The New Ten Commandments

I have a folder on my computer called “Talks/ Interviews/ Articles” and often (like yesterday), while looking for one thing, another catches my eye. Usually something I have forgotten I wrote. So here’s what I found yesterday, my new Ten Commandments that I wrote in 2024. (Perhaps I should title them “Ten Suggestions” or “ Ten Things to Consider.”) “Commandments” is so—well, Old Testament.  Note that one is in bold to celebrate today’s holiday. Note also that the Psycho-in-Chief has broken every single one of the old Ten Commandments and likewise, fails miserably with my revised list. 

 

1.    Thou shalt respect and embrace all gods as the sacred parts of yourself and others.

2.    Thou shalt make images in an attempt to express that which is beyond imagination.

3.    Knowing that any name is too small for the ineffable, thou shalt relax about using it playfully or angrily. 

4.    Treat every day as a Sabbath Day, leaving moments of rest and feeling the sacred in each day of the week. 

5.   Honor your father and mother and thank them for doing the best they could, while refusing to carry on any of their hurtful and harmful ideas and practices.

6.    Thou shalt not kill and thou shalt oppose the NRA’s shameless production and selling of murderous assault weapons and all calls to war. 

7.    Thou shalt not commit adultery and if you do, thou shalt not pay off lovers with non-disclosure agreements and face the consequences of your action. 

8.    Thou shalt not steal, especially in the forms of corporate capitalism and Wall Street unchecked greed. 

9.    Thou shalt not bear false witness against your neighbor and hold accountable any President who has told 20,000 documented lies without consequence.

10.                  Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, husband, house, yard, car or vacations and learn to be content with your lot and deal with your FOMO. 

Wanuskewin

… was the title of the concert by the Amadeus Choir of Great Toronto that I attended last night. It is a Cree word that translates to “seeking peace of mind”and its message is timely.  I think we can all agree that our soul indeed yearns for a respite from the ongoing catastrophe. But it is not to be had with drugs, distraction or denial.  It is a path through chaos demanding our greatest reserve of courage and determination and needing others by our side. Its voice is not simply conversation or news analysis, but is best expressed through the arts— dancing, poetry, painting and yes, choral singing. 

This was a groundbreaking concert that brought together three indigenous composers from the Cree people in present-day British Columbia, Alberta and Manitoba. Most of the compositions had to do with the natural elements of earth, water, wind and fire. As one of the composers, Sherryl Sewepagaham described it, her piece is not about the wind, but came from sitting with the wind and feeling its voice speak through her. It renewed her determination for her voice to be the voice of the voices no one hears anymore or listens to. 

 

Chris Dirksen followed the Homage to Wind with her own seven-part piece about Water, featuring her cello alongside violin, piano, flute, French horn, drum set and the 100 voice choir.

 

Another composer, Andrew Balfour, suggested to the audience that we were not listening to a concert, but participating in a sound ceremony. I like that! It’s a good two words to describe what I aim for in my Orff classes and workshops. We were there not to be entertained and simply applaud, but to bear witness to what’s going down and what’s rising up. He wrote an exquisite piece about trees, as well as adapted a Johannes Ockeghem canon and Purcell piece. 

 

It felt like a historic event to have these three representing their ancestry and their contemporary music, which clearly fuses their Western upbringing with indigenous elements. And that’s all anyone would want to do and deserves to do. Be granted the right to define themselves instead of having others define them. Andrew shared that he had been stolen from his family to be “re-educated” at a church-run and sanctioned Indian Residential School (IRS)— at 6 months old. This was a common practice in the 20^th century, a purposeful program of cultural genocide that continued until the last IRS was closed—in 1996! As described in a government Website about the subject:

 

 ” While the treatment of children varied across the different IRSs, they frequently experienced harsh and denigrating conditions In addition to physical, emotional and sexual abuse and neglect, children were stripped of their identities, made to feel ashamed of themselves and their culture, and denied the use of their language, beliefs, and ways of being.”

 

So while Canada seems like paradise compared to its southern neighbor, it too, has a lot to answer for. Its national anthem was first just in English and then later there was a French version translated thus:

 

O Canada!
Land of our ancestors
Glorious deeds circle your brow
For your arm knows how to wield the sword
Your arm knows how to carry the cross;
Your history is an epic
Of brilliant deeds
And your valour steeped in faith
Will protect our homes and our rights.

 

Hmm. I think to First Nations people, the arms wielding the sword killed their people and culture and all the time carrying the cross representing Jesus' message of "brotherly love." That's pretty far from an “epic of brilliant deeds” and hardly protected the “home and rights” of the diverse indigenous populations. Apparently, to attempt some political correctness, there are translations now in Cree, Inuktitu, Ojibwe and Mi’kmaq, but I can’t imagine any of these people’s singing the words above in any language.

 

By contrast, last night’s event was an authentic step towards healing and reconciliation and I found it moving, musically and otherwise. Andrew was particular eloquent when he talked with us and reminded us that the choir were not functioning as allies, but as genuine brothers and sisters. 

 

It reminded me of a passage from To Kill a Mockingbird, when as a child, Scout’s older brother Gem is trying to classify people into different groups and Scout finally says: 

 

 “I think there’s just one kind of folks. Folks.”

And Gem replies: 

 

"That’s what I thought, too, when I was your age. If there’s just one kind of folks, why can’t they get along with each other? If they’re all alike, why do they go out of their way to despise each other?"

 

Why indeed. Well, that’s a matter for another post. But meanwhile, last night, we were all just folks mutually bearing witness to truth and beauty and I believe that helped give us all a moment when we felt peace of mind. 

 

Karmic Connections

It’s a Saturday morning and after catching up on business matters, I’m ready to take off footloose and fancy free to wander about Toronto. I’ll have some four hours before a dinner date with a friend, followed by a concert she’s singing in. Where should I go?

 

Truth be told, Toronto has never effortlessly lifted my heart the way that places like Vancouver, Barcelona, Salzburg, London, Paris, Venice, Bangkok, Kyoto, Rio de Janeiro and more do. No enticing rivers or beaches or hills or  parks or charming neighborhoods or thriving arts scene that enchant and delight me. Yet somehow I have a karmic connection that’s significant. Let me count the ways:

 

1.    Toronto is the first foreign city I ever visited, on a family trip back in 1962 (I think). It was the kick-off to a lifetime of visiting some 65 countries and hundreds of towns and cities. 

 

2.    On that trip, I had my first experience of puppy love. I seem to remember as a rising 7^th grader holding hands with a neighbor of my Dad’s friend, a girl named Lizzie. (I think it was a one-day romance).

 

3.    1962 was the year Carl Orff and Gunild Keetman brought Orff-Schulwerk to North America, an event that obviously wholly defined my life. If indeed it was the same year I first came here, I might have passed them in the street!

 

4.    Toronto is the place I came to year after year to teach whatever course suited my fancy (thank you Catherine West!). Between 2000 and 2019, I taught many Jazz Courses, World Music Courses, Music and Poetry/ Rhymes Courses and Pedagogy Courses. Alongside San Francisco, Salzburg and Madrid, this is the place where I have taught more often than any other place.

 

5.    I was teaching my Musica Poetica Course here in Toronto when I got the news that my Dad had died. We sang a song for him that day and I discovered that it doesn’t work when all try to sing and cry at the same time. 

 

And there’s more. Many people who came year after year to my various courses who became fun acquaintances and some lifelong friends. I co-taught at the Toronto Conference in 2006 with two beloved colleagues, Sofia Lopez-Ibor and Rick Layton. And now I can add teaching side-by-side with my good friend and colleague Kofi Gbolonyo at the Havergal School to the list. I listened to Oscar Peterson’s album We Get Requests in high school and passed by the line for his Memorial Service one time I visited. I listened to Glenn Gould’s recording of the Goldberg Variations and Joni Mitchell’s songs in college. All three of these musicians—representing jazz, classical and folk/rock— are connected to Toronto.

 

So despite my doubts about the delights of this fair city, it is deeply embedded in my own karmic unfolding and that is worth noting. Now that I have, it’s out into the day. 

 

Toronto Days

 

We all have our own strategies to slow Time’s swift foot, to blunt the lion’s claw of mortality. Mine is to lead multiple existences, each one a miniature life in itself that creates its own micro-rhythms and goes through the cycle of freshness and repetition that doesn’t continue long enough to get stale. Now at the end of my second of three weeks in Toronto, enmeshed in the daily rhythms that bring a groove to the day and help me feel aligned with my purpose and meaning. 

 

The day begins early, as the 6:00 am light filters into the guest room where I stay. Foregoing my morning meditation, I gather my things, enjoy a solitary Alpen breakfast with my hosts still sleeping and I’m out the door around 7:30 am, something unheard of in my San Francisco retired life.  Early morning air is both brisk and many days sprinkling or raining, more gray skies than sun. 

 

A short walk up to Yonge Street on Clarke, tap my Presto card in a machine at the bus stop and usually, a blue bus arrives within a minute or two. Off we go on Yonge Street, one of the longest (if not the longest) street in the whole world, with its chains of strip-smallish stores with signs in Arabic, Korean, Farsi and more. (Toronto remains one of the world's most international cities.) 

10 minutes to Finch Subway Station, where multiple blue buses gather on one side and red buses on the other. Out the door, past the man outside the station sleeping in his sleeping bag, head for the stairs with the throng at a rapid pace and wondering what everyone’s hurry is. Past the musician in his poncho playing panpipes or quena flute with his pre-recorded back-up band (never saw anyone give him money), past the folks lined up for morning coffee at Tim Hortons (yes, I’m in Canada), through the turnstile with another swipe of my Presto card and down the stairs where a train is always waiting to go. 

Six stops to Lawrence Ave., all predictably on their phones, no animated (or any) conversations, up to the street and the first week, took the 20 minutes walk down busy Lawrence Avenue before arriving at the school.

 

But the other day, discovered a parallel street one block to the South that is quiet and pleasing with its brick houses and front lawns, the kind of American aesthetic of mid-size houses, not two alike and the “Leave It to Beaver” mythology of families living their dreams in comfort with friendly neighbors, flowering daffodils and tulips in the yard, magnolia trees blooming, folks out walking their dogs. As I approach the school, there’s a path with trees leafing themselves into Spring and a softball field to my left, where early morning enthusiasts are out and about playing a game. The realist in me knows that houses were always peopled—and still are— with the full human drama of spousal abuse, child neglect, gay people in the closets and black people kept out of the neighborhood. But the dreamer still enjoys walking these comfortable streets and imagining people living fulfilling lives, showing up at PTA meetings, lending yard tools to each other, hosting back yard barbecues and such and some of that is as true as the others. And these days, there are people of all colors and persuasions living in some of these neighborhoods. 

 

On to the school, hello to the person who checks me in, spirited greetings to the many students I pass whose names I don’t know but am starting to recognize their faces. And off for yet another day of delight, making music, playing games, dancing, watching all those who begin “I can’t” slowly realize “I can!”, feel the group chaos of melodies not quite mastered yet and rhythms not quite in sync finally hit their groove before the hour is up and isn’t that satisfying! When you are engaged together in a worthy project, actually know (or learn) how to listen to each other, understand the deep benefits of group cohesion and let go of your “look at me!” nonsense— well, it gives a shape and meaning to the day which we all should be so lucky to experience. 

 

Mid-day is lunch with Kofi and a conversation that is dependably stimulating and thought-provoking and also the rare opportunity for us to work together with a couple of classes. Never a moment’s planning beyond “Who should go first?” and the organic, spontaneous sense of how to support and enhance each other’s work. And yesterday, our mutual astonishment that a 2^nd grader played to perfection a challenging Ghanaian bell rhythm, by herself, with the drums and with the song. And Kofi said today a 1^st grader did the same! We both were shaking our heads and reminding ourselves, “Never underestimate what kids can do.”

 

Around 2:30, it’s the reverse commute and as mentioned in a previous post, it feels good to have my exercise (usually 4 miles a day) folded into my work schedule. On the way in, planning and re-planning the days classes while on the move, on the way back, either reflecting on it or indulging in my Audible book. “Home” to log in the days classes, check my e-mail, re-connect with my hosts and either cook or help cook some pretty great dinners. 

 

So there it is, my new life, with a free weekend coming up where I’ll visit a few other folks I know here and grab some solitude time wandering about in a new neighborhood in the city. Then four more days and back home next Friday to begin my next new life— some 10 days back home before the next adventure beckons.

 

Amidst all this, I’m not oblivious to the constant assault of the cheaters and bullies and hypocrites— even micro-dosing on the news still penetrates the protective sheath of love, truth and beauty. But I simply can’t let them win and so keep my eye on the prize— the glitter in these students’ eyes when they discover both what they themselves can do and how good they all can sound together in a group. And so it goes on… 

The Winning Bet

Janet Greene, an Orff colleague who has shared a parallel journey with me for some 45 years, sent me this stunning poem below. Here’s what I wrote back to her, followed by the poem she sent. 

 

Thanks so much, Janet. That's a keeper! Such evocative imagery—" the discount bin of the universe"/ "from trilobite to telescope"/ "this tenement of breath and bone." That is some eloquent poetry.

 

And then the meta-message inside the imagery. None of this should have been, and yet here it all is. Just like the wild bet that we can clean the cesspool we've created and flush out the fools and the fascists. Seems like a long shot in the face of the daily news, but some part of me is convinced that we will do it. So thanks for being part of the cleaning crew.

 

I'm excited to announce that my little contribution in the form of my new Humanitarian Musician book has now been born into print. No Orff dealers have it yet, but it should be ready for sale by the end of May. It won't be everyone's cup of tea, but I suspect you will feel its full flavor and warming taste. Thanks again and see you at the clean-up!

 

The Wildest Bet Is the Winning Bet 

 

You wouldn’t have bet on it,
the battered rock
orbiting a star
from the discount bin
of the universe,
wouldn’t have guessed
that it would bloom
mitochondria and music,
that it would mushroom
mountains and minds,

 

and the hummingbird wing
whirring a hundred times faster
than your eye can blink,

 

and your eye that took
five hundred million years
from trilobite to telescope,

 

and the unhurried orange lichen
growing on the black boulder
two hundred times more slowly
than the tectonic plates beneath
are drifting apart

 

and the marbled orca
carrying her dead calf
down the entire edge
of the continent,
carrying the weight
of consciousness

and consciousness

how it windows
this tenement
of breath and bone
with wonder,
how it hovers over everything,
gigantic and unnecessary,
like music,
like love.

 

            - Maria Popova

The Pleasures of Polygamy

Carl Orff was married four times. In his personal life, it’s possible that he wasn’t an ideal husband. But in his professional and visionary life, he made multiple marriages and each one seemed to be made in heaven.

 

First and foremost, music and movement. He himself wasn’t a dancer, but he felt the dance in the music and the music in the dance. (By contrast, his colleague Gunild Keetman was equally adept at both and made a significant impact officiating that wedding.)

 

Then there was music and drama. Carmina Burana, his major work as a composer, was not an abstract sonata or fugue but closer to a scenic cantata— a theatrical musical work that combines the dramatic storytelling and staging of an opera or ballet with the traditional choral and orchestral structure of a cantata.

 

Next was music and speech— lists, chants, rhymes, poems, songs, both as devices to teach the musical elements of rhythm and speech and springboards for elemental composition and improvisation. 

 

These expanded definitions of music and music education went on to include children’s games, body percussion, folk dance, Orff instrument ensemble, recorder and yet more. This large multi-colored circus with multiple rings all housed under the one tent of those four powerful letters—Orff.

 

But that was just the starting point. Orff went further to marry other possibilities and I’m proud to say that I often was the officiant at the weddings. 

Orff and Body Percussion deepened their relationship first introduced by Keetman when I integrated Keith Terry’s groundbreaking work in the work with children and went on to fold in some Steppin’, Gumboot dance and other body-based musics. Virtuoso body musicians like Keith Terry, Fernando Barba, Antwan Davis and others stepped into the Orff arena and found themselves both heartily welcomed and at home there.

 

Orff and Jazz is perhaps my favorite Orff couple and one I’ve gone the deepest into. Both are learned primarily through the body and voice, both invite movement and dance, both are built on simple elements that combine to great effect, both use ostinati, drones, color parts and pentatonic scales (called riffs, vamps, fills and blues scale in jazz parlay), both use arrangements that begin with a melody played twice and then invite soloists to improvise before closing again with the melody twice. Each has a different ancestry and rhythmic feel, but viva la diferance!

 

Orff and World Music is another marriage made in heaven. The Orff classroom is already filled with instruments from around the world—drums of all sorts, scrapers, shakers and metal-bell-makers, recorders related to whistles and flutes worldwide, xylophones inspired by West African models, Indonesian gamelan and European glockenspiels. Again, the aural/oral foundation of Orff pedagogy, the elemental structures and elemental qualities that live close to the earth, the fusion of music, movement and song, the invitation to improvise, adapt, re-compose, the deep connection with dance and so much more. 

 

Orff and Ghanaian Music is one example of the above and one we’ve explored in great-depth in our Orff-Afrique Course with Dr. Kofi Gbolonyo and other Ghanaian (and American) teachers. These marriages on my mind as Kofi and I just gave a workshop to teachers this Saturday combining Orff Schulwerk, traditional Ewe music from Ghana and American Jazz. We opened the workshop together with Kofi leading a dance warm-up and me teaching an African American children’s game that leads to jazz. Then we each had two sessions, one with each half of the group and ended the day coming together to play the 12/8 drumming rhythms Kofi taught as accompaniment to the Afro Blue song that I taught. It worked fabulously. 

 

The whole event felt like a poly-amorous love fest that included two more notable joinings— Orff and Progressive Pedagogy, as modeled in the how of what we taught and Orff and Humanitarianism, as we discussed how each of the things we did had a grander design behind it of helping to nurture more kind and connected and community-minded human beings. (The first copies of my new book The Humanitarian Musician arrived in time to sell after the workshop!)

 

So the jury is in. Polygamy in the Orff world is legal and all the multiple marriages are meant to be. 

An Almost Cute Story

 

In my first 5^th grade class at Havergal College School this last week, I taught the partner clap Head and Shoulders. One of the verses is:

 

“Milk the cow, baby, 1, 2 3

Milk the cow, baby, 1, 2 3

Milk the cow, milk the cow, milk the cow,

Milk the cow, baby, 1, 2 3.”

 

At the end I asked, “So who milked a cow today?” One child raised her hand. “Really?!” I asked. And all the girls chimed in, “Yes, she lives on a farm!!” Then I said, “Okay, who else milked a cow today?” The whole point was that this was a song created by rural kids and it reflected their experience. So we can sing their song, but also update it and make new verses about the things we tend to do each day. That can mean “read a book, go to school, play guitar, cook a meal, ride the bus, etc.” but of course, most think of “text your friend, baby 1, 2, 3…” So it is.

 

But lots of kids (remember, we’re in urban Toronto) kept insisting they had milked a cow, so I finally said, “Okay, if you want to me to believe you, you have to bring in a photo of you milking a cow.” We left it at that and went on with the game.

 

Three days later, the same class came back and one of the girls ran up excitedly and said, “Look!” In her hand was a printed photo of her milking a cow!!! Thinking it may have been the girl who lived on a farm, I told her I was so impressed that she actually had milked a cow and was so touched that she went to all that trouble to take and print a photo to prove it to me. She had a big smile on her face and just as we were about to begin class, she confessed:

 

“Well, actually, it was AI.”

 

Aaargh!!! On one hand, I still was impressed that she went to all this trouble from my casual remark about bringing in a photo. That showed both a sense of caring and a mischievous streak that I like in children (and adults). On the other hand, here we are, where kids are given fake substitutes for the real deal. 

Also depressing is this growing sense than none of can trust or believe anything, even with visual evidence right in front of our eyes. And what was a harmless prank for a child can also be a supremely dangerous manipulation (see the movie Wag the Dog) by people who do not have our best interests in mind. 

 

Like I said, an almost cute story. There is some charm about the mischievous kid side of it, but great concern about what it implies. So again:

 

AARGH!!!