"Can you paint with all the colors of the Wind..."

"...You think the only people who are people
Are the people who look and think like you
But if you walk the footsteps of a stranger
You'll learn things you never knew you never knew

Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
Or asked the grinning bobcat why he grinned?
Can you sing with all the voices of the mountains?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind..."
Stephen Schwartz
"Colors of the Wind*"

Our twins had lived in the suburbs for most of their childhood.  Everyone in their neighborhood had gone to the same school, shared similar values, shopped at the same stores, and spoke the same language....and my children had known almost everyone they knew...as long as they could remember.

When we moved to a wonderful urban neighborhood near the largest university in our city a few years ago, they were uncomfortable with their surroundings. The children who lived on our street were fearless, outgoing, gregarious...and different.  They came from many different countries and faiths, spoke a dozen or more different languages, ate unusual foods, and weren't afraid of strangers. 

As much as we encouraged them to engage in neighborhood games, it took almost two years before they felt comfortable walking across the street and joining the other children who were taking turns on a wonderful rope swing that hung from an ancient sycamore tree in front of the University coop. As their parents, we longed to have them feel at home in a neighborhood we loved dearly.  We loved walking in the public gardens that quilted the large urban park near our home.  We felt blessed to be surrounded by museums, galleries, a world-class zoo, and libraries.  We hoped they would grow to enjoy it too.  And they did, but it took dissolving false perceptions about what it meant to be "different."

I remember the first breakthrough.  It happened one afternoon as we drove home from their private school in the suburbs that first fall after school was back in session.  As we turned on to our wide street canopied by enormous oak and sycamore trees, the girls commented on "those poor children" who were playing hopscotch, dodge ball, and foursquare...or sitting in small groups...on their asphalt play yard behind the large church/school surrounded by chain link fencing on the corner.

I drove slowly by the school and the girls bemoaned the plight of "those poor children."  Their well-equipped playground out "in the county" was filled with state-of-the-art equipment, landscaping, environmentally friendly wood chips, and even a new Gaga pit.  They couldn't understand how "those poor children" could stand it.

After we pulled into the parking space in front of our house, unloaded backpacks and lunch boxes from the car, and changed out of school clothes, I suggested to the girls that we take a walk to the coffeehouse on the corner for an after school treat.  They loved the coffeehouse on the corner where their big brother was a part-time barista and were happy to walk hand-in-hand with me past the school across the street, on the corner. 

As we approached that end of the block, skipping along cracked sidewalks, uneven from the growth of large tree roots that had lifted them like seismic plates long ago, a bell rang and children poured onto the playground from doors on two sides of the school building.   It was for me easy to slow down our pace.  My girls were fascinated by children who quickly divided themselves into teams for kickball,  and congregated in small groups to play foursquare or hopscotch in hand-chalked squares all over the pavement. 

I asked the girls to close their eyes and tell me what they heard.  They were still young enough to like this kind of game.  They said they heard, laughter, giggling, cheering, balls bouncing, girls whispering, boys yelling.  I asked them to open their eyes and tell me what they were seeing.  The identified happy preschoolers, fast boys, girls who danced around making up cheerleading routines, or threw markers for hopscotch. 

I asked them if they could point out one of "those poor children" they felt so sorry for only minutes earlier...disadvantaged children they had been sure "just couldn't be happy" without the same kind of well-equipped playground they enjoyed at their school "in the county".

They couldn't find one.  These were happy children, they were wearing clean, brightly-colored uniforms, they were with their friends, they were laughing, cheering, teasing, competing, being disciplined by teachers that obviously cared about their safety and happiness...they were just like them.  

This was a lovely opportunity for each of us to practice "spiritual translation."  What from a limited perspective appeared as a diminished sense of bounty...no swings, grass, or equipment, fewer teachers, "less" screaming from every direction,  to spiritual sense -- " the constant conscious capacity to understand God" (and that He is always present) -- there was an abundance of creativity, joy, innovation, community, generosity, patience, sharing.  We started to see that through the lens of spiritual sense the girls had more in common with these children...than what at first glance appeared different.

This was the first, of many breakthroughs.   We enjoyed two dozen months of happiness in our city home.  The girls grew to know their neighbors, to feel protective of the "wild-haired professor"  and his black kitty who greeted us each afternoon when we returned from school, to anticipate the return of grad students at the end of Spring Break, to wave to the little girls who visited their grandma each weekend, and to look forward to the first signs of spring and the ducks in the park.

The day we reluctantly filled the moving van and left our wonderfully diverse urban neighborhood, we had to call the girls away from where they were playing with a group of neighborhood children across the street...they had become part of the beautifully rich and diverse threads that made up our neighborhood.  A tapestry more lovely because of the many colors and textures found woven through its fabric. 

Last weekend we joined friends for a Spring Break visit to our beloved Forest Park in the old neighborhood.  The girls pointed out favorite gardens, trails we had walked hundreds of times when they were just a day-to-day part of our neighborhood, recognized saplings that had been planted after a devastating Spring storm...flowering trees that had grown "at least a foot", and wondered if the ducks in the pond were decedents of "our duck family"...the ones we fed and talked to on our family walks in the park after dinner on summer evenings.

We now live halfway between "the city" and "the county."  We are learning new things here too.  When we drive through our old city neighborhood the girls tell us how much they loved "our old house" and the neighborhood where "the sidewalks were crooked and there was a big rope swing where all our neighborhood friends played in front of the student coop across the street."  Yes, we smile too.  "Those poor children" had become their neighbors...and friends.

"You think the only people who are people
Are the people who look and think like you
But if you walk the footsteps of a stranger
You'll learn things you never knew you never knew

Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
Or asked the grinning bobcat why he grinned?
Can you sing with all the voices of the mountains?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

Come run the hidden pine trails of the forest
Come taste the sunsweet berries of the Earth
Come roll in all the riches all around you
And for once, never wonder what they're worth

The rainstorm and the river are my brothers
The heron and the otter are my friends
And we are all connected to each other
In a circle, in a hoop that never ends

How high will the sycamore grow?
If you cut it down, then you'll never know
And you'll never hear the wolf cry to the blue corn moon

For whether we are white or copper skinned
We need to sing with all the voices of the mountains
We need to paint with all the colors of the wind

You can own the Earth and still
All you'll own is Earth until
You can paint with all the colors of the wind*..."

*WIND. That which indicates the might of omnipotence and the movements of God's spiritual government, encompassing all things."  - Mary Baker Eddy

with Love and hope...

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"Some children see him..."

"Some children see Him lily white,
the baby Jesus born this night.
Some children see Him lily white,
with tresses soft and fair.
Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
The Lord of heav'n to earth come down.
Some children see Him bronzed and brown,
with dark and heavy hair."

It was a bitterly cold day in December and we were living in a Boston suburb west of the Back Bay.  My regular commute to the office had been detoured and we were being re-routed through a section of the city that I had never seen.  Abandoned buildings, boarded up windows, graffiti-covered walls, homeless men, women and children huddled under threadbare blankets and around trashcan bonfires.  It took my breath away.

Playing on the car radio was a song that, believe it or not, I can't remember the words to…or the artists…but in that moment it was asking a question I needed to consider…what would Jesus look like if he did return to us today?

As I sat in traffic I started looking around me.  Was the old man draping his ragged blanket over the shoulders of a child this returning Christ?  Was the little girl sharing a donut with her mother, as they waited in the cold for in in-bound bus, the Messiah?  Could the crossing guard smiling at the stream of youngsters as they crossed a busy intersection on their way to school, be the risen saviour?

"Some children see Him almond-eyed,
this Savior whom we kneel beside.
some children see Him almond-eyed,
with skin of yellow hue.
Some children see Him dark as they,
sweet Mary's Son to whom we pray.
Some children see him dark as they,
and, ah! they love Him, too! "

As we inched through traffic I looked everywhere for indications of this Christ…and they were everywhere.  One driver letting another driver ease into a line of traffic.   A woman picking up trash as she walked down a litter-filled city street - depositing it into trashcans along the way.  Teens helping younger siblings with backpacks and putting on  mittens that had fallen off. 

Finally making it to the front of our line of cars, waiting for the light to turn green at a busy intersection, I was feeling a new expectancy about my day…my life, when a young boy in jeans and a worn parka, carrying a heavy backpack,  started through the crosswalk.  I realized that I was just a bit too far over the line and backed up a bit so that he didn't feel as if the safety of the crosswalk had been encroached.   As he passed my car he turned and quite literally radiated a smile of appreciation in my direction.  It was pure and sweet and shone like the sun from within him.

I felt touched by a divine hand.

" The children in each different place
will see the baby Jesus' face
like theirs, but bright with heavenly grace,
and filled with holy light.
O lay aside each earthly thing
and with thy heart as offering,
come worship now the infant King.
'Tis love that's born tonight!"
- Wihla  Hutson & Alfred S. Burt

He continued on his way to school, and I to my office.  Suddenly, it was Christmas and I had witnessed the birth of the Christ…anew, in the streets of Boston that morning.  Like the shepherds and the kings, the cattle and the sheep...I had a gift to bring...my wakeful heart.
Kate

"Feels like home to me..."

"A window breaks down a long dark street,
And a siren wails over my head.
But I'm all right, 'cause I have you here with me.
And I can almost see through the dark there's light.
If you knew how much this moment means to me,
And how long I've waited for your touch.
If you knew how happy you are making me --
I've never thought I'd love anyone so much...

Feels like home to me, feels like home to me,
Feels like I'm on my way back where I come from.
Feels like home to me, feels like home to me,
Feels like I'm on my way back where I belong."
- Bonnie Raitt

It was Saturday night and the blue, almost darkness of dusk was descending faster than I had expected.  We live in the city and quite often my husband and I walk through our neighborhood to the urban center where an active commercial, cultural and social life still bustles long after they roll up the sidewalks in the suburbs.  We love it.  We love the ebb and flow of humanity, the way the sound of conversation and laughter float out of restaurant doors and briefly meeting the eyes of strangers with a smile as we pass one another on the street.

But this past month my husband has been out of town on business and I have been taking our walks alone.  For the most part my walks have been in during the daylight hours.  This particular Saturday, however, I was feeling a bit housebound.  I had already taken a walk earlier that day and I wanted more.  I wanted to feel connected to a larger sense of community. So I bundled up against the early December chill and ventured out again just before sunset.  It was glorious.  The air was clear and cold without being bitter and walking was refreshing.  I felt brave as I walked briskly along city streets.  I stopped at our favorite coffeehouse and sat under a canopy of stars writing in my journal, sipping hot chocolate and listening to folk music…much longer than I had expected to.  By the time I realized how late it was the air had turned bitter and the streets were lonely as pedestrians found warmth inside galleries and restaurants, escaping the cold. 

My walk home was invigorating, but I started to feel the emptiness of the streets even more than the sudden drop in the temperature.  Walking alone in the city is a very different experience when café tables crowd the sidewalk, conversation mixes with the sound of traffic, and music drifts out from open doorways.  On a cold December night fellow pedestrians are huddled beneath hoods and heavy jackets that mask the smiles I hope are there, the winds causes streetlamps to swing eerily in the dark casting strange shadows that weave and duck along empty brick walls, and sirens wail through the hardscape of urban asphalt and concrete. 

As I made my way past storefronts I noticed for the first time how many darkened alleys shot back from the main sidewalk.  Neighbors that normally greeted us as we walked by from their front stoops were absent, and in their place were the neighborhood's homeless.  As I passed one building at the far end of "the Loop" a huddled figure slipped out from a doorway and began following me.  All of my antennae went up immediately.  My hand balled into fists in my pockets and my pace picked up.  But his stride was longer than mine and within moments he was only a few steps behind me.  Sirens were wailing a few blocks away and the big plastic Christmas bells strung across the street were swinging wildly overhead.  My heart was beating and my thoughts were racing.  What would I do if he came up behind me and grabbed me.  Suddenly taking a walk after dark in the city seemed foolish and dangerous. 

This was the very moment of divine intervention. 

Out of the blue the thought came, "Kate, remember…this is your neighborhood, these are your neighbors, you love it here, this is your home." 

God spoke to me and my heart was at peace.  I needed to feel His touch, hear His voice, be reminded that He had brought me to this neighborhood, he had sent me here to love and be loved, and had never left my side.  I was where He wanted me to be.  I was among my brothers and sisters in Christ. 

My pace slowed, my heart calmed and by the time my neighbor reached me I was so ready to say, "Hi, isn't it a beautiful night to be walking?"  It was then that I saw the face under the wool cap, inside the hooded sweatshirt…the warm brown eyes, the beautiful smile.  "Yes," he agreed, "just beautiful."  His stride was long and in seconds he was well out in front of me.  I watched the strong back of my neighbor, huddled against the wind, growing smaller by the moment and sent up a prayer of gratitude for God's mercy and grace. 

Wherever He is, I am home.
Kate

Update: Since posting this story in 2007, Edwina Hayes recorded this lovely version of"Feels Like Home" for the 2009 film "My Sister's Keeper". Sam sent it to me and I thought I would share it here...enjoy.

with Love, .
Kate

i live in the city

I live in the city....
with its sounds
that start before dawn and
remind me that I
am not alone

this city is a living
palpating
body of life

i breathe differently here
my inspirations come
from a place of
deep
companioning with
neighbor
driver
man on the street
who pushes a
shopping cart filled
with
his possessions
a rolling home
away
from convention
and conformity
and sometimes
his choice

i wake when they wake
dumpsters
car doors
those metal brushes
from the street
cleaners
calling me up
from the
dark velvet
dreamy
place
I am floating in...

i wake even before the
sound of my neighbor's
screen door
snaps me forward into
light and
the laughter of two
graduate students on the balcony
next door
with  French press coffee and
hand thrown mugs
discussing kafke
and kierkgaard over
croissants and jam
remind me that
i too am a thinker
with
worlds to
consider

there is no
slipping back into
dreamy
escape here
the world
calls out to us as healers
to join in the
march
to
check in and
engage with humanity's
surging forward
into
global self-actualization

one cannot remain
passive here
indifferent to
the
injustices of segregation by
color
economy
property-ownership and
labels
brands
or
hood ornaments

this is a body
in which the hand and
eye must
cooperate or
perish

this  is a body...
an organism
that must
choreograph its movements
so effectively
so efficiently
that
car and pedestrian
privileged
and needy
young and
wise
man and woman
gay and
straight
can share a blood stream
an immune system...
air...
in peace

i live in the city now
i am neither hand
nor foot
i am a mental molecule
eager to
enter the
heart and
be
re-oxygenated
by Love's
demand
for compassion
humility
grace....

self-surrender
for the
good of
the whole

I live in the city
now and
the park
wild with zoo
and
beautiful in bloom
rich with
museum quality views of
history and a
painter's brush stroke
along the face of
a child's dream
color
my
life with
new purpose
and
opportunity

i have a
body that wakens
with each
stranger's smile and
weeps
at the drop of a
dime
from the fist of
a child into the
cup of the
blind

I live in the
city now
and
my heart
beats
to the
sounds of
reggae and
lullabies from the
window
across the
park
where a mother
holds her infant and
dreams the dreams
of mothers
everywhere

in cities
villages
the steppes of Mongolia
the arid caves
the wartorn reaches
the rice fields
and deforested amazon...
the rural,
the suburban,
the urban
the kingdoms
and emirates and farms
and communes...

the dream that
her child
could one day
be the master of his own heart
the leader of his village
his brother's keeper

i live in the city now
where
the body of
life
pulses
with
the need
to
care
the need to be
needed
... to
love


kate