The Miserable Road to Compassion

I know, I know, no one wants to hear it and I don’t want to tell how the coughing and slight fevers persist despite the upgraded meds the doctor gave me. Truth be told, this is simply the new norm and I might as well get used to it—at least for a while (hopefully not much) longer. 

 

Meanwhile, I continue to host my one-man Pity Party, feeling both perplexed and sorry for myself. Not exactly wallowing in it—what’s the point?— but simply trying to remember what it used to feel like to be normal. All my tests these past months—the bloodwork, the MRI, the recent chest X-ray, the Covid test—assure me that all is normal, but again, my body is missing that memo.

 

But here’s a useful thought. My pain and suffering is so mild in comparison to what it could be and to what it is for so many. So here’s an opportunity to ramp up my compassion, feel my tiny version of our universal pain and let it connect me to fellow humans far and wide. To go yet further and imagine people going through this (and worse) with no access to health care, with medicine prices beyond their reach, with a terminal diagnosis at the end of their dark tunnel. To think about generations of enslaved human beings who never were granted a sick day, not to mention any kind of doctor care. To imagine going out to the cotton fields in the relentless sun with the nearby overseer brandishing his whip. How did those folks bear up?

 

None of this brings healing and comfort to me nor to the people I’m speaking of. But it’s a good exercise in walking a mile in your neighbor’s shoes, even if they don’t fit, have holes in them and fail to protect your feet from the blistering heat of the pavement. 

 

Meanwhile, life goes on without my consent or blissful participation and right now it’s telling me, “Time to pack your suitcases. No difference if you’re coughing in Salzburg or San Francisco. Might as well give it a go.”

 

And so I will. 

People to People

You can imagine my delight to finally see that thin blue line next to C in the window, with nothing near T.  According to a little plastic stick, I’m done with Covid. However, my body didn’t get the memo. In fact, my coughing was so bad yesterday that it got into a weird danger zone where the impulse to cough came from a different place that had me gasping for air. I was sufficiently alarmed that I actually headed to the Kaiser Emergency Room at 11:30 at night. Checked in, sat in a room with five other people, some of them competing with me for the coughing prize and an hour later, none of us had yet been seen. I had some 20 minutes where I didn’t cough and decided to bail out and go home. 

 

Made it through the night alive and off I went the next day (today), feeling that my sickness was getting worse, 12-days later. I will skip the lurid details of trying to contact Kaiser through their oh-so-clever voice mails and nice advice nurses that promise someone will call me back who never does. Even, like today, when I called twice and said, “Can you mark this URGENT?!!!” They promised that a call back will come no later than 4 hours after the initial call and it didn’t. I felt like calling again and shouting “Liar! Liar! Pants on fire!” but couldn’t bear to go through the voice mail options again.

 

So I got in the car and drove to the physical hospital, checked in at Drop-in Urgent Care with a live human being at a desk, waited in a waiting room with other live human beings, got called into a room where an actual doctor stood in front of me and we had a good discussion about what might or might not be going on. She suggested more heavy-duty cough suppressants that she called into the pharmacy, chest X-rays to check for bronchitis or pneumonia and antibiotics in case the whole thing turned to those directions when in Europe. She was warm, personable and seemed confident we could turn this around. 

Why didn’t I go in earlier and skip all this telephone/e-mail protocol?!!!

 

Not in the mood to get into the details, but that’s the deal with all our oh-so-clever- electronic systems. We think they’re efficient, but they can’t really track the needs of someone who actually needs to talk to someone or better yet, see them in person. We’ve found the same thing with our Jot-form Summer Orff Course registration. The ap can take the name and address, but is ill-equipped to answer questions about visas or payment plans and such and we found people were falling in the cracks who we assumed were registered but actually were not wholly signed-up until we answered their questions. And be honest with me. If you had a choice of going through 25 voice-mail options that try to second-guess your question or actually talk to a human being who knows about these things, which would you choose?

 

So I stand by my conviction that flawed as we are, people to people is still the best way to go in just about anything. Especially health care. I suggested to one of the Medical Advice people that they urge my general physician to actually call me and check in as to how things we going. That I needed some TLC that no machine or e-mail could give. And guess what? She just called and we had a good conversation. So there’s hope for Kaiser after all!

 

In fact, the best thing I can say is that while waiting for my chest X-ray, I noticed a piano in the corner near the waiting room. I went over to play some Bach and Gershwin and such and noticed a woman being wheeled to the elevator changing direction to come my way. And later, a man who stood and listened and told me this was the best moment of his day. A human being playing music composed by other human beings that speaks to something called emotion that no machine understands, on an acoustic instrument, at that, with the physical vibrations real and tangible.

 

That’s what I’m talking about, people! 

Such As It Is

 

                        “Existing’s tricky. To live’s a gift.” – e.e. cummings

 

For some seven decades, I have generally been blessed to meet both the requirements of existing and the gifts of gracious living. But now in my 8^th day of mere existence, simply getting through the day with coughing, napping, reading, coughing, eating, a touch of piano and TV at night. This damn virus just won’t let go and with a flight to Salzburg awaiting me on Friday, back to “all plans provisional” mentality. 

 

Hardly worth taking your time to write this, but might as well keep the discipline going until it’s so excruciatingly boring that even I can’t stand to read it. Well, at least there is that e.e. cummings quote, such as it is. 

 

Be well, my friends. 

What to Say and When, To Whom and Why

The French philosopher said, “In order to straighten a bent stick, you have to first bend it the other way.” Well, maybe. Perhaps that works in physics and the manipulation of matter, but doesn’t always seem to be the best idea when it comes to culture. 

 

At the recent Orff Conference, some presenters who had published material retracted their lesson about Lucy Locket  to be replaced by some generic composed rhyme that taught absolutely nothing interesting. Why? Because meticulous research by scholars far away from the world of children revealed that Lucy and Kitty were not the innocent playmates who simply lost a pocket and looked for their money. As described in Steemit’s “Dark, Distrubing and somewhat Horrible, the History and Origins of Nursery Rhymes # 4:”

“In 18th century London, prostitution was rife and one of the most famous courtesans at the time was Catherine Maria "Kitty" Fisher. Originally a milliner, but after seeing how much more money she could make and how much more fun she could have making it, inside and outside the boudoir, Kitty decided to take matters into her own hands and made a career change.

Aside from her more notable talents, Kitty was also known for her "clever and witty conversation", and her lighthearted antics, including reportedly eating "a thousand-pound banknote on her bread and butter".

The second harlot in the rhyme, is Lucy Locket a barmaid at (Ye Olde Cock Tavern) in Fleet Street, London. Lucy Locket had a regular customer also known as a "pocket" who obviously liked her services a little too much, as he quickly ran out of money and was dumped by Lucy.

He then turned his attention to Kitty and hence she "found the pocket" and since he was broke, there was not a penny in it. The ribbon refers to the custom among prostitutes to keep their bank notes tied to their thigh with a ribbon. So, the rhyme, is Kitty taunting Lucy for dumping her lover and her taking him on.”

Now that’s an interesting story! And I agree that it’s not an appropriate one to tell to young children enjoying the rhyme and the game of hiding “a pocket” and looking for it, as I have done for years. But why cancel it? There are plenty of verses/ lyrics/ poems/ stories and yes, nursery rhymes, that have a double-entendre secret history and that’s part of what make them fascinating. 

Instead of removing them from the curriculum, I would suggest learning that rhyme when young without the background and re-visiting it in Middle School/ High School as a jump start to perhaps needed conversation about “the world’s oldest profession.” Look at how toxic male culture sustains and profits from it, how women with few job choices have sometimes been driven to it and how some suggest (women) changing the word “prostitute” to “sex worker” might give it a different kind of dignity and choice.

Meanwhile, while well-meaning teachers are worried that such a rhyme will damage innocent young children (who will never know the backstory unless we tell them), might we consider that a former President of the United States is in the news every day because of his liason with Stormy Daniels? Do you think the kids might be overhearing some of that? How do you explain it to them?

The bottom line is that the world’s history, captured in the old stories, films, TV shows, poems, are rife with beauty and universal truths, horror and inappropriateness and rather than throw them out, they all are the starting points of the needed conversations. Lucy and Kitty, for example, would make an interesting discussion. Especially with this PS to the story:

In 1776 Kitty married an MP (Member of Parliament) and became a well-respected member of London high society and dabbled in philanthropic endeavors. Sadly, the marriage only lasted 4 months as Kitty contracted smallpox and died. Her last dying wishes were to be buried in her ballgown.

 

Host and Guests

                                    

Fish and guests stink after three days. – Benjamin Franklin

 

I have been a most unhappy host with a most unwelcome guest for three days. It’s time for my virus to go. It felt like Mr. Covid was finally packing his bags last night and not a day too soon. Still showed some signs of preparing to leave this morning, but then I read his note on the Test Strip, a line at T and C which said it plainly— “I think I’ll hang around a bit more.”

 

Still, I went on with my plan to pretend he wasn’t there. For the first time in three days, sat zazen, took a shower and shaved, actually got dressed and later in the day, went out for a walk in the park. Even had a picnic lunch outside with my daughter introducing my wife and I to a man she’s been seeing for awhile. I stayed some 8-feet away the whole time with my mask on and it was a lovely visit, though not my choice for a first impression. (And yes, I like him!)

 

I believe I’ve been a patient host, but enough is enough. But I’m not convinced my guest Mr. Covid got the hint. I can feel his presence still. On the fourth full day, even as he must know that Benjamin Franklin wouldn’t approve. I can get through one more day without being in contact with others, but there are things on my calendar next week that I’d rather not miss, having already cancelled a dinner with friends, the piano play at the Jewish Home and a Memorial Service. 

 

Mr. Covid, are you listening? You’ve inhabited my body long enough. Time to go. Thank you for the visit— a good reminder to cherish every second of good health— but don’t come again for a long time, please. Or ever.  

 

The Purpose of Poetry

Remember Richard Brautigan? I didn’t think you would For this of us coming of age in the late 60’s and early 70’s, he was quite big amongst my hippy friends— along with Herman Hesse, Alan Watts and such. He was a poet/novelist who worked out of San Francisco. Indeed, one of his book covers is a photo of the Presidio Library on Sacramento. 

 

I didn’t know much about his life, but of course, there’s no excuse now to be ignorant with Wikipedia at your fingertips. He seems to have fulfilled the portait of the eccentric, tormented artist, with a childhood steeped in trauma, a meteoric coming of age ascent that included publishing his novel Trout Fishing in America that went on to sell 4 million copies worldwide, and then a decline into alcoholism, depression and ultimately suicide at the age of 49 while living in a cabin in Bolinas, California. 

 

Since the 1980’s, I’ve thought about him exactly once, in an intriguing conversation with an Iranian music teacher who said he influenced her deeply. Once, that is, until today. 

 

I don’t remember any of his poem or plots of his novels, but there was a phrase in one of his poems that speaks eloquently to the way I feel today. And that, after all, is the purpose of poetry. To find an image much more articulate than “I feel good” or “I feel bad.” And this one fits the bill.

 

In his words, in my fourth day of Covid, “I feel like a turd sewed to a garbage can lid.”

 

Thank you, Richard Brautigan. That about covers it. 

Speaking of…

Covid. (See last entry.) I got it once after flying back from Barcelona in June of 2021 and that was it. These last few years, I’ve taken reasonable enough precautions but grew impatient with people insisting everybody test before we gather— and I’m talking about a month ago!! Enough was too much and I figured I’d trust the Gods to decide if my number was up. And for the last three years, it worked.

 

Until today. I thought maybe I caught a cold flying back from Vancouver, but couldn’t ignore the heat in my forehead and ye-old-fashioned thermometer revealed somewhere around 102 degrees fever.  So now it seemed reasonable to take out the old test kit and lo and behold, the dreaded red line in the wrong place. A few minutes later I checked e-mail and got a message from one of the eight people from Toronto I shared a banquet table with on Sunday night. And the message? You guessed it—one of them had Covid. 

 

So now it’s official and though the Gods didn’t exactly spare me, their timing was damn good! If it had been four days ago with four workshops to give and a movie to share, that would have been a major bummer. If it was next week just before boarding a plane to bike in Slovenia, another minor disaster. I had two dinners planned with friends this week easy enough to postpone, a post-hearing-aid check-up at Kaiser which I can let go for now. My biggest concern is the Friday afternoon piano play at the Jewish Home. Fingers crossed that by then I’ll test negative and yes, I’ll wear a mask the whole time. 

 

So my biggest concern is how to pass my days this week. Of course, I can write and play piano and such, but none of it is fun when you feel like crap. So I rummaged down in the basement for a `1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle I haven’t done in a while. That should keep me focused.

 

Of course, all of this is the most boring stuff ever to share with a reading public, but it did help pass ten minutes without whining about how crappy I feel. Thanks for that, dear readers and now I’ll let you go.

 

Oh, and wear a mask when you read this in case of infected electrons. :-)

 

"Back to Your Room!"

My view of the pandemic was simple. Mother Nature was furious with us and sent us to our room for a long time-out. “Go to your room!” she demanded. “And stay there for a year-and-a half or so. I want you to think long and hard about what you’ve done and don’t come out again until you’re ready to apologize and promise to do better.”

 

And for some of us, that’s exactly what happened. People who never gave a single thought to something like “Black Lives Matter” had the time and space to consider that they do and came out with an enlarged viewpoint. People estranged from family and friends finally understood what they meant. People starved for human touch and contact came out with renewed appreciation of the simple hug or touch on the arm. People who struggled with Zoom lag time finally could sing together again in real time and wasn’t that glorious!

 

But of course, like New Year’s Resolutions, a few months back into “business as usual” and it all became again “business as usual.” As if we had learned absolutely nothing. 

 

Take schools. What should have been an epiphany that would send the machines into the corners, only to be brought out to show videos of Louis and Dizzy, the Nicholas Brothers dancing, an occasional artful Powerpoint or Documentary presentation that fed our intellect, our heart, our courage to do better, went back to machines taking over education. The STEM programs continued to thrive, because of course, we need science to show us how to further dominate the earth we have distanced us from. We need technology to poison young children with rampant social media that preys on their tender psyches. We need engineering to build rockets to the moon for Jeff Bezos and his band of crazies. We need math for… hmm., exactly what? When was the last time you did even simple addition and subtraction, or multiplication and division, never mind algebra, trigonometry, calculus and such? 

 

In short, the very things that got us into this mess—rampant, unchecked, scientific knowledge and technological know-how, the very things that brought us the assault rifle, the atom bomb, Twitter, robots replacing human caregivers, driverless cars— are still the kinds of things we think we need to prepare the next generation to make. Of course, not automatically so. Science, technology, engineering and math in service of the best of our humanity has its place in history as well and could be useful in helping build a sustainable, equitable and humanitarian future. 

 

But only with clear intention about their roles and clear attention about their limitations and clear understanding of easily they overwhelm us. It is clear that we are not equal to our creations. The potential benevolence of electronic communication and connection has become the toxic wasteland of malevolent scams, flaming, bullying, to give just one example. 

 

But we are equal to our artistic creations. Or rather, they have the power to raise us into the higher levels of intellect, emotion, kindness and beauty. When trained into the intricate intellect of a Bach fugue, a gamelan composition, a Duke Ellington piece, an Indian raga, we have the possibility of accessing our neo-cortic inheritance and marrying it to the feeling heart and dancing body. Yet while STEM thrives, the arts are yet again on the chopping block, here, there and everywhere. 

 

And so we have failed the pandemic test. When the people in Italy singing on balconies during the lockdown reminded us of what is truly important, again we have forgotten. When the Youtube video (benevolent technology when used well!) shows us the young woman playing a heart-rendering Chopin piece in the rubble of her Ukranian apartment, we see both our triumph and failure as a species side-by-side. 

 

Can we please learn our lesson without having to go into our room again with another pandemic? I wouldn’t blame Mother Nature if she shook her finger yet harder and told us, “You have learned nothing! You’re grounded again! This is your last chance to come out of your room and show me you understand what it is to be a decent human being!” 

And so I beseech us all to learn the lesson now and for good. I can’t stand the thought of living yet again inside the small room of our gigantic failures. And I imagine you can’t either. 

  

What Do You Say?

Here’s a unique question from (and for) yours truly: “What do you say when you’ve run out of things to say?"

 

I could talk about three beautiful sunny days in Vancouver without a drop of rain. About the unique experience of being at an Orff Conference on a college campus and a beautiful one at that, with paths in the woods going from one workshop to another. I could reflect on the various Canadian Orff Conferences I’ve presented at beginning in Calgary in 1988 and on to Ottawa, Montreal, Toronto, Halifax, Niagara Falls. Or share the pleasure to seeing so many people I know from the various summer courses and workshops I’ve taught all these years in our neighbor to the north. I could mention the perplexity of none of the American presenters coming to any of my workshops nor the screening of my film (and yes, I did go to their workshops). I could share yet again the pleasure of giving three different workshops and each one feeling exactly like the world I want to live in. I could complain about this ongoing dizziness, with a few blessed moments of respite. 

 

But none of that felt like it was worth saying. So what do you say when you have nothing in particular to say? And though I just broke the rule, “nothing” seems the right choice.

 

Have a nice day. 

Just Warming Up

One of the ongoing jokes between my friend Fran at the Jewish Home many years back was singing old jazz standards together for over an hour and then having to stop so she could go to dinner. At which point she exclaimed, “But we were just getting warmed up!” And it was true.

 

I watched The Secret Song movie for perhaps the 15^th time yesterday, this time in company with some 40 friends, colleagues and acquaintances here at the Carl Orff Canada National Conference in Vancouver. Many Canadians who I had worked with or alongside since my first Canadian Conference in Calgary in 1988. All of whom had experienced or witnessed the ideas and materials and processes generated by my many long years teaching at The San Francisco School, but only a few of whom had actually visited the school. So it was a special pleasure to share the snapshots spanning 45 years as we watched the film together and they could see where it all came from. 

 

In that audience was my friend Pam who I first introduced Orff Schulwerk to back in the early 80’s. We took our Level Training together with Avon Gillespie in 1983-86, went to Bali together to study tingklik bamboo xylophone in 1987 and in 1992, she formally apprenticed with me back in Santa Cruz where it all began so she could become a certified Levels teacher. There was Kofi Gbolonyo who took the Levels training with James, Sofia and myself, took my jazz course, went on to direct the Orff Afrique Course in his home village of Dzodze, Ghana with James, Sofia and myself as his guest teachers, came often to The SF School to work with the kids and more. There was Barbara Haselbach, the “grande dame” of the Orff world who travelled with Carl Orff and Gunild Keetman to Toronto in 1962 to plant the seed of Orff Schulwerk and at 85 years old, still is teaching workshops and participating in some she visited. There was my friend Debby Meyer who I met hitchhiking in California in 1972 and kept in touch with all these years that followed. And when it comes to naming all these special people sitting together at the film showing, I’m just getting warmed up!

At the end of the film, the applause had a different ring to it knowing whose hands were clapping. And my closing words surprised me, but ring true:

 

“I had always thought that all those years at The San Francisco School were my whole life. My wife teaching alongside for 42 of them, my two children in my classes for 11 of them each, my second daughter teaching 5^th grade for 13 of them and so many of the staff my genuine friends as we built together the world as we wanted it to be— “retiring” from that felt like it would be the end of my story. 

But now I think it was merely the beginning. That The SF School was merely the warm-up act and that finally, I am ready to teach and wholly inhabit the life I was meant to live. So I awake each morning and following Billy Strayhorn’s advice, think:

 

Ever onward and upward!"

Participation and Presentation

After working fairly often over two years mentoring Yari, an Orff music teacher I’ve trained over the past three decades, we did something different this year. I talked with him at the beginning of his year, suggesting pieces and helping him with arrangements and then jumped in again at the end, a couple of visits a month before his Spring Concert and then a few days before the concert up to the concert itself. The concert was last night— and it was glorious!

 

Some thirty 6^th graders exploring the territory of old jazz standards (my contribution), old Beatles songs and Zimbabwe marimba (Yari’s) and some Taylor Swift, Billie Eilish, U2, Journey and songs from Barbie (theirs). It was a grand array of styles and the kids seemed to enjoy all equally. More importantly, they played them so well on so many instruments—the Orff Ensemble, guitars, ukuleles, piano, drum set. And sang them, both as soloists and a group, equally well. Most importantly, they were having such a great time, feeling the music down to their bones, moving to it while they played, supporting each other, smiling and verbally appreciating Yari at the end while he appreciated them. Comparing this to concerts three years ago, it was so satisfying to see the tangible growth, not only from Yari, not only from the kids, but also from the parents, fellow teachers, admin taking a few steps forward to own this as an inextricable and oh-so-important part of their emerging school culture. 

 

At the end, two of Yari’s friends who attended took him out for dinner and he later reported some of their comments. I believe they congratulated him, but I was surprised that they also gave detailed critiques about all the little things that they felt went wrong. 

 

Of course, by Carnegie Hall standards, there was much to improve. My job as mentor was to see the trees as well as the forest and I believe I did a good job spotting the details that needed attention before the performance. But once the show is on, my attention is all on the forest. Are the kids enjoying themselves? Are they communicating that enjoyment and deep-tissue musicality? Are they feeling connected with each other? Did Duke Ellington perk up his ears in the other world and stop by to peek in? (I think he did.) Was the overall tone of the event a joyful celebration of community? If the answer is yes (and I believe it was to all of the above), is it really worth it to nitpick those tiny details? 

 

This is something I’ve noticed in Europe when I attend concerts with highly-educated musicians. I’m immersing myself in the overall feel and tone of the event while at the end, they say things like “Hmm. That tenor was flat in bar 3. And the oboe player didn’t quite get that ornament right.”

In his book, Music As Social Life: The Politics of Participation, author Thomas Turino makes a distinction between music as performance, created for a staged presentation, and music as participation, as occurs in various festivals worldwide. One requires the witness of a mostly silent audience paying 100% attention to music (or dance) that has been meticulously rehearsed to present on a stage. The other is music and dance as the center of a grand celebration, ceremony, festival, religious rite, that invites and often requires the participation of all who are there and continues while people eat, drink, talk, sleep, amidst it all. And then there all the steps in-between. Music and dance like samba that grew from party time to then be presented in a show where people pay money for tickets. 

 

This is a big topic, one that could frame the entire history of jazz, for example. But keeping it within the bounds of the Orff music concert, I would say that this event grew from the freewheeling participatory process of a music class and organically developed to the presentational performance of the Spring concert. But these are kids. The criteria for judgment is less the perfection of every note played and more the joyful atmosphere of kids making great music together and sharing it with the full measure of their kid nature with others. 

 

Trying to corral these thoughts from the hotel room in Vancouver where I’ve just arrived at the Carl Orff Canada Conference. Here I’ll give 3 workshops that will lean heavily on the joyful participatory side and will not be performed presentationally at this Conference. And if someone sings flat in bar 3 or misses the xylophone ornament, no one will care. For now.