Birthday Gift

It’s fitting that the last Blogpost of September talk about about my daughter Kerala. Both because it’s her birthday and because she is a writer like me, with two differences:

 

1.    Instead of a Blog, she writes pieces for Substack.

2.    She’s a much better writer than me!

 

My wife and I did get her a gift certificate for a local restaurant, but she said the best birthday gift would be helping to get 12 more people to subscribe to her Substack “Mom Interrupted” venue so that it tips over into the amount (apparently many thousands— perhaps ten?) that puts her in the “bestseller” category. At which point, finally a literary agent or publisher might finally take notice and offer her an actual print book. In any case, I believe you will appreciate the writing— but don’t give up on me! 

 

Here below is the Facebook version I posted to try to get a few more Subscribers. And apparently a few more signed up. Hope you’ll consider it. And do read her latest piece on National News. It's excellent! Meanwhile, Happy October tomorrow!

 

It's my daughter Kerala's 45th birthday today! When she was a little kid, she used to dictate stories for me to type up on our typewriter. (Remember those?) Watching her return to her writing in her 40s and to wrestle with consequential themes through her beautiful narrative storytelling has made me one proud papa. I'm not at all surprised that she's attracted thousands of subscribers to her Substack, "Mom, Interrupted," which is about interrupting narratives around what it means to be a mother, woman, worker, and wife. 

She recently told me she's just a dozen paid subscribers away from becoming a Substack bestseller! Please help her celebrate her birthday by subscribing today! I've sometimes shared some of her stories here on Facebook; if you've enjoyed them, please consider supporting her work with a paid subscription: https://keralagoodkin.substack.com/subscribe

This would be a lovely gift, but you also get a gift back— her insightful, funny, poignant and important writing! Her latest post, for example, is a profound look at the question we're all struggling with. How do I stay informed without feeling beaten down and hopeless? What alternatives feed my hope and effectiveness in resistance? Check it out—and then subscribe! "Here's What Happened When I Stopped Consuming National News:"   https://keralagoodkin.substack.com/.../heres-what...  

Aging Gracefully

"This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we but know what to do with it."

                                                                - Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

I’ve always connected this quote to the times we live in and it’s an important point of view. But thinking a lot about old friends, my distant youth and my current aging, the quote works equally well using “times” for all our different stages of life. 

 

Today is my daughter’s 45^th (!) birthday and I will bike and ferry to lunch with my sister to celebrate (belatedly) her 76^th birthday. So aging is on my mind. Most people imagine aging as a time of wistful nostalgia or sadness or even a dreaded sickness, with those old friends sitting on park benches longing for their lost youth. I understand the temptation to indulge in all of the above and yes, there are so many beautiful moments in all of my life’s stages that I occasionally wax rhapsodic about. 

 

But truth be told? I’m SO MUCH happier now than I was in any of those stages! I would never choose to go through so much of my former years again! Finally arrived at that place where I’m not so worried whether people like me or if I fit in and or if I’m this enough or that enough. Like Popeye, “I yam what I yam” and the world be damned! Away with the doubts and insecurities and confusion and struggles in love and battles with bosses and worries about money and overwhelming and sometimes exhausting schedules. In my ‘70’s,  most of them have washed away in the receding tide. 

 

And here I still am, living a glorious retired life where I love my boss and I love my schedule. I’m still happily traveling and teaching and feeling of use in the world, really at the top of my game offering useful ideas and material, fun, connection, self-discovery and just plain joy in my workshops. My writing is better than ever and I have lots of time to do it. My piano playing is better than ever and I have lots of time to do it. I’m loving cooking and shopping and reading and nighttime TV series shows. I can still sit half-lotus Zen meditation, walked 7 ½ miles yesterday, will bike some 25 miles today. Loving my grandkids and grown kids and sister and family and friends near and far. Why would I ever pine for the “good old days?” 

 

So young people, take note. If you live actively and consciously as you age and are graced with good health and sufficient food, shelter and money in the bank, your Golden Years can truly shine out in a glorious radiance.

 

And yes, there are some different kinds of worries that are not to be casually dismissed by statements like that above. I can think of three:

 

1)   The sense that when you’re at the top of your game and never want it to stop, suddenly you realize it’s the 7^th inning and the game will end soon.

 

2)   Looking ahead at people you know in the 8^th and 9^th innings and seeing the more sobering physical demise ahead. (Though I just accompanied on piano a 100-year-old composer/ storyteller who walked a half a mile without even a cane to the performance and again back to his car!)

 

3)   Loss. That’s a big one. Starts with the loss of hearing, of sight, of libido, of breath/ wind, of muscle tone, of the flesh’s resistance to gravity. Some boostable with glasses, hearing aids and such, some you just stop caring about (see above). But the greater loss is people—friends, families, even hero artists, writers or actors. You learn to sit together with grief and also gratitude. Deep sadness that our loved ones are gone, deep thankfulness that we’re still here to live on their behalf. The bitter and sweet served up in the same dish that we all learn to eat. 

 

So since aging is the best—and only— alternative to leaving, let’s wholly savor each moment of the precious moments left to us. If you think of each Life Stage as a season (I imagine myself in late Fall), here’s an ancient Chinese poem to remind us to cherish all of it. Happy aging!

 

Ten thousand flowers in Spring,

The moon in Autumn,

A cool breeze in Summer,

Snow in Winter.

If your mind is not clouded by unnecessary things,

This is the best season of your life. 

 

                                                Wu-men (1183-1260)

 

 

 

Everyone All at Once

After writing the last post, it struck me how young Simon and Garfunkel were when they wrote Old Friends, how young the poet W.B. Yeats was when he wrote The Song of Wandering Angus with the line “though I am old with wandering now…”, how young Bob Dylan was when he wrote Bob Dylan’s Dream longing to be back in the room with his friends who “never thought we would get very old.” Then of course, there’s the Beatles’ When I’m 64. 

 

Young artists projecting into a future and capturing something they haven’t lived yet and shouldn’t be able to understand— yet do, through the power of imagination. It’s the same power at work when a male author writes with insight the thoughts and experiences of a female character and vice-versa, an Anglo-American writes convincingly about an African-American, a Chinese musician plays with conviction the music of Bach or Chopin or Rachmaninoff. Contrary to our notion of identity politics— you can’t write about being old if you’re young or black if you’re white or play German/ Polish/ Russian music if you’re Chinese, it is possible to do all of the above because we carry all those selves inside of us. 

 

Of course, it is entirely possible to do all of the above badly because you have not lived wholly inside of those experiences and indeed, so many have. Likewise, it’s logical that people might express more clearly the experiences they’ve actually had rather than imagined. That people growing up in a family, a culture, an ethnic identity, not only have their experiential point of view bequeathed to them, but have the whole of their ancestry singing in their blood.

 

Yet still imagination is so strong as to be able to cross borders because we all share the same “collective unconscious,” as Jung puts it— “a shared, inherited layer of the human psyche containing archetypes—universal, primordial patterns of thought and behavior common to all people, a universal reservoir of ancestral experiences and instincts, manifested in myths, dreams, and cultural phenomena across different societies.” That makes it possible to bring the unconscious into conscious form through the vehicle of art. And if you add reincarnation into the mix, it’s entirely possible that our former selves were the opposite gender or we lived in Bali or we had once been either a Prince or a Pauper or both. 

 

In her song People in Me, the black jazz singer Abby Lincoln puts it like this:

 

I got some Chinese in me,

Some German in me,

I got some Japanese blood,

And blood from Vietnamese…

 

I got some Jewish in me,

Some Arab in me,

A am Mexican rose,

I got some Russian in me…

 

On she goes with Indian, Irish, Hawaiin, Gueinee, Ghana, Dahomey, Uganda, Algeria, French, Sierra Leone, Mozambique, Egyptian and then ends:

 

I got some people in me,

I got the whole world

Turning in me. 

Amidst all the move to claim a particular identity, I have believed and continue to believe that our most important identity pronoun is “we.” 

Stuck Poop!

In all my teaching music to both kids and adults, one of the things I always insist on is “the perfect ending.” As the last notes echoes into silence, don’t move or make a sound. Give at least five seconds to savor that silence and keep the mood the music created still alive and vibrant. I always give an example of the old days listening to radio when a beautiful tender ballad is playing and just as the last note fades away, a jarring too-loud ad intrudes:

 “Big sale at Al’s Used-Car Lot!!! Don’t miss it!!”

 

 Now I have a new example.

 

After writing yesterday’s post titled “Old Friends,” I later remembered the Simon & Garfunkel song with the same title. I found it on Youtube and while listening to this lovely song, read some of the comments. So many to the effect of “I used to listen to this song when I was 18 and now I’m 70. Hearing it now again, I’m filled with a sweet sadness. Where did all those years go?” Fully immersed in the tenderness of it all, the song draws to a close and immediately up pops a woman’s shrill voice accompanied by a disturbing image shouting,  “Here’s the best way to push out stuck poop!!!”

 

Well, that was a mood-killer.  

Old Friends

Back in Yellow Springs, Ohio a lifetime ago, I had a glorious 6 months as an Antioch College student living in an off-campus house with some 14 friends. We cooked our own meals and because it was the Spring and Summer semesters, we ate outside on the side-porch watching the world go by in this sweet little town. The house, owned by the college, was called Drake House and we got something of a reputation as the Drake House gang. 

 

Time marched forward, as it does, and suddenly (always a surprise!), that memorable time was 53 years ago! Within that group of fourteen people, I’ve stayed in touch with five of them. Two live in Portland, Oregon and I see them two or three times a year when I visit my daughter and grandkids there. One lives in Portland, Maine and our visits are more infrequent. One lives in New York and we cross paths once every few years or so and one lives just outside of Yellow Springs and every time I revisit that marvelous place, I get to re-connect with her. Two have become lawyers (the good kind!), one a social worker, one a drama teacher/poet, one living the country life with horses and creative projects. 

 

Though we and our peers seem to have failed miserably in our zest and conviction that we would change the world, we, in fact, contributed greatly to the great advances in human culture—feminism, gay rights, racial equality, sustainable ecological living, the healing power of the arts. All of that is in danger of being washed away by the tsunami of encroaching fascism that has surprised us all. But I believe those advances are just sheltering in the storm, biding their time to come forth again and blossom. And while we had many discussions as college students as to whether we would “sell out to the establishment” when we turned 30, in fact, we all have stayed true to our authentic selves and held fast to our vision of a better world. 

 

All of this came up because I had a dream last night about meeting one of them and discussing our plans for our “Golden Years.” In a flash of inspiration, we both shouted, “Drake House! Let’s buy it and form our own intentional retirement community!” Cook meals again together, sit on the porch chatting with passersbys, gather around the piano and sing “We’re stealin’ on back to our same old used to be.” 

I awoke with a smile and actually wrote a group e-mail to them all—Gabe, Steve, Gretchen, Liz, Bobby—sharing the idea. Not that I imagine we’ll do it, but it actually would be sweet. Maybe we could use our remaining time to plan the second revolution in hopes that it would be more successful than the first!

 

In any case, old friends. Such a pleasure to sit with those who knew you when, marvel together as the passing of time and the unfolding of our lives, enjoy remembering the old stories— like when Steve and I hit upon a scheme to get the attention of attractive girls. We would ride our bikes by them and then fall off the bike in front of them and count on their sympathy asking us if we were all right. (Miraculously, our young bodies could do that without significant injury!). Of course, it never worked, but Ah, youth! To be so zany and delight in our stupidity!

 

And speaking of old friends, I went to a meeting yesterday with James and Sofia and amidst the business of planning our next Orff Summer Course, Sofia surprised me with a gift. No occasion—she had just seen it and knowing me so well, knew I would love it. And she was right! Check it out! Table corn hole!

Old friends see us and know us in such profound ways. And we take equal pleasure in seeing and knowing them. One of life’s many blessings. Long live Drake House!

 

No!

 

Some readers may notice that I sometimes post the same or similar things on both Facebook and this Blog. It’s a way to get the things that I think need attention out to larger audiences, while such Free Speech venues still exist. Today’s post is an excerpt from an upcoming Podcast. Again, I'm grabbing all the microphones I can while I can, even though the books, Blog, Facebook posts, Podcasts, talks at workshops I give are the tiniest blip compared to mainstream media. 

 

How do we shape our character, our values, our vision? Each day we’re awash in experiences, ideas and invitations from the world to participate. Buy this! Join our club! Fill out this form! Sign this petition! Sign up for our class! Come to my concert! Be my friend! Go out on a date with me! What we choose to say "yes" to and what we choose to say "no" to is a big part of what shapes us into the people we become. 

 

As with people, so with institutions like schools. Get our must-have textbooks! Buy the new Smartboard! Don’t be left behind—AI is the future! Get our program now! Sign up for our training in sexual harassment policy/ diversity training/ gender issues/ differentiated instruction/ design thinking/ risk assessment/ lockdown drills! So many people from the outside knocking at the school gates like the traveling salesmen trying to persuade you to buy their wares or the government inspectors insisting you must comply with the latest rule and regulation they dreamed up sitting around in windowless rooms drinking bad coffee. Who do you let in? Who do you keep out? 

 

I was lucky to teach in an independent school that for at least the first 40 years or so had a unified vision of what it meant for teachers and children to gather together in a vibrant learning community. We trusted our intuition and followed our instincts, always watching the children to see what worked. Our mistakes were many, but all small and fixable and the way we grew and evolved into constantly better versions of ourselves. We had the clarity and conviction and courage to understand what to say "yes" to and what to say "no" to and what to agree to on the outside, but do something different (wink, wink) on the inside.  When the building inspectors came, we got the staff dog out of the kitchen and spruced things up a bit. 

 

Some battles we lost. Like re-building the entire preschool swing set because some inspector insisted it was two inches off the standard spacing and dangerous, even though there hadn’t been a single problem in 25 years. I think we stopped spraying the preschoolers on hot days while they were running around naked. Some outsider insisted on bathing suits.

 

Some we won. Like when another inspector came and insisted we take down the artwork from the hall because some kid in Ohio has set fire to the paper drawings. Knowing that this displayed artwork was central to the feeling and character of the school, and that we weren’t going to frame each picture and put it behind glass or spray it with fire-retardant, we somehow were able to refuse to comply. 

 

In short, we were clear about who we were and who we wanted to be and didn’t need these outsiders coming in to tell us what to do. We were united in our determination to say no to anything that threatened our values and character. But with the changing times and a new school head and lawyers advising us to watch out, all of that began to change and not happily so. Suddenly the Board had a risk committee and there were “norms” at the staff meeting and though we held out longer than most schools, the computers came swarming in not because we felt the need for them, but because everyone else had succumbed to the marketers who were in it not for the kids’ growth and intelligence, but for —well, you can guess—money, money, money. We were supposed to figure out how to use them creatively. 

 

All of this was so minor compared to the greater world of education. When I wrote the ABC’s book in 2006, schools had started putting vending machines with junk food and sodas in their hallways because the corporations promised to buy them a scoreboard. Mandatory testing that cancelled recesses and arts programs ramped up, stupid ideas like pay-for-performance that pitted teachers against each other by basing salaries on a teacher’s students test-performance. Dunkin’ Donuts offered money to schools if their kids would make a one-minute video about the importance of homework. Oscar Meyer Weiner promised money to the winning interpretation of their jingle. Nestle offered $10,000 for the best piece of art made from its Sweet Tarts candy. Math textbooks were appearing with problems like how to divide a pizza bought at Pizza Hut. And teachers were buying into it all, claiming things like “The Oscar Meyer contest is great for the kids as well as the school because they have to use their creative-writing and performing-arts skills, not to mention all those good social skill…”  The list of things to say no to was growing exponentially.

That was almost 20 years ago, but our confused culture was just getting warmed up. Now the autonomy a school needs to truly educate children is virtually an endangered species. Books are being banned, truth told in history class is forbidden, the solid line between church and state eroded by the so-called “Christian” right, AI is swooping in to further shut down all independent thought, some are calling for teachers to be armed because of the epidemic of school shootings and recently, Texas is now firing teachers who are questioning in their social media posts outside of school the canonizing of Charlie Kirk, a man who spewed hatred  and was killed by one of his own tribe of hateful MAGA people. 

 

So here I am, trying to get folks to consider the details about what might make our schools more effective, inclusive, nurturing and loving in the midst of all this chaos and confusion. We’ve said yes to so many of the wrong things and refused to say no to the things we should keep out. 

 

And yet. I still meet most every day of my life dedicated teachers and visit schools doing wonderful things. So I’ll end with saying NO! to hopelessness and YES! to my conviction that we can and will do better. Share this with other teachers, friends, students so we all might choose to resist together! And speaking of resisting together, please put October 18^th on your calendar and take to the streets with millions for the National No Kings rally.  That’s how we build hope and resist tyranny, say No! to the dismantling of democracy. 

 

Question Du Jour

Have you ever wondered why garbage pick-up is always so early in the morning? Why can’t the garbage collectors start their work day at 9:00 like so many? This was on my mind as they woke me up at 5:00 am this morning. 

 

Before consulting Google, I asked a human being—my wife— why that might be. And she had a sensible answer: Because they stop and start so much, it would be a big problem for traffic flow. Bingo! Never thought about that. 

 

Then one thought leads to another, as they do, and I wondered why loggers start their work so early. And remembered a poem by Gary Snyder titled:

 

Why Log Truck Drivers Rise Earlier Than Students of Zen

In the high seat, before-dawn dark,

Polished hubs gleam

And the shiny diesel stack

Warms and flutters

Up the Tyler Road grade

To the logging on Poorman creek.

Thirty miles of dust.

 

There is no other life.

 

An interesting poem, but it doesn't quite answer the question. Nor could my wife. So on to Google and here was the sensible answer:

Loggers often work early in the morning to beat the heat, minimize wait times at the sawmill, and take advantage of better travel conditions and forest floor conditions. The remote nature of logging sites also requires a long workday to maximize productive daylight hours. 

 

There you go. My day has begun with two questions answered that I never had thought of asking before. And then sharing it with you. If you’re out on a first date or at a party, you can throw these questions out as conversation starters and avoid those awkward silences.

 

You’re welcome.

 

Microdosing

I have always liked the taste of coffee but have never acquired the habit of a daily cup of Joe. But lately, I’m developing a new habit, many steps short of addiction. The inspiration was Trader Joe’s little bottles of black Cold Brew coffee, I put a microdose in a glass— a little more than what’s need to fill the bottom and then double that amount with oat milk. Just after lunch, I treat myself to my concoction, imagining it will give me just a little extra boost to keep energized through the afternoon. Probably it doesn’t work like that, but like I said, I like the taste and perhaps, that little microdose of caffeine is all I need. 

 

Since the forced feasts (though well-intentioned) of my time in China, I really needed to take control of my diet—and hopefully, lose about some 5-10 pounds in the process! Years back, I felt the same need and created my own personalized “Doug-diet.” The premise was simple— no sugar, minimize snacking and when doing so, only celery or carrots sticks, and generally eat less of everything—smaller portions and no seconds. Miraculously, it worked years ago and seems to be helping now. If nothing else, it feels good to be slightly less than full after each meal. I don’t deny myself foods I like— like almonds. But instead of taking three handfuls, I take some 5 nuts. Micro-dosing. 

 

Hearing about other people’s diets ranks up there with listening to their dreams as one of the least engaging conversational pieces. But bear with me here. The subject came up because my daughter and I were discussing how much news we should be watching or listening to. It’s clear that the constant assault of the frankly unbelievable torrent of mean-spiritedness, stupidity, cruelty and permissions to tear down our own democracy, no outside invaders necessary, not only breeds despair and hopelessness in us, but is designed to do so. If there’s one clear transgression—say the Jeffrey Epstein files— the public can pay attention and support the necessary consequence. But the fascist playbook’s strategy is to distract and overwhelm, create so many disastrous scenarios that it takes the needed attention away from any one of them. 

 

And in the process, pummels the listeners into shock, numbness, hopelessness, hammers them into submission because it’s too much for our frail human psyches to absorb. By refusing to engage in the tsunami of bad news, we have hopes of preserving the joy that is a powerful tool of resistance, while turning our attention to the small acts of kindness and connection that also make a difference. Like the way my daughter organized a neighborhood block party that was a wonderful, community-connecting event. 

 

At the same time, if we don’t pay attention to any news, they also win, going on their merry way wreaking havoc and destruction while we enjoy playing cornhole with our neighbors. So there has to be some middle ground. 

 

That was when my daughter shared her friend’s strategy— microdosing on the news. Just enough to know what’s generally going down, what demands a response that might actually be useful. Like cancelling Disney/Hulu subscriptions until the language they understand—money— got them to reverse the decision on Jimmy Kimmel. 

 

Actually, I’ve been microdosing my whole life. Never got into the habit of reading the newspaper every day cover to cover and instead, just looking at the headlines in the newspaper boxes when I went for a walk. Like the character in the move Meet John Doe, I’ve known my whole life “that the world is being shaved by a drunken barber. I don’t have to read about it.” Use that time and energy to read poetry or play Bach or teach music to children. It worked well.

 

And is working well again, however qualified that word “well” means today. I get most of my news from Facebook posts and since all my Facebook friends are not brainwashed conspiracy theorists, I believe I’m hearing about what’s important to hear about. Often with a good dose of eloquent insight or humor or inspiration. Like certain poisons that are actually beneficial in small microdoses, it’s one way to survive the toxic assault. 

 

And now it’s time for my little quarter cup of coffee.

Other Plans

“Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans” and that sometimes truth hit me over the head yesterday in three or four different ways. Strange how it all happened on the same day and a good test for this forever-planning guy to remember when to let go and re-group. 

 

For example, I had hopes to get my new book published in time for the November National Orff Conference. But it takes a village to get a book out and it turned out most of the people in my village were too busy at the moment to meet my unrealistic deadlines. 

 

Then the annual summer Orff course suddenly had to be re-scheduled because of conflicts with our host venue’s schedule and domino-like, this bumped into other summer plans that then also had to be re-scheduled. At the end of that fiasco, I had to let one course go entirely. Oh, well.

 

When things like this happen, my impulse is to keep pushing as far to the edge as I can and then when it’s clear that the World doesn’t agree, try to let it go with grace. That can be a moment of disappointment, but also a sense of relief. I can relax about the book and it’s not as if the world is waiting on the edge of its seat for its profound life-changing and world-healing message. Ha ha! And the revised summer plans will allow me to stay in the summer house on Lake Michigan later in August without having to rush back for anything. 

 

So all is well. I have plans to return to the school where I’ve done some mentoring and teaching these past 4 years and that should be fun to be back in a class with these 8^th graders who I have worked with since 5^th grade. My plan is to bike there as I always do, but I noticed a few drops of rain. Another change of plan? Well, I’m prepared.

 

The Divine Plan

If one were to believe in a divine plan, with or without an omnipotent god or gods behind it, the question of the day is “Why was Donald Trump born? And why is he still living?”

 

I have a theory that he was put on this earth and specifically, the United States, to reveal precisely who we are. Under Biden and Obama and others, the country was awash in people who inherited our legacy of genocide, slavery, misogyny, racism, child abuse, homophobia, unchecked capitalist greed and saw no need to refuse these toxic narratives. We knew they were physically present in our country, but they had no microphone to broadcast their hatred, ignorance and greed. Enter the Toddler King and out they came from the woodwork, like termites given permission to gnaw away at the supporting posts of Democracy and bring the whole house down. 

In short, what was somewhat hidden was now fully revealed. It was bad, mean, cruel and ugly and yes, shocking to realize how widespread and pervasive it is. But as Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron once said, “Nothing goes away until it teaches us what we need to learn.” Biden was such a welcome respite from those first 4 years of horror, but it all just went underground again and back came that Maga Maggot to show us that fundamentally nothing changed in the minds and hearts of those who would perpetuate the worst of our historic legacy.

 

So imagine some benevolent divine plan keeping the guy alive until we learn our lesson. Putting it all on the line and seeing who is ready to truly defend our Democracy, who will stand up to the bullies. Amidst all the caving in have been a few courageous institutions— Harvard, Costco and now Disney walking back its cancellation of Jimmy Kimmel. More, please!!! Not to mention all the individuals, particularly some who voted for the disaster, finally saying “Enough! You’ve gone too far!” Hopefully they all will take to the streets on October 18^th to broadcast our “NO KINGS!” message louder and clearer. As mentioned in an earlier post, I’m hoping for 12 million to step out to reach the 3.5% quota that has historically turned away a fascist takeover. 

 

For all those who have never gone to a protest, who have to cancel taking their kid to their Saturday soccer game, who had plans to go shopping at Costco or play pickleball, please take two hours out of your life and show up! When your grandkids, either trapped in their dystopian future or enjoying the blessings of genuine democracy, ask “What did you do?” the least you can say is, “I made my own sign and went to a march. And that made me more hopeful and more connected to others. And that inspired me to keep speaking out and do everything I could on your behalf."

 

And then, when we have finally learned what we needed to learn and built the wall that turned away the ongoing march of cruelty, ignorance, greed, hatred, finally sent them to the detention camps not as punishment but as remediation, transposing them to kindness, knowledge, simple living, love, that’s when that guy and all his following will finally go away. It’s the Divine Plan. And it can’t be a moment too soon.

 

See you on the 18^th. 

 

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

 

“A poem can be the diving board that launches us into the pool of the ineffable.”

 

This the sentence that appeared in my dream last night. I dreamt I wrote an article about the role of poetry in Zen and waking up, thought “Nice sentence!” Words can be fingers pointing to the moon but are not the moon itself. Words can launch us into the waters of our true nature but are not the water itself. 

 

The purpose of Zen practice is awakening, so interesting that all this came to me while sleeping. 

 

Since the topic is the limits of language, I think I won’t say any more about it. Happy Tuesday to all!

  

Hail to the Keith!

I first met Keith Terry sometime around 1984. Orff colleague Maddie Hogan, seeing my interest in body percussion, introduced us and it was one of those life-changing meetings. I’d like to think for both of us in some ways, because as I began to incorporate Keith’s Body Music in my teaching with kids and workshops with adults, I also connected him with the Orff world and opened up many opportunities for him to teach music teachers far and wide. 

 

Last night, I had the supreme pleasure of viewing the film Through the Body made about his life’s work. A tall order, but filmmaker Andrew Reissiger did a superb job in capturing the extraordinary outreach Keith achieved when he produced the first International Body Music Festival in San Francisco in 2008 and went on to produce some ten more in the SF Bay Area/ Sao Paolo, Brazil/ Istanbul, Turkey/ Paris, France/ Athens, Greece/ Ubud, Bali/ Dzodze, Ghana/ Quebec, Canada. An extraordinary gathering of people worldwide who take pleasure in performing vibrant rhythms on their bodies, combined with movement, vocal percussion and song. 

 

To see Black and White and Asian Americans on stage with Brazilian, French, Spanish, Cuban, Greek, Turkish, South African, Ghanaian, Balinese and yet more folks worldwide, so joyfully engaged and connected in both improvised and composed music for the body and voice is to witness the world as we —well, most of us—would wish it to be. And Keith was the connecting link in it all.

 

During the question/answer time following the film, I paid homage to the Keith with these comments:

 

Keith, when I met you over 40 years ago, I was told that someone asked your young daughter what her Dad did. And she replied without hesitation, “Oh, he hits himself all over his body while dancing on top of bubblewrap.” And bless you, that’s exactly what you’ve continued to do these last four decades and the world is richer for it. There’s a William Stafford poem called The Way It Is:

 

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

And you never have. While all the world and your mortgage payments were trying to convince you to get a real job, you held on to that thread that was given to you and never once let it go. That takes great courage and dedication and perseverance. And as if that wasn’t enough, you found people who held similar threads and became the master weaver bringing them together in the extraordinary tapestry of the International Body Music Festival. Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dream-coat would have been jealous of your superior garment that emerged. 

 

You are clearly a master of childlike play (see bubblewrap above) combined with  exquisite artistry earned through hours and hours of practicing your craft. A  craft with many ancestors in the world’s body percussion practices, but none that synthesized the art form into a full-blown Body Music. That was you entering the forest where there was no path and trailblazing a way to a new art form. 

 

But as if that weren’t enough, you also had to sacrifice hours when you could have been composing, playing, choreographing, performing, to the nitty-gritty details of actually producing a Festival. Contacting all the artists, dealing with those gnarly Visa issues, coordinating housing and airport pick-ups and meals, finding venues for performance, the thousand and one tasks of organization, including finding the right helpers to assist you in this mammoth undertaking. And mind you, not as a one-time Festival but one produced year after year—and in different countries at that! How you did that all is simply mind-boggling, but at the root is the lifelong commitment to hold on to that thread and keep weaving it into the next yard of fabric, doing “whatever it takes.” 

 

Then there’s the merch! CD’s, books, DVD’s that need to be made, stored, advertised, sold. All the time being a devoted husband, father and son taking care of your aging Mom. And taking care of yourself amidst many health challenges. Hollywood keeps distracting us with their stupid pantheon of Superheroes and completely ignores the “superpowers” of people like you and all the marvelous people you’ve gathered. 

 

No one should ever play the song Hail to the Chief these days when that Chief is using his power to wreak such harm, hurt and havoc. But I believe your hard-earned spiritual authority far exceeds his puny political authority. You are the Chief of Body Music Nation, using your talent and power in service of life and love. And so forget that lame old Hail to the Chief song played by a military band. When you enter a room, all should play Hail to the Keith! with a raucous explosion of rhythms on the body performed by the zany, wild, troublemakers-in-school who spend their days making weird sounds with their mouth and hands. May it be so!!

  

One Story

 

We humans love our “ism’s.” It’s such a convenient way to gather like-minded ideas under one umbrella. Some ism’s seem worthy of our endorsement—humanitarianism, for example. Many are worthy of our refusal and resistance—racism, sexism, capitalism in its unlimited greed and profit-over-people form. When it comes time to convince others to join the resistance, it often feels like a shouting match between isms. We think that the historical facts, the statistics, the appeal to rational thought and critical thinking should be enough. But that’s far from the case. 

 

Because each ism telescopes the problem out to large abstract platitudes or facts that are too big or far away to actually touch us. The mind can’t comprehend 100,000 people killed in an earthquake and we read the news with a shrug because the heart can’t hold all that pain. But if you tell me the story of your dear Aunt Agatha who taught you how to bake and loved you unconditionally passing away, we can hold your hand in true empathy as you tell more stories about this marvelous person who you will miss so much. 

That’s the way it works with human beings.

 

So if I want to convince someone that racism is real, that the courts can be unjust, that people do harm without consequence while innocent people suffer, all I need is one story. Not barrage you with the hundreds and even thousands of stories that could be told, but just choose one. 

 

Emmet Till, for example. So much embedded in that horrific tale that reveals the way racism's cancer eats away at any semblance of decency and true democracy. Or more recently, Breonna Taylor. Or George Floyd. The whole long list of police killings (see https://www.aapf.org/sayhername), lynchings and wrongful incarcerations (see Bryan Stevenson’s book and film Just Mercy).

 

So last night I learned a new one. As mentioned in the last post, the Oakland Film Festival showed a film by director Lana Adams titled 42 Years for Nothing. Wrongfully convicted for the rape and murder of an 8-year old girl, David Bryant spends 27 years in prison before writing a letter to a group of lawyers that begin to work on overturning his conviction. 11 years later, they get a judge to release him. But rather than proclaim him innocent, the judge simply cites a lawyer misconduct as the cause. So after 38 years of this gentle man having to survive the hellhole of the American prison system, he is finally freed. All his family has died and he doesn’t own any of his own clothes. Helped by the lawyers, he gets some custodial work at Princeton University and tries to rebuild his life. 

 

In the film, the lawyers talk about all the simple things that could have been done to make his absolute innocence in the crime clear. But they —the judges, the lawyers, the police, the whole rotten system that just needed to put another black man away— didn’t do them. Oh, and are you surprised that he is a black man? Do you think the same thing would have happened to a rich white Republican? And so the legacy of horrific racism that continues unchecked since the Civil War is exposed yet again (remember The Central Park Five? Well, probably not. I doubt schools are talking about that.)

 

But spoiler alert, there is more to come. After 14 months of freedom, some lawyers were working to overturn the judge’s decision and succeed in sending him back to prison for four more years!!!!!! Then David’s lawyers start appealing that decision in four or five different venues and —denied! Denied! Denied! Denied! They take it to the Federal level and finally, finally, his innocence is proclaimed. And now he is out for good. 

 

On his lawyer’s advice, they sue the State for their negligence and wrongful conviction and spoiler alert, they actually win the case and he gets $11 million dollars! But before you think, “Finally justice is done.” Well, yes but. I believe he—and you in his place—would have chosen a free life for the 42 years denied him, a chance to meet a loving mate, perhaps raise a family, work a job. In short, live the life promised in the Constitution of liberty and the pursuit of happiness. 

 

What does he do with the money? First, gets a new set of teeth. And then sets up a Foundation to help others. Throughout this all, he is the sweetest, most endearing and loving man you can imagine and has this Anne Frank “people are basically good” attitude that is so far beyond the bitterness most of us would carry if we were sentenced to 42 years in prison for something we clearly didn’t do. It’s mind-boggling and uplifting. 

 

But before you get too swept up in the feel-good company of this man, take a look at the brutal system that has our President running around free after a 42-count felony conviction and continuing to trample on laws left and right. Embedded in that story is everything that is to horrifically wrong with our “Justice” system (and don’t get me started on Clarence Thomas and Brett Kavanaugh whose misdeeds are not only overlooked, but they continue to serve on the Supreme Court!). Now let’s have that discussion on what deserves our approval and needs out resistance. 

 

Apologies if there were too many spoilers here, but the point is not an intriguing plot as if it were a TV murder mystery. This 40-minute film is as real as it gets and do whatever you can to try to see it. And then get your right-wing cousin to watch it with you.

 

And I hope you not only feel some uplift by David’s beautiful humanity, but by the white lawyers who stuck with him and persevered. The Justice System may be broken, but with people like these in it, hopefully not beyond repair.

 

Next time you get in a political argument about “issues,” I suggest pausing and saying “Let’s look at Emmet Till, Breonna Taylor. George Floyd. David Bryant." Pick one story out of the thousands more. Just open your heart and mind and don’t rush too fast to analysis or fix-it solutions. Just sit and grieve and then look at all the things that not only allow these things to happen, but depend upon them happening. Food for thought.