Vapid no More
This strange relationship, what a novelist would call turbulent, between religion and ruthless me, will never end until my dying day.
We sang our gospel songs when I was younger and I can only speak (or sing) for myself. For me, they were, in illo tempore (in that (questionably) sacred time), a kind of magic incantation which would bring down the presence of God into my brain and heart. Hand on that sad heart, it never did much except give my lungs and my love of melody a good workout. But the less it worked, the more important it was to try.
When Things Fell Apart, I did look Back in Anger – anger and embarrassment, and utter scorn for those little rhyming cough sweets.
In a word, they were vapid.
But they just don’t go away. Here’s another one bubbling up from my memory again:
‘This is the day … (desperate thrumming student guitars)
This is the day (effort to sing with gusto)
That the Lord has made,
That the Lord has made …’
[Well, d’uh. Who else made it? (unless you’re a sinful Darwinist)]
‘We will rejoice (please let me)
We will rejoice (of course I am!)
And be glad in it
And be glad in it …’
[Rejoice? Be glad in? What century are we living in?]
Funny thing happens today. I wake up singing it in a Black Gospel choir, even my voice has an African timbre. Pure Ella Fitzgerald. And … oh Gxd, how funny you are! I actually really, really mean it.
The day as a gift. The decision to enjoy and savour it.
I’m not deluded. I won’t deny that there are many, many times of
‘This is the day
that pure sh*t has made:
‘we feel a lot
Like slitting our wrists’
Or
‘we just can’t cope
With everyday things’
Or
‘we have a scream
Buried inside’
Someone will say oh, but Gxd’s with you, carrying you, these are Footprints in the Sand days. Well, it sure as h*ll doesn’t feel that way. Just feels like there goes another scummy waste of a day and so what if I survived it.
But there are good days. More than good – I’d have to say joy beyond words. Days when I can re-collect myself and re-connect.
These are the days when I can write, and read, and stare at everyday beauty and smile. My collections of paperweights and mineral crystals (no healing properties as far as I’m aware, except exquisite beauty); the artworks on my walls; birds and trees around and in my garden.
I’m sure William Stafford is describing these days often, when he’s not in sombre activist mode.
Listen to him at his most joyfully connected, in Godiva County, Montana:
‘We risk our eyes
every day; they celebrate, they dance
and flirt over this offered treasure.
“Be alive,” the land says. “Listen –
this is your time, your world, your pleasure.”
I’ve got a busy day ahead and I’ve just wasted ninety minutes sitting writing.
But if I don’t write, everything else is really a waste of time.
I will rejoice now washing dishes and taking the cat to the vet and filing boring paperwork. And I feel pretty d*mn glad to be in it.
