A Little Irish Sunshine

I may be an American living in Japan, but I have an Irish last name, which I declare excuse enough for an Irish post on St. Patrick's week!

This week I stumbled upon "The Secret of Kells" - a delightful animated film based (roughly) on The Book of Kells, or as the film likes to call it, "the book that turned/will turn darkness into light".

While definitely a fictional film and not a Bible study, I couldn't help being smitten with many of it's themes and symbols. Here's just two of those...

"The Book"
The Book of Kells, illuminated manuscript of the four Gospels from 800AD Ireland. It seems the gorgeous elaborate designs and illustrations were actually the only content the vast majority of people could understand. The beauty of the Gospel displayed in extravagant art in a (besides the monks) illiterate era.
     The Bible, the Gospels = God's Word. And as the Gospel of John tells us, God's Word became flesh and dwelt among us.  Light of the world. Jesus="the book that turns darkness into light". Our most precious treasure. Try thinking from that perspective as you go rent this film, curl up with a cup of tea, and enjoy!

"The Wall"
Abbot Cellach has a project, a goal - and it is a good one. To build a wall to keep the vikings out, to protect his nephew, his flock, hundreds of people from evil and destruction.... And this project consumes him so completely that he loses all joy, forgets even the joy of exploring, illuminating, and sharing The Book.  What are you and I aiming for, and what might we be forgetting in the process?

And in light of that, my favorite quote, from the old Illuminator Aidan:
"The Book was never meant to be hidden away behind walls... You must take the Book to the people, so that they may have hope. Let it light the way in these dark days..."

Mmhhmm. Time to illuminate, and let The Book light the way!

River of Life

Before you can see it, you can hear it. That soothing, consistent burbling song of a stream. Then you can feel it, as the gentle breeze coming off the mountain stream breaths cool refreshment on a warm day. You can see the effects it has, the environment it fosters as greenery thickens and trees thrive. And when it comes into view you can't help but pause and enjoy it for a moment, the way the water shifts in color from green to grey to white as it splashes down and plays in the light.

If I was to compare life to a river, I think this little stream flowing down the side of a small mountain out on the west side of Tokyo would be a decent comparison for many of us. Not that we're always cool and a refreshment to all around us (as much as I would love to say we are...), but rather that it's absolutely full of rocks.

Unyielding rocks that force the water around and above and seem to simply be in the way of what could have been a smooth and effortless journey. They are no more than unnecessary obstacles. Not to mention green with algae and slippery in places.

However... a stream without rocks wouldn't be as beautiful, would it? And I for one have never heard a rockless stream burble. If you pave it down for a smooth and effortless journey you are left not with a lovely mountain stream, but a utilitarian drainage ditch.

It's hard to see individual rocks in our lives as beautiful though. Whatever the rocks - bumps in the road, closed doors, illness, or hardships - may be, I am prone to view them as unnecessary obstacles in my stream. (Why?? Why this rock, why my stream, why now?) 

Mountain streams remind me to step back and remember the big picture. They remind me that rocks are not a test to see if you'll put your head down and white-knuckle through; not a chance to prove what you're made of. Yes, perseverance and hard work is often called for. But not often by looking down. Rather, it is a call to look around and above as you press on with a joyful burble. And to trust that it's part of, or turning into, or even already is (to someone) something beautiful. 

This may be a small and insignificant stream. But even so, even the smallest of streams can point to and dream of the True River of Life.

"...the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations."

The Art of Taking Away

"Sculpture is the art of taking away, while painting/clay modeling are arts of adding on." ~Michelangelo originally said in Italian, translated into Japanese, I'm remembering vaguely and translating into English...does it still count as a quote?

After leisurely strolling through galleries filled with Michelangelo and Leonardo's sketches, designs, and sculptures, mostly of the human form, I did a triple-take at the above quote written in large white letters high up on the museum wall. A simple, obvious statement, that seemed to hold so much truth about humanity.

Adding on is great: we learn and grow in many ways throughout life by adding on. But there is something especially beautiful in the refining art of taking away. Of finding the beauty hidden within.

The taking away of chiseling off chunks of marble. Of marble marred with a black streak; of perfectly good marble! But masking the beauty of a masterpiece.

~~~

Walking back to the train station I couldn't help but notice how absolutely gorgeous the everyday people around me are. The form of the neck of the woman in front of me with her head twisted down, the way that businessman's pants fold as he walks up the escalator, the lines and variations in lips and noses and cheekbones (and oops! Not staring I promise. *awkwardly quit making eye contact with all these gorgeous people).

But at the same time, I was saddened by how much more full of life Leonardo's 15th century sketches seemed compared to the actually alive faces around me. And wondered whether I look just as done at the end of a work-day. Or if maybe part of Leonardo's genius was showing the life hidden within that can't be seen at a glance walking by.

I wonder if we all need a little more of the art of taking away. The taking away that finds the beauty and life in others, and in ourselves. The taking away of saying "no" to some good things, in order to prioritize the best. Of chiseling off hours spent working overtime, or worrying, or on social media; of packing all our time in the guise of a rich, full life, stuffing ourselves with accomplishments and productivity and glowing screens.

What could we chisel away, or allow to be chiseled away, to become more in the image of the masterpiece we were created to be?

Spectrum

In Ginza, tucked between thousand-dollar purses and million dollar necklaces are a few priceless hidden gems: free admission art galleries!  My favorite find today was this piece by Tokujin Yoshioka, which the iphone/my lack-of-photography skills/your computer screen will not come close to doing justice, but:

   

Clear glass prisms beam rainbows of color, gently swaying on the walls and floor, brilliantly transforming as you look from different angles. Maybe it's because the first work I saw by this artist was Rainbow Church several years ago, or maybe it's because I had just finished preparing music and slides for tomorrow's worship service, but I couldn't help feeling similarities between what I experience at this art gallery and in the church.

People gather together who maybe have absolutely nothing else in common. Diverse backgrounds, ages, languages; some alone, some with family or friends; united together because they have come to see, to wonder at, to appreciate, to soak... for all of their senses to be captivated and focused not on themselves or each other but on the thing, the One they look to in awe. 

We can't help but be drawn to the Light. And the longer we look, from various angles, the more we see the infinite possibilities. 

Like most I started far away in the back corner of the room, slowly wandered closer, then turned back to see how it was painting the whole room in light from the perspective of the prism itself. And I saw a small crowd of people facing the prism, their eyes glued... to the screens of their smartphones (to document the shining glass, or check the shot they had just taken). Each and every one was completely oblivious that they had become part of the exhibit: their hands and faces and jackets were painted gorgeously with the reflections of refracted light. Just as mine must have been several minutes before.

Then two ladies visiting together noticed the light on each other. Beautiful! They smiled and instructed and positioned each other to make the most of the light shining on them. 

A beautiful reminder to notice the Light around me, in community, and hold on to a sense of wonder.

Bonus: "Wonder" by Mika Aoki (Such incredible detail and whimsy in these glass sculptures based on microscopic patterns in cells/bacteria...unseen but silently and fantastically breathing life into the world)

Christmas Reflection: A Spark

The world said goodbye to a great man this week. To be honest it probably held on to him a bit too long, his body exhausted as his lungs held on by a thread these past few years. But...it's hard to let the good ones go. 

Alex Mitchell. My piano teacher through high school. 16 was in many ways the hardest year of my life (another story for another day), but weekly piano lessons with Mr. Mitchell were one of the very few things I enjoyed. I don't actually remember much of that year, a hazy blur of doctors appointments and sleeping, but so many moments with Alex are etched into my memory. At the time and still clear as photographs today, sparks of hope and wonder.

He said if you can play Bach (and Chopin), you can play anything. So straight from the piano-for-beginners-adult-series to Bach's little preludes and fugues I went. Sitting just to my right grasping a sharpened yellow pencil, the sweet tinge of peppermint on his breath failing to hide the familiar musk of tobacco on his clothes ("Don't EVER smoke. Nasty habit") he said Bach isn't about seeing how fast and impressively you can play; Bach is a tapestry. It may seem like a mess. But as you fully appreciate each line, bringing out each unique color and carefully weave them together, the product is not the jumbled mess the back may have appeared to be, but a beautiful tapestry. Not unlike quite a lot of life if you think about it...

I was about to walk out out the door after one lesson when he stopped me with a string of very proper, inspiring sounding words in Latin. But wait, didn't that one word mean... after letting me wrestle with his "riddle" for a moment his eyes sparkled and he grinned, "roughly translated, 'don't let the bastards get you down'". In the moments between figuring fingerings and phrasing he had a knack for knowing when I needed a word of encouragement, a life lesson, or a laugh.

This Christmas I remember again to wait on and for Immanuel, God With Us; a season set apart to remember hope, wonder, light shining in the darkness. Christ of course is all those things for us, but in His ridiculous generosity He gave us more than his more-than-enough self. He gave us Mr. Mitchells. He who put on human flesh calls us to put on...Himself. For our own good, and for each other.

Who has God used to shine light on your darkness? Who might you be a spark of hope, wonder, and light to today? 

Color

Sometimes on my morning commute I play the color game with the unsuspecting hundreds and hundreds of people I pass: spot a person wearing a color besides black, white, grey, or blue. 15 minutes in this morning all I got was 1 green skirt, 1 red-striped pair of capris, and 1 purple shirt. Come on, Tokyo; you can do better than that! ;)

But seriously, I'm a foreigner who sticks out like a bright-pink-minority-of-a-thumb and I've never felt safer in my life.

Meanwhile in America...well, on a good day race is something that is defended; each person given rights and respect regardless of race (or gender, religion, financial status...). But this week hasn't been a "good day". This week every day I see the next headline my heart is wrenched open with sadness and anger: "really America? What part of 'don't shoot each other to bits' is so hard?!"

But it is hard; it's complicated. It's culture and sometimes cross-cultural communication, and laws, and policies, and perceptions, and little every-day actions and comments made without a conscious thought...

But I long for my nieces and nephews to grow up in a world where color is something that isn't judged, but isn't "defended" either. That isn't protested, but isn't the elephant in the room either. I long for them to grow up in a world where color is enjoyed and celebrated.

And in the meantime... this is emotional. I don't want to have a calm and collected debate about right now. I want to be angry about the injustice, on all sides. And pray for mercy for the country that raised me, that my passport says is "home". And I want to do something to make it better.

I'm reminded that maybe the arts were created for moments like these. Maybe music can't fix all the mess and violence and tension and hurt about race. But maybe it can bring us together for just a moment, remind us who we are, give us a glimmer of hope for the day when there will be perfect peace; and help us to simply... grieve together.    ( ↓"Mercy" by Max Richter)

Contagious Beauty

Outlines of leaves delicately carved into the wood bar. Our host recalls the titles of 1960s jazz tunes gently swirling in the air like the steam from our mugs of green tea. Little pieces of artwork appear on our plates one piece at a time: vibrant orange, rich yellow, smooth white; a hint of citrus bringing out the almost sweet flavor of cooked eel; crisp shiso with pickled radish... The flavors, textures, and colors compliment each other perfectly, like a polyphonic violin partita dancing in my mouth. Sushi.

We grin and leave the chopsticks on their holders, copying our host in old-school "real" Japanese manners: this is finger food! He is quick to smile, eager to explain, generous in sharing this country that has been his home for over 70 years with these two young foreigners who have barely skimmed the surface of culture, language, and food. We chat across the bar with the chef as he shows us the different kinds of fish they have tonight, and by the end of the evening the 2 businessmen beside us join in the pleasant small talk.

Up the narrow stairwell and down the back alleyways the train station is still bustling with people,  a whole other world oblivious to the refuge of quiet beauty just around the corner. Filing into the train car, eyes glued to phones, faces masking everything except a bit of tiredness after a long day's work. Across from me a baby twists away from her mom to beam at the businessmen standing above her, a contagious smile that spreads down the line of middle-aged business men before I realize I'm grinning as well.

Maybe it's cheesy, but moments like these are part of why I'm thrilled to call this city home. An appreciation for stepping away for a moment, and cherishing something beautiful. A reminder that beauty, and appreciating beauty, are wonderfully contagious. A hope that maybe through a bite of food, a quiet moment away, a smile, we can each share a contagious fascination with the One who is most beautiful of all.