If you're like me, every now and again you wake up with a song in your heart. Here's one. 100 % authentic one-take wonder, complete with mucky chord changes, and some old-timey acoustic distortion from the archtop uke.
Goodness knows, you gotta take it day by day Goodness knows, you gotta take it day by day Goodness knows you gotta take it day by day You make a lot more miles along the road that way Goodness knows you gotta take it day by day
Goodness knows, it's bound to be a long old climb Goodness knows, it's bound to be a long old climb Goodness knows it's bound to be a long old climb But you're gonna reach the mountaintop in your time Goodness knows it's bound to be a long old climb
Goodness knows, that vision's gonna be revealed Goodness knows, that vision's gonna be revealed Goodness knows that vision's gonna be revealed Like a red sun rising on a golden field Goodness knows, that vision's gonna be revealed
Goodness knows, the truth is gonna set you free Goodness knows, the truth is gonna set you free Goodness knows, the truth is gonna set you free There'll be a blue sky shining where the darkness used to be Goodness knows, the truth is gonna set you free
Goodness knows, you gotta take it day by day Goodness knows, you gotta take it day by day Goodness knows you gotta take it day by day You make a lot more miles along the road that way Goodness knows you gotta take it day by day
No, I'm not in dire straits. My health is fine despite all my previous efforts to wear myself down. My family are wonderful and well, and my friendships are good and strong. My home is a place of love and respite. And I'm doing better and better at taking good care of myself and keeping it all on the rails.
Still, I need help. It bothers me to admit it, but I need to say it: to myself, out loud, and to anyone who's listening.
Mind you, I don't exactly know what kind of help I need. But in a general way, I am moving from a perspective of "I can do the improbable and the impossible both, all by myself!" to, "I have no idea what my path is, and I really would like some energy, a sign, and a helping hand."
It takes a lot for me to do this. I like to think I'm strong and capable, and it makes me feel a bit weak and whiney to ask for help. Besides, I've been so blessed in life, I really feel like I should exclusively be a helper, not the helpee. But I've delved into the depths of my darkness in a time of great personal change and growth, and the answer is clear: I can't get where I'm going without help.
I've been here before. I feel okay. I've turned my head to the sky and asked for what I need, and the answer came clearly, as it's always done before: the help I need is inside me. All the choices are mine. The path is mine to define, and I will not be given more than I can handle.
This is the cornerstone of my faith, and the foundation of my being.
A couple of years ago, I was sitting in a boardroom meeting with a pad of paper and a pen. The pad of paper was made to write lists on; it said "Things to do Today" at the top and then had numbered lines all the way down.
Here's what I wrote on the paper, under the heading Things to do Today:
1. Affirm the existence of divinity.
2. Take deep cleansing breaths.
3. Express sympathy for others.
4. Appreciate the natural world.
5. Be mindful of thought, word and deed.
6. Do kind works.
7. Embrace creativity.
8. Sleep soundly.
9. Eat healthily.
10. Take joy in physical activity.
I hung it next to my desk at work. At least I READ the list every day, whether I always manage to do it or not. That's worth something, right?
(Maybe I'm dyslexic, but 12 never seemed like enough steps for me.)
A few years ago, a friend of mine asked me to share some tips with her, about how to live more "spiritually." I sat down at my computer and typed up this list of actions that were part of my ongoing effort to live with grace. It wound up being a list of 20 things, in no particular order as far as I can recall. I printed it off, stuck it to my fridge, and I think it's been there for about four years.
Sometime, maybe 3 years or so ago, I penciled in the 21st step.
Tonight I decided to take a refresher course in spiritual practice from a previous iteration of myself.
Here goes.
Acknowledge a higher power. Learn to do it without embarassment.
Understand yourself as an individual work and statement of that higher power.
Observe yourself. Know yourself.
Recognize that love is the unifying principle that underlies all things.
Give thanks every day for what you have. "Thank you, God, for this day" is what I say.
Practice meditation if you can.
Read the works of the masters: Jesus, the Buddha, Kahlil Gibran, etc.
Find God in music, art, nature, and also in difficulty and disaster.
Try to understand the unity of everything.
Seek to fill yourself with love, so that you can overflow and love others.
Surrender. And never give up!
Believe that you are here for a reason.
Acknowledge the fact that miracles happen all the time.
Seek to overcome yourself, to be in the world but not of it.
Practice friendship, companionship, laughter, love - don't just let them happen.
Today's sermon is about the Great Out Doors, and how easy it is to get right into it, wherever you may be. Even if you live in the middle of downtown Toronto, the Great Out Doors is really only a little effort away. All you need to do is make that effort, and the Great Out Doors is yours to love and appreciate.
For example, there's the Humber River. You can put a canoe in the water beneath the Old Mill subway station, just a few blocks north-west of Jane and Bloor, and casually paddle all the way down to Lake Ontario on a sunny Saturday morning. That's an easy journey into the truth and beauty of the Great Out Doors.
From the second you start to drift between the steep, green, thickly treed riverbanks you're communing with the spirits of the Native peoples who first used the Humber as a major waterway. When you pull the canoe up to the shore to stretch your legs on a grassy spit, you're walking in the footsteps of Etienne Brule and the trappers and traders who trod the banks of the Humber before there was even a Fort York. When you nose into a hidden marsh untouched by roads, trails or fences, you're hearing and watching the descendents of the night-herons, the egret, the swans, the ducks, the turtles and the fish that were once the only inhabitants of this land and these waters. There you are, in the heart of the city - and in the heart of the Great Out Doors, or G.O.D. for short.
The Rouge River, now the border between Scarborough and Pickering, is another swift route to the heart of G.O.D. You actually put your canoe in the water where 16 lanes of Highway 401 and 6 lanes of Kingston Road cross the Rouge on giant concrete and steel overpasses. But the waddling pairs of Canada geese with their fuzzy broods of goslings, the nodding salmon fisherman with his lazy line and friendly wave, the cheerful gurgle of the clear river water beneath the span of those immense works of man are all reminders that this is G.O.D. after all.
As the banks steepen and the river deepens and bends, mighty hemlock and pine stand in mute testimony to the majesty of G.O.D. The darting kingfisher, the hopping toad, the friendly guy in the old cedar and canvas boat with his bare belly and old-fashioned cooler of beer; the young couple holding hands in the shade of a leaning willow, the kids darting along the low dunes of the Lake Ontario shore, the smell of French fries wafting out of the chip truck as the Go train speeds across the low bridge overhead… it's a wild and wondrous mix of sights and sounds and smells that could only be G.O.D.
Sunday morning in Toronto Harbour is G.O.D.'s day. The sun is bright, the water is smooth and soft to the paddle. Catamarans drift, windsurfers zip, fast boats play in the wake of a ship… these are the creatures great and small of G.O.D. A warm Toronto Island beach hosts a fat lady roasting herself pink, a homeless guy washing his socks in the lake, tourists on rented bikes chattering along the boardwalk. More of the children of G.O.D.
A good hot coffee, breakfast in a café garden, strawberries, fried potatoes and toast: food, a gift of G.O.D. There's art on the walls - it's about G.O.D. Everyone's chatting and sharing the day, and there's hardly a care because G.O.D. is everywhere. Even back home in the back yard, idly hosing the mud from the canoe, sharing cool beer by the barbeque, watching toddlers tumble with their toys, the cat clawing the screen, the laughter of neighbours floating over the fences, you're surrounded by G.O.D., embraced by G.O.D., fed, watered, clothed and housed by G.O.D., at ease and in tune and in line and in place in G.O.D., the Great Out Doors, our home and native land…
Last week I heard a report on the news, saying that people just weren't getting out there and shopping the way retailers would like them to. This dry fact was presented as if it was a mystery.
There is no mystery. We've hit maximum capacity, that's all. They're putting the Christmas stuff up in stores the day the Halloween decorations come down, and from that point all roads lead to Christmas. The ads are blasting out of the TV, the jingles pollute the radio airwaves, and "the buzz" is impossible to ignore. We all know Christmas is coming. The horses have been led to water.
But they can't make us drink. We just don't seem to be buying enough stuff, soon enough, for long enough. The ads work, but only up to a point. We've hit retail maximum. This is all the enthusiasm that we can be cajoled into showing.
Good, I say. It's about time. Maybe it will finally occur to someone that if left to our own devices, we might just figure out the Christmas season, and start to show a little Christmas spirit, all on our own.
It's tough to imagine wise men bringing gifts to a baby born in a stable when you're shopping for Barbies. It's hard to think about a brand-new star in the sky when a six-story TV screen is promoting perfume and lingerie. It's a challenge to feel fellowship with all humankind as you jostle for a parking spot at big box stores. How do you feel grateful when you're frantic? How do you feel humble when you're harried? How do you feel generous when your credit card is maxed?
All the fuss, all the noise, all the hawking of gadgets and gewgaws and bric-a-brac, is enough to turn people off Christmas entirely, and it does. I've heard people of non-Christian backgrounds complain that they feel assaulted by the whole matter. A Jewish friend told me she'd had enough when she had to stand in line at the post office listening to a CD of dogs barking "Jingle Bells." I'm with her. I'm no humbug - I just think the season has gotten all wrapped up in itself. And the irony is that the tacky wrapping paper, the hideous bow, the outlandish size of the whole package is completely at odds with what's really inside it all.
There's a folk tale that says one of the greatest teachers and most enlightened spirits of all time was born in a stable. There's a tradition that he was presented gifts by wise elders who recognized his special importance. There's a set of customs that honours all that by gathering friends and family at the darkest time of the year. It's a time of grattitude and grace. That's what's inside the package, and it's the only thing that matters.
I love it when people ask "what would Jesus do?" I wonder what Jesus would do about Christmas right now? Well, the real Jesus only experienced one Christmas, at most, and that was the first one. Chances are he spent most of it eating and sleeping, enjoying the company of his family and pretty much ignoring the goodies, lovely as they may have been, and all the fuss everyone was making.
That's what Jesus did, as far as we know. That's what I'm gonna do too, if I can. The reason for the season, indeed. Merry Christmas!
Last Thursday night I headed out into the darkness to hear Ian Tamblyn up in Orangeville. Of all the songwriters I know, he seems to work most directly with the ideas that move me both as an artist and as a spiritual seeker. Ian's songs, stories, photos and compositions are expressions of solitude, sublimity, awe, and grace. In a time and a place where these notions are frequently pressed into service as buzzwords, it's a refreshing and at times a deeply moving experience to get back to the heart of the matter.
And what is the heart of the matter, precisely? Ian phrased it as a query that went something like this: is the North in Canadian art and music an idea, which we're applying onto the landscape, or is it a spirit that we're discovering there and then expressing?
Ian's not the first guy to take ask this question, implicitly or explicitly. Artists from the Group of Seven to Glenn Gould have tackled the North, or been tackled by it, and it's never been officially settled. I can't place myself in such noble company, but I can tell you I've been obsessed by the same thing. As a kid from the Canadian Shield near Parry Sound who spent 6 seasons in the bush as a treeplanter, I've been chasing the North in story and song all my life. The more I think I get it, the more it gets me.
Then again, I'm convinced the answer to the question is less important than the effort that goes into trying to work it out. But on the way to Montreal last Friday night, in the dark space between Brockville and Cornwall where many of my songs have been conceived, these words came to me in a dark, ancient-sounding melody. They're only words, and you can make of them what you will. But when I sing them I know what they mean, and I believe these words to be true.
The North is a Spirit You'll know it when you hear it In the cry of the loon Beneath a waning moon You'd better try to understand it And when you finally begin to You'll see the North is a Spirit And the Spirit gets in you....
