What’s the most vivid expression of human unity across all boundaries of time, culture, language, and self-interest?  It’s music, dear ones.  It’s MUSIC.

This idea is so unoriginal I almost hesitate to discuss it as though it had just occurred to me alone. Like, where have I been all my life?  Lately, though, I’ve been feeling it personally and profoundly. I’ve been prompted to this fresh appreciation mainly by the experience of orchestra concerts.

Bill and I are fortunate to enjoy live performances by the excellent Kansas City Symphony, whose new director, Matthias Pintscher, promises an exciting musical future for the orchestra and the community. Frequent attendance at the Kansas City Symphony brings us face-to-face, like friends, with our professional musicians and with our neighbors in the audience, too.

Meanwhile, at home, I have subscribed for a number of years to Medici.tv, an online library that furnishes an ever-enlarging selection of symphony concerts, virtuoso soloists, operas, ballet, and music-related documentaries from around the world. With this resource at hand 24/7, many hours of my life have been saved from on-screen doom-scrolling, from anger, hate, hopelessness, and…well, from self-induced boredom. Immersed in Beethoven, thrilled by Joyce Di Donato, delighted by conductors like Klaus Mäkelä, awed by, say, the orchestra of young musicians brought from Peru to their European debut by opera star Juan Diego Flores….I embrace endless choices. Every hour spent with these artists erases whatever dismal view of humanity the headlines might be selling.

I particularly dote on orchestras–musicians who, in collaboration without regard to color, gender, age, nationality, or any other division, devote themselves to their instruments, to each other, and of course to the music itself.

Whether I’m viewing a symphony performance in person or on a screen via camera close-ups, I see the faces of musicians alight in the joy of the moment, skillfully playing their unique parts.  Each contributes to a whole creation where every kind of sound signifies. I see people from all over the planet, literally hundreds of accomplished individuals, listening to each other, lending their souls, blending their individuality into one beautiful unity.

“Make me an instrument of Thy peace,” prayed St. Francis of Assisi.  Am I a piccolo or a piano? A trombone or a triangle?  Whatever. Let my single irreplaceable note be written in perfect harmony, along with everyone else’s, by the Eternal Composer.

They’ve started appearing on the backs of my hands: the dreaded (so they say) age spots.  These large-size versions of the freckles I’ve lived with all my life come as a surprise.  Evidently my body is much older than my brain imagines my self to be.

Yes, I quit being a redhead ten years ago.  Somehow the crown of snowy white up top never says “age” to me, but rather “fashion choice.”  The extra pounds around my middle?  Well, I’ve staved off the inevitable for my whole life so far, and now? I don’t have many years left to eat cookies. Recent medical scrutiny didn’t turn up anything likely to do me in right away.  So, I’ll don my What, Me Worry? suit and march off into the new year.

That suit?  Fabric of gratitude, with embellishments of faith, hope, and love.

Yes, I could produce a Cheery Barb sort of essay.  But right now, as celebrity obituaries poke holes in my past, and signs of aging show up in my person, I’d rather acknowledge the right and privilege we all should claim, that is, permission to let go. This poem appeared in a recent print issue of I-70 Review where no one will see it except the tiny population of poetry readers–the only audience tinier being the one here at my blog.  I’m grateful for you.  And I wish you a year ahead filled with the light of wisdom and love. That’s the gift of a lifetime.

REBUTTAL

Do not go gentle into that good night…—Dylan Thomas

Go gentle, darling, into that good night.

Allow the anodyne to ease your pain.

We only walk from darkness into light.

Refuse technologies designed to fight

what’s called a battle with a calm disdain.

Go gentle, darling, into that good night.

Let no one claiming hope refute your right

to own your body and your soul’s domain,

to move in love from darkness into light.

Your hope is beckoning beyond the fright-

ful needles and machines.  Who can explain

the letting go that leads into a night

of wonder, the horizon in your sight

where nothing of remorse or fear remain,

where darkness shatters in eternal light?

Insist on being left alone despite

all human argument.  Let them complain.

Go gentle, darling, into that good night.

We only walk from darkness into light.

Barbara Loots

Published in I-70 Review, 2023

–What do you do? people inquire politely.

–I am a writer I say.

–What do you write? they ask.

–I am a poet.

–Oh, they say.

This sometimes puts an uncomfortable spin on further conversation.

Most people, it seems, are a little intimidated in the presence of someone claiming to be a Poet.  Either they “don’t read poetry” or they think of poetry as an intellectual realm outside their interests or they connect with poetry mainly by way of inspirational posters and greeting cards–all notions that put a damper on whatever we might talk about next.

It’s hard to explain being a Poet, sort of like it’s hard to explain being a Christian–as in, I’m a Christian, but not that kind of Christian. (I’ve been in a position to attempt both explanations.)

Truthfully, I have my quarrel with the poetry these days. The fact is, thousands of people write poems. Today, online technology has provided every one of them with a platform.  Some of the contributors to the digital universe are Poets. Others? Arguably not. No one agrees on a definition of Poetry, and everyone who reads poetry has their preferences. I celebrate this diversity, even as I select what to read, or not, day by day. Plenty of poetry being written nowadays doesn’t float my boat. However, I respectfully suggest that you give Read a Poem Every Day* a fair try. There’s lots to choose from, and you’re just a click away from expressing your opinion of it one way or another.

Lately, I’ve been experiencing an unexpected feeling–a sense that I have “arrived” as a Poet. That is, I have come to a place my young self dreamed of, but in an entirely different way than I had previously imagined.  Once upon a time, I sought after a long list of publishing credits, prizes, critical recognition, applause from a live audience.  Even some authority figure who would make the pronouncement: Yea, thou art a Poet.

What has actually happened is more subtle, and more satisfying: I have friends. Friends I’ve never met except in the realm of Poetry. Friends who share my beliefs–and prejudices–about what Poetry should be.  Friends who introduce me to astonishing new experiences of Poetry.  Some of them are Poets–prize-winning, critically admired, widely published Poets.  Some of them are readers who tell me they liked something I wrote.  A few of them–a mystery audience–have even bought my books. (Thank you).  All these friends I’ve met through poetry give me the sense of belonging that’s embedded deeply in all human desire.

Being a Poet may involve a unique gift of talent and the urgency to write.  I have always written poetry. I have worked at my craft since I could hold a pencil. I have pursued all the goals mentioned above with some success. But the real reward of it all besides making poems is making friends. Since you’re reading this, you are certainly one of them, and I am grateful for you.

Here’s a gentle little poem I wrote in the beginning, a long time ago.  I hope you’ll want to read more.

A POEM

Let it come to you quietly

   as sleep spilling

      into the lid of day.

Let it flow as naturally

   as rain running

      over the eaves of May.

Let it touch as tenderly

   as lovers’ hands,

Be still

and easy as afternoon shadows

   sliding

      down a long hill.

Published in The Lyric Spring 1974

*Not an actual website.  Google your own poetry adventure.

I’m calling it The Year of the Loons.  When we arrived at the island, we discovered that a Loon pair had parked their nest, with two eggs in it, low on the shoreline where our dock was to be anchored.  Happily, we established a peace pact, and the loons, parenting equally, minded their eggs, while we came and went as quietly as possible. Thirty days later, one fuzzy loonling hatched and we spent the summer observing the parents model “How to Be a Loon.”

We sampled three seasons in Ontario this year, from the last days of Spring in June to the first days of Autumn in September–almost three months enjoying cool weather (and a lot of rain) in the cottage country near Parry Sound.  Considering this was the hottest summer on record in the Midwest, we felt more than blessed to be elsewhere.

I read more than forty books–theology, thrillers, poetry, politics.   Wrote a few poems.  Kept the hearthfire going.  Watched Bill work on a never-ending list of Island Improvement projects.

For daily contemplation, I used a book by one of my favorite spiritual teachers, Brother David Steindl-Rast*, savoring his meditations on the 99 Names of God, as revered in Islamic tradition.

We missed seeing the big snapping turtle this year, but we had the joy of watching a trio of otters cavort around the island with their tumbling playfulness.

Bill caught some fish, and we ate ’em.

Obviously, these highlights don’t begin to tell the whole story of the island experience.  The cottage was built–rebuilt, that is, from its earlier existence–the year I was born.  We both seem to be holding up pretty well after seventy-seven years.  Each year, we soak our bodies and spirits in the wonder of our little wilderness, while the stars remind us of our place in bigger things.

al-Mu’izz, the HONORER

…are we not clay, which some unfathomable dynamic honored…

  –David Steindl-Rast, OSB  99 Names of God

I am the clay that remembers,

I am the waters that grieve,

I am the elements earth has assembled

to witness, create, and believe,

to utter the sounds for the naming

of everything given to me,

something from nothingness claiming

to know how I happen to be.

Barbara Loots

At Blackwater Lake 2023

 *author of Gratefulness: The Heart of Prayer

Every now and then, I crank up my courage and take myself over to the Community Blood Center. Just did. In fact, the latest donation was something of a milestone: a lifetime contribution of twenty gallons of blood. Yeah, yeah. Bragging rights? Many people have achieved that measure, including those who have given gallons as platelets, an extraction from whole blood used for many modern healing procedures. Science has yet to create a substitute for human blood.

Whatever the type of donation, it requires a certain sangfroid to allow some tech you’ve never met to (trigger alert!) stick a big needle in your arm and fill up a baggie with a pound or so of flesh, the fundamental fluid of your life.

Although there is Biblical precedent for bargaining with God, I don’t think making deals with the Giver of Everything is the way to go. However, I’ve expressed gratitude again and again that I have escaped, my whole life so far, being the recipient instead of the donor. I was particularly stunned with importance when I found out that my O-negative blood type is vital for saving newborns. They use a special “baby bag” for what my body delivers—a lot simpler, come to think of it, than giving birth. But I digress…

I was prompted this time by the patriotic exuberance and solemn dignity of the Memorial Day Celebration at the Station—an annual event in Kansas City, featuring the KC Symphony. Yes, it’s fun and neighborly to crowd the grounds of the train station and the inspiring World War I Memorial and Museum, to wave little flags, to hear tributes to those who have served, and thrill to the boom of the cannon and flash of the fireworks.

In truth, this glory in war is gruesome. Always was, always will be.

However, if the shedding of blood for the sake of humanity has some visceral, symbolic appeal you’d like to experience, there’s a way to do it without dying. Awhile back, I wrote an irreverent poem, which I put in my book Windshift. In my theology, all humanity, every one of us, is the embodiment of God’s spirit. We can all aim to be Jesus in one way or another.

“DONOR” NOBIS PACEM

I’ve shed more blood than Jesus.
There’s really nothing to it.
From time to time, I’ve saved a soul
and didn’t die to do it.

I haven’t got a golden crown
for gallons I have given,
no promise of eternal life,
no glory ride to heaven,

no mystic explanation,
no complicated creed.
A bag of hemoglobin
fulfills the human need.

O beautiful the bleeding heart,
O-negative the way
that leads to the salvation
of someone’s child today.

My body manufactures cells
that oxidize like rust.
O Lord replenish them, I pray,
until I turn to dust.

I believe that the healing of the world is meant to be spiritual and medical, not military. I give my blood gladly to that hope.

Every morning, I tumble out of bed, usually before the sun comes up. After coffee, breakfast, meditation, and news review, I take myself back upstairs to the bedroom to shuck the jammies and dress for the rest of the day’s activities.

That’s when I glance over at the bed I share with my spouse, who is, by that time, elsewhere in the house. The covers I left rumpled are smoothly drawn up. The hem of the bedspread is aligned parallel to the floor. The useless decorative pillows are neatly arranged. The bed is made.

The bed made (not by me) demonstrates someone’s caring attention to orderly routines that bring a sense of peacefulness to the disorder of life in general. Every morning, I feel a sparkling moment of love and gratitude for the one who performs this small, intimate housekeeping chore.

It’s not a small thing, the made bed.

Not infrequently, in the advice columns (eg. Dear Abby), I read about marriages on the rocks—not because of differences over finances, childcare, politics, or in-laws; I mean over things like who empties the dishwasher, who picks up the socks, who wipes the sink, and…who makes the bed. Often there’s one who doesn’t care whether the bed is made or not, and one who does.

If I were counseling would-be couples, I might ask: Are you in agreement over Made or Unmade Bed?

Am I judging? Maybe. I grew up in a well-regulated family. That is, my father had a career in the USAF and my mother was a preacher’s kid. Certain civilities were strongly encouraged. However, in the wider world, if any number of co-habiting people agree that rumpled bed(s) can remain that way all day, I’m fine with that. Random college roommates—please relax! An unmade bed isn’t a sign of moral decay.

However, as I may have set out to say, a daily domestic life consisting of countless courtesies among partners and family members is, in my opinion, the starting place of world peace. In short, kindness begins at home.

Lucky people take for granted that our loved ones love us in spite of ourselves. But that’s no excuse for overlooking tiny, precious, everyday increments of thoughtfulness and love.

Thank you, my love, for the made bed. And I’m sorry…terribly sorry…for the scratches I made backing the car into the gate.

To begin with, I don’t believe in reincarnation. Indeed, to be honest, there are a few doctrinal tenets in my Christian religion that I don’t believe in either. (Don’t ask.) But one thing no tradition knows for sure is what happens to humans after we die. (Well, besides the obvious.)

Based on personal experience, I hold a couple of theories about life after life which I find helpful and hopeful. But on the whole, my main concern is trying to get right the life I’ve got right now, not the mystery that may or may not convey something like “me” into something like eternity. So…what was I going to say about reincarnation?

Just this: I’d like to come back as a squirrel.

Our home in a park-like midtown neighborhood of Kansas City is home to a lot of squirrels. I believe there are eight or ten who consider our yard their territory, with its blessing of black walnut trees, berry bushes, sunflower seeds flung to the ground from bird feeders, and other convenient snack sources.

These are gray squirrels and they all look alike to me—no difference in size, say, between adults and juveniles, no difference in color, in agility up and down the trees, or in chit-chit-chatter. This year’s gang may be last year’s survivors or their offspring or their grand-rodents. I can’t tell. They all look the same and behave the same and generally mind their own squirrel business, which they all seem to know from the squirrel playbook.

I use the word playbook deliberately; because play or the appearance of play constitutes their main occupation. Someone should invent a theme park ride duplicating the spiral climb of one squirrel chasing another squirrel up the trunk of a tree at top speed—and back down again. That would be a thriller for sure. Their daredevil leaps from branch to branch, or across the void between a branch and a rooftop, defy gravity and common sense. I’ve never seen one miss a safe landing. They skitter tiptoe across the overhead power cable that spans our street, thus avoiding the hazard of speeding wheels below. They lounge asleep on horizontal branches with their little legs splayed out on each side for security while they snooze. They clutter the patio table with walnut shells like they’ve been having a party. It all looks totally carefree. In fact, it looks like a fine way to spend my next lifetime.

Clearly that lifetime would be brief, two to six years (I’ve learned) for these backyard guys. Our local squirrels may have inherited a certain amount of intelligence, because the dumb ones often succumb to vehicular squirrelcide while the smart ones know to use the cable bridge. Surely I would come back as an intelligent squirrel? Squirrels probably have no sense of time, so six years could be six hundred for all they know. And every one of them fun-filled.

I’ve never seen a skinny squirrel. I’m pretty sure they know where to get tasty food year-round without much effort. More time to play! The huge leafy clumps of squirrel nests high in the trees hold tight, even when rocked madly in the wind. They look cozy enough for long nights in winter. From way up there, the squirrels have a great view. Even when snow covers the ground, squirrels play their perpetual game of “find the buried booty and dig it up” which seems to keep them busy without much concern for success.

Yes, if You please, I think I would like to come back as a squirrel. Amen.

As a resident of Missouri, where benighted state legislators are following the lead of conservative GOP governments in other states (eg. using the same wording for proposed laws), I’m worried.

The GOP in Florida is proposing legislation which will require teachers to use pronouns for students (and others in the school) based on the sex identified on their birth certificates.*

Here’s a made-up scenario:

—A Student walks into a (4th grade, 7th grade, 11th grade) classroom on the first day of school. She appears to be a girl. She is wearing an outfit similar to outfits worn by other girls in the room. Her name on the official school enrollment printout is Tracy Smith.
—In the classroom, the teacher addresses Tracy as “she” and “her.” Tracy uses the same bathroom as the other girls, where there are, of course, private stalls.
—Another student in the classroom reports to the teacher (or to administration or to his/her own parents) that Tracy is a boy, as previously known in their (kindergarten) class.
—Administration calls Tracy’s parents, who affirm that their child is a girl, with considerable indignation, not to say fury, at being asked the question.
—Will the parents be required to produce the student’s birth certificate on the basis of somebody’s “suspicion”? What if they won’t? Will the school administration demand a genital inspection of the child? Will the teacher be fired for using the “wrong” pronouns?
—Whose rights are being respected and/or violated in this case? Who has been harmed?
—Why the (expletive deleted) is this the state’s business?

Here’s my own TRUE scenario:

As a docent at a major art museum, I host groups of student guests, 3rd grade to high school age. From time to time, I cannot tell from appearance—clothing, hair, or any other visual or verbal cues—whether an individual is male or female. I have learned to avoid using pronouns when speaking to or about individual students. Once is one time too many to have a sweet-faced, long-haired child pluck at my elbow and quietly correct me, saying, “I’m a boy.” I resort to “their” and “they” when necessary.

Among other challenges, I cannot cover up all the nudes in the museum. And, yes, someday these young art students may learn more about Michelangelo than his talent with a chisel. Meanwhile, without judgment, I hope to bring light to the minds inside whatever kind of bodies they occupy as they discover life and art for themselves.

*Proposed legislation: Expand ‘don’t say gay’ (HB 1223/SB 1320)
What it would do: Prohibit classroom instruction related to gender identity or sexual orientation in prekindergarten through eighth grade. Currently, the state outlaws any such lessons in kindergarten through third grade. The proposal would also ban the use of personal pronouns in public schools that do not correspond to a teacher, administrator or student’s sex at birth.Article

Recently I enjoyed reconnecting with a friend. Three decades ago, we shared our respective life experiences going on then, which included a number of letters and poems I wrote. She kept them. Back in the day, letters typed or handwritten–unlike emails, texts, and tweets—could actually be saved in a folder. Now downsizing to smaller quarters, she wanted to return the collection to me, retaining only some of the letters most meaningful to her. What a joy for me to discover forgotten meditations and inspirations among the returned papers, with gratitude to my friend who saved them. Among these was a poem, half-remembered, never published as far as I know. Now that Easter comes with the lengthening light and renewed life of spring, this poem comes to light as well.

PSALM

Intricate earth! I do not know
how even heaven could bring
Another resurrection
more credible than spring.
O laughing God who gathers dust
together into these
Green fronds, feathers, children’s
eyes, wings of bees,
Bind mine into the body
translated beyond grief
Of Christ’s astounding beauty:
Unfurl a leaf.

–Barbara Kunz Loots

Let the Spirit of the Living Christ breathe hope, peace, and love
into willing hearts.

Good morning, my dear friend. Did I mention that I hate the transition to DST?? The dark and cold and wind whipping around send me straight into winter doldrums again. Wait. I don’t think I ever pulled out.

Anyway, I’m far from the saddest, maddest person on the planet today. As little as I know about basketball “brackets,” I’m pretty sure that about 99% of them were blown to smithereens yesterday when 16th seeded Fairleigh Dickinson beat Purdue. Now can we all get our heads back into important things like saving democracy??

I’ve been reading a book about saving the poor from disease and death. Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder details the efforts of Partners in Health (founded by the astounding Dr. Paul Farmer and others) to provide life-saving medicines for TB (especially multiple-drug resistant strains) and HIV/AIDS to poor countries around the world, beginning in Haiti in the 1990s and continuing now. I read books like this mainly because someone brings them up for the church book club. This one is more easily absorbed via the documentary film Bending the Arc on Netflix. It’s truly appalling to watch money sources in international forums (mostly white of course) solemnly intone there’s not enough money to buy those drugs. For poor people, that is.

A new church friend and I attended The Lyric Opera last night. Her husband doesn’t like opera, and Bill knew he wouldn’t like this one. (He was right about that.) The Shining is an opera premiered in 2016, based on the Stephen King thriller. The composer and librettist hasten to point out that they used the book, not the grisly movie, to frame their opera. Gina deadpanned as we were leaving, “I’m not humming anything.” Indeed, this was an opera interesting to me only for the fascinating stagecraft–lighting, scenery. and a chorus of “ghosts” in party costumes–including drag. Since the cast included a little boy, I suppose the Missouri legislature would have banned this opera for corrupting his innocent little consciousness.

Bill attended the members’ reception at the Nelson-Atkins for the opening of the featured exhibition of Giacometti sculptures and paintings. He’s the guy famous mostly for tall, extremely skinny figures in bronze. In Bill’s view, over-praised. And no doubt WAY over-priced on the art market. People who have tons of money know better than to spend it on life-saving drugs for poor folks. (Except for one very wealthy couple in that documentary who literally sold everything they owned before they died so as use it all for good deeds beyond themselves.)

This morning I’m headed back to the food pantry to help hand out the bags of groceries we packed on Wednesday. In our visits there, we rarely encounter the actual recipients of such handouts. I wish I could say there was more “real food” in those bags. But I suppose boxes of mac-and-cheese, Ramen noodles, a couple of cans of tuna, and the usual assortment of snacks stave off hunger (if not malnutrition) for a few days. The pantry adds frozen meat products, fresh bread (fresh-ish, that is), a few perishable items, and some cleaning products to the handouts.

Our church has a leadership group named Matthew 25. This is a denomination-wide movement to do what Jesus said to do: love God with all your heart, and your neighbor as yourself–help the widows and orphans and immigrants among you.

Looks like there’s plenty of opportunity to participate in that, right?

I’ve just decided to put this letter on my blog, unfiltered. These are the things I’m thinking and doing, without a lot of editing. Why not??

Be well.
Love,
B