In a world full of Putins, be a Zelensky

Here we are again. Heartbreak, struggle and passion on a global scale. And again, I turn to Beethoven. For sure Beethoven experienced the devastation brought on in Vienna by the Napoleonic wars. But he longed for a hero throughout his life. And for sure Napoleon was his bright hope which was later extinguished by his tyranny. But Beethoven’s longing for hope and heroes is one that all humans share and he never ever ever gave up that hope. Hence Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Hence Schiller’s Ode to Joy.  

I’ve found myself already being numbed by what is happening in Ukraine, my emotions blunted after multiple images of mass graves, pregnant women on stretchers, blank-eyed children and refugees. It is a defense mechanism that is quite successful at protecting my peace of mind…. but to be fully human and fully present to this situation, I must crack this shell of self-security. I need to feel. I need to process, and ultimately decide a personal course of action in response. This post is part of my own travels of grief to hope, and this is my process.

––Reflect/meditate with music that reaches me in a deep place.

If you believe there are causes worth dying for, and I do, then the second movement of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony, also known as the Funeral March, is an 18 minute journey into bleak darkness which emerges into a current of hope that has been flowing throughout. This music reminds us that resistance to tyranny, fighting for liberty, is a fight worth having. And this version is one of those fantastic digitized graphical scores which puts me into a meditative state. It is pure music, and when the music cascades halfway through, my tears spontaneously flowed in synchronicity.   

This is not an exercise in being morose. It is a path to compassion and unity with those who fight for justice, freedom, and peace.

—Read something meaningful that speaks to current times.

And in this spirit I’d like to introduce you to a poet you may not know. I only learned of him recently from a dear friend from Romania, who once saw him speak at her university and counted it as a peak life experience, and she gave me his book. His name is Nichita Stanescu, and here are two poems he wrote, looking back at his experiences as a child in WW2. The translations are by Sean Cotter.

The Airplane Dance

The dance moved in circles, with airplanes:

some golden,

some silver.

They went like this: a half circle

on the left side, going up

then down, over the roofs

…then up, on the right

golden, silver.

How they spun as they fell

golden, silver…

After that a neighbor’s house was gone

and the house on the corner

and the house next door…

And I was amazed

and shook my head:

look, there’s no house!…

look, there’s no house!…

look, there’s no house!…

—

End of an Air Raid

You dropped your chalk

and the splintered door beat against the wall

the sky appeared, partly hidden

by the spiders

that fed on murdered children.

Someone had taken away

the walls

and fruit trees

and stairs.

You hunted after spring

impatiently, like you were expecting

a lunar eclipse.

Toward dawn, they even took away

the fence

you had signed with a scratch,

so the storks would not lose their way

when they came

this spring.

—Do something. Say something.

If you are a writer, write something. If you are a musician, make music. If you are an activist, ACT. Discard the notion that if you are not a soldier or politician then what you do doesn’t matter. Discard the notion that being far away from the war means there is nothing you can do. As the street artist MyDogSighs said about the image at the top of this post: “I do not have influence apart from using my art to make people stop and think.” You may not be able to take up arms, but you can still stand up for freedom. Speaking out for liberty is not nothing. Praying for peace, even if you don’t believe in prayer–knowing that prayer has a tremendous impact on the one saying the prayer, and that is not nothing. It is everything. Put into the world all the good things you want from the world.

Nichita Stanescu lead a difficult life under Soviet oppression, but he never ever ever gave up. And he inspires me to never ever ever give up.

Poetry

Poetry is an eye that cries

a shoulder that cries

a shoulder’s eye that cries

It is a hand that cries

a hand’s eye that cries

It is a sole that cries

a heel’s eye that cries

O friends,

Poetry is not a tear

It is crying itself

the crying of an uninvented eye

a tear

from one who should be beautiful,

a tear from one who should be glad.

So thanks for joining me as I find my voice in this crying wilderness of a world. I hope you find yours too. And thanks again for reading another post from The Tone Poet.