Pinball Wizard

I’ve only played pinball a few times but found it intriguing to watch the ball bounce randomly down the playing field bouncing off the bumpers and lighting up helter-skelter the various targets in the field. It struck me that this is a pretty good metaphor for the creative process. 

 

Think about it. You drop in the coin, paying with your time and attention to get the game started. You pull back the spring-loaded plunger and send the first impulse— a sentence, a musical phrase, a dance gesture— out into the field, hoping —but never knowing exactly when or where or what— it will light something up. As the ball plummets down, either hitting or missing the targets, you are ready with the flippers to send it back up and give it another chance. Sometimes you miss, the ball drops out of sight and it’s time to send another one up the shooter-alley with the plunger. 

 

Perfect description of the writing process or jazz improvisation or really, any creative act. Your job is to stay poised at the machine, watching the action and hands ready at the flipper. And to notice when it lights something up.

 

So in my writing, be it this post, a journal, an article or a book, I have a sense of the territory I want to wander through and set off, alert to those moments when the targets sparkle and the music starts playing. I can’t predict when or if, there’s no methodical way to ensure they’ll appear, no way to control how that ball careens down the field. My work is to keep putting the coins in and sending the ball out and being wholly alert to those inspired moments. Same process with heading off into the unknown (but somewhat known) terrain of jazz improvisation, the ball bouncing off one chord to the next. 

 

And I believe the same is true as a reader, a listener, a viewer. Staying awake to the moments that strum the strings of the heart or light the fire of the mind. I’m feeling this—and delightfully so—with my new friend in Korea as we write e-mails back and forth about the vision of our mutual Orff Schulwerk playing field and finding at least one or ten sentences in her writing that jump off the page (well, screen) at me. Stimulating thoughts that stimulate more thought. And affirm what we both already know but are always searching for new ways to think about it and talk about it. 

 

I think most authors would agree that on some level, not a single one is saying something that hasn’t been said a thousand or several million times before. The accent, syntax, rhythm of it all is different but it’s simply searching for one’s own unique way to say in your voice what someone else (or again, 10 million) have said in theirs. So why bother to keep writing or reading?

 

Reading a commencement speech— profound and hilarious— by Anne Lamott, she had a sentence that leaped off the page and inspired this post: 

 

The soul rejoices in hearing what it already knows. 

 

That explains it all. Every time the ball hits the target that lights up the board, the soul is doing a little touchdown victory dance. (Yes, it’s a mixed metaphor, but the soul doesn’t care.) And yes, part of the motivation to keep writing, improvising jazz, painting, what have you, is to see how many points you can score. To try to beat your previous score. Which is more to the point than comparing yourself to the high score of previous players, but let’s face it, that’s part of human nature as well. But in the end, no one really cares that you hold the record for pinball machine number 3 in some obscure little video arcade. 

The real deal is in the pleasure of playing and the inner satisfaction of lighting up the board. 

 

And lest we forget, we all have an inborn sense of what we know that needs constant reminders. So whether as a creator or recipient of creation, our job is to stay alert and notice and give thanks. It’s as simple as that. 

A Taste of Heaven

The Balinese have a remarkable vision of Heaven. They believe Heaven is exactly like Bali, only a mirror reflection where all directions are reversed. The extraordinary care Balinese take to make every aspect of life aesthetically pleasing— the sculpting of the land, the architecture, the daily offerings to the gods so meticulously crafted, the marriage of utilitarian tools with artistry, the animation of religious ritual with exquisite, dynamic and complex music, dance and drama— is their way to assure that the Heaven in the other world is a beautiful place by creating Heaven in this world. 

 

Now there’s an idea worth considering. Far superior to the notion that this world is simply a holding cell for the next and giving us full permission to trash the natural world and slaughter each other with the false promise that angels with harps floating on clouds await us. That is, if we worship the right God, accept that we’re disgusting creatures born into sin, obey all commandments and when we transgress, a few Hail Mary’s and generous financial donations is enough to get us a seat in the clouds. 

 

I’m more with the Balinese and yesterday, I spend an entire day in the Heaven I would be most pleased to enjoy for Eternity. Carrying forth one of the best traditions The San Francisco School ever put into practice, my daughter Talia with some fellow staff members and parent chaperones took her 5^th grade class for a 4-day camping trip in China Camp in Marin County. My wife Karen and I joined her on the second day of the trip and soon after we arrived, we all set off on a 7-mile hike over hill-and-dale in a perfect temperature 70-degree day. That hill-and-dale was literal, as there was close to a mile of steady uphill, with the reward of well-earned lunch at the peak gazing out at a spectacular view of the San Francisco Bay and beyond. Arriving at China Camp, we waded in the surprisingly warm water and skipped stones before heading back to camp for an afternoon snack, a quiet time and some free time before dinner.

 

(I wished I had brought my own journal, for the Muse was with me as I sat and looked out at the scene. But don’t feel its presence at the moment as I attempt to give language to the ineffable. I’ll just do what I can here.)

 

Here was heaven. The light was streaming between the valley oaks and bay laurels, the air was sinfully delicious, the silence animated by the chatter and laughter of children amidst some bird song. Everywhere I looked, kids were so happily engaged. They were sitting at the picnic table with my wife doing watercolors, propped against trees reading a book or writing in their journal, playing paddleball, catch or cornhole, swinging each other in the hammocks they put up, sitting in small groups and chatting. Not a single one was looking at a screen worried if someone “liked” them, not a single teacher was making sure that they were “learning something”— we were all simply wholly present, as we are meant to be, enjoying each other’s company embraced by the elements of sky, trees, ground. 

At the bell, half went off to chop, grate, stir, cook the evening’s taco meal while the others continued to skip around on this sacred ground. Then the communion of eating together, the post-dinner clean-up from the other half, the gathering around the evening campfire and joyfully singing the tender, funny and energetic songs I led. Kids and adults then telling delightful stories on the edge of truth and then revealing whether indeed, their story was all true in oursOld Doc Jones game. Capped off by a story I told called The Fire on the Mountain about a distant fire lit by a loving grandmother being enough to warm someone alone on top of a mountain in freezing weather and help him survive the night. Not a peep for 20 minutes as the kids’ imagination brought them to the heart of the story in the way humans have done for millions of years around campfires. Heaven all the way around.

 

And this one made even more poignant as David, one of the parent chaperones, is the son of Terry, our school head with whom I shared the heaven (and hell) of our beloved school community for the 35 years he worked there. I first met David when he was literally 1-day old, taught him for 11 years, went on the school camping trips with him for three years and now he’s 49. In two weeks, I’ll be biking with Terry in the Dolomites, a couple of months before his 80^th birthday. Karen and I did these camping trips for 25 years and here we were again, her doing art with the kids and me music as we did for over four decades at the school. Talia first went on the school camping trip when she was two and now is leading it with such superb organization, connection with the kids, a backpack filled with water, sunscreen, snacks and game after game, activity after activity, just right for kids. To have the four of us gathered around the campfire again in our perpetually changing, but always the same, selves is another form of Heaven altogether. 

 

Returning home, I look at things on my phone and am dragged down straight to the gates of Hell again. And then remember the Japanese poet Issa’s poem:

 

We wander the roof of Hell,

Choosing blossoms.

 

Whether the ground we walked on was the roof of Hell, the sacred ground of Heaven or an inverted Balinese paradise doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we were all graced by this most perfect day, reminding us all that Heaven is possible. Right here. Right now. 

The Kafka Nightmare

Back in the “good ole days” at my school, administration consisted of Terry and Lynne. Technically the school Head and Assistant Head, but for us faculty, it was Terry and Lynne. And Susan, the parent volunteer at the front desk. Teachers ran the staff meetings—brought snacks, decided the agenda, rotated chairing. We checked in about delightful and less-delightful classes with the kids and/or encounters with the parents, dreamed forth a step-by-step organic growing of school curriculum, hiring a Spanish teacher, a P.E. teacher and such, gathered at Holiday times to take down the shelves and curtains in the huge elementary open classroom and put together a stage built by a parent that was stored behind the school so we could put on our annual Holiday plays. 

 

Over the years, following the trend of the times and the slightly enlarged student body, administration grew one person at a time— a Development Director, a Finance person, a Middle School head, etc. But once that was set in motion, it seemed to keep proliferating and without staff input. As one teacher put it, every time someone in Admin broke a fingernail, they hired a new person. Somewhere around 2005, I heard the first teacher talk about “us” (teachers) and “them” (administrators).  Suddenly Terry and Lynne became some 25 “thems” in Admin and without so much as a by-your-leave. “They” set the meeting agendas, made decisions behind closed doors, paid themselves an hourly wage greater than “us” and took up offices and parking spots. Everyone shrugged their shoulders and just accepted, “It’s the way of the world.” 

 

But is it? It’s certainly the way of the corporate world, but a school is not a business. It’s a communal vision in action. Of course, some of it is business and yes, I’d rather teach the kids than balance the books, so thanks to the finance person. But I sorely missed those collective staff meetings and it was clear that when you give someone a job title and an office, they have to figure out stuff to do all day long. My work never changed. Live, breathing children kept showing up at my door and I had to teach them. But if I sat in an office, I’d make up things to do and forms to fill out and listen to parents complain for three hours while the teacher they’re complaining about gets three minutes of my time before they’re off to yard duty. Rather than ease the burden of teaching, some of this new trend to over-administration actually ended up adding to the teacher’s burden. 

 

I’m six years retired from the school, but now I feel the same dynamic happening in the national Orff Association. To their credit, after some mini-disasters of hiring outside guns who hadn’t taught music classes under the guise of being more “professional,” the organization still has a grass-roots quality, its Board and Committee members coming from still-working music teachers mostly volunteering their time. 

 

But the committee mentality of “solving” issues better dealt with through simple conversations, reflection, reading and thinking, has infested the organization. Instead of being a group of like-minded teachers/ artists sitting around the table with the snacks they prepared sharing their passion for both teaching and art, it has become a Kafka nightmare. Take this e-mail I received recently suggesting I look at the following (AOSA stands for American Orff Schulwerk Association, but the first sign of over-bureaucracy is lots of initials that I mostly don't understand): 

 

Please take a moment to review the following:

• AOSA Leadership Code of Conduct
• Handbook for Orff Schulwerk Teacher Education Courses- Updates
• Teacher Educator Additional Curricular Apprenticeship (TEACA)
• 2027 Basic Level II and III Pilot
• AOSA Logo on All Course Materials
• Updated Ambassador Materials
• Upcoming Levels Course Student Website Logins
• AOSA TE Website Directory
• Presenting a CTED/DOS/EOS Session
• AOSA Leadership Interest Forms
• DEIA Efforts

 

Each one alone might be worth some consideration and I don’t doubt the sincerity of the committee members in thinking they’re contributing to the evolution of the Orff vision. But put it all together and even Kafka would be surprised. It’s just too much and ends up not only being a burden, but a distraction, a fantasy that following some guidelines set by others and signing off with your compliance is actually going to effect needed change. 

 

If I were running the Board meetings, I’d ask those present to share stories about recent classes with their kids and what delightful surprises came up. To share the most memorable Orff workshop they attended and talk about what made it memorable. To share the most memorable Orff workshop they taught. To talk about what was going on for them artistically or share a concert/ museum exhibit/ play they’ve seen recently that moved them. To talk about what they’re reading and how it opened their mind and heart. You get the idea.

 

And then get down to "business." That's always going to be part of putting feet to the vision. But by beginning with the above, it might remind the group of what they’re actually here for, which goes far, far beyond reporting about the new committee formed or form to fill out. 

 

This post is probably the wrong place to express my discontent (though perhaps some Orff teachers are reading it?), but the trends and the distractions from renewing your group’s purpose are happening everywhere. Take from it what you will. Or better yet, fill out the survey and form I will send to your e-mail/ text message/ WhatsApp/ Facebook message.

Also let me know if you'd like to join the Committee that will discuss if we have too many Committees. Have fun!

 

  

Who Knows?

A friend of mine recently heard the singer Lizz Wright at SF Jazz and raved about her. I didn’t know her work, so tonight while cooking stir fry, I listened to some of her recordings. The first song was one Judy Collins recorded by her album of the same name—Who Knows Where the Time Goes? A good question to ask, as it was 1968 when that album came out. 58 years have passed since that first listening, so the question is wholly relevant. Where did all that time go? Ah, that unanswerable question that we all ponder. And no one knows.

 

I confess that I’m a sucker for poignant, reflective, songs asking the big questions. Songs like In My Life, Both Sides Now, My Father— interestingly enough, all recorded by Judy Collins (as well as others).  All were written by young people and I loved them when I was young, even as if their reality felt so far in the future. Now they have a different resonance, but they tug at my heart strings in much the same way. 

 

Speaking of Judy Collins, I heard her perform in the Venetian Room in the Fairmount Hotel in San Francisco, probably some twenty years ago now. She seemed so old! But still could bring the songs across. And now, at 86 years old, she is beginning a 9-month Farewell Tour. It seems like she’s answered the question in Verse 1— “how can (we) know it’s time for (us) to go?” For so many years, the line, “I have no thought of leaving” rang true and now that’s changed. I wonder if she’ll sing this song in the Tour, bring forth the full bittersweet quality of arrival and departure, coming and going, living and dying. Maybe I should buy a ticket. 

 

As for me, I answered the “time for me to go” question in regards to The San Francisco School six years ago, but for all the rest—which is a lot—“I have no thought of leaving.” But leave I must someday and when that occasion arises, the song awaits me to sing it forth. 

 

So treat yourself to a listen. For extra credit, try the Judy Collins, then the Lizz Wright and then a version by the incomparable Nina Simone. Here are the lyrics, if you want to follow along.

 

[Verse 1]
Across the morning sky all the birds are leaving
Ah, how can they know it's time for them to go?
Before the winter fire, we'll still be dreaming
I do not count the time

[Chorus]
Who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?

[Verse 2]
Sad deserted shore, your fickle friends are leaving
Ah, but then you know, it's time for them to go
But I will still be here, I have no thought of leaving
I do not count the time

[Chorus]
Who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?

[Verse 3]
And I am not alone, while my love is near me
And I know it will be so, 'til it's time to go
So come the storms of winter and then the birds in spring again
I do not fear the time.

 

High and Low

 

“Do we REALLY have to ‘go high’ when they go low?” Stephen Colbert asked the originator of the phrase, First Lady Michelle Obama.

. 

“I totally understand going high when somebody goes low,” he told her, “but the bar is so low that staying at your own altitude still means higher. Do I actually have to go up here or can I just be normal? Do I have to be a saint? Because down here, I’m pissed off!”

 

She responded, “For me, going high is not losing the urgency or the passion or the rage, especially when you are justified in it. Going high means finding the purpose in your rage. Rage without reason, without a plan, without direction, is just more rage. And we’ve been living in a lot of rage.”

 

Mrs. Obama said she feels there’s no choice but to “go high” — “because the opposite is unsustainable. If going low worked,” she added, “we’d do it. It might be a quick fix, but it doesn’t fix anything over the long term. I’m trying to push us to think about solutions that will actually unite us and get us focused on the real problem. That’s what I mean when I say ‘go high.’” 

 

Obama concluded. “So yes, go high. America, please, go high.”

 

Every day teaching kids, I’m reaching for the mountaintop. Every day writing and reflecting through writing, I’m searching for purpose inside my rage. Every day playing music, I’m hoping to release the beauty hidden inside all the ugliness. 

 

Today, I had the grand pleasure of visiting my old school in company with 16 alums about to graduate high school and their parents. After a lovely lunch and catch-up chatter, we invited the kids into the music room where we had set up the xylophones they used to play. It took me two minutes to teach them a blues melody (Milt Jackson’s Blues Legacy) and each also got a chance to solo. No one hesitated and all played something musically coherent and swingin’. Then the parents came in, I chose three soloists and we performed. All were mightily impressed. 

 

I then taught them a new four-phrase melody (Mo Betta Blues) in front of the parents which they learned in 40 seconds. This time instead of solos, each had a duet musical conversation with a partner in the G-pentatonic scale with me supporting them on the piano. Again, eloquent dialogues with great listening and responding and the parents again suitably impressed. Then the kids sat across from the parents and each in turn spoke about something they learned at The San Francisco School that helped frame their high school years and that they hope to take with them into the future. Some mentioned the fearlessness and confidence they just displayed in their spontaneous solos in these musical examples and others mentioned kindness and empathy. A perfect opening for me to shamelessly hold up my new book, The Humanitarian Musician, and credit the school for being the culture that allowed these ideals to grow and flourish. And given the kids’ testimonies, they clearly worked. 

 

Then came the obligatory group photo and without asking permission or introducing it, I just started playing Side By Side and the kids spontaneously put their arms around each other and started singing. Yeah!

 

So there it was— the high mountain we all have climbed and all of us so happily admiring the view. Our refusal to go low and follow the dregs of society down into their hellholes. Our antidote to mindless rage and our determination to keep walking upward with purpose and perseverance.

 

I think Michelle Obama would be proud.  

The City by the Bay—and Breakers

 

It turns out I get through my day just fine without my morning Zen meditation that I’ve been doing for some 50 years. Without my zafu pillow and incense and getting out of the house early in Toronto, I just didn’t do it for three weeks. I did shop and cook a little and played my host’s piano, but without the higher satisfaction of the ingredients and kitchen I’m used to and the better sound of my piano. I walked a bit around their neighborhood, but most of my exercise was folded into my commute to the school and none of it through a place as gorgeous as Golden Gate Park. 

 

So it was indeed satisfying to be back in my old home in my home city. Sat zazen, ate at my own breakfast table, went out to help out in a neighborhood clean-up that my wife organizes every couple of months. I love picking up trash with the metal grabbers, enjoy the brief connection with the neighbors in our opening circle, feel the satisfaction of doing something physically useful and re-unite with some 10 square blocks around my house. 

 

On to my favorite food store, Trader Joe’s, finding some of my old favorite foods, lunch on the deck in 70-degree sunshine and knocking off one of my Crostic puzzles. Then off walking to another neighborhood store for the things Trader Joe’s doesn’t have— Chinese eggplant and fresh carrots, Adelle’s sausages, Vietnamese Spring Roll wrappers, quality tamari sauce. Head over to Golden Gate Park and start the roundabout return home, past families throwing footballs in fields, folks biking and walking and jogging, the drummers pounding away on Hippy Hill, the kids on the Carousel in Children’s Playground, stop to play a little cornhole game with myself, run into an old school parent and catch up on his kids, both now out of college and involved with music. 

 

A lot of activity as trucks unload rows and rows of portable toilets. Tomorrow is the annual “Bay to Breakers,” a 7.6 mile race that began in 1912 in an attempt to boost the city’s morale after the 1906 earthquake. It is now the longest running consecutive unchanging race in the world. In 1986, it broke the Guinness World Record at 110,000 participants. (Since surpassed by a race in Sydney). Its name comes from starting at the Bay by the Ferry Building and ending at the ocean (the Breakers) at the end of Golden Gate Park. My wife ran in it in 1978 and never again. My daughter Talia, who has run some 25 marathons, did it several times, but most of those times, in her own words, she didn’t “run it” but “drank it.”

 

Because though some people take it seriously as a race, most people see it as a big party and wear outrageous costumes or run naked or connect themselves with ropes and such. According to Wikipedia, city officials and race sponsors officially banned floats, alcohol and nudity. Bay Area residents protested that that would change the character of a race that has been a national treasure for most of the last century. Don’t know what the final decision was and I’m not going to watch it tomorrow to find out— there’s a gathering of SF School alums now graduating from high school that I want to go to. They were in 6^th grade when I retired and I’ve kept in touch with some of them—gone to one’s dance concert, met another at the Jewish Home and such. 

 

Happy to be home, happy the race is still going on, happy that I’m not running in it—never have and never will! (But I did walk 6.5 miles today).  

It's Only Money

One of my favorite “way back then” tales I tell about starting my adult life in San Francisco has to do with money. Back in 1974, I was volunteering at a hippy free school doing some music classes. I went twice a week to work with three high-school students and taking the bus round trip. At one point, I got up the nerve to ask if I could get reimbursed for the bus fare. In this consensus-based community way of making decisions (no administrator), they had to hold a meeting to consider my request. At the end, they gave me the good news—they would pay the Muni bus fare. At the time, it cost 25 cents per ride, so my reimbursement, which required a proposal, a meeting and a discussion was—$1 per week!

 

At the time, I was living with my sister and brother-in-law in a lovely apartment on Downey Street in the Upper Haight, with two bedrooms, living room, kitchen and a gorgeous view of Golden Gate Park extending all the way to the ocean. The rent? $125 a month split three ways. I was teaching piano lessons once a week and accompanying my sister’s modern dance class twice a week, both for $3.00 per hour. I also was on food stamps and we ate macrobiotically, meaning mostly brown rice and vegetables. Occasionally, I treated myself to Uncle Gaylord’s ice cream cones. $.20 each. When I went back East to visit my family, I hitchhiked across the country. Different times. 

 

When I stumbled into a job at The San Francisco School that didn’t exist before someone donated Orff instruments and the school decided they needed to hire someone who knew what to do with them (longer story here), I remember going into the office of the administrator and her asking me what salary I proposed. It was May, they hired me for September and hadn’t accounted for it yet in their budget. My answer? “Whatever you want. I’m sure it will be more than I’ve ever earned before.” And at $4,000 a year, it was!

 

After my wife had taught there for four years (she was the first art teacher) and I for three, we decided to take a leave of absence and travel around the world for a year. And we did. Our budget? $6,000 for the two of us! For a year! And we did it. When we returned to school and had kids, our salaries were increasing year by year, but so were expenses— rents, food, gas, etc. For the next five to ten years, there were times when we ran out of money before the month ended and had to get an advance on our next month’s salaries. Since they were 9-month salaries back then, you could collect Unemployment over the summer.

 

All of this taught me some lifelong sense of frugality that has never left me. While I have no choice but pay the bill for $4000 (my first year’s salary!) our recent leak in the roof cost to get fixed, I still balk against going to restaurants that charge way too much for food I can cook as well at home. I’m always looking for “deals” when it comes to air travel or gas prices, will go the extra mile to go the store that has oatmilk for $4.99 instead of $6.99. 

 

At the same time, now that I’m more comfortable financially, I need to remember that “you can’t take it with you” and am opening up to just relaxing a bit more with the mantra “It’s only money.” I’ve been waiting for five more students to sign up for my Jazz Course to bring my Pentatonics Jazz Band and finally decided, “Hell with that! I love being with these guys, the course will benefit, they’re excited about coming back to New Orleans and I can take it off my salary.” I’ve long wanted my grandkids to come to Ghana with me for the Orff-Afrique Course and now am determined that they will next summer. A good chance to use all those miles I’ve been hoarding to pay their plane flights. And speaking of Ghana, I got the idea with my friend Kofi that I can take on the project of fundraising to build a basketball court for his Nunya Academy School. And then thought maybe I’d just pay for it myself. Why not?

 

Even in this new mindset of more casual generosity, that lifelong frugal voice still sits on my shoulder. I’m having a hard time deciding to get the $350 ticket to go see Jacob Collier this Fall. Anyone want to treat me? :-) Come on, it’s only money!