beauty that moves.

I read an article in the New Yorker this week about the choreographer George Balanchine, one of the founders of the New York Ballet. One thing he used to speak about was his frustration of people always needing to attach a meaning to art's expression. When they see choreography they always asks, "What does it mean?" There is this need the audience has to qualify what they see on stage by attaching it to a particular idea or experience.

He once compared dance to flowers, pointing out, that when we view flowers we are moved by their beauty, but we don't ask what they mean to tell us. They don't "mean" anything, but simply are beautiful. Balanchine suggested that viewers ought to see his dancers in the same way: to accept their beauty and be moved by it, without needing to make some kind of sense out of it.

Often I think art does ask us to attach meaning. Sometimes artists (musicians, choreographers, poets, sculptors, painters) have a point to make, a story to tell, a challenge to present. But other times, as Balanchine points out, the point and challenge may be to just let it move us. To dwell in its beauty as it is, without adding our interpretation. As humans I think we often struggle to accept mystery and beauty. It feels chaotic to us, and we want to boil it down to something we can make sense of. It seems there are very few times that we allow ourselves to be moved, without asking what the point was.

I think this is why things like meditation, mysticism and yoga have become so popular in the recent decades. There is a craving to dwell in the mystery and stillness. Often religion puts so much emphasis on teaching and preaching. We sometimes act as though religion and spirituality is all about learning the "right answers." But most of us know that's not all there is. We crave more of God; we long to be moved in a way we can't put into words. I think the Emergent Church and authors like Tony Jones have tried to emphasize this point. But as a whole, the church (even the Emergent Church) still struggles with knowing how to dwell in the mystery. We still look at God, or a dancer, or a painting, and produce an answer: "Here is what it means. This is what it is teaching us." And sometimes that's good. We have learned a lot that way. But it seems to me we're missing out on something essential too -- the kind of beauty that moves the way Balanchine described. What truly moves us, is often that which cannot be quantified or qualified. So, I guess the question for all of us, whether we be artists or pastors, teachers or friends, is how do we express the inexpressible? How do we dwell in truths to large to think about?

To want something Passionately.

I just finished watching Woody Allen's latest film, Vicky Cristina Barcelona. It's beautiful and light hearted, with underlying themes about the life-long search for passion and meaning. It also has the kind of strong, intense, female characters that are typical of Woody Allen. If you watch it though, I have to warn you, you will want to drop everything and fly to Barcelona. Right this minute. So before pressing play, pack your bags.

There is a moment in the movie where Scarlett Johansson's character, Cristina, says that its sad, really, that she loves art and music so passionately, but has no gift or talent to speak of. It reminded me of a similar moment in the film Adaptation where Meryl Streep says, "I suppose I do have one unembarrassed passion: I want to want something passionately." I connect with that feeling of self doubt. That we feel so much beauty and see so much passion, but haven' t found our gift, our art, our passion. We see and admire that passion and art in others, but feel we haven't expressed that kind of beauty ourselves.

I am a lover of poetry, art, and music. I write often, paint (very) occasionally, and have sung in choirs and worship bands in the past -- but I don't have any kind of unique or extraordinary talent in any of these areas. I read poetry that is so beautiful it breaks me open to a whole new way of experience, and I know there isn't a sentence I have ever written that comes close to that kind of true art. I think I am so much better at appreciating than creating. I can look at a poem or a painting, and find so much depth. There is an art to that, I think. An art to seeing and hearing and studying. But I think it pales in comparison to the kind of art that creates, that offers something new to the world, that arranges the pieces of life in a new way, particular to a moment, to a person, to a feeling, to a life. That kind of particular expression comes only out of passionate creativity -- a creativity I strive for, but haven't yet found.

I wonder, do others feel this same sense? Do most of us walk around being appreciators and longing to be artists? Do artists see themselves as artists? Or are they also longing for that moment of true passion and inspiration? What is it that makes us feel that this daily art of living and loving isn't enough? Why do we always assume that other people's passions are more extraordinary than our own?

I don't have any answers today. But I know I believe that every person I meet is an artist. I'm not sure why I struggle to believe that of myself.

widening pool of light

I know it has been several weeks since my last post. Change has been in the air. I'm finishing my work at Project Transformation, beginning new work in a new place. With that comes all kinds of hopes and anxieties. On all of this, I will write more this week.

But for today, I set aside my own thoughts and struggles. My own little path of change. A bigger change is happening today. Today, President Obama began his term.

Like others, I am feeling celebratory and hopeful; thankful that we've come far enough as a nation to elect this great leader to the white house, knowing also how very far we still need to go on the journey towards equality, peace and hope for all people.

But there is a sense of a new beginning. One we are all hungry for, one which we've been craving for many months, years, decades. Who knows what may happen. Obama is a great man, undoubtedly, but still only a man. A person with only a limited sphere of capability and influence and a thousand obstacles which could scatter that influence to the wind. Yet, still a person, who like each of us has real power. Real influence. Real life that can impact everyone and everything.

Dr. Elizabeth Alexander read this poem today. Beautiful, powerful and eloquent, I think it expresses so much of what this particular day holds:

"Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others’ eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus; A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, “Take out your pencils. Begin.”

We encounter each other in words, Words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; Words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, “I need to see what’s on the other side; I know there’s something better down the road.”
We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by “Love thy neighbor as thy self.” Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light."



So, here we stand, all of us together, whatever our politics, whatever our economic status, whatever our religion, whatever our race: on the brink, the brim, the cusp. About to walk into something new. I can only hope with Alexander that the mightiest word will be love.

Praise song for walking forward into that widening pool of light.