Brief summary: This week’s newsletter recounts a freezing Saturday night at Strawberry Fields that transformed into a spontaneous, international prayer circle for peace. Silhouetted against the jagged backdrop of The Dakota, strangers from Greece, Mexico, and Tibet stepped out of the shadows to form a circle around the Imagine mosaic, breathing as one in a rare moment of total unity. It was a poignant contrast: while the literal "war machine" rumbled in the headlines and the Maduro helicopter hummed overhead, we stood below in the cold, proving that the heart’s capacity to imagine peace is as vital now as it was when John first wrote the song.
Here's the whole story.
Gavin and I, playing at Strawberry Fields, had a very touching moment Saturday night. We were facing the 72nd entrance. We had our lights on us (amber because the white ones blind Gavin) plus one little spotlight casting a gentle white oval over the IMAGINE mosaic.
This means the people were dark figures, silhouettes against the backdrop of the huge triangle gables on The Dakota. This was my first night wearing the electric socks my brother David bought me.
At one point, a very garrulous man jumped onto the bench, near me on the other side of the arm rest. I waved him over. His mouth was open in a wide smile, like, "Really?? I can sit next to you??" (He didn't say that out loud).
He shouted out, "I'm Marco!" He was probably late-30s, athletic, bald.
I asked him, "Where are you from?"
I'm from Greece!" The small group of four that were over on the left bench all cheered. In fact, that group had been singing along on everything.
For a while, I wasn't sure if anyone was actually listening. There was a crowd of about 10 facing us, another group the same size that were on the right side. I couldn't see any faces. I couldn't distinguish people except for this one woman dressed in bright white fur from head to toe, big Russian looking white furry hat.
Marco smiled and I held the mic for him to sing "Eight Days A Week," which he couldn't sing and didn't know the words and he proudly sang out anyway, with me prompting him. This sometimes drives Gavin nuts because he's trying so hard to maintain the integrity of the song. I'm more like the clown in the monkey suit trying to draw everyone in. That's why I love our dynamic as a duo.
His friends were taking video and eventually others came. An older man with a weathered face. From Mexico. He wasn't there to sing, just pose for a picture. Came right up and asked. When I held the mic to his shoe leather face, he grinned bashfully and said, "I don't..." And then he started singing. Sounded like a frog, but he had a twinkle in his eye that lit up like the cloudless sky above us.
At one point, it's something I feel in my body, the benches on both sides facing us had filled up. No one was standing at the mosaic, but I took a chance. I said to Gavin, "It's time."
"Did you come for the full Imagine Experience?" I prodded them. "Then join me here around the circle."
This is the tricky moment.
As one, as if they had all come together, without hesitation, they rose from the benches and formed a circle.
Now usually, people are shy. Or they don’t want to stand up, afraid they might lose their place on the bench. But these came immediately and eagerly.
I began by telling them my Imagine Piano story, how it was under a tree outside just like this. I told them to imagine the piano here, John sitting there leading us. I told them, “His spirit is here now.”
Then I pointed at them one by one – there were twenty or thirty people – and said, “He’s in your heart. So he’s here.”
I led them in the song and then asked where they were from. Mexico, Hungary, Poland, Peru, Tibet! I said you’re my first person from Tibet! Greece. The lady in white.
I told them the story of the Palestinian and the Israeli singing together here.
There was something going on this night. Even on good nights, we have people who were dragged there or who weren’t into the group thing. But everyone was there. We were breathing as one.
I said, “Let’s memorize this moment. The freezing cold air. The lights in the park. The jagged skyline of The Dakota. The clear skies.
Just that moment, a helicopter flew over. Way high up but we could hear it and see its lights in the distant sky.
“And that helicopter overhead.”
Everyone laughed. Just before that, fire engine horns had blared into our space. Ah, New York.
I mentioned how in an interview, John had said over and over that you have to think peace and imagine peace before you can have peace. I babbled on, “It’s hard to imagine since we just invaded Venezuela this morning. And there’s Ukraine…” I didn’t have words. I don’t like being political. But it was in the headlines. How do I not mention it?
Then most people began to leave. We sang another couple of songs and said goodnight. The last song was, “Don’t Let Me Down.”
As we were breaking down our equipment, the lady in white and a friend of hers approached. Both were stylish and beautiful, warm and gracious.
She said, “We needed this.” Her friend jumped in, “We were just talking about Venezuela and wondering what can any of us do? We were just talking about that! And then we came here.”
When I got home, the first thing I saw on the TV was images of Maduro landing in New York via helicopter.
While the war machine was flying overhead, we were down below in a kind of prayer circle singing about peace.
