2025.10.26 I KNOW NOT WHAT TO SAY. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

One of my sons called yesterday to tell me that one of his frat brothers had just received a fatal diagnosis. Nothing to do? Nothing more to do? No more treatments?  No more specialists. 

Nothing? 

Nothing.

I lost my voice and envisioned my son with all his frat brothers gathered round their brother, all crying together. They got together every year to laugh and catch up. This year they cried. 

I called my husband to tell him, and we cried on each other's shoulders and remembered sleepless nights of worry. 

I remembered.

My son called back to say: "Mom, also pray— just in case. . . . ."

2025.10.18 BIRTHING AND BLOOMING. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

When I was born it happened to be Sunday BUT there was a silly rhyme about being the “SABBATH CHILD” who is “blythe and bonny and good and gay”.  My mother was sure I was just like that. She nearly ruined my life with her projections, so I struggled greatly AGAINST being blythe, bonny, good and gay”…………   I grew up OVERobserved!

BUT there was nothing I could do about being born on a Sunday—nothing! Oh well, there might be something I realized after some time of playing the game of  NOT ME. 

I went church shopping to see if this Sabbath god could make me not be me. There I found some success, because no religions or their sanctuaries wanted me as me anyway!  No women, no vaginal bliss, no sex, and no ME, except for my uterus. 

To be over-observed as a child is terrifying, but for me it helped, because it drove me to spend so much time finding ME, bearing children especially SONS, and then getting ME to stand right up behind the altar saying prayers that turned simple elements into holy food, so they said. The Sabbath was MY day! I had to steal it back for myself, my maternal, mothering, sexy, authentic self—womb and all, standing behind the altar 

* *  * *

I married a man because I needed one to complete my image. Also, I loved  him and he loved me and we had children we loved. But he too had to struggle to live up to expectations to make money and make sons. What got lost for us both was the ability to know, yes, who you are as YOU. My second husband also was over-observed as an only/boy-child. He was “saved” by the faithful company of his mother, and the respect he received from the Episcopal church where he sang in the cathedral choir, and was eventually ordained priest. 

*  *  *  *

Oh yes, I know all about dysfunctional families, and as far as I can see ALL families are. We waste valuable yet necessary time to, yes, get real!  What anyone learns in time is how to be a self, while managing to sort out all kinds of emotional pain along the way.  (It amuses me to recall being a family therapist and witnessing one family session at which a young boy dashed into the room and announced: “I am issue-free!” I recall congratulating him and telling him he could always return whenever he wished. He did.) 

Never mind that this kind of self-authentication process is common to us all. It’s damn near as impossible for Divinity as it is for Humanity.  (No, Christians, you don’t get the last word here either!) 

CREATING AN IMPRESSIONIST PAINTING. Lyn G. Brakeman, blog post, spirituallemons.blogspot.com

WHO? Some 50 “painters” of varying ages from 50 to 99. Some in wheelchairs, others on their own feet, all seated, all with bright eyes awake, alert.  I was privileged enough to moderate this process—lightly.  The principal “painter” was a daughter. 

WHAT?  A portrait of one woman named Ikey who had recently died, one we all knew and loved in our different ways, familial and professional. She had resided in all the different areas of care here. Some of us knew her well and some only a little. STILL, if you ever met her even just once, you came away with a brilliant multi-sensory portrait behind your own mind’s eye, of the clear tones of her standout laughter ringing in your ears, perhaps the scent of her last meal, and definitely the vibrations of her whole lively personality stirring each and all into life.

WHERE?  In the Chapel, a beautiful mid-campus space used spottily by varying groups from outside. OUR group were all insiders, some by residence and some by familial ties or through friendships. 

WHEN? From 10:45-11:45 a.m. Imagine creating such a painting in such little time. COLLECTIVELY!  AND ACCURATELY!

WHY? Because we all knew and loved Ikey.  And because it was NOT a religious, church-sponsored event, even though I moderated it, BUT NOT from a pulpit and NOT in a clerical collar. 

*  *  *  *

I know this is hard to believe, and yet I promise it happened!! It could be like pointillism, the method of impressionist painters, like George-Pierre Seurat and Paul Signac, who did NOT mix their oils on the palette first, as was customary, but instead dotted the canvas with distinctly colored dots—until slowly, slowly the apparently meaningless dots formed an image—dots formed by unmixed oil colors—unmixed! When applied, the dots are separate. BUT soon an image emerges from the array of dots. LO and BEHOLD.

This we did today as we gathered to remember our friend’s vibrancy. I told about the hilarity of going shopping with Ikey at the cheapest places we could find and returning with new earrings, or a new sweatshirt or some other cheesy “treasure”.  Also the time we snuck out for pizza following a craving and breaking curfew rules. We brought Ikey back LATE 8 p.m.to face a very annoyed  nurse who came to open the door to let Ikey in. I laughed hysterically recalling college days when we all had to be back in our dorms by curfew or else! I understand the need of such rules. I also laugh uproariously at such rigor at the age of 100! OK I know all about liability. Laughing is more fun. 

Who would have thought that this small community of Ikey fans could share so many varied impressions of her and come up with a perfect portrait in an hour!!!???

May we all always walk together in peace, bound together in LOVE, the only universal force strong enough to hold us—all at once. 

2025.10.05 THE ARTS, BOOGALOO AND ALL. Spiritual Lemons, Lyn G. Brakeman, blog post

We went to hear the Hartford Symphony Orchestra concert last Sunday. The conductor, Carolyn Kwan, literally jumped up and down on the podium in intimate relationship with the instruments—each and all—as well as with her embodied energy. Kwan always invites the player whose solo work is featured in this concert to join her for the pre-concert talk. She knew the personality of each instrument and likely each player. She jumped quite literally into the music itself. 

This latest concert featured a concerto for the tuba. Just the idea of a tuba featured as a soloist made me laugh. It’s such a clumsy instrument, huge, not very portable, and lacking the delicacy of the flute or oboe, or the charm of the cello. 

Still, onto the stage at Kwan’s bidding came Jarrod Briley lugging his enormous tuba.  When Kwan invited him to say something about his beloved instrument he said; “It’s heavy.”  The audience laughed. Briley explained  his instrument as “clearly a background instrument.”  And here he was bearing his tuba’s bulk and playing it with the utmost grace and affection of a lover. When the other musicians are playing along he takes the time to clean out his tuba with a clothe, as he sings lightly into its horn. When a wild contemporary pieces like Bartok or Gershwin come up, the whole ensemble joins in, and the big old tuba vibes. All of us now are already  jazzed up by Marsalis’s second movement called “Boogaloo Americana.” 

*  *  *  *

Carolyn Kwan is a graduate of Smith College, my alma mater. Going to the Hartford Symphony Orchestra Concerts brings me back to my college music course. I had to select a course in one of the fine arts to fulfill graduation requirements in 1960. I chose Music 101, because my maternal grandfather worked for an NYC company that imported classical music from Europe. Curiously and cautiously, I fell madly in love with classical music —even opera. 

I continue to believe in the Fine Arts because they have potential to save the world, to liberate us all from stuffiness of mind, heart and body. Did you know that St. Francis of Assisi as a young and rebellious youth stripped himself of his fine clothes and, in front of his shocked father, ran naked in the town square for all to see. Today we would call it streaking—or maybe future sainthood.  

I admire this behavior although I’m hardly a saint, and I promise not to streak. My own aging skin might just flap and fly away! Still, at all ages there is a time to stand up to authority figures and unjust systems wherever we are and however we can, whether it be playing a tuba or crooning an off-key aria anywhere, immodestly.