Echoes

I can remember when I first entered a cathedral and let out a yelp in hopes of hearing the sound come back to me the way they do in big spaces. It seems I’ve always had a thing for echoes. Lying in bed at camp during storms I eagerly waited for the echoing response of each clap of thunder. I still find magic is echoes and delight whenever a choir finishes a piece of music with a triumphant note and then waits for it to return from the rafters of the church. Echoes seem to have a life of their own. Whether in a big space like a cathedral, or against a mountain cliff, or off a lake, echoes return and sound like whatever gave them birth, but not exactly. They come from a source but have a voice of their own. 

As I listened to a particularly animated echo recently, I thought of the relationship between the source and the echo. There’s a connection, or dance, between the two, and it made me reflect on all the echoes I hear. A person speaks, and I hear not only what they said but hear it anew moments or hours later. I remember things my parents said to me as a child and hear them anew as they return as an echo within. 

One of the great stories in the Bible is the description of the creation of the world. Once I got past the struggle of whether the creation stories (there are two) are literally true, I was able to appreciate the truth within the imagery provided. God speaks to creation and out of the word comes life, like an echo. I think, if we are quiet and attentive enough, we can hear that echo bouncing off creation, still. It bounces off the trees as we walk along a path, bounces of mountain cliffs, and mingles with the ocean’s waves. It also bounces off the people we love, and also those we find difficult to love. We can hear it when a child whispers, and someone weeps.

The question is not whether the echo is there, but whether we have ears to hear. When we do, the world suddenly becomes one big, wonderful cathedral.

Making Stuff

It was the first in-class first writing assignment, and I could feel the anxiety permeating the classroom. The sound of pens scratching and keys clicking seemed particularly loud as the time limit approached. The instructor tried to gather us back and said something I’ve never forgotten: “Just remember, everything you are about to read never existed before.” It was a simple statement of fact, but it reminded me of one of the greatest things about being a human being: we get to make stuff!

Because it is a privilege we’ve always had, it’s easy to take our creativity for granted. As children, we never gave creativity much thought. We just got into the sandbox and went at it. No wonder life felt more like play than work. Along the way, school made creativity feel like an assignment or skill we needed to turn on and off as needed. It was also then that we were told or were made to feel creativity was disproportionately doled out to us. Then, after school, we got “real jobs,” and creativity was reserved for hobbies. In retirement, people often re-discover creativity and feel like children again.

The fact is, we, like the one who formed us out of clay, are born creative. That doesn’t mean we were all born to sing at the Met or have art hanging in the National Gallery. It means we are conduits for the creative spirit who moved over the waters millions of years ago, and swirls around us still. I think the spirit is kind of hoping we’ll be more like the children we once were and come out and play. Sometimes the pinstripes and suspenders get in the way, but bankers and lawyers have just as many opportunities to be creative as they solve their business challenges as a child wearing a smock with his or her hands deep in the finger paints.

The gift of creativity was given to us at birth, and, today, we have the chance to make something that has never existed before. If you ask me, that’s not a bad way to have spent the day!

Extra Credit

Count the opportunities you are given to make stuff this week.

The power of pink

Things in this country are a mess. Regardless of how you see things, we can all agree that divisions abound, anger is everywhere, and people on all sides are acting like spoiled brats. After this week, I’ve had to watch less TV and look for other places for the spirit of a country I love. 

Little did I know I’d find it on a cloudy morning, surrounded by hundreds of pink shirts. It was the annual Women’s Only 5K Run in honor of breast cancer research. Although I am comfortable with my feminine side and have my share of pink shirts, I could only stand as a spectator for this run, but my view gave me what my heart was longing for.

In a city that has its fair share of divisions, black women ran beside white. Strangers leaned in for selfies with those standing beside them. Members of St Andrew’s Episcopal Church ran with members of His Holiness Temple. A woman with a yarmulke cheered beside one wearing a hijab, and Republicans and Democrats held hands. It wasn’t a black or white event, a Christian or Jew. It wasn’t a red or blue event. It was pink.

The pink shirts came in all sizes, but there were two shades. The first, was for those who ran in support of someone they loved. The second was a darker shade, reserved for the survivors themselves. Runners nodded or reached out with reverence to touch the women with darker shirts. One runner had no hair, another had no breasts, one walked with a cane, and another rode in a wheelchair pushed by a friend, and yet each woman wearing the darker shade smiled with the joy that surrounded her on every side.

For a few hours, the world was a beautiful place, and, as I walked to my car, I watched a mother and young daughter walking ahead of me, each wearing a different shade of pink. Hand in hand, I could see strength being passed down, and offered back up. I could feel the power, and it was the mighty power of pink. May the world learn from, and find more of, this power.

Extra Credit:

Reach out to someone you know who’s been touched by breast cancer.

Do one thing this week to cross one of the countless divisions between you and another person.