Finding Our Voice Patreon

Dearest Patrons,I "wrote" this piece (via audio message transcribed) a few days after the white supremacist insurrection of the Capitol. I'm drawn to share it with my Patrons as a raw expression of what's moving through me in these times, and to invite your feedback, impact, questions, and curiosities as I hone and clarify my work in the world on this day of transition. Whether you comment below, email me, or give me a call, I'd love to hear what comes up for you in reading - or listening to (I included the original audio above) - this declaration of purpose and accountability. with fierce love and longing,Joshua_________________________Donald Trump's duplicitousness, as well as Lindsey Graham's and so many other male men and powerful politicians, are part of the reason why it's hard for me to receive trust from women partners. Because they have so many examples of men in their life who have done, and are doing to them, what we see Trump and these other politicians doing to the public: saying one thing one day, then turning around and apologize on another, and then saying something else that contradicts it behind closed doors (or in a different context) on a third day. So how can we possibly know what the truth is, what to trust? And that behavior, which is toxic, which is all too common - for men in power in particular - finds its way all the way into the bedroom - of my bedroom. Because I am held accountable, and I'm compared to that legacy of white men. I look like these men. In some ways I act like them - I'm still working on undoing my own conditioning and patterning, so I remind women who I want trust and closeness and intimacy with, of these men who continue to act in ways that don't deserve, or garner trust. And therefore, when folks like Donald Trump and Lindsey Graham gaslight by changing their tune too often for us to know what's up and what's down, I struggle to have trust in the relationships that I want trust in, and that outrages me. And that's part of what motivates me to push back against this pattern in this culture: the socialization (that some don't like to be called but many know needs to be called) toxic masculinity. Or, The Man Box (Tony Porter). Or imperialist white supremacist capitalist patriarchy (bell hooks). Whatever you want to call it, this is what it looks like. And I feel its impacts - a fraction of the impacts that the women that I'm wanting trust with feel - but it does impact me. And I want all the other men out there, especially white cis hetero men like me who long for a world where trust and intimacy and vulnerability and care and love is possible (especially with the women that we're trying to love, not just our lovers but also our friends, also our sisters, also our co-workers) that we reject - and not just reject with words but that we work to undo in ourselves the same patterns and call out and lovingly hold accountable the men we love in our lives to do the same. Because otherwise, that means we're leaving it up to the women, to the women of color, to the queer and the trans folks who are actively being harmed by this in ways that are more direct, more embodied, higher risk, to do that work. And that's just not fair. And I'm hearing from them publicly and intimately that they are fucking tired. They are fucking tired of this shit. And that's exactly what it is - it's shit. It's, it's waste. It's byproduct. And we have the privilege - part of our privilege is having some sense of semblance of comfort, of ease in our lives (and that's not to say every white cis hetero man out there has had an easy life - of course not). But when I compare myself to the queer folks, to the people of color, to the Black and Indigenous folks, to the women who've survived sexual violence, domestic violence, verbal, emotional, psychological, physical abuse, and state violence, I can say that I have lived a life of privilege and ease and comfort. And that privilege brings me more resource, more capacity - on some level. And that's the capacity, the resource, the privilege that I want to leverage to do something - to do many things! - on personal levels, on communal societal social levels, and on political levels, to transform masculinity, to transform the culture, the dominant culture of what it is and what it means to be a man, what it means to be a white man in particular. It is masculinity, it's white supremacy. They are both intertwined and they act separately. Male privilege, male domination, male violence is much older than white supremacy, but white supremacy is arguably more overt or (I don't know... I'm not gonna try to make one more or worse than the other). They're both here. So if you're a man, no matter what your race, there's work to be done. If you're white, no matter what your gender identity, there's work to be done. And if you're like me and you're white and you're a man, there's a lot of work to be done. And I hope you'll join me, because I am also tired of not being able to be at ease, and loving peaceful trusting connection with those people in my life, so many who are actively traumatized and re-traumatized by this pattern on display in the public, and in their other relationships. And I am tired of the ways that my own body and my own spirit is smushed, squeezed into that man box, squeezed into that white box. I want to be able to express feminized expressions of being: to wear a ring or an earring and not worry about being bullied; to sing; to dance; to wear a dress. I want to be able to express whatever wants to come through me without worrying about being violated or violenced against some man who doesn't like that, who's internalized misogyny and supremacy lashes out in verbal or physical violence against me. I know what that feels like. I went through my early and mid-teens experiencing a lot of that humiliation and bullying. I'm tired of it. And I'm only a quarter as tired of it as the ones who are on the margins. And I want to put them in the center and create a ring of us with more privilege and power in this given system, protecting them and pushing out against the tide. To create more freedom and liberation for all of us, because how can I sleep at night -comfortably, easily, deeply, or feel at ease, or peaceful in my body during the day - knowing that my Black friend is being terrorized by white supremacists daily, or knowing that my queer friend is struggling to know how to find love in a world that tells them the way they love is an aberration? When my lover, and my partner, a survivor of violence from white men is terrified when she sees images of angry mobs of white men, reminding her of the harm that her body knows is possible when that continues, or when that goes unchecked, or when that happens behind closed doors? How can I possibly actually be at peace as long as I care about anybody that doesn't look like me? How can I possibly consider doing anything but working for our collective liberation? I hope you'll join me. Transcribed by https://otter.ai

On January 21, 2017, I was among millions in the streets for the historic Women's March. It was the day after Trump - a misogynist and rapist - had been inaugurated to the highest office in the land. Like so many men, I was following the lead of women and trans/queer folks by mobilizing in the streets to reject his violent rhetoric and actions.It was at that march in Austin, TX where upwards of 50,000 people turned out, that I happened to run into Bill Oliver, the legendary protest singer and environmental activist. We marched down Congress Street singing songs from the canon of protest songs dating back decades, sharing in the joy and power of leading those around us in song.One of those songs was Bob Dylan's 1963 anthem, "The Times They Are A-Changin'." When I returned home later that night, I did something that I had only done once before (on the day prior Trump's inauguration speech): I turned on Facebook live and played the Dylan song into the internet. It was the second song in what would become The #100protestsongs Project: livestreaming a protest song everyday of the first 100 days of Trump's presidency.And so it was meaningful to once again be singing that song this past Saturday, November 7, the day that we finally learned Trump had been voted out. This time, I was playing with my friend and violin player, Courtney James, and my partner and cellist/singer, Chavi. Though we weren't dancing or celebrating in the streets, we were grateful to be in micro-community with one another on this historic and jubilant day. Inspired by the moment, I wrote a new verse:After four years of unspeakable harmThe people have voted, we've weathered the stormWe're weary and tired from hate as the normGive thanks and then keep organizin''Cause we're done with the lies, false claims, and scornOh, the times they are a-changin'The audio linked above is a higher quality  audio recording from our live take, which I streamed to my personal instagram page @joshuaharrisblaine, which you can view here, if you'd like. Though Chavi sat this take out, I hope someday she'll be confident enough in her cello playing and singing to join us on the other side of the camera. While we continue to celebrate, we must also continue to organize to address that which created Trump(ism) (to quote Michael Moore). And to brace for a turbulent few months of Trump's final act of antics and abusive behavior. More so than ever, let's stay connected and look after one another. In song and solidarity,Josh(ua)

Content Warning: Death, dying, Holocaust, violence_______________________________________________________This song came through almost exactly a year ago. My sister, Amanda, and I were at our grandmother's bedside holding curiosity for her experience of dying. "Does she know she is dying? Has anyone told her?" Amanda asked. We weren't sure, but we assumed that the answer was no. She'd mostly stopped talking or responding, and unfortunately that meant that many of the people around her (though not all) had also stopped talking to her as though she could hear or comprehend. But we imagined she could still hear us and that what we said and did still mattered. We wondered if she was afraid to die for more than the usual reasons (the reasons that most people are probably afraid to die - the fear of the unknown, fear of pain, loss of loved ones, etc.). As a survivor of untold horror in the Nazi concentration camps as a teenager, our grandmother was living proof of voracious resilience. Her body knew on a cellular level the necessity of living despite overwhelming conditions for death. We speculated that her body didn't know that this time it was okay to not live. That after 94 years of life - 76 years of survival - she could go in peace. So Amanda spoke these words aloud as we sat on either side of her bed, our grandmother softly breathing, eyes closed, between us. "We will stay and you can go. We will remember you." I've written elsewhere about the profoundly central role of song/singing during that time of accompanying my grandmother to her death. This was one such moment of profundity. Without thinking or forethought, the words my sister had spoken emerged from me as a melody. We sang it over and over for a few minutes, our friend Thomas who was present as support, singing, too. Weeks later, Thomas helped us remember the song, which Amanda and I had both forgotten. I suspect we were so present to the moment that it hadn't occurred to us to remember it for any moment other than the one it emerged from. Before her memorial service, I arranged it as a round and we sang it with our synagogue community. And then last week as I was preparing for song circle, I added a Hebrew verse from the evening prayer liturgy:                                                              וּפְרוֹשׂ עָלֵינוּ סֻכַּת שְׁלוֹמֶךָ                                                      Ufros aleinu sukat sh'lomecha                                                       Spread over us Your Sukkah of peaceThis verse has significance for a few reasons. One, Nanny died during the festival of Sukkot, which is referenced in this bit of Hebrew. The "Sukkah of Peace" is alluding to the sukkah that we build during the week-long harvest festival of Sukkot that marks the end of the High Holiday season. While I was sleeping in my grandmother's apartment last year (Tishrei 5780), I was thinking of her apartment as my temporary shelter, aka sukkah. And inversely, our rabbi, Rabbi Cari of Temple Shir Tikvah, offered a powerful teaching at her burial service that Amanda, Thomas, and I were like a sukkah of peace for her as she passed to the other side of the threshold of life. So I offer this recording as a song to honor the sacred process of dying. And I wonder, too, if it might make for a good traveler's blessing. Dying is it's own journey after all. Blessings on your journeying,Josh(ua)

Last summer (August 2019) I had the delightful honor of co-leading a "Songs in the Key of Resistance" song circle at The People's Forum in New York City with two of my mentors/heroes: Charon Hribar of the Poor People's Campaign and Lu Aya of The Peace Poets. I knew Charon from the Poor People's Campaign march on DC the previous summer but I only knew Lu through his music, a collection of songs written for (and sometimes in) the streets that had been powerful and reliable companions for me at many an action. I was a little star struck meeting him initially but soon understood him to be a humble, down-to-earth person with a generous heart and infectious spirit. During the song circle, one of the attendees stepped up to lead a song that she'd learned at an action a few months back. She didn't remember the origins of the song and asked if anyone else knew anything about it. "It's Lu's!" said Charon with a laugh. "You wrote this song??" she asked, looking at Lu across the circle."Yeah, I think so," he replied quietly. "If it's the one I'm thinking it is." Sure enough, it was The Peace Poets song, "Our Liberation:"My liberation is your liberation and your liberation is my liberation. So let me hear the people say, 'Let's get free! Let's get free!'"Do you want to lead your song?!" she offered. He insisted that she continue. The recording included above is of all of us singing it after she teaches it to us. Listen all the way through if you want to hear some powerful verses (that are probably rarely sung at actions) that Lu shares at the end. "You made it better, I just wanna say," he said after we sang it, explaining with humility and gentleness that they wrote it slightly differently than she taught it (the second "let's get free" has a slight melodic ornament that Lu seems to receive as an improvement to the song: "That's the beauty of movement music - the songs always get better and better.").Later, after many more songs were shared and the circle came to a close, a few of us went to get a slice at a local pizza shop. Then, as we were parting ways, Lu suggested we exchange numbers. "We're connected now," he explained. "We're brothers in song." The following day I texted him asking for his blessing to carry and teach the song, "Our Liberation," adding an invitation to share a preferred story/message that he'd like me to include when I teach the song. A few minutes later, he replied with nothing short of a manifesto on collective liberation. Today, I'm excited to share his words with you directly (below). In this time of grave injustices stretching back generations, alarmingly disparate realities and discourses perpetuated by politicians and the media, and threats to building a truly peaceful and equitable future, these words are a lighthouse along the shores of a stormy sea. I hope they bring you as much nourishment, inspiration, and sense of accountability - to the movement and to future generations - as it did for me. In song and solidarity,Josh(ua)PS Join me TOMORROW (Saturday, September 26th at 4pm ET) at Golden Bridge Choir's "Together In Song." I'm delighted to be one of the guest song leaders and would love to see you there. On the song "Our Liberation" from Lu Aya of The Peace PoetsWe wrote it around 2011 when the ancient wisdom of interconnectedness began emerging in our movements language as “collective liberation “... a concept that actually challenges the deeeeepest held beliefs we have about how and why to struggle for justice because it means that even while we fight the rich and the cops and the corporations, even while we want to decimate their horrific violence from this planet, we are still in that very moment, fighting also for their liberation. And on the level of our social movements, even while we struggle to work together across differences of race and culture, if we are in touch with the ancient wisdom that’s the roots and truth of collective liberation, then we are also engaging in a profound act of love for those we struggle with and for their children and children’s children... and if that’s true, well then, let’s celebrate that vision, let’s draw upon its beauty to have the strength and patience and humility that working together in a good way will require, let’s sing our promise that we will fight for real freedom and let us sing louder than ever before with the knowledge that we need a freedom as wide and wild as the ocean to be able to encompass our revolutionary but actually simple belief that our freedom is and will always be inextricably intertwined with the freedom of every single person in prison and immigrant detention, and every person suffering domestic violence, every child being abused, every worker exploited, every boss who is exploiting, every abuser who is abusing, everyone yes everyone suffering and inflicting suffering in this devastatingly dehumanizing system of white supremacist, patriarchal imperialism... and yah, that all feels like wow. Damn. But... I know. How’s it gonna feel to do that in the temple of our strong but fragile bodies as we sit together in organizing meetings that we’re only now beginning to realize are as important as the actions they are planning as places for us to embody the love and justice we are so busy demanding of others... how will it be to live into the dream of this freedom as we strategize the new and sustainable ways to march in the streets like we dance in kitchens and clubs with a wild rhythmic love for being alive and together in a way where going home after doesn’t even occur to us because the places we roll with all this bold brilliant expression of life and the demand for it to be honored, not just the way we say it should be, but the way we are honoring right here right now in our bodies, these places, these streets, these city halls, the capital building, these reclaimed roads clearly need this medicine, and so beloved, how will it feel to try. To try to contain the sunrise dream in our chests as sit together and listen to each other across the canyons chiseled between us. Will be able to do it? Will we dare try? And who am I to say that we should? I am only a part of you, dreaming our dream to be free. I am only the greatgrandchild of a woman who also knew this and prayed for it. I am only the great grandfather of daughters who will one day go to the river to drink and living this wild life of embodying connected creative liberation is the only way I can possibly honor how deeply I long for her to smile as she bends down and cups clean water in her hands. Clean water, my people. Clean water she will drink and she will share and she will thanks those of us who gave everything for everything. Everyone who lived for everyone. And she will live for everything around her and everyone coming after her. And that is enough for me to try to open the door and walk out the small rooms that do not fit freedom for everyone. To walk outside into the boundless beautiful sky of liberation for everything, a liberation only held by the beautifully balanced ways of the lands and the waters on this sacred planet of abundance that so generously guides us in how to walk in oneness. And when I’m out here, in the space of this big freedom, I start to hear this earth singing. And so can you, it sounds like wind and sun, and sweat and rivers and birdsongs and wormsongs and heardsongs and little drops of rain rolling down leaves into a puddle and it sounds like cities bustling with beating hearts and hip hop and neighbors hollering across the street like ay yo, come through later, and it sounds like I gotchu and now we can hear it within us and it sounds like our blood and our breath and yes beloved, what I mean to say is when I open my mouth to begin singingI am not starting a song, I am joining the song of creation, I am joining the song of life that just wants to live, the song of justice that just flows through us when we are born and raise our arms up to be heldYes,That song.And so, it is both a call to all of you as well as a humble prayer ... when we sing let me hear the people say let’s get free, yes, I invite you to say that loud and powerful as your lungs were designed to sing and alsoI am simply asking creatorTo let me hear the freedom song already alive and booming in the air, let me hear the way every single human being is singing to live and be loved, to hold and be held, to see and be seen in deep dignity and full natural intertwined liberation....YesLet me hear the people sing Let’s Get Free.

“Anything that is deeply true is a paradox.” -Rev. angel Kyodo Williams, Radical DharmaI'd like to more thoroughly share my story of 2020 thus far and what the rest of 2020 (and beyond) might look like. While I've shared bits and pieces here over the last few months, I'm called to share a more complete account here. If you're short on time, maybe just skip to "The Revelation." Otherwise, grab yourself a cup of coffee or glass of water and come along for the journey. It's a story of letting go, deep suffering (content warning re: sexual violence and trauma), new love, and stepping into the unknown. And it's a story of "songs holding me up when there seemed to be no ground beneath me." For LongingIt starts with a quiet longing that I've noticed these last few years - a longing to be closer to the land and people that raised me. It’s an ancestral longing that stretches through generations of Jewish ancestors fleeing danger, wandering and wondering when and where they may ever find rootedness, safety, and belonging. The longing grew louder this past fall as I accompanied my dear grandmother, Nanny Dorothy, to her death in October and then buried her in the cemetery literally down the street from where I grew up. And it seems to have grown louder still as I've found myself sheltered-in-place on the East coast ever since this pandemic became a daily reality in early March. The pandemic caught me in Rhode Island visiting a new lover. We'd only met in early January at a Jewish fellowship connected to the Jewish Renewal movement. I was visiting her in Providence when the shelter-in-place orders and travel restrictions were put in place. So I didn't get on a plane back to Austin in mid-March as planned and have remained on the East Coast ever since. This could be a neat and tidy story of "love in the time of corona," but really it's a story of נֵ֣צַח "netzach," Hebrew for the virtue of "endurance." It's a story of holding deep pain and suffering of someone grappling with ten years of survival - of sexual violence, trauma, horror at the hands of police - amidst the backdrop of a global pandemic and uprising for racial justice and police abolition. It's a story of finding faith and strength in the deep longing for transformation and healing. It's a story of grappling with gender inequity, patriarchal oppression and patterns, and new neural pathways. And it's a story of weaving beauty, community, and ritual with a kindred soul. I wrote about some of this journey back in the spring. For more of a glimpse into 'holding deep pain and suffering,' check out The Fight is to Feel and re: ‘finding faith and strength in the deep longing for transformation and healing,' see my Patreon post, whisper me home. I suspect I’ll be one of many people who continue to write about and reflect on this formative time of quarantine. Chavi and I have considered piloting a podcast highlighting the challenges and triumphs of our pandemic love story alongside other stories of connection, isolation, struggle, and love in these strange times. Keep your eyes peeled for that if the Fates will have it! Mountain TopThe Jewish holiday of Shavuot honors the story of Moses receiving the "Ten Commandments" on Mount Sinai (one of my teachers, Rabbi Monty, prefers to translate the commandments as the "ten principles"). As such, it's a holiday of preparing for our own personal (and collective) revelations on our own spiritual and narrative journeys. This year, Shavuot came at the end of May, a few months into the pandemic and just days after George Floyd’s murder. To honor the day, I decided to climb a mountain, too: Mt. Monadnock in southern New Hampshire, the first mountain I ever climbed when I was about four years old. (I told a version of that story at a storytelling event organized by The Hearth in Austin back in 2017 if you want to hear it.)My partner and I were quarantined only about 15 minutes from Mount Monadnock where she'd spent some of her childhood enjoying New England summers. She and I had been preparing for Shavuot by "counting the Omer," a practice of counting the days between Passover and Shavuot and contemplating the seven sefirot, or Divine qualities. By the time my climb day came around, I'd spent 49 days being with chesed (loving kindness), gevurah (strength/discipline), tiferet (beauty/balance), netzach (endurance), hod (surrender), yesod (ancestral foundation), and malchut (in-dwelling presence). It was a gorgeous, late Spring day with billowing white clouds spread out across the freshly green horizon of late May. I'd fallen in love with this landscape as a young boy and felt a familiarity and sense of belonging re-kindling in my soul as I wound my way up the mountain. By the time I reached the base of the summit - an iconic "bald pate" of New Hampshire granite jutting up from the sea of green all around - the swiftly moving clouds had coalesced into an impending storm. Grateful to catch some of the spectacular vistas earlier as I approached the tree line, I could hardly see ten feet in front of me by the time I reached the summit.The winds - wet with the threat of rain - pushed me into a nook of protruding rock to seek some respite from the chill. As I watched pockets of people arriving to find nothing but a pervasive grey, I sat with some snacks and my journal and wrote the following poem:5.28.2020 Day 49Malchut sh’b’malchutMT MONADNOCK                                                                                                                                                               יסוד שבהוד         The legacy of surrenderingTo G-d, to Fate.       Letting go,       losing controlA graceful untethering      Collapsing in      trusting the           unraveling          As          Unfolding          UnfurlingSeeing what entersHumbly waiting. _________________________“Yesod sh’b’hod” is what is written (albeit slightly misspelled) in my shaky Hebrew, which is an invitation to meditate on the quality of ancestral foundation within the quality of surrender or grace. “Hod” or surrender had been a helpful quality to embrace in these pandemic times, particularly as I faced the enduring reality of remaining 2,000 miles away from my home while also feeling like I had returned home. “Anything that is deeply true is a paradox.”  -Rev. angel Kyodo Williams, Radical Dharma As I meandered back down the mountain, taking spacious detours and downtime, I felt my own revelation settling into my bones: this land was calling me back. By the time I reached the trailhead where the day’s journey had begun, I was clear about what that meant.The RevelationAfter eight years of building roots and community in my accidental home of Austin, TX (my story of arriving in Texas in 2012 as a “volunteer” transplant is one I love to tell if you’ve never heard it), I was ready to surrender to a quieter, deeper call to return to the land that I loved first. And after all the intense journeying with my new partner through quarantine, uprisings, and other personal struggles and obstacles, I felt a subtle certainty about wanting to choose to continue to build a life together with her. So I'm choosing to start a new chapter with my first love - New England - and my new lover - Chavi - that is at once familiar and wildly unknown. This decision did not and has not come easily. I spent the "Three Weeks" of Bein HaMetzarim, which I've written about in my last few newsletters, grieving all that this means I'm choosing to leave behind. Some of that grief tracks with the larger grief of this moment. Even if I weren't choosing to stay in Rhode Island to deepen into partnership, co-creation, family, and returning ("teshuva," a Hebrew word/concept that's aligned with this time of beginning to prepare for the high holidays next month), we would be grieving the loss of joining our voices in the Capitol rotunda. Who knows how long it will be before that's once again possible. I offer the recording attached to this post as an acknowledgment of the gifts we shared these last years, to mourn the loss of singing in physical space together and, not least of all, to honor the way songs have held me and so many of us up in these times of tumult and upheaval. More about the recording below. A Surprise VisitOne last story that I’d like to tell about this time. A few weeks after climbing Mt. Monadnock, I surprised my father on Father’s Day. It had been almost ten years since I’d been able to spend that holiday - or pretty much any holiday that wasn’t Thanksgiving - with my parents, let alone making a surprise visit. I texted my mother the days before to coordinate. I was staying about 90 minutes away, close enough to come for a distanced dinner on the outdoor porch. Even though I’d been texting with her for the days and hours and minutes before my arrival, she still nearly jumped out of her chair when she saw me come through the door! My father was to-the-moon delighted to see me - he’d had a dream the night before that I’d surprised him for Father’s Day. As the only one of his four children within geographic reach, I was touching a longing in him (and all of us Blaines) to be closer to family during these wild times. I’m grateful to have a family that generally nourishes and supports me. I try not to take that for granted. And I’ve noticed a settling in my body being close to them these last months, knowing that I can continue to choose to be close to them in the months and years to come. “A great thirst is a giant joy when quenched in time.” Edward Abby, Desert SolitaireLive from the RotundaThe recording linked above is from a bygone era, which is to say, it's from September of 2019. It was a special night of about 80 of us gathered to sing in the rotunda of the Texas State Capitol on the last Monday of the month. The "Just Worship" conference had brought about 50 extra people to join our bi-monthly community sing. You can catch a glimpse of the evening's energy and sound at the beginning of this documentary that Just Worship released earlier this year. I wrote the song based on a few of my favorite quotes from mentor and inspiration, Melanie DeMore. You'll hear me introducing the song at the beginning, and I mention one of Melanie's quotes about "getting everyone in the room." This lands as particularly heavy right now as we continue to hold so much uncertainty about when that will again be possible. And if you make it to the end of the recording, you'll be rewarded with one of my favorite teachings from Rabbi Shefa Gold. I also offer this recording as yet another excavation of the treasure trove of recordings I’ve gathered from the rotunda sings these last two years. While most of the recordings are available on the Finding Our Voice Slack space and Google Drive, few of them are edited in a way that makes individual tracks easily accessible. So I am receiving the invitation of this time to continue to sift through the dozens and dozens of recordings to find gems of blending voices and soaring harmonies. I intend to continue using this space to share some delicious aural memories and moments. Going ForthIf we weren’t in a global pandemic, I imagine I would find ways to visit Austin often to continue to lead song in the rotunda and nurture community. But with travel much more complicated and risky these days, my relationship to Austin will likely be different. The odd silver lining of choosing to uproot in these difficult times is that we can continue to stay connected as we have since March: across time and space in the digital realm. As long as gathering in community in this way serves, I intend to continue to hold every-other-Monday ZOOM “cyber sings.” And I believe Miriam and Phillip intend to continue to hold “community space” on ZOOM on the alternate weeks (if you haven’t joined yet, it’s a sweet place for easeful, authentic connection held by song).Leading song on ZOOM is no substitute for gathering in physical space together, let alone the glorious resonant dome of the Texas State Capitol. It’s especially hard as a song leader because the latency requires that all other voices be muted most of the time; it feels like singing into a void. I’ve heard from many song leaders about this difficulty. Many of us songleaders are struggling to keep our morale high in this time of songleading on ZOOM. As such, I’ve started to investigate and experiment with technology that allows for looping and layering parts. Some of these adaptations require new investments in equipment. Your monetary support on Patreon helps make that possible but I welcome any additional financial gifts you’d like to offer to sponsor my efforts to “level up” my online songleading.Compassionate MasculinityAmidst the swirl of global and personal transition, I’m feeling more and more drawn to weave the various threads of my work together in new and creative ways. As an example, I’ve been putting out feelers for a new offering I’m calling “Masculine Resonant Space.” If you identify as masculine and you're longing for more vulnerable, heart-centered connection with other masculine-identifying people, I invite you to share your interest by filling out this form. And if you’re more generally interested in my work with other men and masculine folks, be sure to get on my email list for Compassionate Masculinity.As I’ve said many times before, I continue to feel immense gratitude to each of you for putting some of your financial and energetic resources towards this space. It supports me on so many levels. If you find that it supports you, too, I invite you to share this with one or a few friends who may also be inclined to mutually benefit from becoming a Patron (this specific post will be made public tomorrow if you'd like to share it then). By the end of the year, I’d love to reach my first goal of 36 patrons and start making monthly teaching videos of my favorite songs or newest creations. With abounding love,Josh(ua) Boroschek Blaine 

Patrons,If you haven't seen or opened my most recent newsletter, you can see it here for some reflections on this current moment including some resources, orgs to follow and support, and my latest musical inspirations. To add to the list of inspirations, I want to share a podcast I've been listening to for a few weeks called, "The Land That Never Has Been Yet." Specifically, episode 7 digs into the importance of song and music during the "Freedom Summer" of 1964 but I highly recommend starting from the beginning. And if you haven't yet dug into SCENE ON RADIO's previous seasons, I highly recommend both "Seeing White" and "MEN" about White Supremacy and Patriarchy, respectively. Now to the song I've shared above.... One of the things I like about Patreon is it can be a place to put out songs and other content quickly. Since it's a smaller group of people who support (literally and energetically) my work, I can hold back some of the inner voices that push for perfection (or the illusion of it) before feeling ready to share. Instead, I can feel a little freer to take risks and share more vulnerable material. In that spirit, here's a song I wrote this week called, "The Sky's Reply." It's my melody of some of the oldest words of my Jewish ancestors, The Book of Psalms. They say that the Levites wrote the Psalms, the first prayer book of the Jewish people, and that the Levites were also the ones to sing and lead the people in song. One of my teachers, Rabbi Monty, likes to call me a descendant of the Levites (spiritually speaking, at least) because of my role as a song leader. This song is based on Psalm 118, Line 5: מִֽן־הַ֭מֵּצַ֥ר קָרָ֣אתִי יָּ֑הּ עָנָ֖נִי בַמֶּרְחָ֣ב יָֽהּ׃I called to Yah from the narrow place, and was answered with the sky's wideness-English translation from Siddur HaKohanot: A Hebrew Priestess Prayerbook The English translation here (from Jill Hammer and Taya Ma), is a significant departure from a more normative translation of the Hebrew (linked above). I'm learning more and more how mythical and poetic Biblical Hebrew truly is (and how poorly mainstream Christianity has mistranslated so many words and concepts from the Hebrew Bible!). There are many names for The Divine in the Hebrew Bible, and "Yah" is one of them that essentially is meant to stand in as a word meant to signify the Un-Nameable-Ness of all that is sacred. The English words in the song that I wrote are inspired by the Kohenet translation of the Hebrew:To You I call, feeling scared and small. And You reply with the vastness of the sky! May this song bring you some expansiveness in this time of constriction, awakening, Uprising, self-inquiry, organizing, quarantine, grief-tending, expansion, and more. Sincerely,Joshua

The other night I was on a ZOOM call with Rabbi Tirzah Firestone, a reputable member of the Jewish Renewal movement and a respected Jungian psychoanalyst who recently published a book called, Wounds Into Wisdom: Healing Intergenerational Jewish Trauma. On the call, she lead a cohort of us young Jews who make up the KESHER Fellowship through some ancestral wisdom practices and then fielded some questions. I was eager to ask a question about "grief work," since it's been a part of my community songleading work ever since this whole chapter began back in the summer of 2017, and I was curious what my own Jewish tradition had to offer. I started the question with an observation that much of the grief work I know about and participate in these days comes from three distinct lineages: Joanna Macy (via Lydia Violet) which has roots in Buddhism; Laurence Cole whose grief work is in the lineage of Sobonfu and Malidoma Somé of West Africa; and, Melanie DeMore, who is rooted in the tradition of African American spirituals. "We Jews have thousands of years of oppression and struggle to draw upon," I began. "Don't we have our own practices and technologies of mourning and grieving to learn from and leverage? Do we really need to borrow from other traditions to process our grief?"She had a somewhat longer answer but the gist of her response was, "Not really. Yours may be the first generation of Jews that is well enough to develop such practices. Now is the time for that work to happen. It's up to you all." I was both affirmed and alarmed to hear that from an experienced Jewish Renewal Rabbi and Jungian psychologist.  It means that the work we've been doing with grief in the community singing circles is that much more important. And that songs like the one linked in this post can be integral parts of the renewal and reimagining of grief work. "Let It Blow Through" is by Maggie Wheeler, who is best known as Janet from F.R.I.E.N.D.S but is now co-director of the Golden Bridge Choir in Los Angeles and a prolific and talented song writer and leader. I had the honor of learning and singing this song with her and her co-leader, Emile Hasan-Dyer at the Esalen "Singing at the Edge" gathering back in September of 2019 (oh, how long ago that feels now). I made this recording on Monday in preparation for my every-other-Monday community cyber sing. It allowed me to give folks on ZOOM a sense of how the song sounds in all of its layers. And we stayed with the song for quite awhile, letting it "blow through," explicitly inviting grief or anything else that needed holding.  I want to share this recording with you, Patrons, because most of us have one or a dozen things - emotions, hardships, grievances, confusions, etc. - that we need to let blow through. And song can help us do that. So I invite you to try this simple practice: 1. Get comfortable on your bed, in a chair, or lying on a mat on the ground.2. Put on this recording and be with the sounds and words. 3. Sing along, breath deeply, or just listen. 4. Allow whatever wants to move through you to move through you. Tears, movement, silence/stillness... anything.  Let it blow through. 5. Do it again if 4:22 isn't enough time. Maybe put it on repeat and set a timer for 20 minutes. 6. Be gentle with yourself afterward. Drink lots of water and go about the rest of your day slowly, if you can. Wishing you accompaniment and warmth as you confront whatever is arising for you in these challenging times. In song and solidarity,JoshPS For some powerfully facilitated and deep work with the breath, I highly recommend this upcoming sliding scale workshop by Jennifer Patterson of Corpus Ritual. PPS Check out the newsletter I sent out earlier this week for my latest musical inspirations and a growing list of virtual sings happening weekly. 

Dear Patrons,I'm continuing to dig into my treasure trove of recordings from these last many years of song leading, interviewing song leaders, and recording sessions at various song gatherings. I've pulled this audio clip out for Patreon as a more robust intro to the recording I just published on my SoundCloud page, "Nanny's Niggun:" https://soundcloud.com/findingourvoice/nannys-niggun-live-in-the-rotundaIn this clip, I give the story of how this niggun came about: as an attempt to reach for my grandmother's early memories of music and its power. I was wanting to connect more to her days as the second youngest daughter of a devoutly religious Orthodox Jewish family in a small Hungarian village just before the Nazis brutally ended her rather idyllic childhood. Because of the traumatic end to that period of her life, she rarely would talk about it. "My childhood was stolen," I once heard her say. But as I was sitting with her after returning from a weekend of liberatory Jewish community singing at Let My People Sing, I was more curious than ever about her relationship to Jewish song and ritual. So I asked her something I'd probably asked her before, "Did you do any singing growing up? Do you remember any of the songs or melodies from that time?" What I know about my grandmother's story comes mostly from an interview she did for the Shoah Foundation (Steven Spielberg's documentary project) back in the late 1990s. In that interview, she tells two stories that really stuck with me. Both are rather intense, so please use your discretion as you read on. The first is a story about her arrival to Auschwitz, the first camp she and her sister, father, mother, and brother were shipped to straight from the ghetto, which was probably only about a week or two after being taken from their village in Hungary. She described the scene in the cattle car (Jews and other Nazi prisoners were often transported by train in cars that were designed for transporting cattle) as you might expect: most of the people were crying, huddled, and afraid. But she said that a few - herself included - were singing. I remember asking her once what she remembered singing in the cattle car (a risky question to begin with, since it was conjuring such painful memories that she often avoided talking about altogether). She said something about Hungarian lullabies. So Nanny's Niggun is partially an honoring of the incredible legacy of singing as resistance to fear, hopelessness, and terror. The niggun is a way of harnessing the immense movement I feel in my body - an oceanic swelling - when I imagine my teenage grandmother singing Hungarian lullabies in the cattle car on the way to Auschwitz. The second story is one she tells about leaving Auschwitz in a forced death march. She and her sister were still together (they would miraculously remain together until the end of the war). My grandmother had injured her foot early on during her time there and it was still bothering her. But pausing or sitting down would cost the prisoners their lives, so it was only my aunt, Babsi's, insistence that Nanny "must keep going" that ultimately saved her life. So "Nanny's Niggun" is also a nod to the remarkable tenacity, resilience, and love of those words: "you must keep going."As I say in the description of the SoundCloud recording, this song is yours to carry if it helps you connect to your own resiliency and your own commitment to fighting the grave injustices of our time.Love to all for your continued support,Josh