Buddha Bowl

Arrived in Izmir on Monday night and spent Tuesday afternoon walking along the path by the sea. Dinner with Banu, my host, a lovely human who was part of our first Intern program at The SF School back in 2013. I ordered a grain salad called “Buddha Bowl” and too much for my appetite, got a take-away container. 

 

On to the workshop site for an unusual evening venue and the grand pleasure of greeting 16 more eager young women. We gathered in the ritual opening circle and off we went. The usual three or so activities with hardly a word from me and then time for some reflection. Always looking for new ways to talk about old tried-and-true ideas, I took out my take-away container and began: 

 

"Just before coming here, I had dinner with Banu. I ordered a dish called the Buddha Bowl. I suspect the name of that dish doesn’t tell you very much. Like telling a beginning music student that we’re going to learn about the minor scale. And you might wonder “Who or what is Buddha?”

 

If I tell you what’s in that dish, that helps you understand a little bit more. And so I describe a grain salad with quinoa, falafel, avocado, carrots, lettuce. You still might not know all the ingredients (quinoa?) but it helps give you a picture of it. Like telling about the interval structure of whole steps and half steps in the minor scale. 

 

If I show you a photo of it, you get one step closer to understanding. And better yet, to show you the dish itself. And here it is! (I open the take-away container). Back in music class, this would be equivalent of singing the minor scale. 

 

If I passed it around and you smelled it, that brings you closer yet. In the music class, we might sing the minor scale together.

 

But if I invited you to taste it or eat a whole bowl, now you have the most important information, eating it first-hand and digesting it. Like singing a minor scale melody. 

 

The Orff class begins with the meal itself, not waiting so long to taste it. Just eating together. After we might describe things, naming each ingredient and discussing how they all fit together. 

 

But we’re not done yet. If we like the taste, we have to learn how to make our own Buddha bowl salad. Now we have the independence to continue to enjoy it without depending on the restaurant and create our own variations. Like improvising or composing new melodies in the minor scale."

 

The students seemed intrigued. And then we went on to the second and third courses and ended with dessert. A most delicious meal indeed. 

 

Shout-out to Blogspot

 

While posting the last post about doing everything in one’s power to contribute to kindness, truth and justice and refusing meanness, falsity and cruelty, I noticed a message from the host Blogging site: 

 

Updates to the Blogger Content Policy
We are making some changes to our policies, effective December 16, 2026

 

Reading further, it said: 

 

Blogger is a service for self-expression and communication. We believe Blogger increases the availability of information, encourages healthy debate, and makes possible new connections between people. It is our belief that censoring this content is contrary to a service that bases itself on freedom of expression.

 

However, in order to uphold these values, we need to curb abuses that threaten our ability to provide this service and the freedom of expression it encourages. As a result, there are some boundaries on the type of content that can be hosted with Blogger. The boundaries we've defined are those that both comply with legal requirements and that serve to enhance the service as a whole.

 

It goes on to list specifically what is acceptable and what is not in the following categories, making explicit what should be implicit in any decent community:

·      Community Guidelines

·      Adult Content

·      Child Sexual Abuse and Exploitation

·      Dangerous and Illegal Activities

·      Deceptive Practices, Fraud and Scams

·      Harassment, Bullying, and Threats

·      Hate Speech

·      Impersonation and Misrepresentation of Identity

·      Malware and Similar Malicious Content

·      Misleading Content 

·      Personal and Confidential Information

·      Phishing

·      Regulated Goods and Services

·      Spam

·      Violent Organizations and Movements

·      Unauthorized Images of Minors

·      Violence and Gore

·      Copyright

In short, they’re making clear that freedom of expression entails certain responsibilities to the community of readers and that abuse of these will not be tolerated. 

Thank you, Blogspot. This makes me proud to be associated with your services. Now if only the media and government would follow suit. 

The Broken World

Re-reading (for the 5^th time?) Dickens’ David Copperfield, I’m struck by the ongoing cruelty of so many people David meets. His stepfather Mr. Murdstone and that evil man’s sister, the schoolmaster Creakle, the donkey-cart-driver who steals David’s trunk, the pawnbrokers who cheat him, the unforgettable Uriah Heep and more. A world where everyone seems to be look out for No. 1 (themselves) without a single thought as to being kind to others. In short, a mentality that grew to be the ethic of an entire political party a couple of centuries later across the ocean. 

 

But such inhumanity is balanced by the integrity and honesty of people like Peggoty and Ham, the innocence of Mr. Dick, the eccentric but generous Micawbers and David’s no-nonsense but good-at-heart Aunt, Betsy Trotwood. When the world has cast little David out time and time again, she takes him in and in a brief farewell as he goes off to a school she found to further his education, gives him this advice: 

 

“Never be mean in anything; never be false; never be cruel.”

 

The three things that our false, mean, cruel President and all his supporters and enablers have failed time and time again, without an ounce of shame, hesitation or remorse. Ms. Trotwood adds: 

 

“Avoid these three vices and I can always be hopeful of you.”

 

So with some seven million people who took to the streets the other day to renew their determination to help heal our broken democracy through the power of the upcoming vote, hope is again on the horizon. Dear reader, please make sure that you and your family and cousins and neighbors and fellow churchgoers, workmates, what have you, will vote to end the nightmare of purposeful cruelty, greed and hate and restore civility and justice to a world that can’t survive without it. 

 

Vote. 

The Unbroken World

I, like most everyone on all sides of the political/ cultural spectrum, spend a lot of time thinking about, writing about, talking about, what’s wrong with this world. But it’s a good exercise for us all to pause and spend a little time thinking about what’s right. What works and is mostly dependable. 

 

For example, yesterday I woke up in a hotel room where the water in the sink ran, the water in the shower was hot, the lights came on and off as needed and the wi-fi allowed me to write an e-mail or check the weather. I got dressed in clothes that were neither ragged nor torn and the perfect warmth for the outside temperature. 

 

I walked to a breakfast place that offered the food I needed and a cup of coffee to help with jet lag. They wouldn’t take my cash money, but my credit card worked just fine. I walked to the school where I was to teach with help from my phone’s GPS and when there was a moment or two of confusion (my fault), I asked actual people on the street for help with directions and they happily gave it to me. 

 

The people I expected to greet me at the school showed up and greeted me at the school. The 20 people who has signed up for the workshop all arrived. The instruments I needed were all in place and the Bluetooth connection to the sound system worked when I needed it. Everyone joyfully participated in the class as I expected they would and when I spoke strongly and clearly about difficult subjects like racism, misogyny and unchecked capitalism, no one shouted me down or beat me up or called the police to come cart me away. There was a sink in the bathroom with a stuck faucet that kept water running, but with a little manipulation with a fork, two of us managed to kind of fix it for the moment. 

 

My friend who was sick yesterday and couldn’t join me for that workshop was better today and was able to come to the afternoon workshop. People bought almost all the books I had brought from home and when they didn’t have the cash for them, were able to pay me through Paypal. 

 

Going out to dinner with my friend and her husband, the Oyster card got me both on the bus going and into the London Underground returning home. We were first in line at the pick-up-a-tray-and-choose-your- dinner at Govinda Indian restaurant and felt lucky when we sat down to ate and the line suddenly was up to twenty-people-long. Thinking about dessert after dinner and me mentioning ice cream, my friends’ phone found the perfect gelato place a mere three blocks away and the hazelnut/chocolate scoop on the sugar cone was even better than I hoped for.

 

After a fond farewell and subway ride to Ealing-Broadway Station, I passed a place where I thought I might be able to buy the train ticket to Stansted Airport the next day. Indeed, I could and the helpful man gave me the train timetable (which this morning proved to be 100% reliable) and the ticket (which worked this morning). 

Walking back from the tube stop to the hotel, it started to rain and the umbrella I brought opened up without a problem and kept me dry for the 10-minute walk. The key to my hotel room worked, the bed was still there awaiting me and with the help of my eyeglasses, I was able to read my David Copperfield before dropping off to a well-earned sleep. 

 

Noticing how many people in the Dickens book were so unnecessarily cruel to 10-year-old David, I gave thanks that walking the streets of London, nobody had scowled at me, yelled at me, bumped into me, threatened me, robbed me, beaten me up, pointed a gun at me. Nobody all day screamed at me when they found out I was American (thought they might have had every reason to do so!). On the contrary, the people I asked for help, the baristas, the wait staff, the hotel clerks, the folks in the elevator with me and certainly the beautiful souls in the workshop who so deeply appreciated the joyful world we created together, were without exception friendly, smiling and affable. 

 

In short, the world was wholly functioning, pleasant, delightful— and everything worked. Imagine that!

PS What worked in your world today?

Coin in the Slot

Lunching with the students yesterday, people shared funny stories about getting into trouble when they were kids at school. I told how my 2^nd grade teacher, Miss Tomsu, threatened to tape my mouth shut for the rest of the afternoon if I didn’t stop talking. I didn’t and she did. 

 

I don’t believe it caused me any trauma that required therapy. Instead, it pointed to my future and eventual acceptance of this lifelong truth: “I can’t shut up!” Well, of course, I can. I’ve attended some ten Zen retreats where you are not allowed to talk for seven days straight. I start each workshop teaching for an hour without saying a single word. I spend a fair amount of time in Solitude and I don’t talk out loud to myself. In short, I’m not a compulsive talker. 

 

But I do have a lot to say. And if someone dares put the coin in the slot by asking me a question, I often warn them that they better buckle up. One short question, a 30-minute answer. 

 

Which is what happened yesterday at the workshop when I mentioned the folk song Liza Jane and someone said, “Isn’t that a racist song that we should cross off our list? “ Click went the seat belt and off I sped down the highway, pointing out each important landmark along the way. It wasn’t a distraction from the workshop theme of Jazz and in fact, led to the important points I wanted to make anyway about the necessary blending of Jazz, Joy & Justice when teaching this subject. But I just had to smile when I got off the soap box and asked, “Any other questions?

 

Then back to the music, that perfect blend of reflection and doing, the music alchemically transforming any of the heavy air particles released when discussing the horrors of racism and toxic narratives like white supremacy. We instantly moved from needed grief to equally needed joy. By singing what needs to be sung, dancing what needs to be danced, playing what needs to be played, it felt equally right and necessary to speak what needs to be spoken.

 

Without a single person suggesting that the group tape my mouth shut. 

Doing What I Can

This morning I walked into the Little Ealing Primary School in London to teach my Humanitarian Musician workshop. The first thing I saw was a sign that read: 

 

Give racism the red card.

 

That was a promising start. Not the kind of sign any school would post a mere 25 years ago and certainly not 50 or 100 years ago. And still many schools today would not even dream of such a sentiment, never mind have the courage to post it. But I took it as a sign that despite all evidence to the contrary, we are actually evolving and finally refusing to keep the crazy game going and finally officially penalize the players who keep violating that simple rule. 

 

Off we went with the games and songs and dances and activities that welcome whoever is in the room to join the fun without a single thought as to whether their race, class, gender, sexual preference, nationality, age, health, learning style, dietary preference, clothing choices, etc. etc. etc. qualifies them to participate. Why would it? I mean, really. Just take a short time out from all the thinking as usual, rationalizations, justifications, histories, dismiss everything you have been told for just a moment and consider. Who cares? 

All these diverse markers of our multiple identities are either inherited (not our fault), taught (with freedom to accept or reject), or purposefully cultivated by our own choice (fine, but moving targets that can and often, should, change). As sang and clapped with partners and made up dance moves and copied others’ dance moves, all of the above was the furthest from everyone’s mind. As they should  have been. 

 

After four such activities, each one highlighting another aspect of a cultivated empathy for and embracing of the grand diversity we represent, each accenting  the indisputable common ground that connects us all, all reflected in small groups and discussed three things:

1)   What did we do?

2)   How did we do it?

3)   Why did we do it?

 

After they shared back, I gave this little talk. 

 

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. I think one thing that folks on all sides of political, religious and cultural spectrums can agree on is that things are not going so well. And yet we keep doing the same things that got us there to begin with. Might it be time to consider doing something different? In the small parts of our life, we understand that if the route we usually take is obstructed with traffic or construction, we should simply take an alternate route. If we try to fix something not working on the computer one way without results, we should try something else. If the milk we hoped to use for our cereal is past the expiration date and soured, we should not use it and get a new carton. 

 

But with things in the larger scheme of human development are clearly broken—the current two-party system in politics, the environmental impact of certain machines, the disastrous effect of children raised by addictive devices, we are clearly certifiably insane as we keep doing the same things and expecting different results. 

 

Would might actually turn things around? I suggest three things: 

 

1.    Treat ourselves differently. Not just self-care, but soul care, attending to our particular purpose on the planet, learning to both love ourselves and talk sternly and honestly to ourselves when we veer off course.

 

2.    Treat each other differently. There’s not a single authentic quality of soul care that doesn’t leak over to care for others. “Remove all the things that keep us apart” says the song and the “red card” sign agrees with that. Nobody, neither victim nor perpetrator, is uplifted by hating. 

 

3.    Raise children differently. We can’t control how people feel about themselves, how they treat children or how they raise children, but in the latter, we can make the most effect by using the 6 hours a day, 5 days a week, 8 months a year, 15 to 20 years that most children are in school to “be the change we want to see in the world.” Teachers have the power, but do they always use it? That’s what we’re here for.

 

 

Back in San Francisco, I missed the No Kings Rally. Instead, here I was in London, where I taught for six hours, came back to the hotel to prepare notes, went out to dinner with 5 of the lovely 18 participants and at 11:00 pm at night, part of my body still floating somewhere in the jet-lag time-change, tried to set these thoughts down. Not as articulately as I like, but it’s the best I can do given the above. My way to protest against by building something for. 

 

Now time for sleep. 

A Warm Cup of Solitude

After braving 17-hour flights to Singapore, the 9 hours to London felt like a luxury. Despite being in Peasant Class in a cramped seat that leaned back 2 inches, I managed to sleep for at least four of those hours and saw two passable movies in-between. Immigration was painless— short line to a machine that scans the passport and takes a photo and you’re in. No more stamps in the passport as memorabilia, but also no interviews with edgy immigration officers. (My worst nightmare story which bears telling someday here—and I probably did back when it happened— was in this very airport, Heathrow.) My bag was kindly awaiting me at baggage claim, out through the Nothing to Declare exit and there was my host (ess), an Orff colleague I’ve known casually over the past thirty years or so. 

 

On to the tube, the familiar Elizabeth Line which my wife and I traversed often last year in our London visit, out the station on to the London streets greeted by—well, Starbucks and Subway. The world as Everywhere, USA. But there was a double-decker bus, a few local shops and glorious sunshiney (not Sherlock-Holmes-foggy) weather. We walked to the hotel, our go-to Premium Inn which was our home these last two trips my wife and I took to the U.K.. 

 

A short horizontal sleep and then the personal grand pleasure I take in unpacking in a hotel room— hanging up the shirts, plugging in the chargers, lining up my books and crostic and cards and drinking in the welcome Solitude like an old familiar friend or soothing hot beverage— and not caring if I mix metaphors. Odd that sometimes I can feel more home in a foreign hotel room than my own home in San Francisco, but so it is and no need to question why. Just savor it. And I do. 

 

Soon out to dinner, a little bit more planning for tomorrow’s Orff workshop and hopes that the sleep-gods will help me through the new time-zone night. If not, I have David Copperfield to keep my company and at 900 plus pages, I should be set. Even though many parts are far from soothing. How I wish to jump into the pages and throttle Mr. Murdstone, shake him out of his patriarchal man-explaining privilege, shame his sister Jane for helping him and then shake Clara and tell her to wake up and assert herself!! 

 

But first, off to find this restaurant which appropriately, is right around the corner in Dickens Square.