Had I known that this book centered around building ephemeral earth altars, I most likely would not have read it. And that would have been, unbeknownst to me, a big loss. While Morning Altars was not the resource for creating the type of in-the-home altar I was seeking, it did engage with one of the fundamental questions beneath that quest: How can I create sacred space that invites spirituality into my life in a tangible manner?
At slightly under 100 pages, I assumed I would read this book in a day. I was wrong. After a couple of essays, or sometimes even just one, I needed to put the book down and give my heart time to settle. These are, indeed, small and short and personal. Almost like reading a still life in the time of COVID.
Do not try to save
the whole world
or do anything grandiose.
Instead, create
a clearing…
It’s complicated. This family. This photo taken during the first family reunion, a celebration of Dad’s birthday. One of the very rare times most of his children were in the same room together. His son Gary is missing, having died from complications due to AIDS decades before. And now Junior, the one in the very center of the photo, has passed due to COVID. I hadn’t spoken with Junior since Dad’s funeral 13 years ago…
My father, as fathers often do, taught me many things. He did not teach me how to ride a bicycle or how to swim. He did, however, teach me how to make shoes from banana leaves (in case I was ever a prisoner of war in the jungles of Vietnam and needed to escape). He taught me how to land safely from a great height so that I could jump out of airplanes into enemy territory. He taught me how to kill someone with a plastic straw.
even when I can see
there’s nothing
I can do
nothing
I can do
nothing
Before we begin, you should know that I know almost nothing about classical music. I couldn’t even define what makes something classical music without taking a break from writing and pulling up Google for backup.
What I know is that Verdi’s Four Seasons is an incredible listen while driving through Olympic National Park. That anything played by Yo-Yo Ma makes me forget that my time here is finite, mainly because I forget I have a finite body and the world becomes something ethereal and whispy. And that sometimes, as with any genre of entertainment, Spotify will play something that makes me want to jump out of my skin and run as far away from it as possible. It being the music, not my skin. Necessarily.
I have enough of an affinity, however, that when I saw the headline from The New York Times app “The 25 Best Classical Music Tracks of 2020” I clicked on it. And then added “Listen to the 25 best classical music tracks as selected by the NYT” to my list of things to accomplish in 2021.
Today, I started the process.
i am running into a new year
and the old years blow back
like a wind
that i catch in my hair…
I’m worried about being exposed. About being asked, “why can’t you be normal?”. About being made fun of for having what is perceived as a peculiar interest or hobby. Like reading. Or studying.
If those examples are confusing, let me explain.
Rituals and routines have had the second greatest impact on my life in 2020. The largest impact was therapy (as much as I thought I didn’t still need it). But for a reason that perhaps might be surprising. It was helpful because I heard myself repeatedly say that I was doing really well. That I was coming to appreciate who I am. That I felt like I was whole, rather than broken. And someone who is healing rather than someone who is damaged.