ThroughLines

At the end of October 2020, a season and year many of us wanted to be over and done with, I wrote a Post here titled “Mendacity and Music.” It was an effort on my part to find some way to name and contain my feelings about the terrible corruption and suffering that afflicted our country. As you will remember, mendacity refers to a system built on lies. Mendacity connotes a mixture of dishonesty, hypocrisy and audacity. For example, “if an individual makes statements wildly divergent from what one has held to be true in the past for reasons of personal gain, there is only one word in the English language that describes that phenomenon: mendacity.” (wiki)

And now, after only a couple of months, I find mendacity is too small a word to describe our current circumstances. Now I think of Perfidy: a word with a gentle sound, almost suggesting an 18th century dance or custom. But the actual meaning of the word warns us not to be fooled by outward appearances or sounds. Perfidy is not gentle: it describes the natural outcome of mendacity.

Perfidy means betrayal. It describes a “deliberate breach of faith or trust. . . . It is an act of treachery. . . . it is a form of deception in which one side promises to act in good faith with the intention of breaking that promise.”

Perfidy describes the time and circumstances we are now witnessing and experiencing. We the People have been betrayed; we are considered “the enemy” by the President of our country and his foot soldiers, both inside and out of the government. This is not hyperbole. One has only to look at and listen to the events of three days ago, January 6, 2021, in which the President was filmed inciting his followers to insurrection. At the urging and direction of the President, the Capitol of the United States government was overrun by a violent mob, with intentions to render our elected representatives unable to conduct their lawful business. The sitting Congress was urgently evacuated to secure locations. The President cheered on the insurrection from the safety of the White House.

I have to say, I don’t want to write this. As I go about my daily chores, walking my dogs, playing golf with friends, I briefly forget what happened just a few days ago. I forget that more violence is being planned for the coming days and weeks to take place not only in Washington, DC but also in my state, perhaps in my town. I try to forget that there are people in my community cheering on the violence and the efforts to overthrow our democracy. That is not hyperbole. That is the goal of this insurrection. And when I am hiking or sleeping I can briefly forget that COVID-19 is raging all around us, coming ever closer like a tidal wave.

I am old. I was born in 1940 near Philadelphia, PA. As a small child, our food was rationed because of the War. My father was a neighborhood air raid warden, which meant that when the sirens suddenly blared in the night-time darkness, he set off to assure that everyone pulled tight their blackout curtains so the enemy could not see where our homes and towns were. Hitler was overwhelming Europe, and there was fear that the US would be under attack also.

These are memories of a small child. Anne Frank died when I was five. She died of disease in an extermination camp when she was 15 years old. As an adolescent I read about Anne. I heard the stories of Auschwitz-Birkenau and Bergen-Belsen where she died, and the intention to exterminate all Jews. As a teenager, and ever since, even until today, I have wondered: What would I do if this were to happen in my country? How would I resist?

I think the time is here. I think the time is now to try to answer the question of how to resist, even though I can feel the pull of wanting to let others worry about our peril, or hoping it will all be okay and fade away. But that’s not the way it works, is it? Strong men, bullies who want to be king know how to manipulate those who wish to look away, and to punish those who do not. This will not be easy.

Perfidy, betrayal and treachery, will win if not exposed and resisted. The betrayal and destruction of democracy is the intended outcome of the insurrection(s) we are witnessing. It is built on mendacity, a system of lies: that the pandemic is a hoax, the election was rigged, that the President is invincible. This has been coming a long time. It is here now.

Three days ago, during the insurrection, a burly white man proudly waved a Confederate flag in the Rotunda of the nation’s Capitol, a clear warning of violence directed toward our black citizens; outside a noose was hung from scaffolding. Insurrectionists called for the hanging of the Vice President, and others. Marauding men proudly wore shirts and hoodies displaying the logo “Camp Auschwitz.” On another, initials and numbers signified in code that “6 million Jews killed is not enough.” Threats of violence to Congress people and acts of violence committed on journalists and the Capitol police were carried out by the mobs who were directed and encouraged by the President of the United States and his surrogates.

But hey – what’s new? This moment has been planned and forewarned for four years. Now it is no longer mere words and threats which we have grown used to and become numbed to over the years. Surely it could not come to this. But now the attempted violent overthrow of our democracy has begun. We the People, our representatives, and our Constitution are targets. We are called the enemy. We are in danger. We must resist.

A few nights ago I was reminded of the deep sense of calm and joy that can come from improvising. Just for a moment I sat down at my piano. I thought I was bored; I thought I was sad; I thought I was too tired to do anything “worthwhile.” Clearly, thinking was not useful. So I settled on the bench and played a few notes, and then a few more, not in any particular order. The only “rule” was that the sounds wanted to be pleasing. And so, in semi-darkness, I continued to play notes and chords, often in my favorite key of G minor. At certain moments I sighed out loud: “that is beautiful.” I played for five, maybe ten minutes, then stopped. I felt calm, satisfied, at peace with myself.

I have no idea what I played on the piano that evening. I’m not able to repeat it. Apparently, research shows that improvisation is such a concentrated, focused activity of the brain that long-term memory is blocked by it. But I know I can return to that spontaneous, creative activity whenever I feel like it. (Ironically, however, sometimes I experience a little hesitation to abandon myself to a moment of such pleasure.)

When I was taking piano lessons some years ago with Nancy, my dear friend and teacher, we stumbled upon the utter thrill of improvising together on her side-by-side pianos. Nancy was encouraging me to be bold, to compose. She is a brilliant, prolific composer herself. Instead, I found myself improvising and invited her to join me. We had no idea where the notes would take us, but we weaved them back and forth across keys and times and rhythms that gave us pleasure and fascination as we followed each other’s lead. It felt magical.

The connection I felt with Nancy in those moments of spontaneous improvisation is indelible. It serves as a continuing reminder of our friendship, but also of my own creative ability to calm and soothe myself in times of uncertainty or times of trouble.

One can improvise in myriad ways, not just in music and art, theater and dance, not just alone, but also in deep connection with others. When I built Zarafa, my giraffe, over a period of three years, she demanded continuous creative improvisation, sometimes on my own, often with friends and collaborators. I remember going to a local tailor’s shop to ask: “Do you know anyone who can help me make a skin for my giraffe?” After moments of open hilarity, a kind seamstress gave me the name and number of just the person to help: and he did! Grant became a co-creator, teacher and friend, improvising methods and techniques as we made our way to forming a beautiful, young, female Masai giraffe.

In these days of the surging worldwide coronavirus-19 pandemic, and of political chaos at home and afar, we need to cultivate the ability to improvise, to adapt, and to be flexible in order to maintain connection with one’s own core strengths and with the strengths of others. Spontaneous, co-creative play is a good way to get there. An added benefit is that improvising can quiet the inner critic, that unhelpful internal voice that insists on finding fault or contradicting simple wishes. And improvising can also help to quiet the outer noise that can get in the way of finding joy and calm.

On the back of a weary Appaloosa
shuffling sand through tunnels 
of prickly pear and coyote bush,
we walked a long way out into the desert night.

I whispered again to his lowered head:
You're safe with me.
My legs wrapped against his sides
and my hand stretched the length of his neck,
gentling our connection.

Whose fear was I wanting to soothe?
Whose shiver still at the sound
of a sudden crack in the brush?
My need to bring him safely home
was everything.

Next morning,
sitting in sun by the open window,
I suddenly folded forward; my elbows lowered to my knees;
with him again.  
Too many years he struggled,
bent in tripod, grasping for each fleeting breath.
Nothing could soothe him then.

Folded together now, he spoke
as surely as he had kept his silence 
on our walk through the desert night.
He never found it easy to use words.

You can leave me now, he said gently.
It's done. I'm safely home.
Go out now; find a new path
beyond thickets and chamise,
beyond bridle and the night.
It will be your own.

Karen Merriam
October, 2020

Entering a local coffee shop to grab-and-go a favorite drink I’m startled by the barista’s greeting: “Hi Karen, how’s your day going?” Wait! How did she know it was me behind my mask? In my mind’s eye I’m anonymous, slightly invisible. Even after nine months of wearing a mask, this disjunction between what I imagine and what is real hasn’t lessened. I try to understand how we are known, what distinguishes each us behind this protective covering?

Masks have served many purposes. At Halloween or for a Bal Masqué a mask can invite dance and play, even romance. And if you really love masks, Mardi Gras provides a wonderful opportunity to devise an elaborate new persona to present to the world for a few hours or days.

But today a mask has become a necessary adornment to venturing outside one’s home. It is intended to provide mutual protection against the COVID-19 virus that is raging everywhere across the world, especially in the U.S., and even in my little California coastal town.

As you can see, my friend Nan is certainly not disguised or anonymous in her mask, and hopefully her health is protected by it. Yet I wonder, what is it that I see as she wears her mask that so clearly tells me, here is Nan.

At this time of public health crisis, many of us are feeling very vulnerable, isolated, and invisible. We understand that our lives may be in danger. But that reckoning doesn’t match up for many others. They are not prepared to accept this deadly virus-stranger into their lives. They stand boldly, face unmasked, daring the unseen threat to approach them. They exude a defiant sense of righteousness and power. I encounter such people every day, and I haven’t yet found a way to bridge the chasm between their choice not to wear a mask and my choice to wear one. The difference feels essential, existential. And I wonder what are the deeper underpinnings of our differences?

Which brings me back to Scotland and a question of the soul.

What? How did we get back here? Why are we standing beside the naked, unprotected Standing Stones of Stenness that have endured over 5,000 years on this remote island off the north coast of Scotland? For me, the Standing Stones seen here and in many places in Scotland and England, are one representation of ThroughLines. They speak of the endurance of a simple will to live and to mark one’s time and place on the earth. They affirm the unknowable, the unspeakable. And the sheer magnitude of the task to gather them, move them, and place them in intentional patterns attests to the depth of their meaning to the people who placed them there. It seems to me that they are an expression of the soul of a people, a Throughline. And when one stands before them, one can feel a deeper conversation emerging that collapses time and distance: a conversation of souls.

In the current political life of America, the media has recently reported that we are engaged in “a battle for the soul of America.” What does that mean? What are the representations of the soul of America? We are a young people in our present incarnation. Yet we have a history on this land that extends more than 5,000 years, whose representations can be found in artifacts and remains that are largely hidden. However, in present times we do not engage in conversation with “the soul of our country” as our Native American elders did, or as many have done with the Standing Stones of Stenness on Orkney Island. We don’t have time for that, one might say. Many may sympathize with the farmers on the bleak Scottish islands who keep turning up more ancient stones as they plow new acreage. What a nuisance to stop and accede to a new archeological dig. Yet it is deeply understood that one ignores such representations of the soul of a country at one’s peril. Collectively we need to access that wisdom.

It seems to me that as a country we are lacking in such essential wisdom and the courage to patiently “dig” for it. We really don’t know what our soul is, nor do we care to find out. We just want to fight. We want to upend, scrape, blow the top off, burn, and drill our way to short-term gains for our “body politic” without understanding why. And how can we know, if we are so disconnected from the core of ourselves? A mask may be able to protect us from a virus that can attack our bodies, but it cannot protect the soul from the damage that can be caused by neglect, disinterest, and a frank unwillingness to acknowledge its importance, even its existence.