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.   

2025.09.28 ARE YOU RACIST? Spiritual Lemons, blog post, Lyn G. Brakeman

 Racist? Not me! Many cry out. There is no racism advocated in the Bible, after all! Or is there?

Focus a bit more closely on the particulars, then wonder again. Sometimes an extraordinary truth smacks you upside the head like the proverbial rake and forces you to draw back and forward all at once—startled and intrigued?  

In the early 1960s, my small daughter was standing up on the back seat (pre-seatbelt time) of our car. I was driving up the street to deliver a mis-delivered package to the neighbor’s house. I parked, ran up to their door and rang the bell. The door was opened by their live-in Black maid. My daughter loudly exclaimed: “What was that?” I was shocked that my little girl had made such a racist statement. 

She wasn’t racist, but we lived in an all-white town—neighborhood, schools, churches, stores. Our small daughter had never seen a Black person before. Thus was born my own shocking personal question: Is it toxic, that is soul-poisoning, to live all the time in an all-white society, a blinding blizzard, a whiteout? Would it not be equally blinding for Black people to live in a blackout?

From neither perspective could anyone see the world or themselves accurately. Blizzard and Blackout are equally blinding and binding to ALL races, ALL cultures, ALL creativity, and ALL religions. Shocked, I wrote the painful truth about my own slow awakening to this blindness, AND about the value of being clear-eyed and open-hearted toward the whole world, not just those who looked like me. I invited divine help into this process along the way at every turn, using loud little words like HELP!

Is racism real, or is it some high falutin ideal? Is it inborn? Could someone be racist without even knowing it?  Are we trained by circumstances, or, like my daughter’s innocence, simply exposed to it, shocked by it, wounded by it?  I strongly and increasingly believe that Racism is a symptom!  It is NOT inborn. We learn it as a way to survive, perhaps thrive. Survive what?  I leave that to each and all of you. 

*  *  *  *

Divinity created the whole schlmiel—and with it enough common sense and freedom to CHOOSE love everywhere towards everyone/everything all the time, including yourself—not hate. 

God did NOT CREATE racism—only FREEDOM.    

DANGEROUS TERRITORY. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 9/21/25

Honestly, I despise some of the impossible choices this supposedly “good” Divinity imposed on the starving people of ancient Israel: choose money/wealth or me. It’s a merciless, manipulative, and dizzying choice. I would definitely, like Abraham, try to bargain. I’m very good at nagging, and less good at trusting God to provide as promised.

* * * *

The retirement community where I now live showed the movie “Barbie” recently. I wanted to go. I wanted to go enough that I debated trying to reschedule my appointment for physical therapy to strengthen my legs and spine. My husband said he’d buy the movie so we could view it at home together. Then I thought, What the hell are you thinking, girl? You’re back in junior high school! 

NEVERTHELESS……………..

In the Old Testament there is a story of old Abraham’s relentless bargaining trying to get God to say just exactly how far one could carry on with sin before encountering divine wrath.  The scene in Genesis is hilarious as Abraham pursues Yahweh relentlessly. Would the Great Divine Creator actually break the covenant and abandon Israel to their own devices?

I actually felt sorry for God with Abraham’s nagging. As a parent of course I identify. You’d do anything, even indulge in sin yourself,  just to shut this or that kid up. 

I had made a solemn vow never to allow the latest doll creation into our house. I remember that I’d banned this best selling “toy” from our house.  I don’t even recall being nagged about the latest specimen of doll. All I recall is that I despised this latest icon of how I should look. 

ENVY!  

ENVY is one of the seven deadly sins. Within ten years I’d birthed four children and my flesh sagged and bagged—no perky boobs or waspish waist—ever.  But did I really want to look like this doll? 

DAMN! Am I still plagued by the sin of ENVY, a green-eyed monster or a small slim icon from the 50’s?  I felt foolish, tears forming in my eyes. Still, I am sure of one thing, and that is that the man to whom I have plighted my troth in marriage would just give me a hug and, yes, call me silly without joshing me—much.

HOW DO YOU KNOW? Spiritual Lemons, blog post, Lyn G. Brakeman, 914/25

When I was a small child, toddler size, I was always far too curious and inquisitive, bordering on rude, according to my mother. I questioned everything, even how Jesus dying on a cross for no good reason at all could save anyone! But you never know! 

*  *  *  *

There were two wing chairs in the living room of our NYC apartment. They couldn’t fly with their wings. But I bet they did secretly at night when no one was looking. 

Uncle Syd used to sit on one of these chairs when he and my aunt came to visit us at our New York apartment. When Uncle Syd sat there the wing hid his face, except for his nose, too big I thought. All I could see of him was his belly. I stared. He grinned, I stared which I knew from my mother was rude, but I didn’t care and neither did Uncle Syd.

One evening he nodded and beckoned me to come sit up there with him. I did. He held me securely, his large warm hands encircling me so I wouldn’t fall off. I chatted away with all my questions and he nodded and smiled a little—just a little. He refused to give me a sip, but I’d already taste-tested his drink with my pinky—yukky.

I looked into Uncle Syd’s eyes. They were smiley and weepy both at once. How could that be? I was about to ask him when suddenly my mother and my aunt noticed me and snatched me away. I pouted. It wasn’t even bedtime. 

*  *  *  *

Uncle Syd eventually hanged himself on the showerhead and fell to his death taking the entire shower apparatus down with him. My aunt became a Roman Catholic, and all the time she hung onto a string of little beads she called a rosary, but I didn’t see any roses. I saw her mumbling odd words—over and over. No one ever again mentioned Uncle Syd, but I missed him in my heart and told God to take care of him in heaven. 

I will never forget Uncle Syd’s chuckle and how his eyes could hold two kinds of tears —wells of sorrow and twinkles of humor—both at once.   

2025.09.07 PRAISE FOR ALL WHO LABOR? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post,

I have always detested this holiday we call Labor Day, not because I do not appreciate people who work hard to make their own living worthy and helpful for all of us, but because of a hymn! 

 “Come Labor On” # 541 in the 1982 Hymnal, The tune name is Ora Labora, written no less by a woman, Jane Laurie Borthwick (1813-1897) in 1859. Another woman, Mary Jo Latham, wrote the laborious lyrics. “Come labor on. Who dares stand idle while all around waves the golden grain, and the Master (boss) nags: “Go work today. . .”

It is a painful text for women who lose their lives and/or their infants when birthing, or for those who for whatever reasons bear no children. It is a horrifying text in times of job shortages and rampant unemployment —not to mention the slavedriver portrait of Divinity. Are you inspired? 

Besides, who claims to know exactly what the divine will is?  There is only one biblically-recorded good outcome of all this forced laboring, and that is in the Book of Ruth, because she, a starving abandoned widow, crawls along the edges of the field and gets to gather up the leftover pickings at the side of the path and thus not starve! Okay YHWH (Yahweh) thanks!

* *  *  *

We live in a residential retirement community—aging as we go. It is not difficult to contact the village office and request some help even to hang a heavy-framed picture. You used to do all this stuff, which in this house meant get my husband to do stuff, but do NOT risk it. Ladders are no longer friendly; neither are hammers. The expression “all thumbs” is serious!! 

Aging in place is one thing, but to try to do it “independently” is quite another. Today I am grateful we have a very good maintenance team,  a very good spouse who is not too proud to admit he’s too old, and a balanced spirituality that steadies my heart.