Instructions for My Funeral

In 36 years of meeting once every two weeks, each meeting with a particular theme, the Men’s Group I’m in has covered a lot of territory. In one meeting back in 2010, we all wrote “Instructions for our Funeral.” Yesterday, we took to the stage of the Memorial Service for our eldest, Bernie Weiner, to read his poem. (See Feb. 15 post Little Man Clapping for more about Bernie). Returning home, I searched for my poem from that meeting and actually found it. Here it is, with an addendum I added yesterday:

 

To start with, the music.

 

Lots of it and don’t hold back. Some suggestions:

 

1.    Ockeghem’s Requiem, for starters. I know it's obscure, but there's a story there.

 

2.    Some Bach somewhere—organ or piano. Maybe play my 8th grade record of Prelude and Fugue in D minor. If someone can find a turntable.

 

3.     Some Georgia-Sea Island style or spirituals group singing with a soulful leader. 

             But keep Jesus out of it. You can say Spirit instead.

 

4.     Somewhere there has to be some Bulgarian bagpipe. And then people will say, 

              “So THAT’S what it’s supposed to sound like!”

 

5.     Of course, some jazz. Get someone to sing Haunted Heart with a jazz trio. Maybe Tenderly and the crowd singing along on Over the Rainbow.

 

6.    If people are going to beat their breasts, might us well put it to a beat and get some body music going!

 

7.    Balinese gamelan optional. Samba or New Orleans style for the recessional. 

 

As for the people, invite all the kids and teachers I’ve taught.  Make everyone check their cell phones at the door.

               Encourage some copious weeping freely vented. 

No embarrassment. Let it rip. 

    No polite veneers or turn to your neighbor with a friendly handshake 

and forced smile.

    No crap about going to a better place to rest. 

Show some rage at the brutal hand of death.

The acceptance of its loving embrace can come later.

 

And of course, humor. 

Laugh, cry, they're kissin' cousins. Let ‘em both loose!! 

Fall into each other’s arms. Hug freely and sincerely. 

 

Eat well. Dance. Flirt.  Talk to me. Tell stories. All of them. 

(Well, maybe not all. Discretion will still have its place when I’m gone.)

 

Let it go on to the wee hours of the morning.

Don’t schedule other appointments, 

unless it’s the last night for the Misfits/ Some Like It Hot 

          double feature at the Castro Theater. 

          In which case, by all means go and eat popcorn on my behalf.

 

These some first thoughts. I’ll get back to you with the details.

 

Or not.

 

—Dec. 5, 2010

 

ADDENDUM: 2026

• If anyone arrives in a Waymo, do not let them in.

 

• If someone reads a eulogy created by Chatgpt, interrupt them immediately and 

    firmly, but gently, escort them off of the stage and out onto the street. 

 

Why I Love Children

My first of two weeks subbing back at The San Francisco School ended yesterday and there wasn’t a trace of a TGIF feeling. I entered the weekend uplifted, energized, ready for more. Why? What is it precisely that I love so much about kids and the grand privilege of teaching them?

 

A few things come to mind based on the last few days (and the last 50 years):

 

• Fertile imagination and fresh thought: As I do, I didn’t simply play the Old King Glory game with the five-year-olds, but used it as a way to go away from their home (a colored carpet square) and back moving to the song without touching others and understanding the phrasing in order to get back on time. But always my mind thinks, “How else can we do this?” and I challenged them with many variations: Forwards, backwards, fast, slow, high, low, tiptoe, giant steps, jumping, galloping, skipping happily, stomping angrily, etc., etc., etc. 

 

One of them raised his hand with great excitement and said, “I have an idea! Let’s do all of them!!!” Meaning in one trip away and back, do each of them in the short 24-beat-song-length. I could have said, “That will never work!” but following his enthusiasm, I said, “Okay! Let’s try it!” Of course, it was sheer chaos, but I loved that his active mind was thinking and that he was fearless in suggesting it. And speaking of…

 

• Fearlessness: I gave the 2^nd graders a challenging little jazz arrangement that I usually reserve for older grades and they grabbed it by the tail, swung it around and played it perfectly with great energy and a swingin’ rhythm. Then I gave a couple of hints as to how to improvise a jazz solo— like start on the high A and find your own path down to the low A (in the La pentatonic scale) and dang if they didn’t come up with fabulous little solos! All jumped in with uninhibited confidence and the result was spectacular. 

 

At the beginning of class, I also had to run to another room to grab a missing instrument and gave them the assignment of memorizing the poem the piece was based on while I was gone. The words were written on the board and when I came back, they all were turned the other way reciting it flawlessly. 

 

• Working Well with Others: After playing the piece, those second graders had to choreograph a little dance to the stanza they had memorized and within three minutes, were ready to perform. Their ability to jump into the deep water and come up with something so quickly and effortlessly is light years beyond most adult committee work I’ve witnessed. 

 

• Determination: I set the 6^th graders on a fast-riding horse of a complex xylophone piece from Ghana and then watched as they got thrown off and immediately mounted again, each time with a better sense of how to keep their balance and only an occasional tip from me. And then the reward—the moment when the music clicked and they felt the thrill of the ride. 

 

• Fun, Fun, Fun: In my short time with them, I decided to play one of my old favorite games with the 5^th graders called Stations. Groups of three have to think of a combination of words that begin with a certain letter and silently act it out while I play the piano. All of the above came into play—their fearlessness, ability to work together, determination to come up with something aesthetically pleasing and boundless imagination in both their string of words (“Tina Turner teaching Tai-Chi to Turtles while tap-dancing on a tightrope”) and the ways they used their bodies together to create the scene.

 

I could go on. And luckily, I will go on next week and add the 8^th graders and 3-year-olds to my schedule. But you see why children are so far superior to adults. Not a one, left to themselves, is consulting a rule book to decide what to do or praying to a deity for success or choosing not to work and play together with another child who looks different than them. Not a one is refusing to consider an idea or thinking their idea is not worthy or is rejecting the notion that ideas are important. Not a one is worried about acting silly or how their body looks or afraid to try something new (like a jazz solo). 

 

Of course, some of that changes naturally when the teen years kick in and what Nature has in mind there is another investigation altogether. And some of the young children are already getting tied up in knots by religious indoctrination, traumatic family situations, the toxic leaking of more-confused-than-ever adult culture. Their body’s energy and elegance, their mind’s grand intelligence and curiosity, the Spirit and Soul’s sense of wonder and connection with the natural world is being de-railed by adult-approved electronic addiction, the full 360-degree radiance of their child spirit chopped down and splintered and narrowed by all of the above. Not to mention schools accenting all the wrong things, like dead facts and dull tests and meaningless answers to unimportant questions. 

But I’m here to testify that at The San Francisco School, that marvelous institution that miraculously has kept the thread of intellect, imagination, community and humanitarian promise unbroken, it is a supreme pleasure to spend time with each and every child there. And as testified in other posts, I get the same feeling from many of the other schools where I’m fortunate to guest-teach. 

 

Instead of TGIF, I’m feeling CWUM—can’t wait until Monday!

  

Scones for Breakfast

 

“Whatever it takes” has been my lifelong motto for pursuing the work I value and that includes getting anything I write that rings true out to an audience of readers. This Blog an obvious example of that, as well as my books and articles. But despite the way it feeds into the coffers of too-rich ungenerous men (Jeff Bezos), I also use Facebook in the same way. Sometimes re-printing something I’ve written here, sometimes commenting with something I don’t include here. 

 

The one thing Facebook offers that this Blog doesn’t is instant reaction from readers— both the number of “likes” and short comments. (This Blog also had a feature for comments, but for various reasons I turned it off). It’s an interesting way to take the temperature of the public mood by noticing which kind of writing seems to touch a collective nerve and which falls a bit flat.

 

For example, I recently shared the Anti-Fascist Dictionary post which I thought was both insightful and clever and got 34 likes, 7 comments and 3 shares. My poem TRUE DEMOCRACY got 55 likes, 2 comments and 4 shares. By contrast, my post about being back at The San Francisco School got 210 likes (in one day—more to come) and 20 comments. What’s the lesson here?

Three things:

 

1.   Personal rather than abstract. People are hungry to hear other’s stories more than their thoughts or ideas. They’re more interested in what something makes them feel than what it makes them think. 

2.   Inclusive. Something others reading it were part of, reminding them of a time and a place and a community that offered something memorable and uplifting to them. Ten of the twenty comments were from former students/ alum parents. 

 

3.    A respite from the daily horror. While I believe the direct confrontation with the consequences of not paying enough attention, not educating ourselves enough, not caring enough about justice to do the hard work of protecting it is the lesson we’ve needed to learn (one that has led to a massive awakening—10 million out in the streets in the recent No Kings Rally), we all would prefer to be left alone to live our lives pursuing the simple pleasures of friendship, satisfying work, good meals, walks out in the park. In the first No Kings Rally, I noted the sign: “If Kamala had been elected, I could be having brunch right now!”

 

The Facebook “likes” from my simple story of the pleasure of having done good work in a good place with good people and the blessing of being back in that place continuing to do all of the above, touched people so much deeper than the most insightful analysis of what is going down and what to do about it. The tightrope walk is how to acknowledge and celebrate our deep human need for normalcy without sliding back into denial and avoidance. To somehow hold together the two notions of the world as an out-of-control 4- alarm-fire edging toward full-blown catastrophe and the world as a warming fire with the family gathered around the hearth with hot chocolate and the sleepings dogs at our feet. 

 

Elsewhere I wrote about the difference between living defensively, having to constantly react to the next now un-surprising outrage (the AI photo of the Maggot-Man as God healing the sick) and living offensively, firmly grasping the ball and controlling the play to score the goal.

 

Three poems to accent our desire to just get on with living well.

 

At the Un-National Monument along the Canadian Border

By William Stafford 

 

This is the field where the battle did not happen,

where the unknown soldier did not die.

This is the field where grass joined hands,

where no monument stands,

and the only heroic thing is the sky.

 

Birds fly here without any sound,

unfolding their wings across the open.

No people killed—or were killed—on this ground

hallowed by neglect and an air so tame

that people celebrate it by forgetting its name.

 

What History Fails to Mention Is

               By Gary Snyder

 

Most everybody lived their lives

With friends and children, played it cool,

Left truth and beauty to the guys

Who tricked for bigshots, and were fools. 

 

Scones

By Ron Padgett

 

Snow falling from gray sky,

It’s time to bake,

scones, I mean,

and right out of the oven

take one and butter it,

with jam, teapot hot in hand,

and exult in the face 

of everything horrible.  

A Happy Groundhog's Day

The passing of time is deeply mysterious, always astonishing and perpetually just beyond our understanding. I write this from the pink chair in this sacred space where I witnessed and lived miracle after miracle— the music room of The San Francisco School. Over 50 years ago, I taught my first class here. 

Somewhere deep in my closet are the planning books from each of the 45 years I taught here and I’m curious what I did my very first class. There’s a good chance I played the game Old King Glory, inviting the “first one, the second one, the third to follow me” without ever imagining how long that line would march on into the future and how many children would be following behind me. 

And so I played the game again today in the same place, with the same tune, the same spirit, but of course not the same. One cannot step into the same river twice or twenty thousand times. But the river itself is a constant known, the cool, refreshing waters as welcome as ever, the soothing sounds of its flow music to the ears. The teacher—me—singing the song with a body traversed by time and etched with its markings, but the energy and delight and vision mostly unchanged, except perhaps deepened and heightened. The children all re-incarnations of each other, kids I recognize after two-minutes of music-making and mostly delightfully so. Even the edgy ones bring a smile to my face as I secretly think, “I know you. That behavior ain’t gonna happen here!”

 

Being back in my room is a version of Groundhog’s Day, but with the twist that that perpetually renewing day is just moving from joy to joy. No big lesson I need to learn beyond, “Keep going!” And instead of the same un-aging people every day, now it’s the son or daughter of the student I taught 30 years ago, looking —and sometimes acting—pretty similar to their parent. Or the grandchild of teachers I taught alongside carrying their character forward, of course, in new variations. 

 

I don’t know what I did in a previous life to deserve such everlasting and continuously renewing happiness, but I am grateful beyond measure to accept it.  Tomorrow, on to Day 3!

  

The Economics of Musical Healing

 

In my Perfect Concert post, I described a profound hour of intimate music-making with the residents of the Jewish Home for the Aged. How much did I charge for it? Nothing.

 

In these next two weeks, I will sub at my old school and bring great music and happiness to children from 3 years old through 8^th grade. In the same room where I taught my first class 50 years ago! I believe my classes were joyful from the very beginning, but the 50 years of teaching far surpasses the 10,000 hours of practice that mastery requires. The substitute rate of $29 per hour times the 60 hours I will devote to the venture will earn me a paycheck of $1,740. Two weeks work, 60 hours of dedicated teaching. 

 

In his particular field of classical cello music, the great artist YoY o Ma has also more than paid his dues in practice, commitment, dedication and humanistic understanding of music’s power. He is performing in San Francisco soon and it would be lovely to go hear him. But here is what it would cost. 

 

In short, my 60 hours of similar work would equal more or less the cost of one “cheap” ticket in a far-away seat for a two-hour concert. If I want to sit close up, I would have to work 167 hours in some six weeks of teaching—before taxes. 

 

If I want to hear Jacob Collier at the Castro Theater this October, that will be between $300 and $500 per ticket. Wynton Marsalis at SF Jazz—between $200 and $290 per ticket. What’s going on?

 

Out of all the cliché’s my parents taught me, this one rings true:

 

“Life isn’t fair.”

 

Truth be told, I don’t need all that money—though it would be nice to buy a house for my daughter! But I’m thinking of all the people who will never hear Yo Yo, Wynton or Jacob live because they can’t afford it. At a time when we need musical healing and community gathering more than ever, only the privileged get to attend. And why exactly is that?

Reviving a Lost Art

According to statistics, there’s been a sharp decline in people reading books. But tell that to the 500 people on the library waiting list wanting to read Virginia Evans’ novel The Correspondent! My wife had the good fortune to score a copy and I am happily immersed in this unusual book whose story is told wholly through letters written and received by Sybil, the main character. It takes a while to figure out who’s who in her world, but if you’re patient, the larger picture slowly reveals itself like a jigsaw puzzle, one piece at a time. 

 

Being a library book, I can’t write in the margins, but there are many noteworthy passages that merit highlighting. One is an ode of sorts to the very notion of still writing handwritten letters, which none of us needs statistics to tell us, has just about wholly disappeared from our culture. Be honest. When was the last time you wrote one? When was the last time you received one?

And if we were equally honest, wouldn’t we all testify to the pleasure of writing by hand, perhaps seated at a table in low light with our drink of choice close at hand. Or under a tree listening to bird song and gazing out at Spring blossoms? Wouldn’t we admit that we equally treasured receiving such a letter, feeling the distant person’s presence both in the distinctive handwriting and their reflection so much deeper than an e-mail and certainly light years more profound than a text? 

 

Here's how Sybil describes it in a letter written to one Mick Watts, a man she met briefly who wonders why she writes so many letters:

 

“Imagine all that you have said to another, all the commentary you have exchanged with friends over drinks, over the phone with colleagues and distant relatives, all the prattle sent quickly, mindlessly over e-mail, messages typed into your cellular phone, and really, the sum of this interpersonal communication is the substance of your life, relationships being, as we know by now in our old ages, the meat of our lives; but all of that is gone. Vanished! And one day, Mr. Watts, you yourself will be gone. Perhaps if you have children, they will remember you’ if you have grandchildren, they, God allowing, may also retain a few fragments of memory including you, but their grandchildren will not. …what will be left of you, nearly erased, in fewer than three generations, and your life, the life you see from the inside, right now, as monumental, will be reduced to the blood in their veins and perhaps, if you are lucky, a distant namesake, a name plucked from the family tree that has come back in vogue after seventy-odd years as fashionable things tend to do and slapped on a newborn baby who will nothing of YOU. 

 

And yet, if one has committed oneself to the page, the tragedy I’ve just laid out will not apply. Imagine, the letters one has sent out into the world, the letters received back in turn, are like the pieces of a magnificent puzzle, or a better metaphor, if dated, the links of a long chain, and even if those links are never put back together, which they will certainly never be, even if they remain for the rest of time dispersed across the earth like the fragile blown seeds of a dying dandelion, isn’t there something wonderful in that, to think that a story of one’s life is preserved in some way, that this very letter may one day mean something even if it a very small thing, to someone?” (pp 45-46)

 

There’s some tasty food for thought. Don’t we all wish to make some kind of “Kilroy was here!” mark to tell the world, “We were here. We mattered. We meant something to somebody and we contributed in whatever small or big ways we could manage.” I’m sure this Blog is my love-letter to the world and I don’t really imagine anyone discovering it is going to read all 4, 875 posts (to date), but they’re there floating in cyberspace should anyone wish to see what I was up to just about any day in the past sixteen years. Then there are my handwritten journals, mostly a letter to my future selves and it is always interesting when I dip back in to visit one of my past selves captured on those pages. In my basement lies a trunk full of letters received and some I’ve written that people going through their basement have sent on to me. 

 

But it has been a long time since I’ve written a letter by hand or even a postcard. And I believe I’ve received one such letter in the past ten years or so. 

So in the midst of all my other writing—still the journals, this blog, articles, books—I’m determined to begin a ritual practice of writing letters to my daughters and grandchildren while my mind is still in one piece and my handwriting somewhat legible. Pick a day of the week for the grandchildren and another for my daughters and simply write to them. Of course, I would be delighted if any of them wrote back. Dialogues are always preferred to monologues, but I’m aware that it’s unlikely. We’ll see. 

 

And you? Can you imagine reviving the lost art of letter-writing? If so, write me a letter and tell me about it. 

  

The Post-Fascist Dictionary

There is so much work ahead to repair the damage when the tsunami of fascism’s threat finally passes. And it will! But alongside the big jobs, it will be time to reclaim things the ruling despots and their enablers, excusers, allies, made ugly, to restore words to their original and truer meaning. In that spirit, here is my post-fascist dictionary:

 

• The United States—each state endowed with natural beauty, inspired historical figures and contemporary citizens contributing to the common good, united in their commitment to “liberty and justice for all.”

• Patriotism— a loyalty to the founding vision of one’s country, as in Thomas Jefferson’s words: “Dissent is the highest form of patriotism.”

• Trump —a term used in the card game Bridge.

• Ice —a refreshing way to cool a drink. 

• Red — a color linked to values that include luck, prosperity, vitality, romantic love, safety (danger signals), happiness and roses. 

• Fox —an animal. 

• Drone —a musical term describing the 1^st and 5^th notes sounded to create a foundation for the melody above. Used extensively in Orff music classes, bagpipe and dulcimer music.

• Glock —short for the sweet dulcet-toned instrument, the “glockenspiel.”

• AI— a tasty steak sauce with a Roman numeral.

• WayMo—the quantity of love and truth-telling we currently need.

•  Empathy—a positive attribute. (Formerly thought a weakness).

• Truth —something we tell to the children, not hide it from them. And to each other. We return to expecting news media, elected officials, corporations and well—everybody— to do the same. If not, there are consequences.

• Socialism— what you should thank if you ever use public beaches, parks, libraries, schools, roads, Medicare or Medicaid, food programs, Social Security checks and 911. 

• Party— a group of people gathered together to have a good time while celebrating some worthy news. 

• Republican— a system of government by the people with no monarch (ie. No King!), focused on public interest and the commonwealth— a word which in turn means common well-being and shared prosperity for the benefit of all citizens. (Look it up! This is the truth!)

 

_______________  Add your own.