Transition to Doctor

Posted on February 26, 2013 by harasprice

Today was a bright point of light on the journey of life. I had the amazing experience of being present at the very successful dissertation defense of one of my doctoral students. I sometimes simply use the term “mentoring” as opposed to “directing” or “chairing” a dissertation, because it really is the role and expectation that the student directs her or his own process, while I have the privilege to mentor and support their journey towards independent scholarship and lifelong professional collegiality. Academia is a family (that statement is true on so many levels) and being present for this final act of emergence is unquestionably one of the most rewarding aspects of my academic career.

The day of my own dissertation defense, just over seven years ago now, is somewhat of a memorable blur overall, with a few stand out moments of clarity. I remember arriving early to set up the room and check my slides. I recall talking through my research study at the beginning of my defense; I have a vague recollection of my committee members asking me questions and my answers being reasonably on target (or at least it seemed to me that they were.) I remember one committee member spilling a can of soda onto her copy of my dissertation, which apparently broke the tension enough to allow that particular memory to stick. What I remember the most, though, were the things that happened at the end of the whole process. First, my dissertation chair for whom I did (and still do) have the highest professional respect called me “Dr. Kye Price” and my then 2 year old daughter (who had been well coached by her dad) reached out to give me a hug and called me, “Dr. MomMom!”

That was a truly transformative moment.

That moment represented the culmination of years of intellectual work, but also a transformation of spirit, the embrace of a new role. The rituals of this transformation mark the progression from student, to candidate, to the warm embrace as a full colleague. The rituals marking this penultimate academic transition include tangible signatures of approval, followed by the emotional exchange of hugs and handshakes (not to mention the history of ceremonial “hooding” in academic garb which occurs later now, during graduation). Rituals of celebration also involve effervescence…aka, bubbles…a celebratory sharing and toasting to success. At my defense, this was champagne….although today, local craft brewed beer was the celebratory beverage of choice. The communal sharing of bubbly immediately following the successful defense was a ritual from my own alma mater that I thoroughly endorse. The welcoming of the new doctor is marked through a common toast from the academic community at large to the newly transitioned person. Finally, and perhaps most significantly, there is the immediate taking on of a new title: Doctor.

The origins of the academic “doctor” title are from latin, licentia docendi, literally translated a license to teach. The granting of a doctorate (which incidentally occurred first in the Church and then later in the University) was the designation of someone ready to give back, to assume the role of teacher and mentor. It is a lifetime title, not one dependent upon where one is employed or in what field one specializes. “Doctor” is not synonymous with Physician, which is the way we may confuse the terms today. The doctor is a learned teacher, acknowledged by senior peers as ready to provide that learning to his or her own students. It is both an honor, and a responsibility.

Fully taking in this title can seem like an act of the ego, and it certainly can be that. But living up to the title of “Doctor” (including “Dr. MomMom”) has been more an act of grateful humility, marked by a dedication to lifelong learning and knowledge sharing. There was a transformation that occurred when that title was conferred. And, I took great delight in bestowing it today to a deserving, next generation scholar colleague who, I have no doubt, will carry out the role of teacher and mentor with deep commitment and unique personal style. That makes the academy itself a brighter place.

While I recognize the many associations of power and privilege that have become historically linked with the title of “Doctor,” I hope that a different perspective is emerging. Truly transitioning to Doctor illuminates a central commitment to learning and mentoring that has a lasting impact on future generations. Today has been filled with those reminders, and it has renewed my hope for the future.

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Snow drift

Posted on February 25, 2013 by harasprice

I was driving home after the longest of long days…a full slate of clients followed by an evening support group. It had been a hard winter in Buffalo, and today was the fourteenth day in a row of steady snow. My driveway was a tiny ridge amid two huge snow banks, and I would get up an hour early every morning to dig out my car out then navigate backing up, all the while hoping that no other cars were out and about on my street, since I could no longer see past the enormous snow piles marking each side of my driveway.

That night, I pulled onto my street and parked temporarily on the side of the road, knowing that I would need to shovel my pathway into the driveway before I could pull in. I waded to my porch through the day’s accumulated snow, got my shovel, and started to clear the path.

My hopes for that evening were simple. I looked forward to the post shovelling comfort food dinner I had brought home: turkey and mashed potatoes with gravy and green beans. I wanted to sit on my sofa, let my cat jump up on my lap and purr, and just be still for a few blissful minutes, listening to some quiet music. Maybe I would light a candle. These simple and comforting images filled my mind and gave me strength to pitch shovels full of icy, packed snow over my head to reach the top of the snow mounds. I was nearly ready to put down my tools, pull my car in the driveway, and call it a night. I walked my shovel back to my porch, grabbed my mail and tossed it into the house, set down my bag and delivered my dinner to the kitchen to be reheated. I went back outside to pull my car into the driveway.

Then, I saw it coming. A huge snow plow. It was after 9 p.m. and my car was now illegally parked on the street. I watched helplessly as the plow swerved to avoid hitting my car and in doing so, slammed into the snow banks on the end of my driveway. It made no difference to the plow which kept right on going, but 14 days of piled, packed ice and snow had now collapsed into my driveway like an avalanche.

Something in me snapped. I ran out to the street, cursing the plow and helplessly trying to remove the snow. I was exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally. I just started crying, in total hopelessness. I stood in my driveway first in shock, then in hopeless despair.

I cursed the snow, the snowplow, my neighbors who didn’t ever offer to help, the city, the weather, my low wages, my long hours, my failed marriage, my miscarriage, my childlessness, my lack of faith, my lack of courage, my ambiguity, my stuckness, my choices and consequences, my entire life. I felt alone and lonely, abandoned by everything. Just moments earlier I had contemplated blissful relaxation, but I was obviously miles from actual peace of mind. I had reached my low point, my frozen and hopeless dark night of the soul.

But, as they say, it gets better.

Even in the archetypal tarot image of the dark night of the soul (pictured below) there is still light. The weakened soul, the exhausted and impoverished spirit cannot see the lights shining in the holy places. But, just because we cannot feel it or see it does not mean the light isn’t there. Navigating the dark night of the soul means taking steps on the journey even when we cannot yet see the light that beckons to us. Courage is in the action of moving forward through the dark night, in hope of a new day. Faith is our willingness to allow someone…or the Universe…to hold hope for us even when we do not feel hopeful.

On that dark night, I put down my shovel. I wrote a note and stuck it on my windshield, begging the police not to tow my car and pledging to dig out and pull my car into my driveway at the first light of dawn. I heated and ate my dinner, slowly and savoring. I petted my cat and she purred. I flipped open my mail and saw the latest issue of Social Work which I flipped open and read. I saw an advertisement for a doctoral fellowship to a prestigious University for experienced professionals who wanted to study mental health services research. I made myself a promise that I would apply and if I got accepted, I would go. No ambiguity. Just small steps forward. I went to sleep and the dawn rose on a new day.

My car had a citation for $10 but was not towed. A pick up truck with a plow drove by as I started shoveling and the nice driver turned around and plowed me out of my frozen misery and waved off any fee. I sipped coffee and called and requested an admissions packet to the social work doctoral program at Washington University in St. Louis. I fed my cat, and went to work. It was a new day. And it was glorious.

The dark night of the soul is sometimes exactly what we need in order to see the light of a new path emerging.

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Music of the spheres

Posted on February 24, 2013 by harasprice

The first time I stepped foot in Kleinhans music hall, I was on a fourth grade field trip to hear Peter and the Wolf. We had talked about this classic piece in Mrs. Carere’s music class and learned about the various components of the symphony, the strings and the wood winds, brass and percussion. We boarded busses for a 45 minute trip into the city (Buffalo) and entered the music hall with a throng of other children. I wanted to stay there all day, and was sad when all too quickly it was time to leave. It wasn’t cool to like classical music and many of my peers couldn’t wait to get back on the bus and back to Classic Rock, or sulty Country. But, the strains of both orchestral and vocal classical music had taken root in my soul.

In the sixth grade, I auditioned for All County Chorus and was selected to represent my school. We learned and sang some lovely classical music, some of which I still remember to this day. I was completely taken in by large group singing. I loved being a part of the harmonies that came together, and the rise and swell of dynamics from double forte to pianissimo. I was singing with other people who loved to sing as much as I did, and that was pure delight. We rehearsed and performed a final concert at Kleinhans music hall, which felt like it was a Carnegie Hall debut to me. I remember my parents planning out the route to the city for the concert, packing a picnic to eat in the car while I rehearsed, and knowing that I was singing to an audience that included them.

In high school, I became an occasional usher for the symphony whenever my high school music teacher was scheduled to sing with the symphony chorus. During college, my tiny apartment blocks away from Kleinhans would bring more regular ushering opportunities in exchange for free concert attendance. So, no surprise, I am still a regular patron and my daughter has been going to children’s concerts since she was a toddler. Today, we went to a matinee performance of a full symphony concert, featuring Bach’s Brandenburg concerto. She brought her full self to the performance as she took in the music and occasionally leaned over to point out pieces of melody she heard moving across sections, or to ask about which instruments in addition to the viola (which she has started learning) play in the alto clef. At intermission, she started dancing around in her flowing lace skirt, humming the melody and getting her energy out before the second half of the performance began. At that moment she literally bumped into another patron, an older distinguished woman. Both she and I apologized. Rather than frowning or chiding her, the woman beamed ear to ear. She said, “whenever I hear the Brandenburg, I can still see my daughters dancing to it when they were young…you just brought me back to that moment.”

Exactly.

When I hear these familiar melodies played, I am pulled into the composers, the audiences, the echoing strains of melody and harmony that speak to the soul in a language beyond words. I am also pulled into the common experience of that music with others who partake in its beauty and mystery. It is like a wrinkle in time, a glimpse of eternity. The music of the spheres.

There have been times during my faith journey where I was not sure what I believed. I felt distance from the concept of God and skeptical of labeling myself as a member of any particular religion or faith tradition. But across these chasms of doubt, music still spoke to my soul in strains that were beyond logic, or reason, or time. Perhaps music allows a glimpse into our human experience of God. Music accompanies the small points of light all along my journey.

“To know that what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their primitive forms – this knowledge, this feeling is at the center of true religiousness.”
Albert Einstein – The Merging of Spirit and Science

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Making risotto

Posted on February 23, 2013 by harasprice

I had a moment of Zen tonight as I stood in my kitchen, slowly stirring my risotto. In the swirls across the slowly simmering rice and stock, my wooden spoon inadvertently began to trace an infinity symbol rhythmically around the pan. My mind emptied of the busy plans and daily worries as I stirred. I seized the moment and took in all that this simple experience had to offer.

I didn’t grow up with risotto on the menu, but I did grow up with two creative cooks in my life. Gramma had an amazing talent of making something nourishing and delicious out of whatever was available. She had a master plan for every part of every butchered cow, turning even the tongue and heart into delicacies. She used every fruit and vegetable that could be grown and exposed me to a seasonal palette of flavors from eggs cooked in maple sap during “sugaring” season to fresh garden tomatoes still warm from the vine that need nothing but a dash of salt and pepper to be a glorious lunch. In between were apple pies, elderberry pies, and vegetable soup dotted with spaetzle dumplings. My Dad was another culinary curator, with a special gift for adding any spice that could emerge from a cabinet or a jar and bringing flavor and fragrance into his nightly cooking. I drive 10 hours to visit now, in the hopes that my favorite spicy goulash or zested up macaroni and cheese will await my taste buds.

So, it should come as no surprise that my own cooking is seasonally inspired and infused with flavors. This week, I received a beautiful, huge butternut squash in my “bounty basket” from my CSA supplier. This, in combination with some garden fresh sage, inspired tonight’s risotto. I fired up my grill and added some apple wood to the smoker. I sliced the squash lengthwise, applied some olive oil, coarse ground crystals of smoked sea salt, and black pepper. I put it outside to grill while I came inside and chatted on the phone with my parents. After the length of our conversation, I brought the squash back to the kitchen to cool before dicing to add in the final moments of this dish. I diced up a sweet onion, two nice sized shallots, and finely diced about a dozen sage leaves. A box of arborio rice and a carton of chicken stock were already on the counter. I had a bottle of wine from a local winery that I had opened in hopes of sipping…but it hadn’t made the grade. So, that was added to the prep counter. I got out a hunk of parmesan and a grater, some olive oil and some salted butter. Wait..something more….yes, ground nutmeg.

Out came the big risotto pan, and finally I set up two glasses and an oversized bottle of Hardywood Singel. Upon opening the local craft brew, my spouse pulled up for a chat and some shared sips. We caught up on the week and shared stories that never find time to be told amid the busy pace of life. One ingredient after another, and the risotto started to take on its own life of scent and simmer. A dash of nutmeg, a few extra sage leaves, the slow and steady addition of spoonfuls of simmering stock…slow food and slow cooking to nourish the soul. As the grains reached their full potential of liquid absorption, and my spouse left to set the table, my thoughts melded with final melodic stirring to a place of stillness. At precisely the right moment, my awareness came back and I added the bit of butter and some grated cheese. This signaled the rice to stop absorbing, which would produce the finished creation.

Every grain of risotto, when cooked well, is bursting with flavor. It is a dish of potential energy and complexity that requires time and patience. The flavors must come together and the rice should cook steadily in the liquids added spoonful by spoonful. It requires time. It welcomes conversation. It allows the mind to drift. All these add to the complex flavor and experience of the dish.

Life takes time, and its ingredients need to be absorbed at a slow and steady pace. But awareness is the essential ingredient.

“Ten times a day something happens to me like this–some strengthening throb of amazement-some good sweet empathetic ping and swell. This is the first, the wildest and the wisest thing I know: that the soul exists and is built entirely out of attentiveness.”
–Mary Oliver

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Ladies Aid

Posted on February 22, 2013 by harasprice

In my preschool years, I spent many days in the company of my Gramma. Memories of her farmhouse (particularly the kitchen) are fresh in my mind, and sometimes I walk into those memories just for a sense of familiar connection. When I walk into this memory, there is an oversized wood and straw braided rocking chair on the left, a big table filling the center of the room, a pig-shaped cutting board on the counter next to the stove, and the AM/FM radio is playing. When I would hear Charlie Rich sing “The Most Beautiful Girl in the World” I would go run and tell my Uncle Loren it was on the radio, because I knew it was his favorite song. Or, I would hear my own favorite, the Carpenter’s “Top of the World,” and sing along the best I could, making up lyrics as I went just to croon to Karen Carpenter’s voice.

If it was really a fun day, my cousin Ron would be over as well. We were (and are) practically the same age. Our aunt, Joyce, called him “Little Ronnie” and I would taunt him about that. We’d sit on Gramma’s lap in the rocker, arguing over who was oldest. I’d cry when he taunted me that he was older, and I was apparently too young to realize that June came before October. Now, at a much later point in our lives, I feel like crying whenever I hit the big decade birthdays first. Sigh. But, cousin love always trumps age. Gramma would either put up with us and laugh at our antics, or tell us to “Hush Up” and we did. Such are the memories that spin through my mind when I think about Gramma’s kitchen. They are accompanied by a sweet nostalgia that I can practically touch, taste, see, and hear.

Of all the things I did with Gramma, though, Ladies Aid was my favorite. She, and my great aunts, and several other women of the farm town were the founding members of the Ladies Aid Society that met in the basement of the Wales Hollow Community Lutheran Church. I loved going to Ladies Aid. First of all, I got to be the center of attention: what kid doesn’t love that? Then, I got to “help” (although I probably hindered) with crafts in preparation for the annual bazaar. But most of all, I got to hear all the talking and laughing and bantering among the women. My Gramma was with her peers and there was some wonderful treasure about seeing her in that light. Perhaps this early exposure is why, through my whole life and career, I always come back to women’s issues of health, wellness, and emotional support as the cornerstone of who I am and how I move through the world.

I always loved the mystery of what happens when women come together, to stitch or to bitch or better yet, to do both. There is a social power in that collective energy that I know seeped into me at a young age and took hold. Every support group I have run, every group of women I have helped organize, and every time I have the privilege of being invited into a group of women is for me a little return to the moments of Ladies Aid.

Today, as I write, I have had the privilege to be in the company of many women colleagues and friends. In fact, my academic department has a long-standing history of a “Ladies Aid Society” of our own (we even call it that!) started by faculty long since retired. The Ladies Aid Society was initiated during the time when women faculty were a scarce minority in higher education, even in a female dominated profession like Social Work. Several generations of faculty members have passed this tradition along to those of us joining the ranks. This year my dear friend and colleague Kia and I started a series of “Final Friday Ladies Aid Lunches” for our women colleagues. Times have changed, but there are still challenges. On this particular day, nine women shared potluck food and told stories of life and work. We laughed and shared our thoughts and sentiments and worries and hopes along with our mix of shared egg salad, cheese, fruit, quinoa, veggies, almonds, and chocolate that we passed around. I felt a lightness of spirit in the company and companionship of my women colleagues that is unparalleled. It truly is “Ladies Aid” revisited for me, a connection to time honored traditions.

This point of light in my day reminds me that across many of our faith traditions, we come together unified to break bread and share. The sharing of community has a power unto itself, a mystical reminder that the Whole truly is greater than the sum of its parts. There can be an everyday spirituality in inserting community and ritual into our daily lives. It brings us both nostalgia and new growth.

The past and the future, experienced together in the present moment, are what sustains us.

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Blessed are the poor in spirit

Posted on February 21, 2013 by harasprice

For a significant part of my career, I was a grief therapist affiliated with a Hospice program. People came to our agency for a range of reasons, all having something to do with loss. We also provided grief support as a routine part of Hospice care to the entire family system. Today’s point of light occurred in the juxtaposition of events in one day during this incredibly meaningful time of work.

My morning did not get off to a good beginning…my car wouldn’t start. It was dead, with no hope of revival. I wished I had an automotive grief counselor, or better yet, an on call mechanic. I had two home visits scheduled that morning. The only thing I knew I could do at that moment was borrow a car. The person I lived with at that time (now, my ex-husband) had a beat up wreck of a car that had even more issues than my car did. But, that morning, that wreck of a car started, while mine did not. In a spirit of half anger and half humility, I borrowed it and went off to work.

After a quick check in at the office, I looked at my two scheduled visits. Each was a a supportive counseling visit with a woman whose spouse had died on the Hospice program during the past month. This was before the time of the GPS, so I looked up the address in my indexed map book of the county. The address was in an incredibly affluent area of town. As I drove, the homes grew larger and my insecurities grew exponentially. By the time I reached my destination, I concluded that I looked more like a pizza delivery person than a social worker. I felt small and insignificant and horribly out of place. The woman I was visiting was lovely and dignified but seemed unable to be present with her own emotions. I kept thinking we would soon get to a real place of feeling showing through, but she would instantly excuse herself when any hint of emotion emerged and would not come back into the room with me until she was free of any outward expression of feeling. My awkwardness and her awkwardness seemed to co-exist, each oblivious of the other. I took care to be present with her in spite of the looming elephant in the room. She took care to be present until I had gone over all the information, and thanked me for making the visit politely as I wrapped up the conversation politely. So much could have been different, for each of us. But neither of us seemed able to cross the chasm.

My second visit took me into the depths of the city, into an area where I knew I should only be with a reason. It was where I had lived in college, in an Italian now mostly Puerto Rican neighborhood which had recently experienced heavy gang activity. Suddenly, my transportation situation seemed irrelevant. I had planned my meeting in advance and my client’s son was standing out in front of the house to meet me. He motioned and two of his friends came over, with lawn chairs. They sat down next to my car. My client’s son said, “they’ll make sure your car is OK. I’ll make sure you’re OK. Mamma’s inside and she really wants to talk to you.” I chuckled (and they smiled) when I thanked them but said I was fairly sure no one would want the car even if I left the keys inside. But I was deeply appreciative of their protection, and they were deeply appreciative that I came to be with their matriarch.

During the next hour, I met with a deeply spiritual woman who was longing for someone to whom to pour out her soul and tell her stories. This was a family that wept and cried, shared pictures and stories with me openly as if I was an old family friend. They lit candles and told me of the rituals they put into place to mark their loss together and collectively remember. It was a home barren in possessions and rich in feeling, faith, and family. I felt myself tearing up several times from the gratitude I felt to be a part of their collective mourning for a short while. We connected deeply and meaningfully, and we put a plan in place for the next three visits to continue this process of mourning and healing. When we finished, my escort walked me to my car, and the guardians of my beat up vehicle nodded to me and showed me where to turn around safely to leave the neighborhood the same way I came. I watched them watch me until I was safely out of site.

In my beat up car after a day of many contrasts, I felt several palpable lessons. Grief knows no socioeconomic strata. Loss knows no ethnicity. Richness of spirit is not measured by wealth. Recognition of who we are…the beat up parts and the dignity…are the fabric of our collective humanness. We all are ashamed of something, fearful of something, protective of something, grateful for something.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to them.

All of us.

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Grace, in the present moment

Posted on February 20, 2013 by harasprice

During my Junior and Senior years of college, I worked in a residential health care facility (nursing home) as an Activities Assistant. I needed a job to pay my rent. But I also wanted a job with purpose. I was working on my BSW and was a social worker in training, ready to change the world. So, I thought this would be an entry level way of gaining experience in working with older adults. What I have come to realize is that this was a job that taught me about humanness, living, dying, and quality of life in poignant ways, day after day. It transformed me not just as a professional learner, but as a human being.

My role quickly emerged as the Alzheimer’s Unit activities worker. I had true affection for the residents I worked with, and true empathy for their families. The most difficult encounters were the moments where a family member could see all the prior attributes of the person slipping away, and the person with dementia did not even recognize their family member as having any relationship to their present life. 50 years of marriage or a lifetime of parenthood would have seemingly vanished. It was heart wrenching. At the same time, there were unexpected moments of clear lucidity when it seemed as if every synapse fired at once and the true person shone forth in glory. Today’s point of light is one of those times.

I was sitting at the table in the Activities office writing a progress note. The door was open and my back was toward the door. Suddenly, I felt as though I was being watched and I turned to see one of my residents, Grace, who was a person with Alzheimer’s disease, standing by the sink filling her pockets with remnants of soap and other treasures laying around on the counter. Wandering and hoarding are very typical behaviors and I redirected her without over-reacting. Which means, I said, “Grace, can you help me? I really need to take this chart back to the nurses’ station and I also need to carry this glass of water. Could you put down the soap bottle and carry my glass for me? I would really be grateful.” Grace smiled and did exactly that, oblivious of her behaviors or wandering or who I was. I walked with her toward the nurses station and occupied her with some magazines in a quiet sitting area then walked back to my office.

Back at my desk in my office, I sat down and began writing. The office phone rang and I ignored it, in an attempt to finish my work. It rang again a few minutes later, and I ignored it again. It was a shared office, so I made a mental excuse that it probably wasn’t for me anyhow. I returned to my progress notes.

A few minutes later, I had the same feeling of being watched. I looked up to see Grace standing by the phone on the desk across the room. I said, “Grace, what are you doing.” I was probably sounding a bit impertinent. She turned around, looked at me and said, “Honey, I am standing here staring at this phone and wondering why a smart girl like you doesn’t know how to work it. Come here and I will show you. When it rings, you pick it up and say “hello” and then an operator like me, on the other end, will connect you to your party and you can converse. I thought I should come in and give you a lesson so you wouldn’t be afraid to pick it up next time.”

She looked at me with compassion, and recognition. She had worked as a telephone operator for years and in that moment, she assumed the fullness of her professional role and met me exactly where she thought I was at. Not a busy, overworked college student ignoring her phone and paying her bills by working between classes in a minimum wage position. I was a young learner, who could benefit from her years of experience. I said the only appropriate thing.

Thank you, Grace.

I meant it. I still do.

Indeed, Grace is in the present moment.

“Peace is present right here and now, in ourselves and in everything we do and see. Every breath we take, every step we take, can be filled with peace, joy, and serenity. The question is whether or not we are in touch with it. We need only to be awake, alive in the present moment.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh, Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life

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learning to transpose

Posted on February 19, 2013 by harasprice

From the time of my birth until my seventh grade year, my family attended a Pentecostal church. For those of you who may read this and are unfamiliar with the expression and service structure in charismatic Christian congregations, we had Sunday School and worship service on Sunday mornings (this generally went from 9 a.m. until 1 p.m.) and then a Sunday evening worship service from 7 – 9:30 or so. Then, Wednesday evening worship service and Friday Missionettes and Royal Rangers (youth programs). Church was the all-encompassing component of my social world. It defined my experience, my family, my values, and my identity.

The structure of worship services included a series of songs and choruses, interspersed with people standing up and giving testimony to the works of healing and praise experiences in their lives, followed by preaching, an invitation to the alter for renewed salvation, healing prayers and experiencing the physical manifestation of the holy spirit through such outward signs as speaking or singing in tongues and being “slain by the spirit” which involves falling, dropping, and sometimes losing consciousness under the physical power of divine energy. At least, this is how I now can understand and explain the experiences that to me were simply the way in which we worshiped.

I have quite a bit of difficulty writing about this time in my life, actually, because there are deeply painful memories that co-exist with my intellectual explanations of my early religious experiences. But, today’s story sources itself from within that time and place, serving as a sort of testimonial of its own about the power of light and love, and the value of learning. It comes from a tiny corner on the upper story loft of the sanctuary where I sat during Sunday night worship, along with my clarinet (which I was just learning to play) and a book full of gospel choruses and hymns. It comes from a time of purity of spirit and belief where the world was concrete and I knew no other form or expression of spirituality. It comes from a time before I was confronted by exclusion and darkness. It remains one small point of light.

My clarinet and I met each other in the fourth grade. It came in a green case with a big dent in it because we bought it used. I squawked and squeaked, learned my notes and fingerings, played in my school band, and strategically scheduled my school music lessons so I could miss as much gym class as possible. All good. I was a better music reader than instrumentalist, actually. Notes on the page were easy for me to see and grasp. My fingerings and lip positions were more challenging. My reeds often cracked and broke. I still squeaked often. But, after two years of learning to play this instrument and occasionally playing along with my Sunday school class, one day an older gentleman in the church we attended invited me to join the church orchestra.

Now, let me explain. This was a church of about 80 congregants, the pastor’s wife on an electric organ, and anyone who had ever touched an instrument (about 8 or 10 people) who sat upstairs in the loft during Sunday evening services and spontaneously led the worship service in songs announced by first line or number by either the pastor or on request of a member of the church. There was a trumpet, a couple trombones, an occasional sax player, a guitar, and drums. We called each other “brother” and “sister” in this church, so when “Sister Sue” would shout out a request for “This is the day that the Lord has made” the orchestra members would leap into action, hopefully flipping through our song books to find the piece if we hadn’t already memorized it. The songbooks were written for piano and organ. Thus, the instrumentalists needed not only to read music, but to be able to transpose it in their heads and play in the correct key for our respective instrument. Since the clarinet is a B flat instrument, I had to transpose the written music down a half step, mentally adjust the key signature to the appropriate number of sharps or flats, then play notes that sounded out in the same key as the organ.

Suffice it to say that my first few weeks playing in the orchestra were not melodic. I would take home my books and practice transposing the familiar choruses into B flat clarinet key signature. My orchestra brothers and sisters would give me tons of encouragement and pointers in doing this, both during and after the service. No one ever had a harsh word for me in the orchestra. I began to get past my insecurities and make a joyful noise on my instrument more times than not. It required intense mental energy, and I liked that. My seat was to the far right side of the orchestra, under the sloped ceiling of the loft. I could lean my head on the wooden slope of the ceiling. I could look down and see the goings on of the church members. I could count the knot holes in the wooden beams. I could also mentally lift myself out of the emotional intensity of the service and focus my mental energy on my notes and fingerings between requested pieces. Occasionally, I even sounded like I was making a melody.

When I look back on this time in my life, I remember orchestra fondly. In my little chair up in the loft, I had the first inklings of wonder about my own spirituality. I wondered about things I heard, assumptions people made, the error into which humans interpreted divine knowledge, why bad things happen to good people, and whether heaven and hell were real places or figments of the imagination. I noticed that sometimes people spoke in tongues the same way every time, yet other people “interpreted” what they said differently. I formulated questions I wanted to ask about, although asking them never went well. I tried very, very hard during those years to be a believer. But, just like my clarinet, I was always about a half-key off. So, I would transpose until it sounded like it fit with the larger melody and feel relief in my gut. Things would remain on key again, until the next sour note.

Now, I feel like this view from above and my musical journey provides a metaphor for my spiritual life. Our spiritual song is written for us when we are young, and we learn to sing it back the way that we sing a familiar lullaby. Some of us will keep that melody and find peace in its familiar refrain and teach it to our own children. Some of us will riff on the melody and make it our own, adding a flourish or nuance that makes it more real. Still others of us will need to transpose into a different key entirely in order for the melody to resonate with our soul.

My clarinet and I grew closer as I learned to transpose. I learned that playing the notes exactly as they were written would end up with me sounding out of tune. I learned to play in a different key, and I learned it by trial and error along with a mix of encouragement and advice from those who had learned to transpose on their own. Most of all, I learned that the music that I made sounded best when it came from my heart and my soul along with steady and dedicated intellectual energy.

For me, God is present in the music of the spheres. And I am grateful for the persistent presence of the divine as I have learned to transpose into my own key.

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What’s in the box?

Posted on February 18, 2013 by harasprice

We have the joy of relationship with a family friend who is truly one-of-a-kind. She is quirky, funny, both solitary and outgoing. She is our daughter’s “Moon Mom” (a preferred title over godmother) and I would trust her with both my deepest secrets and lightest laughter. We have built and walked a labyrinth together, dipped our fingers in chocolate sauce and whipped cream for a picnic dessert, floated for hours together on the lazy Missouri river, and held a rousing and competitive Blokus tournament spread out in back tables of a diner to pass the afternoon hours of a blazing hot midwest afternoon. We live several states apart now, so one of the joys we have created is playing “what’s in the box” together over the phone. It is like 20 questions, but involves an object in a box we mail to each other. If you guess it right, you get to open it and keep the item inside. Otherwise…well…we haven’t actually reached an otherwise…but the possibility of that conclusion to the game always looms large at around question 18, right before major hints start being dropped.

I have been thinking about the significance of boxes today after listening to a podcast on The Memory Palace (http://thememorypalace.us/2012/11/picture-a-box/) detailing the story of Henry Box Brown. If you haven’t listened to it, take 15 minutes and please do. It is riveting and moving, not only for the story itself but for all the metaphors of boxes it conjures up for the listener. There are boxes into which we are placed (or into which we place ourselves) in order to create order, opportunity, or escape. We may box ourselves into a religion, a racial category, a political party, a sexual orientation, a social class. Others may likewise box us into categories that help separate “us” from “them” and place those boxes on a heap, or perhaps even on a pedestal. No matter how ugly or ornate it is, it is still a box. We may begin to feel trapped inside, or we may grow to find the familiar shapes and size of the box comforting. Familiar. Home.

This metaphor is made palpable in the Henry Box Brown story I mentioned previously. You may listen and agree or disagree with my take on it, but what struck me is that Henry Box Brown never actually left his box. His identity, his name, and eventually even his livelihood were dependent on the box. We may think of him as “free” but to me he was still enslaved. His identity depended on the box, even though the box was supposed to be his route to freedom. The fear of the unknown outweighed the identity of the known. Freedom can be terrifying. Or, it can be liberating. Sometimes, it is both.

Back to the game of “what’s in the box?” where I began tonight’s entry. This game is a highlight of great proportions in our family but it has nothing to do with the value of its contents. The contents are quirky, goofy, castoff items that we think will stump the player several states away from guessing its hidden identity. The boxes themselves are either recycled, or reused to send the next item to the other player. But each time someone guesses the contents close enough that the sender announces, “open it and see!” the true object is revealed. What is interesting is that the object then takes on a new life. They are not just items to be tossed aside as silly trinkets or stuck in a drawer. Some have been antique coins, others have been pocket sized expandable frisbees. All now have special significance. These items are talked about in family lore, and cherished as gifts of spirited fun that mark the seasons of our lives. They inspire souvenir conquests from vacations that can stump the guesser, and the saving of boxes that belie their contents and throw the guesser off course. The value of the item is increased because of its link to the box, and because of its liberation from it. In that process there is light, and lightness of being.

What’s in your box?

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The nature of things

Posted on February 17, 2013 by harasprice

I spent my childhood in the rural “snow belt” of Western New York in the south towns outside Buffalo. Snow was a way of life from October to April most years, and no one experienced a grocery store eggs-bread-and-milk panic unless the projected total accumulation could be measured in feet. Multiple feet. We planned extensively: a few extra cans of non-perishable food would creep into the grocery cart during each shopping trip beginning in autumn, and the cellar pantry would be stocked with summer’s harvest of beans, tomatoes, peaches, pears, and Concord grape juice. There was a wood burning stove in our house in addition to standard heat. A cord of wood had been purchased, split, stacked and was at the ready for cold stretches of winter weather. Trunks of cars had a scraper, a brush, rock salt, antifreeze, washer solvent, and jumper cables at all times. A snow suit and snow boots were as essential as tennis shoes to each school child, and we knew the difference between mittens and gloves and when each…or both…were called for. We were ready, prepared, and in as much control as Mother Nature would allow. Jack London would be proud.

During childhood winters, I had a secret favorite activity. After I had gone sledding, anointed our pet Husky (mostly) dog in snow, made snow angels and snowmen, snow women, and snow pets, and my mittens AND gloves were laden down with hanging threads of ice and snow crystals, I would find a clean spot of untrampled snow. I would dig down as far as I could reach, then dig even deeper by wriggling my fingers toward the unseen frozen earth, until I could see a tiny fleck of green appearing. It was grass. Under all that snow, all that ice, all those winters days and nights, there was still grass. I just needed to catch a glimpse before going inside to warm up. Even in my childhood, I found that sight deeply reassuring.

One winter, I remember that we had added some boards around our front sidewalk to extend a safe place to shovel without disturbing the dirt in the flower garden. It was a hard winter and the snow drifts and ice piled up in that area. One day in early spring, we had a temporary thaw which melted things just enough so that I could sweep away the snow and slowly, deliberately, pull up a huge, solid layer of ice that had gathered across that section of the garden. To my surprise, under that ice layer, there was a crocus about to bloom. It was growing sideways from underneath a board to find a trace of sunlight. Its leaves were whitish-yellowish and in need of sun, but it was there in full perfection with a dazzling bright purple bud ready to pop. I was dumbfounded. It was winter, the ice and snow had been piled on top of a board, all piled on top of this flower bulb. Yet, the flower had pushed through all of that in a singular effort to do what it was genetically programmed to do: to grow, to bloom, to flower.

I checked on my little crocus daily and watched its leaves become greener day by day and its purple flower pop open to reveal its orange-yellow center. All the while, snow was still piled all around. The weather was winter but my little crocus had its own clock of spring that would not be quenched. The power of genetics, potential energy, geothermal warmth, flora desiring to come into full life and reproduce…the science of springtime was my hope for tomorrow. Indeed, recognition of the ability of science and nature to exceed our expectations remains a point of light for me to this very day.

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