I feel a bit removed from all the Obamania at home, but I do get it filtered through my favorite British newspaper, the Guardian. Very happy to see that the new prez is taking steps to dismantle some of the ugly and/or stupid remnants of the Bush legacy—Guantanamo and the secret CIA prisons, the gag rule on abortion funding and insistence on abstinence-only education, dreadful decrees of environmental degradation which Bush opened up with a stroke of the pen at the end of his days in power.
The British also have enough distance to delight in the more trivial aspects of this celebration, like Ben & Jerry naming a new ice cream flavor in echo of Obama’s campaign slogan. Sometimes there’s a bit too much distance, however, as in what may have been the unkindest cut of the week: a letter to the editor that read, “It was interesting to see that President Obama’s first change was to have the fat lady sing first.” All humor has an edge.
I didn't think I would, but I confess to moments in the past week when I wish I were still ministering in a congregation. Not only do I miss the community, as noted at Christmas, but I also can't help but think how fruitful a time this would be to be in an articulating place in such a community back home as the country moves into this new era. And also (on the shadow side) in dealing with the horror and conflict of Israel's assault on Gaza.
I really don’t miss the budgeting morass that goes with ministry in a time like this, but altogether what a fascinating time. (But no, for any who are wondering, I'm not putting my denominational Profile together.)
I do wonder if the papers back home are covering the attack on Gaza as fully as the British ones are (the US being so self-defined by its support of Israel). What I read here is truly horrific. The white phosphorus burns, the physical and psychological toll on children and dismay over the longterm effects this past month will have on a generation of Palestinian kids. One of Britain’s leading playwrights, Caryl Churchill, was so outraged by recent events that she wrote her newest play—started and completed it—in just one week. “Seven Jewish Children—A Play for Gaza” will be performed next month at the Royal Court theater. Admittedly it’s only 10 minutes long, but in a remarkable turnaround this play will go from inception to stage in less than a month. It will be performed for free, with donations accepted afterward for a charity called Medical Aid for Palestinians. After it’s performed here, Churchill will publish it online for anyone to download, and they can perform it for free as long as they take up a collection for the people of Gaza afterward. Theatre groups in the States should keep an eye out for this. Community and church groups, too, I’d think.
Less globally, more personally...
Closer to home: In class we've moved from colors and paintings to music this week. Each Movement and Improvisation teacher has brought in a different piece of music for us to respond to. Quite a range: from a contemporary piece by a group called the Rachels, to Bartok, to Miles Davis ... to the soundtrack from a Looneytunes cartoon. (Just try to express that one with your body! If you get a chance sometime, close your eyes during an old Looneytune and listen to the music by itself. Then imagine somebody composing it. And then imagine an orchestra recording it. There's incredible artistry there. And here all I thought was that it was simply Saturday morning entertainment for (Baby Boomer) kids.)
At times I feel like I know what I'm doing here at Lispa, but only at times. A week ago was another low point, as you may have gathered. This week has gone somewhat better, but at times I wonder if in smoother times like this I've just pushed my difficulties underground again. Sometimes it seems that that's not completely a bad thing. When I bring up whatever it is that pulls me down and hold it before me as if it were a mirror, I just get stuck in it. (Hmm, interesting Narcissistic reference there that I didn't intend.) But if I can draw from this darkness like a tree draws from shit in the soil, maybe I can convert it into something more fruitful. Perhaps.
Anyway, I continue to work on this.
Thomas holds three-person tutorials each week in which students do some free-form two-handed charcoal drawing with eyes closed. Then we see what came of it, talk about the experience, and try to discern something from what emerged on the page. It's not as much like reading tea leaves as it might sound, but yes, it is very subjective. That's the point, really, I think. Anyway, this was my week to take part. What emerged in the first of my two drawings was very dark—bloblike, I thought initially. But Thomas has a away of reframing things, eliciting insights that are quite helpful and more than wishful thinking. He also has a knack for drawing on observations of how we've expressed ourselves in our Movement and Improv classes. He mined some helpful imagery from my "drawing" which I first found so very ugly and formless. He saw in it (and so in my efforts) something reflecting a wild dark flower, marked by a strong male energy, fed by anger and struggle. Something potentially poisonous, perhaps more in its being bottled up than in its expression. He always encourages us to hold onto those drawings. Maybe I'll bring mine home and post it on my wall. I do think there's something there.
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