Footprints in the Sand

I dreamed the other night of the Blog I would write. Title and general outline were clear in my mind and I was confident it would be one of the more articulate entries. When I woke up, it had vanished. I thought if I could retrieve the title, the rest would follow, as it often does. But no luck. Reminded me of ye old college days when, aided by certain controlled substances, “the meaning of life” revealed itself completely, only to disappear the next morning like footprints in the sand after the tide comes in. Sometimes my friends and I would write it down, but the next day it read like those attachments I get that don’t open properly for me and read something like this (and just about as intelligible):

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So the Blog remained unwritten and the real life I’m supposed to be living called for my attention. Since the last entry, I taught my full Friday with stunning musical achievements by the 4^th and 8^th graders, another lovely flute-piano duet with Lisa Allen and I playing for my Mom and friends. A superb movie that night—The Butler. Many comment-worthy moments and a blog about the evolution of race relations began to form. But it was not to be.

Saturday had me up early loading Orff instruments in my car to take to The SF Jazz Center with cohorts-in-crime Joshi Marshall and Sam Heminger to lead a Family Jazz Workshop. Last time we did it, the kids did everything and the parents watched, but this time, they all joined in. How often do kids get to play, sing and dance with their parents? Plus the added bonus of “hitting them on the head with a rollin’ pin!” (Imaginary, of course, from the kid’s song “Step Back Baby.”). Family music— that’s a theme worthy of an entry or two. But—you guessed it— it was not to be.

After the workshop, off for a Thai food lunch and then to the Bill Frisell Family Concert. Quite a challenge for the kids, to say the least— one long piece with drums, guitar and violin in no identifiable genre. Still, kids always amaze me. During question time, one of them asked, “What kind of music was that?” Later, another asked, “What’s the most important thing in art? “ The musicians had to dig deep to answer! And what they said was worthy of a Blog entry. But—well, not now.

I loaded up the Orff instruments, drove home and hopped on my bike for some long overdue exercise out to the ocean and around the Legion of Honor. Dinner and an evening rearranging the photo albums so all the poetry books will fit in the same cabinet. Satisfying and many bloggish thoughts arising looking at old photos and reacquainting myself with my old books.

But once again it was not to be. Come Sunday and it was an inspired piano practice that constantly baffles me, graced with a sense that I can hear everything and play everything I hear. Of course, the maddening thing is how seldom this happens in a concert setting! But when it comes, I have the good sense to stick with it. At least until lunch rolled around and a quick ride to the Farmer’s Market and up big hills to keep the exercise routine going. And then settle back in the same place where Opera in the Park was last Sunday to listen to Comedy in the Park.

Life went on—and thankfully so—and I felt a tiny twinge of remorse that I didn’t extract anything interesting to say. But no one is suffering from the silence and truth be told, the whole 600 plus entries of the past few years are nothing more than footprints in the sand. Not that I’m going to stop walking on the beach, just a good reality check not to take it too seriously.

See you on the screen tomorrow. Or not.