The Lobster Revisited

 

When I posted my talk “The Lobster, the Butterfly and the Starfish” back on July 22^nd, they were just three stories relating in a general way to the Orff training venture (and adventure) we were about to begin. Recently, the Starfish story took on a more immediate and personal meaning and now the Lobster one does as well. Here’s how I told it back then:

 

“How do lobsters grow? The young lobster has a hard, rigid shell to protect it. As its soft body grows, the hard shell stays the same. So the lobster reaches a point of noticeable discomfort and finds a safe place to hide. There it sheds its shell and stays hidden until it grows a new one. After a time, the new one is too small for the growing body and it repeats the process—discomfort, retreating, shedding, growing a new shell.

 

So let us learn from the lobster. Feel the discomfort, don’t rush to mask it or ignore it or medicate it or fix it. Instead, find a safe haven to retreat to where you can shed the shell and start to grow the next one that fits your changing self. We hope this will be the place you can do that, in company with caring teachers and trusted friends. This can be the place to slough off the too-small covering, feel safe while the new one develops, away from the jeers and laughter and taunting of the cruel world.”

 

This is who I am at the moment. Sheltering down at this time of great vulnerability where everything I’ve valued and believed in and worked for and lived has been flushed down the toilet. The signals are clear that I can’t bear to see a talking-head on the news of any persuasion, can’t hear the news or the analysis of it or the reaction to it without feeling my tender unshelled psychic body poked and prodded and rubbed raw and cut by the blade of betrayal. Before I can begin to act in the outer world, lumber again towards what needs to be done, I just have to stay in the safe places while the new shell grows. Like The San Francisco School, where I passed another joyful day with 1^st graders, 3^rd graders and 4-year-olds. 

 

Not only does that marvelous community continue the legacy of some 58 years of beautiful work with children, I’ve noticed yet more steps to evolving while witnessing the weekly elementary town meeting. Lovely teachers gently guiding kids of all ages toward the full blossom of their humanity by teaching them how to be in community right here, right now, at every age and stage of development. The fact that some of the teachers were kids I taught and that some kids I taught today are grandkids of former school colleagues (and my dentist!) and kids of other kids I taught—well, it doesn’t get much better than that. It is precisely the place this vulnerable lobster needs to be. 

 

And I get to go back again tomorrow! 

Competence As Love

Amongst the many pleasures of teaching at my school again this week, two classes with the 7^th grade stood out. First off, I knew most of the kids and had taught many from when they were 3-years old up through 3^rd grade before I retired. What a pleasure to feel their musical growth, be astounded by their physical growth and be impressed by their blossoming as growing human beings. 

 

On top of that, I felt the same mild surprise that I’m feeling helping out at another school, that sense of Middle School students who are supposed to follow the script of eye-rolling, arms-crossed apathy or disdain, being so wholly focused, polite and engaged and making it clear that they like me. I don’t take it personally. It’s not so much about me being the cool guy who talks their language and listens to their music and digs their clothing choices and hairstyles. In that multiple-choice test, I’m “none of the above.” 

 

But what I can give them is an activity worthy of their time and interest with just the right level of challenge and affirmation. Nobody would predict that Edvard Grieg’s Anitra’s Dance would be a great piece for Middle School kids to play on Orff Ensemble, but I’m here to testify— it is. That is if the kids have had years of playing xylophones in a program with 50-years of energy behind it and they have the ears, the mind and the technical skills to learn a complex four-section start to the music in 45 minutes. It would not be the same with any random group of 7^th graders. I would have to pick something much simpler and easily playable, but still musically satisfying. 

If you’re a music teacher reading this, you might be curious about the details of how I did this and it would be worth your time to consider them. But for the general reader, not so. Suffice it to say that all my choices in each step of the lesson— beginning with a playful name game, giving the background of the composition and a tiny part of the story of the Peer Gynt Suite, revealing the friendly mathematics of the melody, learning each part with them echoing my model on the xylophone at different tempos, giving them time to practice a bit on their own, teaching all the parts to everyone and then having them choose one part, reinforcing some of the notes in the phrases on the whiteboard and showing the form as well, arriving at a recording-worthy version of the piece in 40 minutes and videotaping it — had them wholly and happily involved. By the end, they spontaneously thanked me for the class as I fist-bumped them out the door. 

 

Please notice. I didn’t have to pretend to be cool (I’m not) or gush about how much I love them (I do) or praise them to the skies (though praise and appreciation was given). Simply choosing worthy material and knowing how to teach it effectively ends up translating to a form of love that the students feel and deeply need and richly deserve.  It’s as simple as that. Competence is love.

 

Of course, the “simplicity” of it requires at least 10 to 20 years of teaching kids of all ages (45 in my case) for some 25 hours a week and always reflecting on how you could have done any of it better. But the returns on that investment are enormous. 

 

PS On a personal note, one doubt I had about retiring was bumping into a piece of music that I imagined would be great to do with kids—and then having no kids to teach it to. I’ve never taught Anitra’s Dance, but here was my chance and I loved it. At the other school where I’m doing some work, the same with Grieg’s In the Hall of the Mountain King. With either group, I’m intrigued to teach Ase’s Death but might not have any more classes with them. Also at the other school, the jazz standards The Blue Room and Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me. Fabulous! Maybe I should get a job as a music teacher.

 

The Winter of My Discontent

The days are growing shorter, the nights are growing colder, the rains are gathering to flood us with their fury. Winter is coming. A Season that sometimes that has evoked the comfort of homes with blazing fires, the upcoming season of light and love and sparkling lights and the shining eyes of children. But not now.

 

All I feel is the oppressive shadow like the Mordor of the myth, the evil powers with the ring in their possession and everyone kissing it to secure their place of false security. I’ve had two lovely days teaching at my old school with so much great music, exuberant dance and warmth coming from both the children I taught when they were little and the new kids on the block. But it’s not enough to offset that deep sadness that has settled into my bones.

 

I have a wisdom tooth that has a cavity and needs pulling, but I need to bear up with the pain for the next two weeks. I just read my daughter’s heartbreaking piece on the day she ended her marriage, this beautiful being who I have loved to the moon and back thrown off the wild horse she chose to ride in hopes of healing someone she has loved with the simple power of love. But trauma proved stronger and the hard lesson she’s learned is that you can’t save anyone, change anyone, heal anyone but yourself. To her credit, she has taken that to heart and gotten up from the ground stronger and clearer. But still I know it hurts and has for far too long. 

 

So darkness without and darkness within. Not depression that presses down from above and weakens your muscles of resistance. This sadness, this grief, I fully own and I choose to stay with it. To play the jazz ballad Tenderly that my Dad used to play on the organ and evoke his presence on his heavenly birthday today and let the tears trickle down, remembering hearing that music up in my bedroom as a kind of soundtrack to my childhood, oh so long ago. 

 

I started to watch the highly-recommended-from-so-many-people Jon Stewart/ Heather Cox Richardson post-election discussion, but couldn’t get past the first five minutes. I’m so far from ready to look that monster in the eye and will continue my news boycott for as long as I can, the only survival tool on my belt at the moment. My only comment is that I used to quote a character in the movie Meet John Doe about why my whole life I haven’t habitually read or watched the news—“I know the world’s being shaved by a drunken barber. I don’t have to read about it!” But now something new is in the air, as the barber may be an expert in her craft, but the “news” purposely portrays her as an incompetent drunkard and all these damn fools believe it. That’s all I can say about that at the moment.

 

Meanwhile, the storm clouds are gathering, the temperatures are plummeting, the days march toward the Solstice and all I have is this brightly lit screen to tap out these dark markings that speak out loud the feelings that somehow ask to be spoken however I can. I am walking into the winter of my discontent with my eyes wide open and my heart as well, come what may. 

 

106

Dear Dad,

 

Today is your 106^th “heavenly birthday” and here I still am, remembering it, thinking of you and wanting to talk with you. 17 years now since I could talk in person and it’s far beyond my limited imagination to understand what form the you that was is in now, if any. I wonder if these words and remembrances make any ripple in the cosmos that you can feel and hear. But whether or not, it’s good for me to take some time to feel you by my side. 

 

Yesterday was Zadie’s 13^th birthday—officially a teenager! Also Karen’s Dad Ted’s 100^th “heavenly birthday.” Next week, Talia turns 40 (!) and Ian 41. And so here on earth, the calendar pages keep turning and years pile up. And your great-grandchildren keep growing in size and numbers— Zadie and Malik 13 and 9, Ian’s kids Ezra and Camille 9 and 5, Kyle’s son Gwydion over a year (with various step-kids) and Damion’s son Rocco just under a year. No children from Talia yet, but she does have the most wonderful boyfriend Matt and who knows, perhaps marriage and a kid are on the horizon.  At the same time, Kerala’s marriage dissolving and a lot of sadness there, but she did all she could to make it work and divorce feels like the healthiest solution. Karen and I just celebrated our 45^th wedding anniversary and 50^th anniversary since we got together. Somehow we’ve stuck together through all the challenges of two very different souls making a household together. 

 

I’d like to think you somehow know all this, so no need to list all my news. On the outside, I’m doing everything I can to share a vision that has never wavered and indeed, has grown larger, stronger, more clear. Articles, books, this blog, a new podcast, the film, recordings, performances, workshops, guest classes, gatherings, talks—I'm doing what I can. This week I’m subbing at ye ole San Francisco School and such a pleasure to walk down those same halls again, slightly changed but still recognizable and work with the children of some of the kids I taught. 

 

The news on the national front could not be worse. I can’t even bear to give you the details, but amidst all the joy and blessings of my personal life, the dark cloud of what never should have been is omnipresent, swirling like a toxic poisonous gas into all corners of our personal and collective psyches. A feeling akin to the ’89 earthquake, that sense of the solid sense of ground which I always counted on as solid and dependable has ruptured and cracked. God help us every one. Of course, the old notion of God watching over us either shows that he’s asleep at the wheel or really is a vindictive, wrathful s.o.b. who rewards the evil-doers and hurts the innocent. 

 

But back to you. I spent some time going through old letters and cards I have stored in the basement and though it was never easy for you to tell me face-to-face how you loved me, preferring to hide behind the joking, “You’re no good, you never were any good and you’ll never be any good,” I knew it was tongue-in-cheek. But not always! Reading these various cards and letters, you did find a way to let me know that you indeed were on my team and if I can claim any sense of love’s tonic blessings and my confidence that I belonged here on this earth and was worthy of love, I have you and Mom to thank for that. I couldn’t find the particular one I was looking for from my recent excavations, but here’s an example from my 29^th birthday. (Note your affirmation of Karen!)

 

Thanks, Dad, and I hope it gives you some comfort and satisfaction that your legacy lives on in the Goodkin/Matthews family and that all of us have worked hard to earn the title of “decent human being”— and succeeded. Of course, I can't wholly claim an unblemished character, an unrelenting loving nature, a dependable talent, a 100% tolerance and an unswerving loyalty to family, but I indeed have valued all of them and done my best to live them. That you saw that and said that means the world to me.

Happy birthday from your still-loving son,

Doug

Nero and Me

 

They say that Nero fiddled while Rome burned. Me, I’m playing xylophones with kids while Democracy is shattering and Nature is rattling. I have the grand pleasure this week of teaching again at my old school while my colleague Sofia is teaching in Salzburg. 

 

So last night before dinner, I set down some possibilities of classes with 3^rd, 4^th and 7^th graders on the Monday schedule, choosing from hundreds of games, songs, dances, body percussion, instrumental pieces and combinations of all of the above that are in my repertoire. But also coming up with some new ideas or new ways to do old tried-and- true classes. 

 

After dinner, I rushed back to write down other possibilities or variations of the things I decided to do. Yet again, new things occurred to me before going to sleep and I woke up this morning at 5:00 am with a whole new plan. These are clear signs from the universe that I am far from done in my work as a music teacher. Not exactly new news as I’ve continued to work off and on with kids in two other schools in San Francisco and guest residencies in yet more schools here, there and everywhere. But such clear communication from my Muse that this indeed was what I was born for. Playing piano in all sorts of situations, writing these blogposts and books, recording my new Podcast are all intricately woven with the work, but planning and teaching classes with kids is the main gig, no doubt about it. 

 

Did Nero fiddle out of desperation or sincere joy? Out of the sense that he didn’t know how else to respond or the sense that this was the best he could contribute to the tragedy of our overwhelming human failures and fiascos, collapses and catastrophes? I’ll never know, but me, I’m gathering the kids in a circle and passing out the xylophone mallets. Here’s to a week in heaven while the handcarts are loading up to visit hell. 

More Music!

 

Today I finally felt so connected to wonderful friends, colleagues, former students that I miraculously forgot about the clown-cars careening down the hill. But still, the healing that this Conference could be was not as powerful as I wished it would be. 

 

When I was looking through old paper cards and letters from friends and family a couple of weeks ago, I found a short thank you card from an Orff Chapter I just given a workshop to. This phrase struck me:

 

“It was wonderful how you made more music with less fuss.”

 

 “More music, less fuss.” I liked that. Music! Let’s make it! Vibration to vibration, note to note, rhythm to rhythm, directly, with no unnecessary fuss. And yet, here, wandering into workshop after workshop (with some exceptions), I find two things:

 

• A lot of clever ideas about how to prepare the music but the wrong ratio. Five to ten minutes preparing to release our musical impulses and two minutes of music and not very inspired music at that. 

 

• Related to above, workshop after workshop with participants seating looking up at a big screen. This beautiful oral approach, this antidote to reading notes from paper and instead standing/ dancing in circles with song, music, rhythms right at our fingertips— that’s why I signed up! When I come to a workshop, I expect ten, twenty, thirty or 90 minutes of non-stop music-making and dancing, with both simple and complex rhythms, melodies, harmonies unifying our nervous systems and touching our hearts and soul. 

 

I’ve missed that! At any time, but now more than ever, how wonderful it would have been to feel the quality of those drums at the Ghanaian funeral or the exquisite harmonies of a European Requiem or the playful energy of exuberant children’s games played long and hard. Again, I went to a few workshops that had that quality and probably missed others that did as well, but peeking into room after room, the larger percentage was seated people looking at a screen.

 

In this world with everything we’ve known as good and true crumbling around us, can’t we rededicate ourselves to the magic that drew us into the Orff Schulwerk to begin with? Shut the damn screens off, trust our ear and musicality and stop with all the fuss of “preparing the music” and get to the root of it all?

 

I hope so. 

The Five Stages

I’m thinking about Elizabeth-Kubhler Ross’s five stages of grief:

 

• Denial: Usually short-lived.
• Anger: A coping mechanism that can be directed at loved ones, God, or the situation itself. 
• Bargaining: A hope to postpone death, often in exchange for a reformed lifestyle. 
• Depression: A period of understanding the certainty of death, which can lead to silence, withdrawal, and crying. 
• Acceptance: Coming to terms with mortality or the loss of a loved one. 

 

There you go. That explains clearly how I’ve woken up these past 10 mornings or so. I am grieving for the death of democracy, of civility, of understanding, of the love for my country and a faith in democracy that is lost at the moment. The way I would grieve for the loss of a loved one or my own mortality is a collective grief but it makes sense that it would follow the contours of personal grief. 

For me, this is not a linear progression. I never know which one will appear, but they all have in some form or another. Yesterday morning was fiery anger that had turned to deep sorrow by evening. Not much bargaining, since I am powerless to bargain with those in power and there’s no wrong turn down a path I’m aware of that I need salvation from or repentance. But the anger and the sadness (not depression, but a more profound sorrow) are very present, with an occasional acceptance that in the big picture, this, too, shall pass and an occasional fantasy of denying the reality by never reading a news item again. 

 

The usual idea is to fix it quick, to heal it, to find a solution or an action or the right story to understand it. To stop the pain. But now I’m feeling that the wise thing is to just sit with whatever comes up. To be there fully with it, to just let it be until it has outstayed its welcome or purpose. The anger is useful, as it cuts through the extraneous and trivial and fuels my authentic honesty. The sorrow is not comfortable, but wholly necessary and even more so if I finally let the tears gush forth. The denial has its own short-lived wisdom and the acceptance has its own danger of accepting too much and too soon. As mentioned, I’m still trying to figure out the bargaining.

 

But one thing is clear. I don’t want to dishonor any of it as trivial, but compared to what Emmett Till’s mother or George Floyd’s family or rape victims or all the millions who survived The Middle Passage, it is such a small thing to ask of myself that I wholly feel the grief, the anger, the helplessness and hopelessness in the face of what others have suffered. 

 

We shall see who will wake up with me tomorrow.