In My Life

I was all of 11 when I first fell in love with the Beatles.   Well, Paul McCartney, to be precise; the way his beautiful brown eyes turned slightly downward at the corners and that hint of a pout in his lips, things I had never been conscious of in looking at a boy before that time, but things I would always pay attention to after. To say that Paul (and George and John and Ringo) may have inadvertently triggered the sexual revolution of the 60’s may not be entirely farfetched. How else can one explain the millions of pre-teens, teens, and yes, a fair number of older women ready to chuck their daily lives in a passionate heartbeat to run away to England to kick Jane Asher’s (Patti Boyd’s/Cynthia Lennon’s/Maureen Starkey’s) butt, and live happily ever after with the man/men of their dreams?

Of course the music had everything to do with it. The Beatles practically wrote the soundtrack of my growing up years. The sweet and innocent “I Want to Hold Your Hand” and the other early stuff described perfectly the anguished longing behind my gawky 7th grade self desperately wanting that 9th grader with the long hair to at least acknowledge my existence. By the time “Magical Mystery Tour” and “Sgt. Pepper” rolled onto the scene, the love beads and flowers that I wore in my own long hair were signals to the world that at 16, I was ready and more than willing to explore the realm of sensual and spiritual existence the Beatles promised me was out there, alive, psychedelic, and waiting.

And then there was John Lennon. In my Paul crush years, I remember being a little afraid of John. The attraction I felt for him was enticing but dangerous, a little beyond my innocence at the time, as if he was just too much man and not enough boy for me to deal with safely. However, the Beatles grew up as I grew up, and by the time I was old enough to fully appreciate John, he was leading (or accompanying) me down a whole new path, that of political and social activism, questioning authority and taking to the streets to “damn the man” by daring to “Imagine” and “Give Peace a Chance.”

The Beatles have never ceased playing in the background of my existence and there still seems to be a perfect Beatles’ song for every milestone occasion of my life. One of my oldest childhood friends just mailed me a box of pain au chocolat from a French bakery along with a birthday card that reads, “What’s the difference between you and a senior citizen? A lot less than there used to be.” Ha ha. Very funny. In it he wrote, “Yes, I’ll still need ya…yes, I’ll still feed ya, when you’re 64.” It seems I’m not the only one with the Fab Four still playing in my head.

Rather than that telling tune, I think the Beatles’ song I’m hearing today as I celebrate (for my generation) a milestone birthday is this one. Pastry and goofy jokes aside, the femme d’un certain âge I see in my mirror this morning looks just the same as she did at 11 and 16 and 22 on the inside, and I seriously wouldn’t trade my arrival time on the planet this time ‘round for any body else’s.   What a wild, crazy, and amazing ride it’s been “In My Life” so far! As for the Beatles,

“…But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I’ll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I’ll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more.

From “In My Life,” by John Lennon and Paul McCartney

 

 

 

 

 

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Alone Isn’t Always Lonely

There was a camp song we sang when I was a kid, one of those that seemed totally appropriate at the end of a campfire and totally corny any other time. I think it was probably one of the first I ever learned to sing harmony on, because that’s what all the grown-ups did, when they started feeling a little sentimental in the dark night watching the dying embers. I can’t even remember the name of it, but I still remember the lyrics:

             I know a place, where no one ever goes,

            There’s peace and quiet, beauty and repose.

            It’s hidden in a valley, beside a mountain stream,

            And lying there beside that stream I find that I can dream

            Only of things of beauty to the eye,

            Snow-capped mountains reaching to the sky,

            Now I know that God made the world for me.

It was easy to get lost in the spirit of that song, feeling pretty small in the cradle of the Rocky Mountains under a dome of more stars than a city kid could ever dream of; but the smallness was not at all threatening or demeaning. It was more of a comfort to know that I had a place in all of it, that I was a part of something vast and magnificent. Just me.  There was something infinitely sweet in recognizing my self-hood in this way. Even though I was surrounded by fellow campers and leaders, I was, for that “ah-ha” moment of self-realization, in a head space that was mine and mine alone. Isolated but not disconnected. Alone but not lonely.

I’ve often joked that if I lived back in the Dark Ages, I could have been completely comfortable as a Trappist monk, following the Rule of St. Benedict regarding unnecessary communication with anyone but God. Silent contemplation appeals to me, which is something of a blessing since I am not out in the world as much these days as I have been in earlier periods and circumstances of my life. Since I stopped working outside my home and my kids have grown up and gone, I think I actually relish the amount of power that I have to pick and choose the noise level of my life and who I allow in it. I’m finding that while I love humanity, it’s mostly people I can’t stand, barring of course my loved ones and the kindred spirits who continue to fuel my curiosity, my creativity, and my spirituality. Beyond my tribe, real and virtual, I am content to be alone, but I am not often lonely.

It’s not that I don’t need connection. I don’t call people (except for my sister and my kids) but I do check in on Facebook a couple of times a day. I want to be reminded if it’s somebody’s birthday. I want to know who needs a hug or a fanfare. I love finding new places, new experiences, new books, new poetry, new music, and new art in the posts of my friends and family. I appreciate hearing the world news of the day filtered through the opinions and reactions of people and organizations I trust and admire. But that’s often enough of the world for me.  When I find myself in need of honest-to-goodness company, I have no trouble reaching out for it. I still enjoy adventuring and getting together with good friends. I love to travel and explore new places. But at the end of the day, it’s always good to come home.

Undoubtedly, the quiet life is not for everyone, and if you’re one of those lovely people who happily run on high speed and high volume 24/7, I toast and celebrate you and wish you well. Likewise, if you are not a happy “alone” person, looking for the right road to not-aloneness, Godspeed and bon courage. The world you want is out there. Be brave and grab it! The key line in my old song is the last. It is the only piece/peace you need:

…Now I know that God made the world for me.

With thanks to QuotesJunk.com

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Silence

Not far from my home in Salem is the somewhat incongruous German village of Mount Angel, familiar to many as the home of Oregon’s largest Oktoberfest. When that event rolls around in mid-September, the village population swells from its usual 3500 to an average 300,000 people, and it is what you’d expect: a riot of color, flowers, harvest fruits, polka bands, dancers, artisans, and of course, beer! (This is Oregon, after all.)

Mount Angel is also home to the good sisters of the Queen of Angels Benedictine Monastery as well as Mount Angel Abbey, with its world famous library and seminary schools of philosophy and theology.   Although the village of Mount Angel (under a couple of different names) was first settled in the 1850’s, the arrival of Rev. Fr. Adelheim Odermatt with a contingent of Benedictine monks from Switzerland in the 1880’s gave the community its unique character as well as it’s name: Mount Angel being the English translation of Father Odermatt’s home in Engelberg, Switzerland. Not to be left out of community life during the biggest event of the village year, the brothers annually throw open their doors to welcome shuttled Oktoberfesters to their beautiful valley views and a moment of peace and quiet on the abbey campus as a break from the big party in the village below.

Although we’ve been tempted to take the abbey shuttle several times during past fests, we never managed to get up the hill until yesterday, when we decided to drive up from Salem ourselves to visit the abbey after lunch. I’m glad we waited. The grounds were all but empty of anything except flowers and a summer breeze. To experience the true nature of this place, they really needed to be so.

The area had a different name in the language of the Kalapuya, the Native Americans who lived in this part of the valley before the Europeans came: Tapalamaho, which translates to “Mount of Communion.” Whether that communion was a description of the rituals the missionaries brought or simply an observation of the way the butte above the Willamette River’s fertile plain kisses the sky, I don’t know. What I can tell you is that the vistas from the abbey’s high ground above the village of Mount Angel are breathtakingly beautiful, and the place has a spiritual geography that has nothing to do with Catholicism; or any “religion” for that matter. It simply is holy—-or maybe I should say, wholly, as in connected to the earth. It was also very, very, very… quiet.

The palpable stillness was a rare thing to experience in the world I live in, even in this semi-rural setting. It was a unique quiet. A heartfelt quiet. A quiet I wanted to drown in. It was a place to think deep thoughts, or simply not think at all.

I wrote a haiku some time ago that I could never title. I think I may call it Mount Angel.

At the stillest point

there is only the heartbeat

listening for God.

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