On a deeply frozen and silent prairie night, in an older maze within the city, I locate the Lantern Church. A little paper sign on the door says, “Pull the handle down hard.” I manage the little handle and step inside.
Smiling people take my ticket, and I walk down, down past rows of long curving pews filled up with spiritual people, some of them having been hurt badly by religion. I sit.
Some folks here have a past, some would say they are on a healing journey. Now I see people happy and eager, with spouses and families and jobs—the past is the past. They are functional, here and now.
I see Margret, the mother of Eily Aurora. I see a man operating a camera on a tripod—it’s David, Eily’s father. I’ve known the couple since Eily was a schoolgirl, later Eily was active on campus, now she’s actively staging her second concert.
Set on the empty stage is Eily’s harp, and her Japanese sitar. Also on stage is Trevor’s Australian didgeridoo, and drums that have surely been used in drumming circles. I have seen Trevor conducting at such circles; I know him from Miracles Toastmasters.
Soon Trevor and Eily will be up there joined by a goateed guy with an electronic base guitar, and by a bearded young man who uses vocal sounds as an instrument; he has a Celtic drum too.
Eily had told me last week she was scared; but that’s natural. Tonight? She does fine. Speaking slowly enough, and lovingly enough, she speaks of owls and vision quests and invites us to listen for whatever comes up. We begin the concert with silence… as many folks close their eyes.
As for the audience, no one is dressing to conform. No suits or ties. No one minds wearing colour, or embroidery, or stripes on their jeans. All have warm fuzzy friendly fabrics; no one wears plain blue cold polyester.
None would describe themselves as rigid. In fact, I suppose I’m one of the more rigid ones here. Yes, I know music is like modern art; I realize I get out of it only what I put into opening myself up to, of course I “need to sit with it.” I know all this, but still it’s hard for me. At least on this night I’m not actively uptight and dampening my feelings—that sort of life was years ago.
And the music flows over that spiritual crowd, over us all, with a beat and rhythm but no melody; voice, harp and bell; and sometimes the team gets loud and fast to simulate the fact of chaos. And then back down to beauty. People love it.
At the intermission it is clear that people have brought their hearts. Some one freely yoga stretches. No one hesitates to talk to anyone. A young lady with a red fuzzy toque tells me she feels this is a good church: plain, not overly decorated, “It doesn’t take money from the people.”
The music resumes. We clap. We echo. Folks are invited to sit on the stage stairs as “receivers.” People dance freely in the aisles.
…Pray for peace…
…
…
Sean Crawford, where sincere blog comments have music of their own,
On rolling golden fields near the Rockies,
November 2020
Small world: Eily’s mother Margaret was the one I described, two posts back, as dancing to “say her piece” at a meeting. I was at her big-O birthday party where she had some harpist friends playing—she was taking lessons herself. Now her daughter is a professional harpist.
