderstanding, self-loathing, complaint, criticisim, judgment.  Enough!! 

There was a time when "all the world"...or at least almost everyone I knew...told me that I had every right to be hurt, angry, to give up, feel bereaved, and seek redress. 

I remember thinking, "How is it that their love for me is giving them (my loved ones) permission to be so unlike themselves. To be so unlike the incredibly generous, compassionate, kind, and loving people they are by their very nature as children of God."

I then realized, that I had to love them enough to NOT believe that this kind of empathy was what I needed.  I remember thinking that it was my own belief in my need for "sympathy" that was the back door to "symptoms" of depression, hopelessness, heart-ache, and fear-based agony about the future.

The second stanza of Mary Baker Eddy's poem, "The New Century" (found in her slim volume Poems, became my constant companion:

"'Tis writ on earth, on leaf and flower:
Love hath one race, one realm, one power.
Dear God! how great,
how good Thou art.
To heal humanity's sore heart;
To probe the wound, then pour the balm -
A life perfected, strong and calm.
The dark domain of pain and sin
Surrenders - Love doth enter in,
And peace is won,
and lost is vice:
Right reigns, and blood was not its price."

Yesterday I found the tattered slip of yellowed notebook paper I had written this snippet of poetry on in 1988.  I'd carried it tucked into the back of a journal that I used for recording my thoughts. During a particularly aggressive bout with self-pity, I'd turned to it often, fingering its soft folds and letting the strength of its admonition steel my resolve.  I've carried it in my heart...memorized like a Psalm...ever since. 

I realized then, and again now, that when Love enters the wounded space...the heart, the head, the home....peace is won, God reigns, and our lives are no longer broken, shattered, shaken, or violated, but more tender, softened, supple, and rich with compassion, mercy, and grace.

This slip of a Psalm is back in the front pocket of my heart today....I will caress it in my prayers.

with love and hope...
Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy..."

<

"...Beautiful,
Beautiful, beautiful,
Beautiful Boy,

Out on the ocean sailing away,
I can hardly wait,
To see you come of age,
But I guess we'll both,
Just have to be patient,
Yes it's a long way to go,
But in the meantime,

Before you cross the street,
Take my hand,
Life is just what happens to you,
While your busy making other plans,

Beautiful,
Beautiful, beautiful,
Beautiful Boy,
Darling,
Darling,
Darling Shawn..."
- John Lennon

He is my baby brother and I love him...we all do. As John Lennons sings in this video about his own son, Shawn is our "Beautiful Boy."

  Shawn, and his wife Amy, have just sold their cars, put their possessions in storage, popped everything else in four duffel bags, and flown to St. Martins where they will join a family they will serve...as Captain and a crew of one (God bless you Amy)...for the next year sailing on a high seas voyage around-the-world. 

Shawn has always been a sailor.  Amy is learning to love his world. Together they will chart new courses, explore new landscapes, and plumb new depths of inner courage, strength, patience, and grace.  We love them. 

Did I say we love our little brother? 

Last weekend five of my seven siblings and I gathered in Colorado for our mom's 75th birthday.  Shawn and Amy flew in from Maine.  We were there for mom, but it was never far from thought that within two weeks our little brother, and his wife, would sail away from the safety of our reach and off beyond the horizon.

As I said, I have seven brothers and sisters...I have learned more about myself, and life in general,  from them than from any other seven people in the world...besides my mother and children.  Each one is a gift.  I can't imagine my life without any one of them. 

But tonight I am thinking about this youngest...biggest...brother. 

Shawn, and his sister, Fawn, are twins. They were born my last year of high school.  When dad passed on, just before they were three, they were not just siblings, they became my "babies," too. Thank goodness mom was so generous in sharing.  That meant, among many other things, that, just as I know feel with my own children, I loved spending time with them...still do!

This was the case about ten years ago when I was on a business trip to Boston.  I was there for a large meeting and after landing at Logan airoport, I hailed a taxi, lifted my carryon into the backseat and leaned back for an uneventful ride through the city and along the Charles River.  As we came up out of the tunnel my cell phone rang.  It was Shawn.  He and I checked in with one another often, so it was no surprise that he was calling.  "Hey, where are you?" he asked.  I told him I had just landed in Boston, and was on my way to my hotel.   He told me that he had just sailed into Boston harbor after 14 days on the sea with a group of high school students on an Outward Bound trip he was leading.  We decided to meet for dinner near my office in the next hour.

As I waited for him in the lobby of the busy restaurant, I noticed a large homeless man in dirty coveralls and long dread-locked hair coming through the door.  "Hmm," I thought, "I wonder if the restaurant will seat him?"  As he got closer, I realized that it was my brother.  Just off the boat meant...just off the boat.  He looked like he smelled...seaworthy.  Seaworthy is a good thing if you are a boat.  As a dinner companion...well, if it's your baby brother you don't care. 

I hugged him hard, stared into his ocean blue-green eyes and asked the hostess how long we would have to wait for our table.  When she said we had at least 45 minutes, I asked him if he would like to walk across the street to see my office.  As we came through the revolving doors of our high-rise building we ran into a group of my colleagues who were heading off to dinner themselves.  My first thought was, "Oh this is perfect, I would love for my brother to meet them."  But I could see by their faces that they assumed that Kate was just dragging another homeless person into the building to talk about spirituality in the lobby out of the wind. 

I have to admit I was a bit heartbroken.  My brother was looking for someone to mentor his spiritual journey and I was just so sure that if he could only meet one of these inspired thinkers, he might make that connection.  But it was obvious that my friends were not interested in stopping to be introduced  and chat it up with my dread-locked companion...whoever he was.

Shawn and I continued up the elevators to my office.  I showed him around our floor and then we took the elevator back to the lobby so that we wouldn't miss getting our table for dinner. 

As we came out of the elevators and crossed the lobby towards the revolving doors, in blew (literally...it was a very, very windy evening) another friend who had his office in our building.  I hesitated for just a moment, and before I could say a thing he crossed the lobby extended his hand to my brother and introduced himself.  I was speechless.  This was one very inspired (and admired) spiritual thought leader.  I was sometimes a bit intimidated by his reputation, but never his humor and affection.  His laughter and embrace were as large as his heart. 

I introduced Shawn as my brother and we invited him to join us for dinner.  He had a meeting he was rushing for...the same one the others had been on their way to...but he made it clear that he would have loved to share a meal with my sea-scented brother and I.

This man, in one handshake and genuine moment of affection, gave my brother all the information he needed to apply for mentorship.  They shared two amazing weeks of pedagogy later that year.   It is a relationship that will span a lifetime.

My friend gave my brother (and I) a perspective on spiritual leadership that was based on a genuine interest in the lives of others and a commitment to living a life of love in action.

My brother learned well from his mentor...I like to think they learned much from eachother during those two weeks.  My brother is supremely kind.  My brother is one of the least judgmental people I know.  My brother is heroic in his practice of charity.  My brother is a man who lives his days poised in grace. 

I am proud to be his sister. 

I will miss talking to him every few days...but I think the men, women, and children of Panama, Tahiti....and all the places around the world his heart will touch with kindness...are going to be blessed by his visits.

Go with God beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy...
Kate

"War is over...if you want it"

"...And so this is Christmas
War is over
And what have we done
If you want it
Another year over
War is over
And a new one just begun
If you want it
And so this is Christmas
War is over
For black and for white
If you want it
For yellow and red ones
War is over
Let's stop all the fight
If you want it
A very merry Christmas
War is over
And a happy New year
If you want it
Let's hope it's a good one
War is over
Without any fear
Now..."
- John Lennon & Yoko Ono

December, 1971...I was standing at the counter of the Spinning Wheel Diner watching snow gently falling outside the large plate glass windows beyond the red vinyl booths and small juke boxes at the end of each table.  The counter was empty, the coffee was fresh and I was lost in thought.  John Lennon's "Happy Christmas...War is Over" was playing for the umpteenth time on the speakers from each jukebox, as a pale blue convertible VW bug slid into one of the parking spaces closest to the stairs leading to the front entry. 

The sleigh bells hanging from the front door handle jangled, announcing the arrival of a new customer and I straightened my pink polyester apron neatly over my crisp white uniform and readied a smile.  It would be good to have someone to wait on during the storm.  He walked through the door and I would have noticed his limp even without the richly burnished, hand-carved cane at his side.  He wore an olive green army jacket, worn blue jeans, a black turtleneck sweater.  His limp made the sound of his heavy boots on the black and white linoleum floor sound like steel brushes on a snare drum.  But is was the sadness in his eyes that I noticed first. 

He looked like a broken G.I. Joe doll...handsome, cold, and somehow disjointed and out of place in his own skin.  He took a seat on one of the red vinyl and chrome stools at the far end of the counter and when I asked him if I could bring him a cup of coffee he nodded without saying more than a perfunctory "thank you, yes." 

He seemed lost in his own thoughts and I left him staring into the quilted chrome behind the counter and went about my busy work of filling salt and pepper shakers at each booth while the storm picked up its intensity outside. 

After his eighth cup of coffee and a piece of cherry pie, I asked him if he lived nearby, or was he just passing through.  The diner was on a busy highway and we had a lot of travelers at that time of year who stopped in for coffee to stay awake during long drives.  He told me that he had just been discharged from the army after a stay at Walter Reed army hospital following a severe injury that had gotten him airlifted out of a Vietnamese jungle in the middle of the night.  It had left him "shaken and crippled...maimed for life."  He explained that he had grown up and gone to high school in the area, but that while he was in Viet Nam his parents had moved to Florida.  He didn't know anyone in Florida, so he came "home" to the last place he knew before the war.  But all of his friends had moved on and he wasn't sure where he belonged.

We talked until well after my shift ended at midnight and then he offered to drive me home.  I explained that my dad would be coming to pick me up as soon as I called him, but, "thank you anyway."  He got up from the stool and made his way slowly out to the now completely snow-encrusted little car, backing out of the parking space before inching his way onto the highway.  I watched until his taillights disappeared in the heavily falling snow and wondered what he had seen during those months-turned-into-years in Viet Nam that had made his eyes seem ancient and sad.

I would learn over the next few weeks all about the horrors of war as his visits to the diner became nightly, and his visits to our already crowded home coincided with my nights off.  My mother plied him with questions and meatloaf and my dad grew to enjoy his quiet company...or at least I think he did...he never kicked him out, and smiled when he played Fur Elise and Clair de Lune on our old piano by the front door...that said alot.

One Sunday afternoon he asked if I would like to drive into "the City" and see the Christmas decorations and windows on Park Avenue.  Since I had voluntarily missed my school's Christmas dance that weekend so that my younger sister could go and wear the one and only dressy dress we owned between us, my parents said that I could if we took the train instead of driving and he agreed.  Walking through Times Square, Central Park, and down Fifth Avenue was magical until we came across a billboard that said, "War is over...if you want it - Happy Christmas from John & Yoko."  My friend gripped my arm and we stood perfectly still in the middle of the sidewalk.  An electric surge of hope pulsed through us both.  And for a moment I thought I saw the sadness and pain leave his eyes. 



This is the moment I relive each time I hear this song.  My friend and I remained close until one day he decided...quite out of the blue and without discussion or emotional justification...that I should marry him, move to the Maine woods, build a cabin, carve wooden animals and make toys in order to escape the material trappings of American capitalism.  I was still young, eager to make a difference through the promise of politics and "one man, one vote," had an education to pursue and dreams to fulfill. 

He would marry someone else a few months later and move to Maine. 

I wonder how he feels 27 years later about Christmas, war, politics and America. I wonder what he thinks of each time he hears this song.  

I still think about a boy with ancient, sad eyes and a burnished cane who came out of the snow one winter's evening and changed the way I looked at the world...and the way I listened to a song.

"And so this is Christmas
And what have you done..."

This year...I think we've done something...and we may just see the promised "War is over...if you want it" fulfilled...I think we've made it clear that we "want it....now".

with hope for "peace on earth, goodwill to men,"
Kate