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A week ago Saturday I stood in the meeting house of a Shaker village. The building is acoustically perfect. After the crowd had left, my husband and I stayed behind. He began to sing, and I realized that I wanted to sing in that place of perfection. I stood in the center of the room (the sweet spot, if you will) and I sang any hymn that came to mind. One of the staff came from across the road to see what was going on, and I apologized. She told me it was lovely and that was what had drawn her there.
My husband and I continued to sing, and a group of visitors came in to listen. I didn't stop singing, because I wanted to sing.
Singing used to be my primary form of communication with my own heart. Over the years, I let it fall to the wayside. I'm not sure why or how that happened. Maybe it was just the cumulative affect of all the struggles to get through each day. Maybe it was one too many critics - internal and external. Maybe it was my need for perfection, or my belief that I couldn't sing without an audience. Who knows. What I'm learning now is that I can sing for myself - for my own enjoyment. And if it's not always perfect, that's okay too, because as emily wierenga wrote recently:
In his memoir, All is Grace, Brennan Manning recalls words that Brother Dominique Voillaume said to him: “You are on the threshold of receiving the greatest grace of your life. You are discovering what it means to be poor in spirit. Brother Brennan, it’s okay not to be okay.”
It's okay not to be okay. What a relief.
Blessings.
The aunt is putting Sunday dinner on the table. We are waiting for her to sit down so we can all eat. She sets the platter of fried chicken in the middle of the table. The uncle is sitting across from me. The cousin is on my left and the sister is on my right. The aunt is standing to the left of the cousin. She is complaining about all the work she does, and how no one helps her. How having the sister and me there just creates more work for her.
I am so hungry! Fried chicken is my favorite. There is a chicken leg hanging off the side of the platter -- the side nearest to me. I snake my hand across my plate and beside my milk glass to try and reach the chicken leg. Something startles me and I knock my milk glass over. Everything erupts. The aunt begins to yell at me so I dive under the table. She is screaming. "You've ruined everything!" "You'll pay for this!" The sister looks under the table. She is either angry or scared. She tells me to get up now!
The aunt comes around to my side of the table. She jerks the chair back and reaches under the table. She grabs my left arm and hauls me up. She throws me into the chair and pushes it up. "Are you hungry? You pig! Oink! Oink! Oink!" She begins to throw food on my plate: the chicken leg, mashed potatoes, beans and a roll. "You are nothing but trouble! If you're so hungry, eat every bite!" Once more I am stuck. I cannot win. If I eat, I'm afraid I'll throw up which will make more work for her and get me in more trouble. If I don't eat, God only knows what will happen. I try to stop crying. I try to make myself as small as possible.
Suddenly it is as if nothing has happened. Everyone is seated. The uncle says the prayer. They are all eating and talking about the singing at church later. I say I can't wait to go. Stupid, stupid me! Why did I open my mouth? The aunt says maybe I can just stay home by myself and think about what I've done. I get small and quiet again. I try to eat in very small bites, but it is taking too long. Everyone else is finished. The aunt says I can't get up until I've eaten every last bite. She cleans the kitchen while I eat in miniscule bites. Finally she takes the plate away and tells me to go take my nap.
She was 6 or 7. It is early summer and she's back at the farm with her sister. She is standing in the middle of the dining room/sitting room. All the lights are off, and the only light is the late afternoon sun filtering through the trees and in the windows. The house is totally silent. She is alone.
Earlier that day, they had all gone to the little country church down by the creek. Afterwards they had come home for a traditional country Sunday lunch. Something happened over the dinner table. People began to yell and scream. The aunt and uncle first, she thinks. Then the cousin is yelling. Even the sister seems to be involved, although to a lesser degree. The little girl has no idea what the yelling is about, but somehow she is in trouble. Threats are made. "You can just stay home by yourself. We'll all go to the singing and leave you here. That will teach you." Teach her what?
Sometime later, after the dishes are washed and naps are over, she finds herself alone in the house. She stands perfectly still, as if rooted to the spot. They really did it. They left her all alone in the house, and went to the singing without her. What is she supposed to do? What is okay to do? How long will they be gone? If she moves will something bad happen? If she stays right here will they humiliate her when they come back?
In this house, it is never clear what the rules are. Some rules are fixed. "Do not get on the bed once it is made every morning." That one she is clear on, but others seem fluid. One day it is okay to do something, the next day it will get you in trouble and pain. Mistakes and accidents are viewed as malicious attempts to torment the aunt. Punishment is swift and severe. The cousin is even worse. Her mood turns on a dime. One minute she is happy and funny, and the next she is hateful and abusive.
The little girl stands as the panic seeps into her body. Something terrible is going to happen. She just doesn't know when, who or what. It will be bad and painful and she should have seen it coming and somehow avoided it.
They are singing all her favorite hymns at the afternoon church singing. The little girl loves to sing more than anything else in the world. But she isn't there. She doesn't get to sing. She is alone and begins to cry.
