2026.01.18 CLARO QUE SI!! Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons blog post

I majored in Spanish in college. I was good at languages and was awarded a Danforth fellowship to take some time in Spain living with families in Madrid and then up north in Santander—now the name of our bank!! 

I felt both adventurous and scared at once. The experience of excelling at languages in a classroom is obviously very different from living that language among people who have known no other. In short, I felt a bit like Don Quixote without his companion, Sancho Panza who, like a guide dog, made sure his master didn’t get lost or wander off aimlessly. 

On the plane I put together my first sentence. Donde esta el taxi?? The man behind the desk smiled, not mockingly, as he said: “We all speak English here, Ma’am.” Okay, so I wasn’t about to drown in the naiveté of my own nerves.         

                        *  *  *  *  

My time in Spain was full of wonderment and naiveté. My family in Madrid had an unmarried daughter almost twice my age. They married young girls off in this culture, at least promised them into good families FOREVER it seemed. I noticed that the families I lived with in Spain had no evident adult men living at home. The women managed very well on their own faith, skills, MUCH prayer, and determination. I felt safe!

I actually received one marriage proposal from a teenage boy named José (Pepé) Setien Roldan. I was terrified but managed to stand boldly upright and stammer: “En las USA we do not do such things!” (half in Spanish and half in English)………     I decided right there that I had better not flirt anymore! 

      *  *  *  *

Life is about not being afraid or intimidated by rules while still allowing yourself to be seen and to see the other close up and deep down. It takes courage and several faithful, trustworthy companions/friends who listen to all your dreams—whether practical or not. Such friends are also willing to share their own vulnerabilities and remind you when you have lost your way, and when you have to wake up, and when you are dreaming, and when you need to wake up.  Then you might need a therapist to help you come back down to earth while never abandoning your dreams. 

From Don Quixote: “All I know is that while I’m asleep, I’m never afraid, and I have no hopes, no struggles, no glories — and bless the man who invented sleep, a cloak over all human thought, food that drives away hunger, water that banishes thirst, fire that heats up cold, chill that moderates passion, and, finally, universal currency with which all things can be bought, weighted and balanced that brings the shepherd and the king, the fool and the wise, to the same level.”

 You know when it is time to live your dream and when you must literally sleep on it.  

Claro que si.  But of course.

2026.01.11 WHAT'S UP? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons. blogpost

 2026.01.11  Who Knew?  

 This is a TRUE story of biblical proportion. Like a wondrous miracle of ginormous proportions, there appeared to these two just as they felt tempted to bemoan their own aging, a small bloated sheep seeking even more green pastures to nibble down. 

Staying faithful to the Gospel of Love for all creatures great and small, these two laughed with joy. They’ve since found many lost sheep, forever safe, beloved—and well fed. 

2026.01.04 WHAT'S NEW? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

The National Geographic honors this season and this new year, 2026, by paying attention to one central question: What do all our usual, even cherished, expectations and traditions mean in the midst of what I’d call just the right amount of excessive CHANGE? 

It is not enough to rebuild everything to get it all back the way it was, especially in the face of soul-shattering events like mass murders, raging rampant fires, wars waged in the name of PEACE, murders of young children in schools, and the politics of racism in the name of divine LOVE?  

We have to build back better using community resilience and, yes, simple lovingkindness, a word I learned as a very young child in my Sunday School class. This combined with exciting stories in the Bible, a book all about people getting into trouble and other people helping them out for no reason except lovingkindness. There was no “principal’s office” to send me to, so lovingkindness stuck to my soul—and stayed.  

*  * * *  

The Rev. Grace Park, associate pastor of Pacific Palisades Presbyterian church, lauds the faithfulness of her congregation. In spite of the destructive fire that destroyed their entire building, they stayed together. Where to meet? They borrowed other people’s buildings and Lo! Divinity was still there, like any good traveling salesperson should be.

Still, what does it mean to be church when you do not have your own building? That is what The Pacific Palisades people kept asking. To rebuild would cost $20 million. This sum was unmanageable. They kept talking and worrying about the future. In the rubble was a photograph, taken by Gideon Mendel, of a bible fallen open, to the Book of Job.

Church is about people, not pews and books and a script, not even a proper denominational title to claim as a name. It is about people gathered together to focus on lovingkindness—everywhere, for everyone, at all times, no matter what!!!  

2025.12.28 ALLELUJAH! Lyn B. Brakeman, spirituallemons, blog post

My earliest encounter with the true power of the word ALLELUIA was when I was a child—vulnerable, smitten, and swollen with pride and joy. These praise words were my mother’s—for me not Handel. They almost swallowed my own. 

I was eight years old and quite smitten with our music teacher, herself well chested and with a voice like a military Sergeant’s summoning his troops to line up for a war. Everyone stood at attention and was ready to hoist guns to march into war. That’s how ready I felt when Miss Ball signaled us girls, all in pleated navy blue serge uniforms—sacks—to stand at attention. 

Still, all of this uniformed ugliness suddenly became holy as our whole music class rose almost at once, at attention and ready to sing our hearts out—not for our school, our uniformed conformity, or Miss Ball, but for The Lord God. That part was okay with me because I had already met this “Lord God” in a book that told me God listened and picked up even “weeny sounds” all over the earth. 

Nevertheless, this choral Alleluia was far from “weeny”.  We had over-rehearsed this one for weeks, stretching our small mouths widely open, and making sure our tongues gently touched—no clicking—the back of our front teeth, even if one were missing.  “Not the lips, girls. NO lisping!”  And no “h” sound, just  ah!”  We rehearsed all this for weeks because we were, she told us, “angels”—just for that one performance of course. 

On the magic night itself our parents and school officials would all be in the audience. I prayed my mother wouldn’t clap or stand up in the wrong places, or shout for joy just for me. 

On alleluia-with-no-h night, we all assembled and lined up on bleachers, steady and ready, as if praising God was some kind of sport and we were cheerleaders. 

True enough that night—and still.  

2025.12.21 HOPE FOR US—BE HOPE–BE. Spiritual Lemons, blog post, Lyn G. Brakeman

Tis the season to be what? Is it Jolly? Merry? Both or None? How about Hopeful!?

Last Sunday afternoon, we heard another fine concert of The Hartford Symphony Orchestra under the direction of Carolyn Kuan.  I expected a very traditional Christmas concert with at least a few of my favorites carols. I expected to be soothed, as if by a lullaby.

BUT. . .I was jarred to attention, every muscle taut, readied.

We heard a musical portrayal of CHANGE—specifically, climate change, featuring the solo work of violinist, Curtis Stewart, b. 1986, whose extraordinary composition and solo performance was part of a program designed to present and promote recognition of excellence in classical music while addressing systemic obstacles within Black and Latino communities.  How do you do that?????

*  *  *  * 

This is what we saw and heard following the opening talk offered by Kuan and Stewart who described his violin as extraordinarily versatile for its size. He demonstrated various sounds, such as a bike crunching gravel, a car’s screeching brakes, children laughing, traffic horns, door slams, even the flush of, yes, a toilet—and much more.   

FIRST: The entire large stage was filled with stringed instruments ONLY.  Where were all the drums, the woodwinds, the brass, all horns and even the tiny piccolo I always watch and wait for?  All gone. But wouldn’t you need all of these for Vivaldi’s Four Seasons? Well, you would if this wasn’t a RE-composition by violinist, Curtis Stewart, the identified soloist and composer of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons. 

THEN: A movie screen dropped down behind the orchestra. On it appeared verbal interpretations of the experience the composer had when he first came to America and walked the streets of Phoenix, AZ. searching for HOPE among the poor people on the streets and finding none, as in the experience of being in a wilderness, groping. The words on the screen were all about unanswered questions—searching and searching, seeking hope and finding only constant change.  I followed yet found myself longing for a melody, just ONE tune. There was one but it seldom appeared, and when it did I felt, very briefly soothed. 

THE MUSIC:  This orchestra of strings played this piece with remarkable accuracy and alertness. Their heroic intensity of attention included perfectly-timed thigh slaps, foot stomps, patting the instrument itself (basses)—all perfectly synchronized and chaotic at once. Every player and the conductor had to pay close attention to what I’d call unreliable reliability. 

All I could count on was CHANGE. As I listened I had to remind myself to INhale AND EXhale. I had to stop looking for a single melody to soothe me. I listened AND watched the faces of the players. I saw heroic intensity of attention.  Was this RE-composition of the familiar Vivaldi music really a musical warning about climate change control?  

YES!  It was a demo of exactly what former Vice President Al Gore meant when he produced his  film “An Inconvenient Truth”?  When I first saw his movie, I felt terrified.  I saw that our beloved planet breathed in and out—evenly—Oxygen (O2) in and Carbon Dioxide (CO2) out. If that even rhythm were disturbed we all could suffocate. Too much exhaled CO2 or waste gases such as those emitted from garbage or car exhaust, prevents O2 from being inhaled = the Earth can’t breathe. Inhale deeply, then hold your nose against the exhale. See what I mean?

P.S. Asking for feedback from a few concert regulars as I left, I heard, yes, praise and awe . . . AND  quite a bit of negativity. One concert regular actually screwed up her face, shook her head from side to side, and said: “Not fair. It’s Christmas!”  

BLESS YOU ALL WITH HOPE IN ADVENT… HOWEVER YOU RECEIVE IT.  

2025.12.14 MEMORIES—PROMISES OF WARMTH, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

These glasses were painted by my late mother. Each one has the picture of a horse each with its name painted under its portrait. These glasses are beautiful mementoes to honor the times our family spent at the Sommer-Hof in Ancramdale, N.Y.  

There is of course a long story behind this beloved array. It started on June 7, 1935, or so, when my newly married parents cuddled up against each other, unable to get warm even with body heat and a tiny blaze in the fireplace. A knock—a life-saving loud rap— sounded at the door. My father rose to see who was there. There stood a farmhand inviting my parents to come to the main house, up the road. A heated house!! Without trepidation, my parents wrapped up in blankets, and coats and followed.   

Thus began a friendship that lasted over many years between my parents and the Sommerhoffs  in Ancramdale, N.Y. a place our family came to call THE FARM. I remember subzero snowy weekends when my dad trudged out on Friday at dusk to retrieve our old Buick from an underground garage rental space we were lucky enough to afford. I would be bundled up—unreasonably but thrillingly. I knew we were going to THE FARM, a nearly two-hour drive There I would cuddle up with my friend, a good giggle partner, listen to her Pop play his lookalike accordion, feel the blazing fire’s heat as it spit tiny sparks onto the hearth, and let myself drift into sleep. I dreamed of the next day’s sleigh ride, giving my pony a nose-kiss, and imagined myself as blessed and holy as the real baby Jesus in his own manger, all his own warmed in hay.     

2025.12.07 The Advent of What? Whose? When? Whom? Why? Spiritual Lemons, Lyn Brakeman, blog post

Most small children think that Santa Claus is a real person who will appear in the night to leave them gifts. It’s a hooker as huge as any traditional fairy-tale opener:  “Once Upon a Time”.  What? I hold my breathe still.   

Is it fair to raise a child’s expectations that you have already made unmeetable, like bring Daddy back, or tell Mommy not to tell lies about miracles, such as me. I won’t easily forgot my own experience of finding my wee baby tooth in the medicine cabinet wrapped in a tissue. Some tooth fairy!!  Not to mention that we lived in a NYC apartment and had NO chimney, not that I once caught my mother sneaking in to remove the milk and cookies we left, making sure she scattered a few crumbs and left the milk glass empty with milk on its rim. 

Even the classic Christian answer, about a sixth century Bishop, Nicholas of Myra, who actually did go around and leave small gifts and food at the doorsteps of homes he knew were impoverished.  That was true gift from a real ancient bishop from the far east who really did distribute gifts to children at Christmas time. There is definitely some holiness in such a tradition but few acknowledge it any more.  

There is such a thing, however, as on-the-ground fact, and there also is truth, often called Myth.  A Myth is not a lie.  It is simply a different perspective, a slant, on a common scenario. Most so-called fairy tales are social commentary on cruel situations turned upside down. Cinderella was a girl (beautiful blonde of course) forced into slavery by her Mistress, the “evil stepmother” (aka dad’s new wife) who is driven by jealousy and grief. Truth or fact?  Likely truth. 

Little mice scheme to rescue Cindy by chasing down a handsome prince to rescue her and carry her off to live in the castle, marry her course and thus legitimize her justification, her worth, her lovability. Truth? Possibly. Fact: proposition that does verify her hopes, her dreams, her worth as a woman her marriage-ability—for now.  Myth: Cindy’s happiness lasts forever and ever. Truth: maybe. 

A fact in time does not tie down any event or circumstance forever and ever. A myth makes us feel better, yet it is temporary beauty, never forever and ever for everyone, amen. We have hope and each other—gifts all. 

Grace is a gift free of charge and charges. Fact: God knows. Truth: we are free to choose, also to choose again.  Process: Tell it all and tell is slant!  

Wisdom from Emily Dickinson, a reclusive poet who lived in Amherst Massachusetts (1830-1886). Here below is her take on truth-telling:  Tell all the truth but tell it slant—

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth’s superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind—