Just Another Sunday

The last time I went to the Catholic Church Service here in Dzodze, our colleague Sofia took a photo of James and I sleeping in church. And got a great kick out of lovingly shaming us by showing it around. 

 

So to avoid further embarrassment, I decided to skip the Sunday morning service and catch up on e-mails and business and such. Best decision I ever made! The grounds usually buzzing with some 40 people and chatter and laughter and the sound of xylophones or drums were blissfully silent. And I had the whole place all to myself! Sat on my little front porch to do the busy work and then walked to the pool and again, only me there! A refreshing swim, a bit of reading under a shaded roof and still drinking in the solitude and silence like some heavenly manna. 

 

When the crowds returned around lunchtime, I was ready to greet them again wholly refreshed. Off we went on the bus again to the village where they perform their traditional religious ceremonies, the ones passed down from distant Ancestors long before the Islam and Christian invasion. The center of it, of course, is drumming and dancing and singing, with the intention of evoking trance and possession in some of the community members. This is an ancient method by which the gods re-enter the community and have their say and offer their healing. The bridge between this world and the other world.

 

Of course, as contemporary Westerners, this seems strange and exotic and as characterized by many, bordering on demonic. But having gone some five times now during our 11 years of Orff Afrique, it really doesn’t seem at all like a big deal to me. They invite us up to dance as they do everywhere, even as a women two-feet away might be going into trance with her helpers surrounding her. As always, the kids are everywhere, sitting just taking it all in, the babies on the back, some on their mothers’ laps while they sing for a few hours in a row. 

 

At the beginning, each walked down the rows of where we were seated and one-by-one, shook our hands. Again, the constant generosity of welcome so polar opposite to the greetings black people in America have gotten or would get if they came to a white gathering. In the middle, there’s a moment with some syncretic overlap with Islam as the women kneel on mats and sing some quite haunting songs in what appears to be a Phrygian mode. At the end, they seemed to play a light-hearted game, singing and bumping hips together with great laughter. And yes, there is division here, the men playing the drums while the women sing, dance and clap sticks together, but who cares? I suspect that the women feel so deeply connected to each other and the men too, each in their own way. 

 

Of course, church for so many is the social occasion we all need and many people choose it just for that. But here to combine it with the body-based, heart-based, soul-stirring experience that music and dance provide goes far to make it more than just a casual social occasion and indeed, a spiritual experience. 

 

Speaking of spirits, there’s a rumor that we’ll have some palm wine tonight with our dinner. I’ll report back tomorrow—if I’m not hung over. Meanwhile, that’s the report of just another typical Sunday in Dzodze, Ghana. 

  

Responsive Leadership

There’s trouble in paradise. No, not here in Ghana, though of course, there is much work to do here. Like educate the people about plastic. Amidst the pleasures of the beach were all the plastic soda bottles strewn about to soon be swept into the ocean. (I picked up 10 and wish I had organized a beach clean-up with the kids.) And here at the hotel, we’re each given a 12-pack of plastic water bottles for each week and it hurts my heart to think of where all of those empty bottles are going. It’s time to put energy, money and resources into clean water from the tap or at the very least, large Alhambra-water-size-bottles from which we can fill up our own personal water bottles. 

 

But the other paradise I’m referring to is my old school where the new head, two years into the job, just made a top-down unilateral major decision that has the staff aghast and upset. Happy to hear that there is organized resistance afoot and that is the potential guard rail that can keep the community from careening off into the abuse-of-power ditch. 

 

That wrong-headed approach completely against the founding spirit, character and Mission Statement of the school already began happening as early as 2007 and I was on the front lines of resistance. To the school’s shame, after the staff initially somewhat having my back, many teachers and the school’s board backed away and seemed okay with me being suspended twice and put on probation for a year simply for asking the questions that the bosses didn’t want to hear. I’ve long moved from outrage and bitterness to forgiveness but I will never forget. And the silver lining of the whole experience helped me articulate what good leadership looks and feels like. These five points that I shared with admin some eight years ago to no effect whatsoever still hold true and are 100% applicable to the current situation. 

 

So I sent them to a former student now teacher (for over 15 years) who wrote a letter that other staff members signed in case she might find it useful in the conversations to come. But knowing that some might dismiss it (sadly!) if they knew it came from me, I made a silly and half-hearted attempt to disguise it with an acronym of sorts and pretended that I am quoting from a book (that doesn’t exist). Most important are the points themselves. For any teachers reading this, put it aside and keep it handy in case you might need it someday. And I suspect that you will, if you don’t already. Enjoy!

 

Responsive Leadership in Schools

 5 Steps to Inclusive Decision-making.

By Sal D. Godonik

 

If a decision is made that surprises the staff, you have missed some essential steps. The sense of community voice, inclusion and shared investment in the Mission Statement is eroded and needs to be repaired. To avoid that, when proposing a major change to your staff, follow these five steps. 

 

1.    Here is my proposal that I would like us all to consider. 

 

This assures the staff that you’re thinking about this, but have not taken any action yet without their consent and participation in decision making.

 

2.    Here are the reasons behind the proposed change.

 

This assures the staff that you’ve considered this deeply and have done your homework to clarify why you think it’s important and given them the courtesy of sharing it with them. 

 

3.    Here is how I feel the proposed change aligns with our Mission Statement and the character of our organization.

 

This assures the staff that you’re considering the proposal within the context of the school’s values and mission. “This is how I feel” leaves room for the possibility that there might be other points of view you missed. 

 

4.    In order to move forward, I need to hear from each of you if you have concerns I haven’t considered, other important points of view and/ or suggestions for adjustments, revisions or protective guard rails (such as trial period and then re-assessment). 

 

This assures the staff that their voice is needed and valued and respected and necessary to hear. That their multiple perspectives will help predict as best as it can the possible outcomes of the final decision. That the decision will affect all community members and thus needs to be entered into with eyes wide open, doing its best to predict possible outcomes. When possible to create a trial period with room to adjust, change or let go of entirely, this likewise lowers the stakes.  

 

5.    With this new information, let us all discuss and weigh the pros and cons. Then vote. The model of voting—  a majority/ 2/3rds majority/ consensus— must be clear, either following the by-laws or deciding before voting. 

 

             This assures that pros and cons are not just numbers in a list, but that they have 

             particular weights—one imagined con can outweigh 10 pros and vice-versa. 

             Check the by-laws for the school’s model of finally approving or rejecting the 

            decision. 

 

 

Remember that as a responsive leader, you need to earn the trust of your faculty or staff, let them know that the community functions as a “we” and not a top-down “us (admin) and “them” (faculty/staff). You need to respond to the needs of the teachers who in turn are trained to respond to the needs of the children. If you overstep, back off, apologize and start again. The erosion of trust can be one of the most damaging experiences in a community, its restoration one of the most promising ways to fulfill the community sense of everyone working together towards a worthy purpose. 

 

 

Running from Waves

When I was in 8^th grade, I flew from Newark, New Jersey to Cleveland, Ohio to visit my best friend who had moved there. It was my first plane trip and taking off on a cloudy day, I was astonished to break through the clouds and see the sun. So my little Middle School revelation, a version of an ancient Buddhist truth, was “The sun is always shining. It’s just the clouds that get in the way. “ (The Buddhist version is "We are already enlightened, but the clouds of ignorance obscure our realization.")

 

You may have noticed how hopeful my posts have been these past seven weeks. A combination of my conscious refusal to be beaten down into despair, despite all evidence that that’s an appropriate reaction to what’s going down, and living the most marvelous seven consecutive weeks (and more to come) I can remember. Wholly immersed in beautiful places with beautiful people and some of the time making beautiful music. Who has time for gloom and doom? 

 

But like all mortal beings, I can see the cup half empty as well. There are times when the light at the end of the tunnel feels like the headlights of a train coming the other way, ready to run me over. 

 

And in the midst of a conversation with Kofi about applying to present at the next American Orff Conference in 2026, the stark reality of immigration officers, despite his Canadian passport, looking at his black skin and his job of telling the truth about Africa made it unlikely that he can cross the border under our new fascist regime. And so the stark reality (and there are so many more worse ones that I don’t have direct experience of at the moment) of that runaway train bearing down without caring a rat’s whisker about my uplifting human connections and hope for a better future, hit me hard. Like Alice down the rabbit hole, I could feel myself spinning to an unknown bottom. 

 

But still we take the next breath and the next step and for me that step was onto the bus to go to the Togo border where Kofi had arranged a short tour from a Ghanaian Immigration official. One of the top officers walked us through a few places explaining what they did. I confess that at the beginning I was thinking, “Why are we here?” I have no love for immigration officers, having experiences first-hand many times their hard-hearted thinking and power to make me miserable and once, almost deport me. (For the record, the worst were Canada and England.) 

 

But it soon became clear that this compassionate young man was mostly concerned about stopping human trafficking and illegal smuggling of harmful things (drugs/ guns) and had great empathy for refugees fleeing persecution and how to help them. In short, the polar opposite for our evil ICE agents “just doing their job” as puppets of a fascist regime trying to create the new Aryan nation. We were all visibly moved by an official choosing compassionate inclusion over unfeeling exclusion.

 

On we went to the beach to meet the Nunya kids and once again, the teachers swarmed in for hugs and greetings. We stood at the water’s edge to let the warm waters of the Atlantic swirl over our feet and the squeals and delight of kids who had had very little beach time in their young lives softened my hurting heart. Then followed two hours of spontaneous play that included frisbee, kite-flying, sand-burying, soccer, tug-of-war, clapping games. The simple delights of childhood that cost nothing, demand no fancy equipment, remind us of the sheer delight of simply being alive on this earth in company with sand, sky and water. 

 

Back at the hotel, an evening lecture from Kofi about religion and I couldn’t help but feel the pitiful adult need to wrap ourselves with so many unnecessary layers of stories and dogma and rituals that seem to have caused more harm than good, turned the simple pleasure of holding hands with whoever is nearby at the ocean’s edge and affirming the grand privilege of being alive on this earth, into a divisive, shaming, forced converting and war-inducing argument about whose invented god is supreme. What the hell is wrong with us humans?

 

So the day slowly lifted me out of the trenches of despair, reminded me that this is the real deal, the norm we deserve and not all that other horror that we have come to accept as inevitable and just the way things are and will always be. I’m here to report that they needn’t be if we would just take a child’s hand and run away together from the crashing waves, laughing with joy. 

 

The Loom and the Anthill

 

The threads are strung and the invitation is clear. Weave your story until you reach the end. The pattern is not in a book or a Youtube video or a church doctrine. It is already present in your mind’s eye and your hands will work to follow its shape and match its color. And not just your hands, as hands and feet work in concert like a virtuosic organ player opening the strings in different combinations to pass the shuttle through. 

 

And so it demands all of you— your coordinated body, your artistic eye, your musical rhythm, your patience and perseverance and dedication to weave the cloth that is yours alone, to join with other kente cloth strips to create the royal garment fit for kings and queens. 

 

These my thoughts once again visited the weaving village where these astounding men artisans are at work. And then a few paths down are the women patiently preparing cassava from the plant nearby to take it through its multiple incarnations as a life-sustaining food. The same with the date palm, making yet more food and oil and palm wine and fibers for baskets and wood for fuel. Every part of the local natural resources used to sustain life in deep communion with one’s natural habitat and connection with fellow members of the human community.  One can’t help but feel, “This is very different from shopping at Costco.”

 

On we went to the Nunya Academy School, a place that began as a vision in one remarkable man’s eye, seeing clearly the threads set out before him. And so with a little—and often a lot of—help from his friends, he set to work weaving the threads and little by little, the exquisite pattern emerged before finally manifesting as a two-story school building. Kofi Gbolonyo is that visionary man and his vision first came to him visiting Sofia, James and myself in San Francisco. Those gatherings in San Francisco eventually led to initiating the first Orff Afrique Course in 2014. We have a photo of the three of us back then standing in a field that he had purchased for an eventual school building. 

Then in the second course in 2016, we took another photo in the same spot in front of a sign that said “Future Home of Nunya Academy.” In 2018, another photo of us breaking ground in a special ceremony and finally, in 2023 (the 4^th Orff Afrique Course), there we were in front of the building itself for a long-awaited Opening Ceremony.  

 

But the dream wasn’t fulfilled yet until it was alive with kids and today, it was.  A moving experience to go in the classrooms and see the kids and even get to sing a song with them. The school officially opened in September of 2023 with two students, Kofi’s niece and nephew. Now when we arrived, all the kids lined up and there were —300 of them!! The 30 teachers in the course ran to them like bees to flowers and the games began, everywhere in every corner of the school grounds. Kids from 3 years old to 14. And 11-year journey from that first photo to this moment. 

 

After the kids were picked up, we gathered to hear Kofi tell the story of Nunya’s inception from meeting Sofia in 2001, James and I in 2003 all the way until today. It’s an extraordinary story and alongside his relentless hard work and perseverance, Sofia’s ongoing commitment, help from James and I, it’s also the story of him meeting just the right people at just the right time to help move the dream forward, inch by inch. Dedicated work and serendipitous luck hand-in-hand to weave this cloth that just was meant to be. In some other world, the invisible helping hands prepared the threads and planted the dream in the mind of the person who was born to see it through. 

 

And the anthill? Sofia joined Kofi in telling the story of how she first noticed him when he worked as an assistant in a course she took in Ghana in 2001. She noticed that his answers to her questions went far beyond any of the other teachers. One of her questions was about the large anthills they passed driving by on the bus and he gave her a detailed account of how they are constructed and what intricate paths are laid out inside of them. This was the moment when their partnership in the vision first began for her, so that when we are on the bus driving to Dzodze last week and she shouted, “Look, an anthill!” none of us could have known what that meant to her. A reminder of one of the most profound relationships and experiences in her life. She teared up as she told the story and it was the appropriate end to this most extraordinary tale. 

 

But not yet the end of the matter. Still more as-yet unwoven strings beckoning as Kofi toured us to more land behind the building he had bought and got us imagining the next building they plan to build to keep up with the demand. From 2 to 300 students in just one year is a clear signal that that this is so much more than one man’s vision. It’s a hidden need in the local culture that demands to be fulfilled. And I, for one, feel so blessed and proud to be a tiny part of it. 

Ceiling Fans

I first encountered ceiling fans in Kerala, India in 1978. My soon-to-be wife and I lived in a small village there from December through early March and while it wasn’t the hottest time of the year, it was plenty hot. But often the ceiling fan was enough to bring relief and a much more ecological solution than air conditioning. 

 

Since then, I’ve had the good fortune to still encounter them in some places and always happily so. Like now. I’m seated at the foot of my bed writing this in mid-day heat in Ghana with the ceiling fan over my head. Heavenly. 

                                         ------------------

Back at my ceiling fan post at 10:00pm at night. Today was more delights, working with Hope, a different xylophone teacher and quite impressed with his well-thought out and intuitive feel for lesson planning. I began to dream of him coming to take our Orff Levels Course and my Jazz Course in New Orleans next summer, only to have my enthusiasm dampened by the news that there’s a one year wait just to get a Visa appointment and that you-know-who is about to put Ghana on the bad list. The ongoing ramifications of the White Supremacy holdouts is simply maddening and reaches into all corners of disaster, putting roadblocks on the paths to human connection and artistic collaboration, amongst the more devastating deportations and ICE raids. Aarggh!!

 

This afternoon I got to give two presentations away from the xylophones and it felt good to share the larger dimension of my work beyond helping teach Ghanaian xylophone pieces. The first class was an accent on pedagogy, body percussion and learning a Ghanaian Highlife piece with drums, rattles and bells prepared first in the body. I was poised to get into Part 2 of the class when ominous storm clouds appeared and the rains came down furiously. We scrambled to get the drums protected and huddled under the covered outdoor little stage. Then the power went out and the rains beat down yet heavier. After some 45 minutes of this, the second group decided we might go ahead with the next class. So I began where I left off with the first group. Twice in the class, I made a strong comment related to social justice and at just the right moment, the thunder roared and the lightning flashed, an agreement from World. We went on to learn a Steppin’ body percussion pattern and then divide into small groups to create four more patterns. Wholly satisfying and great group creations. 

 

Then the power went out again, a few students walked out into the open a la Gene Kelly, we huddled around the tables in the covered outdoor dining area and someone discovered that a cell phone laid face up with its light on and a plastic bottle over it made for a quite lovely and effective lantern. The soft lighting, the patter of the rain, the buzz of conversation between these truly delightful people enjoying each other so much—enough for my Miracle Du Jour. And then dinner came. 

 

Here near the equator, it gets dark early, so after dinner it was only 7:00 pm, the evening performance cancelled, no TV’s or movie theaters. What to do? Out came the various card games, including Pit, a personal favorite I introduced. The power came back on and it was simply 100% wholesome fun, awash with laughter. The tangible feeling of happiness was like the cooling breeze of a ceiling fan. We will all sleep well tonight. 

  

When the Miraculous Becomes the Norm

I’m sure I’ve used the title phrase before and I’m happy to report it well describes my experience now. Each day of this Orff Afrique Course offers another unexpected miracle— the Chief’s Ceremony on Monday, the Nunya Academy Kids’ Performance on Tuesday and today, a performance from a group from just across the border in Togo that ended with mind-boggling stilt walking, after some unique drumming/dancing on enormous drums that had a slight Taiko flavor, but West African style. 

 

When a person encounters the miraculous day after day, it goes far in building a vision of extraordinary faith in the possibilities of human beings. I’ve had—and continue to have— my proper portion of sadness and sorrow and struggle, all amplified these days by the deep grief and outrage over the lemming migration to my country’s suicide. But if I never read a newspaper or looked at a screen, my reality would not be a guaranteed miracle-per-day, it would come pretty close. 

 

And of course, I’m not talking about water to wine, oil lasting beyond its shelf-life, images of an ancient Virgin appearing. I’m talking about the little miracles of children discovering something worthy and beautiful in themselves, elders being comforted by piano music, teachers re-discovering their dormant child-like self in the Orff workshop. I’m talking about playing Bach every day and still being baffled how all those notes in exactly the right places found him and how he had the time and energy to write them down. I’m talking about going to shows of magicians, gymnasts, modern dancers in awe of what the mind and body can do. Going to poetry retreats in awe of what the heart can feel and express. Going to concerts in awe of what musicians can hear and play at levels of virtuosity and sublime expression so far beyond what I can ever reach. I’m talking about the 9-year- old boy I saw on Youtube addressing a group of lawyers and firmly reminding them of their job to save Social Security, Health Care, Veteran’s Benefits, Education Funding so he and his grandmother and mother and brother in the armed forces can both live and thrive. I’m talking about the local doctor who came twice to look at a burn I got riding on the back of a motorcycle, applied toothpaste that drew the heat out (it worked!) and then reapplied later that night. He never charged a penny and I never filled out a single form. Oh, and he made a house call! Two of them!

 

As I’ve said before, living well and keeping the flame of hope lit, not from some naïve fantasy, but from proof day after day that we human beings are capable of both decent ordinary things and also extraordinary things, that there are thousands of remarkable people living humbly amongst us without Steph Curry’s salary or fame, but every bit as inspiring. 

 

I wonder what tomorrow will bring.

 

Whose Fault?

Morning classes and then off to the market. Walking down the road into town, body soaked in sweat from the heat, the marketplace energy and swirl of activity and I was time-traveling, leaping over years and borders in my imagination to similar places with similar feelings. Kerala, India/Java/  Bali/ Costa Rica/ Ghana (in 1999)/ Fiji/ Cuba/ Bangkok and other tropical places where you take two or three showers a day, your skin relaxes its border duty, the shorts, short-sleeved shirts, Teevahs and sometimes sarongs or lungis come out of the closet, the roosters sing you awake, a ceiling fan lulls you to sleep, the days are long and the tempos are slow. Different soundtracks for all these places, mostly live drumming, gamelan, xylophones and such, but all connected and delightfully so. I love it. 

 

Rode on a back of a motorcycle to our lunch place and burned my leg a bit, but not enough to reduce the pleasure of eating red-red (a bean dish), plaintains and rice with some of the most delightful people I’ve had a pleasure to meet and know. Of course, I say that with many groups and mean it, but there is a special easy-going harmony amongst us and it is a grand pleasure. 

 

Back to the hotel, I went over tomorrow’s xylophone class with a new co-teacher (Hope), actually sat and read a book a bit. I began with great enthusiasm with The Body Knows the Score and still am underlining like mad hearing him say ideas and truths I already know with different words and a lifetime of clinical practice treating trauma. Complementary to my lifetime of trying to avoid trauma by getting things right in the first place. More to come after I finish the book. Which, truth be told, is not entirely pleasant to read in my little corner of paradise as the author tells about the billions of dollars spent on drugs that miss the core of the disease and the hundreds of thousands of people knee-deep in trauma, much of it because we’ve made such piss-poor decisions about what it means to live together well, still chasing the almighty dollar, holding on to our unearned privileges of white skin and male body parts. 

 

Speaking of which, our new xylophone song this morning has a text that says, “A man gets drunk and blames the bartenders for selling him the beer.” So the question arises, “Who really is to blame? The implied moral is “Take responsibility for your own actions.” And I agree. And perhaps it’s too much to assign any blame to the bartender.

 

But what about the person who sells an assault rifle to an underage mentally unstable minor who goes on a school shooting spree? Might they deserve some of the blame? The school system that refuses to meet the needs of its students and chooses not to welcome them, value them, love them. Might they take some of the blame when the youth chooses to be known for his criminal behavior? What about the drug companies and physicians who prescribed opioids and made them widely available? Might they take some of the blame for the epidemic of addictions? 

 

You get the idea. So I say, “Both/And.” Each individual should indeed take responsibility for his or her own actions, shortcomings and transgressions. But so should a culture take responsibility for caring for its citizens and creating the conditions necessary to raise healthy and fulfilled human beings. 

 

That was my takeaway from the morning’s xylophone class, once again made poignant by all we’re experiencing here. And along with the intriguing question it posed, it’s a pretty great xylophone piece! 

A Life of Meaning

One of my strategies for tricking mortality is to travel. Immerse myself in new places, meet new people, encounter new situations. I can testify that in my 7^th week of such travel, it’s working! Today was the end of Day 2 of the Orff Afrique Course and it feels like we’ve been here a month. And biking in France those seven weeks and feels like at least seven months ago. 

 

Today was actually the first day of normal classes and so I spent the morning co-teaching with Ghana xylophone (gyil) virtuoso Aaron and within 70 minutes, both groups played a full-blown piece successfully. I was the Orff side of the equation and Aaron was the Afrique side and since most of the 30 participants are Orff-trained music teachers, it was a perfect balance. 

 

Most (but not all) had of course played the Orff xylophones, but the gyil is a bit of a challenge as there are no letter names written on the bars and even though it is tuned in a pentatonic scale, there are no spaces between mi and sol, la and do, the way we’re accustomed to on the Orff instruments. A different kind of mallet and different grip on the mallet and a musical style that demands coordinating the left hand with the right (similar to the piano) got the brain thinking, “Hmm. This is somewhat familiar but I need to get working making new synaptic connections!” All of which made it a worthy challenge and one they groups rose to. 

 

The opposite morning classes were with Kofi (the Afrique side) teaching traditional Ewe (his ethnic group) drumming and the afternoon was my colleagues James and Sofia (the Orff side) sharing pedagogical ideas of drama and arts integration related to Ghanaian culture. May I give a shout-out to my brilliant colleagues still astounding me with their fertile and imaginative minds?  James had groups creating dramatic scenes using the rhythms of the morning drumming and then had small group act out select Ewe proverbs. Sofia worked with Adinkra stamps using multiple strategies. One involved drawing four different stamps using four different strategies. The first was feeling it with your fingers (no peeking!), the second was a quick micro-second peek at it (no cheating), the third was a partner drawing it on your back and the fourth a partner describing it to you in words. Again, brilliant! And in both classes, the bubbling joyful energy between these 30 strangers now intimate friends was palpable. All power to the arts!!

 

There was time before dinner to visit the hotel’s swimming pool and tomorrow I will but chose to hang out with some folks and chat and teach one of them my favorite solitaire game. After dinner, the Nunya Academy kids came to perform four traditional dances with other Nunya kids drumming and singing and if you’ve ever been impressed with a school Orff music concert (including the ones James, Sofia and I have put on), you might reserve your enthusiasm after listening to and watching these kids. Get your hottest university percussionist and dancers to attempt these pieces and dances and if they’re lucky, they’ll match these kids who ranged from 8 years old to 18. 

 

So that was Day 2. I’ll find a time to elaborate on this idea later, but for now I simply want to report that one of the most extraordinary things about this Ewe (and other African) cultures is that everything is imbued with deep meaning. I mean everything! The adinkra symbols stand for revered cultural values, the proverbs teach the children what’s important, the music translates proverbs into drum rhythms so that each pattern carries multiple meanings, the dance steps are telling specific stories, people’s names are awash with deep meaning, from identifying the day of the week they were born to giving them a name that reflects a valued quality. (Some of the people we have working with us are named Prosper, Justice, Pius, Success, Promise.) The language used to name relationships, where aunts and uncles are called secondary mothers and fathers, fuels the real practice here of counting on a whole village to raise a child. 

 

In short, the whole thrust of the culture—the names, the language, the music, the dance, the art motifs and more— is aimed to promote morality, ethics, community-mindedness, spiritual awareness in each and every one of society’s members. That is something that Westerners awash in lives devoid both of personal meaning and collective meaning might have trouble understanding. 

 

We have sub-groups who gather to try to build healthy bodies, hearts and minds— like the Orff community!— and to resist evil cultural practices and immoral actions performed by shameless leaders. But we are so far from understanding how to shift the entire weight of the culture behind the worthy venture of creating decent, fulfilled and compassionate human beings. More so than ever today. We once loved George Bailey and the community that rallied around him to create a “wonderful life,” but now it’s Mr. Potter and his hard-hearted greed putting profits over people that some—far too many— of our citizens admire. 

 

In Ghana, this cultural thrust of worthy meaning continues unbroken. We Americans have had threads of it here and there, which gives me hope that they might rise again—and indeed, seem to be re-awakening in the form of the millions of protestors recently. Once again, if we need guidance and inspiration, I highly recommend inviting a Ghanaian into your home and listening to them speak in detail about the above examples. 

 

On to Day 3.

Words Fail

When I was 16 years old, already feeling exiled from the effortless joy and magic of childhood and seeking to recover it, only this time more consciously, I had just discovered the book Walden. Thoreau spoke to me of things that I could feel or hope to feel. I also now could drive to Watchung Reservation, my own little Waldenesque Park and roam through the woods. 

 

I remember one occasion taking a walk to Surprise Lake and standing watching the water until observer (me) and observed (the waters of the lake) seemed to merge into one unified whole. Walking back through the woods to my car and passing people coming the other way on the path, I gave them a greeting and a smile, my meager attempt to communicate the little heart-opening experience I had just had. 

 

For us human social creatures, the first impulse when we discover something worthy or beautiful is to communicate it and share it with others. I suppose that’s the whole point of these almost 5,000 blogposts. Also the musician’s need to perform what has been practiced, the artist’s need to display what has been painted, the author’s need to publish what has been written. 

 

But at 5:30 in the morning after a most memorable and extraordinary day, I feel defeated by the challenge to share what happened yesterday. Of course, I can give some details. The first “Wake Up to Life” group Zumba class, Kofi-style, a session of games led by James, Sofia and myself, revealing our names, places we live, birthdays and days of the week we were born in the fun and musical way that we Orff teachers do. Then a lecture by Kofi about the continent of Africa, revealing the deep ignorance and shameful images most of us were fed by media, books, teachers who failed to show us the extraordinary breadth and depth of this continent—geographically, anthropologically, historically, biologically, culturally and more. The morning was enough to mark the day as important, connective, revelatory and special.

 

But we were just warming up. After lunch, we boarded the bus to go to a formal welcoming ceremony and as we stepped down the dirt path into the heart of a town’s neighborhood, the distant drums sounding closer greeted us as they always do on this opening day of the Orff Afrique course. 

 

And here is where words begin to fail. The powerful and complex drumming and singing, which I’m still trying to figure out after all these years, drew us in to the world where words leave off into the direct bodily experience of the power of human community wholly connected to the seen and unseen worlds, the ancestors and descendants, the multiple faculties of soul within us all that mostly lie dormant during our business-as-usual days. In music as healing circles, it is well known that rattles serve to awaken and electrically charge us with their vibrations while the drums balance the energy with deeper vibrations that unify body and soul. 

 

With some 30 women playing rattles and 20 men playing drums, we were lifted into a larger consciousness made yet more powerful by the invitations to come into the circle and dance, not to passively listen, but to wholly participate in the feast of healing vibration. Someone invites you into the circle to do a simple (but still room to do better with consummate style) dance move with a little ritual ending that you can quickly learn, little movement punctuation marks that signal the end of your time together.  If you want a break from dancing, you can also join in picking up a rattle and joining in with a simple, playable pattern. 

 

For an outsider and rank beginner to get into the center of this complex music with a doable dance move and playable rattle part is something apart from any musical experience I’ve had in this world. I’ve admired and been uplifted by the community gamelans in Bali, that have their own spiritual power and musical complexity. But no casual observer can just get up and dance or sing along or sit in with the band. Likewise difficult to jump in on a complex Bulgarian folk dance without considerable practice nor join in with the music. You can sing along in a neighborhood hootenanny, but minus the integration of playing, singing and dancing and the thunderous power of exquisite music crafted over centuries Dancing on the street to a brass band in New Orleans comes closer to the Ghanaian invitation, but as fun as it is to shake your booty, it still doesn’t approach the multiple layers of this experience. 

 

There’s so much we don’t know about the way the rhythms work together and how they speak musically some deeply meaningful proverbs, how the singing works and what they’re singing about, how the ancestors are invited into the dancing ring to participate in community life. How the whole experience, which happens often in different contexts, creates and sustains a meaningful community of shared wisdom and values. One can dance (as I did) with Kofi’s 98-year-old mother and then a 4-year-old child, dance with women or men, observe the baby on the back of the dancing mother, without thinking about what a different world it creates when all ages gather together and mutually celebrate. 

 

Again, words fail. These gatherings express everything I think the world could and should be. When I compare the depth of this kind of community with the way typical Americans relate to each other in offices, workplaces, schools, churches, sporting events, family gatherings, I can’t help but feel that we are in kindergarten in the school of communal engagement. Not to shame or blame us — any sincere attempt to come together with a sense of welcome and celebration is worthy of praise. But given how we have been fed the lies of Africa as a backward and undeveloped continent, it is maddening to think how our arrogance and ignorance keep us from realizing how extraordinary this Ewe (and some 2,000 other ethnic group cultures) are in this regard and how very much we have to learn from them. As I said, words fail to express this clearly. 

 

But there’s more. 

 

Now it was time for the formal ceremony where the chief, the elders, the priests (of the traditional religions) welcome us. First with a libation to the ancestors—water, whisky and watery corn flour poured on the ground to make sure we come with pure intentions and don’t have any hidden agendas to harm. Given the history of colonialism here— still afoot with missionaries and capitalists— that feels like an important test to pass. And we did. 

 

We then stood up one by one and shared our name and place and then came forward one by one to receive a bracelet from the chief and shake hands with the entire welcoming committee. 

 

But the most moving moment is when any people with African-American blood in our group—and we had three—come forward again to receive a beaded necklace and a “Welcome home” from the chief. Kofi prefaced by acknowledging the role of ancestral chiefs in gathering people to be sold in the slave trade and apologized for their part in the horror. While also acknowledging the European’s role in decimating their land, depriving them of human resources and shredding the fabric of traditional culture. Here was truth and reconciliation at its finest— a blend of sincere apology, remorse, grief mixed with joy of homecoming. Not a dry eye in the house. 

 

More festive dancing, off to Kofi’s childhood home where his mother played a bell and sang a song to us (again, 98-years-old and so sharp and present) and then to Nunya Academy, the school Kofi dreamed of and completed for a delicious dinner prepared by his extended family. (The story of Nunya School is an entry in itself for those who don’t know about it. If you’re impatient to know more, check them out on the Website). Finally, back to the hotel and a de-brief with Kofi as he revealed so much of what’s happening behind the scenes of everything we just experienced. 

 

Words keep failing, so I’ll save for another time the role of collective meaning and wisdom present in every corner of this extraordinary culture. Suffice it to say that is more highly evolved, sophisticated, intricate, spiritually potent than what most of us have ever had an inkling of a dream about, never mind experienced. 

 

Meanwhile, there was a moment wholly immersed through the senses, heart, body and mind in a dance with purple scarves, when I felt so clearly, “This. This is the only antidote I can imagine to the ongoing horror back hom and worldwide." I began to dream of a global “We Are the World” mass event where for one day (or week or month or year!), people in every corner of the planet at the same time in their own way with their own music filled the planet with music’s healing vibration. But not the big glitzy show with corporate sponsorship, ads, TV coverage—that’s part of the problem not the solution. But this model of one afternoon in the town of Dzodze, Ghana.

 

A new day dawns. Let us awaken with it. 

 

Miawoezon!

In Accra, the Ga people say “Akwaaba!” to welcome us to this beautiful culture.  In Dzodze where we arrived today, the Ewe people say “Miawoezon!” which adds this sentiment “Thank you for the trouble you have taken to come here.” Appropriate indeed, not only because it is not a casual thing to take the time away from home and family, save the money for the expensive plane flight alongside the tuition and come to a continent where most have never been. 

 

But in addition to that, many of us 30 music teachers from here, there, and everywhere worked against all odds to solve the problem of the U.S. Ghanaian Embassy shutting down due to an internal crisis, with many of our passports sent there to get a visa stuck there with a. distinct possibility that they wouldn’t get back to us in time to make the trip. A week of desperate phone calls, WhatsApps and e-mails and some getting new passports to get a Visa at the Accra Airport upon arrival, and miraculously, no one was turned away. So “Miawoezon” now has an additional meaning—trouble indeed, but finally, here we are.

 

It has been a promising beginning. Before we have even begun the official teaching in our Orff Afrique course, the magic is afoot. A day in the marketplace bargaining with glee and finding some lovely things. A lunch at the marketplace that included a band showing up playing xylophone, drums, shaker and bell with such joy, musicality and great energy— and my delight in recognizing three of the xylophone pieces. In fact, they invited me to sit in on one and play shaker (ahatxe) on another. And then invited people to come up and dance one or two at a time and finally to sit in on some drumming. Sheer delight!

 

Some of the more adventurous young people ventured out in the town at night and came back with fun stories. Then today a long 4-hour bus ride to Dzodze, people still catching up on jet lag and another extraordinary welcome with the Nunya Academy Students all lined up holding cards with our names. 

 

We each met our student host (anywhere from 6 to 28 years old), who took us to our room and then the games began. I’m familiar with many now, so that made it an extra pleasure to play them all. A rhythmic math game, a go-in-the-middle and show- us- your- motion game, a duck-duck-goose kind of chasing game (6-year-olds chasing 40- year-olds!). Finally waved goodbye to the kids while we had our first dinner at the White Dove Hotel. 

 

After dinner, I got together with my xylophone teaching partner Aaron (he’s the expert, I’m the translator to the Orff classroom) and discussed what pieces we might be teaching and played snippets of them together. With Wi-Fi not set up yet so freed from their phones, people drifted over to the music and then sat down at one of the 22 xylophones and we all began jamming with Aaron in the lead. For about 40 minutes straight without a pause. Once again, welcome to Ghana!!

 

Is it enough to simply share the news of good-hearted people in a culture that teaches its people to welcome people with smiles and sincere interest in enjoying our shared humanity? Sometimes. But when a building is on fire, casual conversation as if everything were normal makes no sense. After we’ve sounded the alarm and retreated to safety, all talk should focus on how to fireproof our house and prevent another disaster from happening. 

 

So imagine with me here that in 1957, the same year that Ghana won its independence from Britain, the students in Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, lined up like the Nunya students, some holding signs of the names of the 9 black students poised to walk into an all-white school upholding the law approved by the Supreme Court. All of the white community—including parents and teachers and the Governor himself— singing a song of welcome as they walked the students to their lockers and desks.

 

Once in school, all of them, black and white, would learn the history of what happened to so cruelly divide the blacks and whites and make vows to stop the poisonous narrative that had brainwashed potentially good people into performing unspeakable acts of cruelty. It would have been such an important first step in healing the sins of past ancestors and stepping forward into a kinder, fairer and more loving future. 

 

But of course, that didn’t happen. We see the photos of the faces of white women contorted and twisted in hatred shouting their contempt, scorn and vitriolic bile toward Elizabeth Eckford, a dignified girl who never did them any harm, just walking to school with her books. Mothers who went through the sacrifice and pain of giving birth to life and nurturing their young turning against an innocent sweet young woman because their brains had been twisted by an ugly story passed down to them. And once in the school protected by the National Guard, those 9 students would hear that Africa is a place of savage people, a continent filled with what a later President would call “shithole countries.”

 

So to all of you who supported and continue to support that guy and the spoken and unspoken doctrine of white supremacy, look at the photos of those women and then the Nunya kids. Who are the savages? Who lives in a shithole country? Consider re-thinking all you’ve been taught or think about what you’ve never been taught and join those of us working to flush this purposefully perpetuated poisoned hatred from our system. Choose to refuse it. Consider that a life lived with great music, open hearts and minds, warm welcomes to fellow humans no matter how they look or where they come from, is ten thousand times more fun and fulfilling than the opposite. Come to Ghana and see for yourselves. 

 

And yes, humans and human problems here as you will find anywhere— no romantic portrait of paradise with no conflict and no issues that need attention. But from my point of view, all of it in proper proportion standing firmly on the ground of music, dance and a welcoming humanity. 

 

Today will be a formal welcome from the Chief and then a dinner hosted by our venerable teacher, Dr. Kofi Gbolonyo’s family at their home compound. A generosity and hospitality we all deserve here while my country’s shithole leaders are sending death and destruction bombing the land of my many friends in Iran. When will it all stop? When will we finally civilize the savages?