On Saturday morning I braved the gloomy weather and headed to the St. Paul Farmer’s Market. It is one of the true pleasures of my week to begin my Saturday in this way. Even in these early days of the growing season I find myself undone by the beauty of vegetables, the color of flowers, the smells of brewing coffee and the sight of so many different kinds of people. All up early. All shopping for food. Asparagus, spinach and rhubarb shown forth as the ‘first to the market finish line’. People were scooping up tiny tomato and basil plants as they dreamed of the bruschetta that will come in July. Children, and some adults, munched on sugary, sprinkled donuts as we chose not to notice the gray, rainy skies.

Instead of a donut, I opted for a toasted pumpernickel bagel. While I was waiting for it to take a turn on the grill, I watched the young adults who work this booth. They wore the Saturday morning sleepy look of most their age. A look that belies a too late night followed by a too early morning. But they laughed and joked with one another showing the camaraderie they have developed in this job that will lead them to something else, i.e. a tuition payment, rent for another month, enough spending money for another late night.

In my scanning of these young people, my eyes fell on one young man, his black hoodie unzipped to reveal a dark, gray t-shirt. And then I saw the tattoo that formed a ring on his neck. Moving from left to right, across the sinking place on his white, fragile skin were the dark blue, elegant letters that said simply:”I am so sorry.” For some reason these words hit the pit of my stomach and didn’t bounce back. What could this young man be so sorry about that he had this tattooed forever on his neck where all would see? Why had he made so permanent this perpetual apology? These questions seared through my brain as another young woman handed me my warm bagel oozing with cream cheese. As I walked away I felt my heart tug for him.

All day I thought of this quick encounter with someone I may never see again but whose bodily adornment had so moved me. The words on his neck caused me to think of all the situations, all the actions in the world for which I am so sorry. I thought of all the people I come into contact with during a given week who are homeless or living on the edge. I am so sorry that as a nation we cannot figure out how to keep people from falling through the cracks of our social systems. I am so sorry that we continue to engage in hate and fear-filled actions that threaten to marginalize people on the basis of whom they love. I am so sorry that we continue to lash out at those whose faith is foreign to us, those who appear different because of the ways they dress or speak or even eat. I am so sorry that children and the elderly often are the recipients of the actions of a few making decisions for the many. So much to be sorry about. This young man took, in my opinion, a radical and permanent way of living this.

It is easy to get lost in sorry. But somehow it seems to me the gentler thing, not only individually but communally, is to try to get at the front end of apology. To try to take a breath before acting, before speaking so as to cut down on the need for perpetual apology. In some ways it is an impossible intention but also a noble one. Even in our communal life to ask ourselves, as the prophet Micah did: “What does God ask of you?” To ask and then to shape our lives around the answer: Do justice, love kindness, walk humbly with God. How might our need for apology be changed if these values guided our actions? It is something to ponder.

I am thankful for the toasty bagel that fed my body on Saturday morning and the hands that prepared it. And I am thankful to the young man whose message has traveled with me and will continue to nudge me to be careful with my words,my actions, and with my life. The pain he must have endured to wear the words he carries as a mantra was not lost on me.

Wherever he is, may God bless his path this day.

Such love does
The sky now pour
That whenever I stand in a field,
I have to wring out the light
When I get home.
~ St. Francis of Assisi

It is rare these days when the newspaper gives over precious print space on the editorial pages for something other than acerbic political or intentionally divisive writing. But yesterday there was an editorial that caught my eye and had me saying ‘Amen’ under my breath long before breakfast. The title of the article was ‘Shocked at what passes for awe these days and was written by two professors at Normandale Community College. The general message of the writers was that, as a people, we have become immune to awe, that we are a people fulfilling important responsibilities but who are uninspired. All the while, they say, we also long to be awestruck.

Perhaps I was drawn to this article because I share their opinion, their concern. I have long believed that the environmental crisis in which we find ourselves is fueled by our inability to connect at a deep level with awe for the Creation that holds us. When I read the psalms, many reflecting the sheer power of a call to an awe-filled life, I am humbled by these ancients ability to send up their full bodied celebration of awe. The awe they experience at Creation and its intricate patterns and beautiful, powerful creatures. The inspiration that grounds them as those whose work seems to be to shout that praise to the world. If this were our common experience of the beautiful, fragile world in which we live, how could we do anything to harm it for ourselves or for those who will come after? Too often those who tell the cautionary tales of climate change do so only with facts and figures leaving out the call to an awe-filled life.

When have you experienced awe lately? When has some moment of your day taken your breath away? When was the last time you felt goosebumps or found your eyes welling up at the beauty or wonder of some encounter? The opportunities for being awe inspired, I believe, have not decreased in our world. We have simply chosen to live the distracted life that keeps us from being awake to all the myriad ways awe is jumping up and down saying:” See me! See me!”

The psalmists of ancient days took the time to watch the sunrise, to gaze at the mountain formations, to watch the stag drink from a glistening stream. They allowed this experience of the Holy to wash over them and remind them that were a part of something greater than their small, finite life. Then they shaped their words and told their story. Are we called to do anything less?

We each wake up every morning with the potential to be awe struck at nearly very turn. The choice is ours as we walk out into the world. We can spend the day ticking off the items on our lists that have no end. Or we can choose to have an encounter with Mystery. We can notice the deep blue of the eyes of the person who hands us our morning coffee. We can stop to watch the pink crabapple blossoms fall slowly, like a baptism, over the woman standing at the bus stop. (I was witness to such a scene just yesterday.) We can take a moment to gaze into the center of the nearly spent tulips…..how is that brilliant star shape at the center even possible? We can notice the gently arcing eyebrows of the baby that passes us on the sidewalk. We can stare at the soft wrinkles of the hands of the elderly woman who is recounting her recent aches and pains. What love and tenderness have these hands known? We can listen to the orchestra of bird songs outside the window and marvel at a language we will never speak.

Awe. It is all around us. Like St. Francis, who gave his life to living simply in the wonder and mystery of his time, we too can arrive at the end of our day needing to wring out the light that has bathed us.

And wouldn’t that be a wonderful way to live a life? And wouldn’t that be a wonderful way to begin healing the world?

Have a blessed weekend………..

For several months now I have been keeping watch over a strange, and somewhat marvelous,sight. Nearly every day for the last seven months as I make my way onto the freeway entrance ramp near the Cathedral in St. Paul, I glance over at the Sears parking lot. The lot has been home to an enormous mound of snow. At its peak it was, I would guess, several stories tall and larger than two rambler houses set end to end. Next to this mound was a smaller but still impressive mound of frozen precipitation. Over the last two to three months these formations have lost their whiteness and instead become black and grimy with exhaust, pollution and just good,old normal dirt.

The thing is, it is now May 18 and the snow hills are still there! That’s right. It has been at least eighty degrees on a couple of days and in the sixties and seventies the last couple of weeks. Still, snow sits on the Sears lot. It has slowly shrunk to perhaps 10 feet in height and a small trickle of melted water makes its way onto the boulevard. But there is still snow on the ground here in St. Paul.

While I can and do take varying routes to the office, I now have been going only one way. It has become a daily ritual to check on ‘my’ snow. The sight of it makes me laugh and reminds me where we’ve come from. And as I’ve observed this near glacier like movement of melt, its presence has become metaphor for me.

The enormous mound of snow has come to represent all that which builds up in our lives and becomes bigger than its individual parts. When I think of the size of a snowflake, their individual beauty and uniqueness, I am humbled. When those same snowflakes get piled on top of one another for hours, days, weeks, months, they become something very different. Something that lasts a very long time. Something that gets covered with dirt and garbage which,then, forms a crust that makes it nearly impenetrable. The fragility of snowflakes held together is a profound and powerful statement.

That is what has happened to the Sears snow. That is what also happens to us when hurts and grudges are allowed to pile up and cement themselves to our souls. It is what happens when we find ourselves encrusted with bad habits, hurtful words, addictions, old baggage we allow to define us. The pile gets higher and higher and it takes a powerful force to melt its hold. Ever have this happen in your life?

What can melt such a structure? The warmth of friendship and community is a good start. Self-loving also helps. Asking and seeking forgiveness goes a long way. Being gentle with ourselves and others can be helpful. Recognizing what is ours to do and not do is also powerful. Prayer. Laughter. A good cup of coffee and a piece of chocolate wouldn’t hurt either.

I’ll make my way to the office in a few minutes. As I drive by the snow that lingers into May, I’ll laugh. Laugh and offer my thanks for its gifts and the wisdom it has offered.

I’ll also pray that it melts very soon.

Yesterday I took advantage of the beautiful weather and walked around one of the Twin Cities many lakes. All the paths were crawling with people overjoyed to be outside their homes at last. Smiling people and equally happy dogs bounced along the walking paths. Strollers carrying joyful babies moved swiftly past runners and those roller blading as they soaked up sunshine and fresh air. Long stored bicycles now sported helmeted riders using muscles they had forgotten they had. Each person seemed to be exercising the kind of freedom that is one of the true gifts of spring.

Nearing the end of my walk, I observed a biker taking over one of the many park benches that dot the lakeside. Sitting down, he called out to another biker still making their way along the path. ” Come, rest here.” he said. I looked to see the reaction of the receiver of these words. I wasn’t close enough to really see but it didn’t really make a difference. I had already heard the invitation and that was enough.

“Come, rest here.” The words stuck in my mind. I thought of all the people who would welcome the gift of these three, little words. Come. Rest. Here. Right here. I thought of the harried parent trying to juggle the myriad details of any given day. And the weary caregivers I know, dishing out food, compassion, patience, and love. I thought of the teachers and the restaurant workers and all the laborers who work long hours, often underpaid and under appreciated. My memory was flooded with the many hospital workers I have occasion to see in action as I visit people who are ill or have had surgery. So many who would welcome this simple, calming invitation.

And then I thought of all the places, besides the park bench, that beckon us to “Come, rest here.” All over this state docks will soon be moved into place and will take up their work of providing a resting place for those waiting to be healed by the glassy, lapping water of being at ‘the lake’. The front porch of my childhood, its glider, rocking chairs and swing that are always present to create the slow, comforting motion we knew as infants. Back and forth, back and forth. Easy chairs and waiting room couches call out, “come, rest here.” Laps and outstretched arms offer children and loved ones that place of solace……come, rest.

In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus goes about claiming a special relationship with God by saying to those gathered around him: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” What amazing and comforting words. And aren’t they ones we have all, at one point or another, longed to hear?

For those of you who are weary and long for rest, may you have someone call out to you, like the biker on the bench, “Come, rest here.” May you find an invitation, even if it comes from your own lips, to sit, to be in the gift that is the present moment. And may you find rest there.

Blessed be.

“If this world
Was not held in God’s bucket
How could an ocean stand upside down
On its head and never lose a drop?

If your life was not contained in God’s cup
How could you be so brave and laugh,
Dance in the face of death?

There is a private chamber in the soul
That knows a great secret
Of which no tongue can speak.

Your existence my dear, O love my dear,
Has been sealed and marked
“Too sacred,” “too sacred,” by the Beloved-
To ever end!

Indeed God
Has written a thousand promises
All over your heart
That say,
Life,life,life
Is far foo sacred to
Ever end.”
~ Hafiz,1320-1389

Being held in God’s cup seems a reassuring gift to me these days. I have found that the ways of the world are weighing down my spirit and I have been searching for a way to come up from the dark waters that seem to be rushing over us, to find an opening where clear, clean air can rush into my constricted lungs. As I listen to those in whom we have placed our confidence as leaders, take sides about how we give name and honor to those we love, I feel a sickened despair. When I think of the ways in which our nation allows fear to be our common food, I want to cry tears that will not stop. As I watch even our faith communities elevate violence to a sacrament and create laws that would exclude any of God’s beloved ones, I wonder at what point we will cease our never-ending hurt of one another. Plainly put, I wonder when we who call ourselves Christians will begin to live in the Way of Jesus.

And so I have been doing what I find helpful. I have spent time talking with friends, friends who may not be in the low-riding valley of life’s roller coaster right now. And I have been reading poetry and stories that weave beautiful phrases that lift my spirit. This poem of Hafiz did the trick. To be reminded of being held in God’s cup brings a healing balm. And to reaffirm that deep goodness I believe exists within each of us is grounding. Without ‘preaching’, that art that often contains too many words for me, poetry places just the right amount of syllables on my plate, allowing me to breath between the thoughts and find my way back to the home of myself.

This poem of the ancient Sufi mystic calls from someplace beyond time and wakes me up with his “too sacred, too sacred.” Affirming that this life which we have been given by a loving Creator is too sacred to ever end is, for me, the wisdom of the Easter story. The assurance that no terror or fear ever plays the winning hand, that no harm we can ladle out or legislate ever ultimately prevails over the sacredness of life, allows me to breath more fully, to have an optimism that is choice, not logic.

Yesterday, a group of dear ones I call both colleagues and friends, lamented many of the same situations that have been nagging my spirit. We spoke of hope as choice. We spoke of making the choice to walk hopefully into each day though we might have ‘considered the facts’ as poet Wendell Berry writes. Perhaps we do this because we are all church ‘professionals’ and we have been schooled in the ways of doing so. Perhaps we have decided to choose hope because we are of a certain age and to do otherwise would be simply too depressing.

But what I pray is that we have chosen hope because we know deep, deep down in that ‘private chamber of our souls’ that the secret planted there, the secret of the sacredness of never-ending life prevails and we can do nothing else but choose. Choose to hope. Choose to live up to the promises of God’s imprint on our hearts. Choose to dance in the face of death. Choose to speak,act, vote, pray, and live this life which is “too sacred, too sacred” to do otherwise. And that we will live this way, not only for ourselves, but for all people, for all creatures, for all the world.

Have a blessed and hope-filled weekend……….

“How strange and mysterious
are the ways of God.
Not greening, not flowering
may be a path
to the center as well.
Acceptance of yourself
as you are
and others as they are
is the true potting soil.
All growth starts there.”
~Gunilla Norris, A Mystic Garden

It is a rare person who, these days, is not thinking of planting, of growing things, of soil to be turned and seeds to be burrowed. Even those who would not think of doing any actual gardening are aware of the Earth making a stupendous come-back in these evolving days of spring. In Minnesota the past two days seemed to have taken a giant leap forward into summer with temperatures in the eighties. But we know that in a few days things will be back on track and the slow, methodical opening of buds and sowing of seeds will continue.

It is easy to believe that this is the way it always is. But anyone who has planted any kind of plant or garden at anytime knows that most growing happens in its own good time, under circumstances that often elude the most skillful gardener. I can’t even consider the number of dollars we have spent on our backyard garden, trying to make things grow, until we recognized that, the black walnut trees we loved so much, created a soil which makes many things impossible to grow. We had to accept that, if we loved the strength and the shade and the beauty of these trees, we had to give up growing certain plants. We had to accept the potting soil that is our yard.

Many times I engage in what I refer to as ‘wicked step sister’ behavior. I try with all my might to jam my foot….or myself…into a shoe or situation that simply doesn’t fit. I cannot accept that I can’t grow in every setting. I don’t think I am alone in this, am I? I also often forget that sometimes the not blooming, not growing, not flowering may also be a path to a newer awareness of God’s movement in my life.

In addition to this personal life lesson, it has also been one of the most difficult lessons, I believe, of being a parent. To trust that your children will blossom in their own ways and not in the ways in which you had planned for them, is an often humbling journey. To accept the mystery of their path and yours in relationship to them is one of those lessons that often needs to learned over and over again. I know I have certainly done my fair share of returning to the wisdom of that kind of potting soil.

For those who are struggling with a gardening diagram that may not be producing the blooms you had hoped. For those who are having difficulty accepting what is or isn’t growing in your life right now. For all those who wake every day unsure of the next step. May you, may I, continue to accept ourselves and one another with the compassion and love offered by the Holy One. May we continue to dig deep into this potting soil and begin to grow in ways that are perhaps strange…….. and always mysterious.

“Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless.”
~ Mother Teresa

At church yesterday, I shared an experience I had had over the weekend. It was one of those blip of a moments that fill our days. This one, however, caused me angst and much contemplation about the ways in which, as humans, we have the power to hurt or heal with a single word.

On Saturday I headed to Target for four items I had written on my list. It had been a full few days. A retreat at Koinonia Retreat Center. A wedding rehearsal and the anticipation of an evening wedding.The fullness of the yet-to-be Sunday morning and Mother’s Day. I was trying to make short work of my needed errands. Getting out of my car I headed toward the entrance of Target, the two, large, bull’s eyed automatic doors greeting me as I approached.

Usually I veer to the right, the ‘In’ door in our culture. But instead I walked to the left and headed into the doors which opened as I entered. Coming out the doors to the left, a man with a minimally loaded cart passed by me and said, clearly and with some force:”Exit.” His words carried disdain, even anger, though I was not in his way and I did not cause him to even miss a beat in his gait. But his one word seared through me.

My crumpled list in my hand, I walked on into the store. But now, all of a sudden, I was filled with shame and hurt and the sense of having done something very, very wrong. I carried on an internal dialogue, trying to convince myself that in the big picture of things I really had done nothing wrong. For heaven’s sake, if this were Great Britain I would have been going in the correct door! I thought about what was going on in this man’s life that he could have felt the need to be reprimanding in such a way.

By the time I had placed my four items in my cart and headed to the express checkout lane(Less than 10 items please!), I had worked it out. Having paid for my merchandise, I headed out the Exit door. Coming toward me, a woman pushing a full cart as if she had perhaps forgotten something, was headed back into the store. “I am so sorry.”, she said. I simply smiled at her and said, “Not a problem.” It somehow felt like the tables had been righted.

Throughout the rest of the day and even yesterday, I thought of how that one word,”Exit” spoken in the way it had been, had had the power to undo me. I began to do a mental rewind of the words I may have at some time spoken that might be as hurtful. When have I found myself frustrated, angry over such a simple thing as entering the exit door? Have I spoken words or shot a glance that had the power to alter another’s day? I pray not but I know I have probably, at some point, done equal damage.

Now two days after this experience I am beginning to see it as the gift it was: a wake up call for civility, for compassion and for remembering to be kind with my words. All my words.

Even those with only two syllables. Like “Ex-it.”

When I open my eyes,
my God, on all that you have created
I have heaven already in my hands.

Serenely I gather in my lap
roses and lilies and all green things
while I praise your words.

My own works I ascribe entirely to you.
Gladness springs forth from sorrow,
And joy brings happiness.”
~ Hildegard of Bingen

Early yesterday evening I drove west of the Cities to our church’s retreat center for a gathering of three different groups from the community. Koinonia, as the center is named, is nestled in the woods on Lake Sylvia. I had been busy all day preparing for the retreat and had thrown my belongings and all I needed in the car, and in what has become my rushed pattern these days, headed west in freeway traffic. I inched along through St. Paul and over the Mississippi River into Minneapolis and finally made my way to the western suburbs. It felt somewhat a triumph.

As the freeway turned to a four lane highway, I began to relax and see the unfolding landscape around me. I had made this same trip in January past snow filled fields and frozen lakes dotted with ice fishing houses. The view was much different now. The soil of farm fields was turned and the rich, black dirt seemed to be itching to grow something, anything. The trees and bushes that lined the roads now sported the tiniest bits of yellow-green buds, that green that only happens in spring. Do you know it? The lakes now glistened with the evening sun, their waters free to move once again after months of being frozen in time, literally. Cows and horses moved lazily in the fields, periodically shaking their bodies against the ever warming air. Birds of one kind or another flew overhead and near the horizon, making their way to a new nest or a familiar home, stopping for a rest on this lake or that. It was like watching life be born before my very eyes! As I drove I felt all the tension and worries roll off my body. I relaxed into my driver’s seat and took in the show.

When I arrived at Koinonia I saw the birders were already out with binoculars. I later saw the amazingly long list of birds they had already spotted within only a few hours. As I unloaded my belongings into the room where I would sleep last night, I could hear the spring peepers singing wildly from the backwaters of the lake. I heard the far off cry of the loon, haunting and melancholy and yet a sure sign of life renewed, of spring’s true arrival. I walked to the lake to see the crystal, clear sheen that reflected the now setting sun. Overhead geese called to one another. More tension sloughed off my pinched skin.

When I went to bed last night, I opened a window so I could hear the peepers and the loons sing their nighttime lullaby. I drifted off to sleep held in the sounds of springtime bliss and slept like a baby. I was awakened by the same recurring melody with an additional descant added by other birds whose songs I do not recognize. It made no difference. Beauty need not always have a name.

Healing comes to us in many forms. This morning as I walked in the early morning dew of the woods, I knew that something had changed within me. All the stress I had been carrying, all my worries for the world, all I am powerless to change, had melted away. My breath was deeper, fuller. My heart was beating slower and, no doubt, my blood pressure was lower.

I had been healed by the Earth and its unfolding. I had been rocked to sleep by a reminder of the goodness of the world. I had been filled with a hope that is ours to grasp each time we reconnect with the rhythms and patterns of Creation. And like my Creator, I too can say, it is very, very good.

Have a blessed weekend……..

This morning I was awakened by the sound of a single voice calling to me from outside my window. With these warmer spring days, we had cracked the window open a wee bit so the sounds of the outside are now more noticeable. My brain had not quite focused on being open to the newness of the day when I heard the single, loud and clear honk of a Canadian goose making its way in the flight pattern that exists over our house. I shook the sleep from my brain and immediately heard the words of Mary Oliver swimming before me:

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”

I love these words so. They are such affirmation to me. Their clarity and beauty connects me with the world in such a deep way. And to have heard that call while still lying in my bed seemed pure gift. I felt as if my place in the family of things was being announced to me: Get up! Walk into this day with a kind heart and a sense of purpose. Open yourself to the possibilities that are yet to be imagined, yet to be teased out of the minutiae that can become the weave and warp of the every day. This is your life. Embrace it!

All that from one honk. From that one pure sound I was enlivened by knowing that I am in league with Creation in ways that surprise and inspire. I do not have to be good or shout to the world all the wrongs I have committed. I have the task of loving what I love and it is blessed work. I have the job of telling my despair and listening well to the despair of others. As humans it has always been and always will be. The sun comes up and goes down, the moon rises and shines. And here I am. Here you are. At home in a world that holds it all and invites us to wear our humanity like a fragile, silk cloak.

Tomorrow morning may bring the regular, old boring sound of the alarm clock. Or, if I am blessed, the same sound I heard today may be my wake up call.

Hooooonnnnkkkk!

On Saturday night, I had the privilege of hearing our church’s handbell choir in concert. As always they did a lovely job and we were surrounded by the music of bells of all sizes and tones. I think I sat closer to them than I ever have and I recognized once again this crazy, nagging feeling I have each time I hear them play. You see, I came to realize some time ago that this particular form of music pulls on all the control issues I possess. For those who don’t know much about handbell choirs, each person is responsible for only a few notes. As they read the music they are responsible for only those notes and no others. As I watch them I think of all those other notes flying by for which other people…..people other than me…..are responsible for playing. It creates great anxiety in me! To rely on so many others to be ready, to be paying attention, to be listening, to actually play the notes they are supposed to play!

Now of course this says so much about me and not the art form. And yet I am reminded that it does mirror so beautifully the work we do every day. We get up and walk out into the world hoping beyond hope that others are paying attention to the ways in which they drive their cars. We order lunch and trust that the hands that made our sandwich were washed thoroughly. We pick up our phones and dial a number not really knowing how they work, how signals are sent, the many hands and indeed lives that are tied to our ability to call our children or coworker. We pick up a newspaper or read news online praying that the words are true and unbiased, that they are dedicated to providing facts that will help us make sense of our world. Each of these acts and so many more make up the single notes that are played by people we know and will never meet. The notes that make up the music that plays through our days and underscores our lives. Each represents an act of trust that people will pick up the bell for which they are responsible and that they will play.

Taken in this light, I feel my shoulders relax and my stomach unknot. There are bell ringers around me all the time, doing their work, work that I cannot do and for which I am not responsible. These are people whose skills and talents outshine my own by spades and I can trust that they will help make the daily music beautiful. I can also trust that even when they miss a beat or play a note out of rhythm, something or someone will make it right.

And that someone is not me. I have my own notes to play as do each of us. Notes that were planted in us from our birth by One who understands the whole musical score in ways that are mystery to us. Today, with shoulder relaxed and stomach calm,I will pick up the few notes for which I am responsible and will do my level best to play at the right moment, in rhythm and with great feeling. I will listen well to my fellow players and hopefully, with grace and beauty, we will all make music together.

And tomorrow, if we are blessed to do so, we will get up and do the same thing all over again.