Out of the Echo Chamber

One of the valid criticisms of social media is the way we choose our friends there and have our thoughts and feelings validated by people we know and like, even as they might occasionally respectfully disagree. It’s a lovely place to be, but also creates an Echo Chamber that potentially steps to the side of the kind of engagement that considers diverse points of view. 

 

However, to engage in civil discourse requires that people stick with ideas separate from personality and avoid personal insult. That they back up their point of view with genuine quality research rather than mere opinion. That they’re open to considering another perspective. In short, that there’s an atmosphere of mutual respect and willingness to listen. 

 

In general, the comments on my Facebook posts are exactly that. In my recent one, a version of the last Blogpost about Stephen Colbert, I enjoyed the dopamine rush of “Perfect! Sharing!,” “Yes!”, “Bravo!” and the best kind of comment, “Thanks for saying what many of us feel.” Some people respectfully disagreed with my suggestion and felt that his way of leaving the show worked well for them and was just what it need to be. A good example of mutually sharing different points of view with calm and respect. 

 

But then came the surprising comments from people I didn’t know, ranging from somewhat snarky to maliciously mean-spirited:

“Well, when you get your OWN TV show, you can give your own speech!!!”

 

“Too bad it’s all a lie. SC is simply not funny. He first played a conservative dunce and in real life he morphed into the libtard version of that character in real life. He is done, not funny, not relatable, not employed.”

 

“You’re a phkn idiot. His shit show of a how was losing 40 million per year. That’s why his dumbass got cancelled.”

 

Well, that wasn’t a fun way to start my day. Get me back to the echo chamber!

 

Of course, not the slightest reason to take it personally or defend myself or try to reason with these lovely people. But the way our hearts and brains are wired, of course, we feel threatened and go into defense mode. I can only imagine what kind of hate mail Stephen Colbert gets and the sheer volume of it. Not to mention any public figure who dares to expose themselves to the masses through writing, acting, performing. Especially those who tell uncomfortable truths, whose inboxes are not only filled with the vitriol and venom of scorn and contempt, but death threats as well. I imagine you need to grow a pretty thick skin to armor yourself against such attacks. Or develop a Buddhist transparency that lets the arrows pass through without drawing blood. 

 

But why does it need to be this way? For those who feel the need to attack anything that makes them think harder or consider something, it is revealing more about their knee-jerk reactions and low emotional and intellectual intelligence than anything else. But between the ease of social-media flaming without any face-to-face conversation, the permission of the Twitter-hate speech President gives to say whatever you want without a moment’s pause, the whole tone of national discourse has gone straight to the bottom of the barrel. And amidst the other toxic symptoms of a misogynist mansplaining and man-spreading culture, men seem particularly vulnerable to reveal their deep insecurities by spewing their venomous anger whenever and however and to whomever they want. In a recent Youtube summary of eight pianists that Chick Corea admired, it said that Keith Jarrett and Chick Corea both played in Miles Davis’ band, but never together. So someone commented:

 

“Wrong. Keith Jarrett and Chick Corea played together in Miles Davis Isle of Wight concert. Do your research, pal.”

 

The correction was appropriate, the tone unnecessary. And this and other comments like that were written by theoretically spiritually elevated jazz enthusiasts! 

 

My Echo Chamber is filled with the overtones of beautiful music, created by and appreciated by the people I would wish us all to be. Outside, the people I know exist (those 70 million voters!)but rarely meet are throwing their stones at the walls, but thankfully, the thuds are cushioned by the music of genuine civil discourse. 

 

Thanks for indulging me in this little vent so I can get on with my day and work on my Buddhist transparency.  

Hello Goodbye

And so the day I dreaded arrived. My wife and I shared so many years of watching the opening monologue of Stephen Colbert and we both feel indebted to the way he cushioned the blows of the fiasco of the 2016 election and the four difficult years that followed with humor married to his deep caring and sincerity. It was the only way I could stomach trying to keep abreast of the news, in small doses and with Colbert’s classic comedic wit. 

He also helped us through the pandemic, continuing to broadcast from his home and keeping our spirits up during a different kind of darkness.

 

When the unfathomable happened again in November of 2024, I had to take a break. There simply was nothing funny in a nation dedicated to an unhinged soulless psychopath and determined to keep shooting ourselves in the foot until we could barely walk. I was tired of genuine evil being the fodder for entertainment, even as satire continued to be one of the weapons of resistance. I just didn’t want to see the guy’s face or hear about his next outrage, even as Colbert kept trying to put it into a bearable context. 

 

Off we went into the even-worse-second term (hard to believe!), where the four things that had kept things somewhat in check— a somewhat-reliable judicial court system, term limits, free elections and free speech— were starting to crumble. A 42-count felon still walking free and threatening a third term, the out-in-the-open gerrymandering and attempt to curtail voting or simply abandon the mid-terms and demands that critics like Colbert shut-up, with acquiescence from the CBS suits. Alongside the enormity of the No Kings Rallies and the extraordinary inspiration of Minnesota is a population so beaten-down by the relentless assault from every corner— the war in Iran, the non-reaction to the Epstein files, the Supreme Courts’ latest antics, the freakin’ ballroom and beyond. And now the end of the Late Show with Stephen Colbert.

 

Here I confess great disappointment in the last show. There were some beautiful things— particularly having Sir Paul McCartney on the show, bringing Jon Batiste back and the stirring final musical number of Hello Goodbye. But I believe Colbert missed the moment here. It was a time that I hoped for him to put aside the entertainment mask and speak from the depth of his heart about what this means to him, to us and to the future of our country. And so imagining that I could have been his speechwriter, I would have written something like this.

 

My friends, here we are at a moment I never thought would happen. It is one thing had I come to the end of my time doing what I love doing but knowing that the moment has come for me to do other things and step down. That is the natural order of the world and worthy of some bittersweet sadness and farewell. The kind we saw on the last episode of Cheers or Seinfeld or Prairie Home Companion Show.

 

But this is something different. This decision was made for me by cowards unwilling to face down the man who I have spoken out against almost every episode of my 11 years here. I had so looked forward to the moment when I could stand before you announcing that the monster had finally been held accountable and marched to jail. Or had died from the sheer weight of his evil heart finally exploding. I pictured us all rising to our feet in thunderous applause for 10 minutes straight, followed by Louis Cato leading us in a rousing chorus of “Ding, Dong, the Witch Is Dead.” And as a Christian, I know I shouldn’t rejoice in someone’s death, but if anyone deserves it, is this pitiful excuse for a human being who himself has unleashed so much death, destruction and suffering. I have spent so much time on this show reacting to his next atrocity and how sweet that would have been to celebrate with you a moment when justice might finally prevail.

 

Instead, I’m walking off this stage because he wanted me off and his supporters who care nothing about human morality or decency agreed. I’m sure he’s gloating with pleasure, a schadenfreude beyond imagining, his small mind and heart thinking he won. But friends, I’m here to tell you he didn’t win and won’t win. 

 

Here in the Ed Sullivan Theater, the place where Ed Sullivan shook Nat King Cole’s hand, put his arm around Bill Robinson, kissed Pearl Bailey on the cheek and told his complaining network advertisers to go bleep themselves, we did what we could to carry on the legacy of both resistance and joyful celebration of the beautiful Americans who walk among us. I mean, just look at this band, this Great Big Joy Machine with black and white, women and men, playing together, and my friend Jon Batiste’s band before that reminding us to Stay Human. That’s what we stand for and will keep standing for long after the CBS suits and their ilk—all the enablers, all the compliant silent people, all the people who profit from unearned power and privilege—are long gone. They will not win. I may not be here to see it and celebrate it with you all, but our time is coming, is already here amongst us and despite their best efforts, they will not stop us. 

 

When I walk off this stage with a reluctant goodbye, I’m heading to the next Hello and I hope you’ll be there to join me. So come on out Jon and Louis and Sir Paul McCartney and all for the appropriately named final song, appropriately performed in this theater again by Paul, Hello Goodbye. 

 

How much more powerful that song would have been after a speech like that. 

 

So this my goodbye to Stephen Colbert, deep thanks for all the years and hopes to see him again down the road. 

Ed, Steve, Jon and Paul

The year was 1964. I was 12 years old and had just crossed that line when suddenly girls were more interesting than before. I was playing Bach on the organ and Beethoven on the piano and listening to Tchaikovsky, Debussy and the like. But as the body changed, the ear discovered Cousin Brucie on AM Radio and found a whole new crowd of musicians speaking a new language to me— the Four Seasons, Martha and the Vandellas, Rickie Nelson, the Beach Boys and a group called—the Beatles. 

 

I remember walking over to my friend Bruce’s house to watch them on the Ed Sullivan show. Though it wasn’t easy to hear the actual music over the screams of the girls and Bruce’s mother’s constant commentary—“Their hair is so long!!”—I believe I liked what I heard, never dreaming what an iconic moment this was to become in the history of popular music. I followed them for the next six years and felt us growing up together—from the innocent I Want to Hold Your Hand through the zany movie Hard Day’s Night to the ever-evolving styles in each new recording —from Rubber Soul to Revolver to the mind-expanding Sgt Peppers’ Lonely Hearts Club Band and beyond. They were at the center of the soundtrack to the late 60’s consciousness, complete with sitars and Maharishi Yogi, LSD, revolution and pleas to “give peace a chance.” The kick-off to it all was that appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show.

 

Ed Sullivan hosted the longest running variety show in TV history. It ran from 1948 to 1971. The first seven years it was called the Toast of the Town before changing to The Ed Sullivan Show. He was infamous for his lack of flamboyant personality, called by one reviewer, “a cigar-store Indian, the Cardiff Giant  and a stone-faced monument just off the boat from Easter Island. He moves like a sleepwalker; his smile is that of a man sucking a lemon; his speech is frequently lost in a thicket of syntax; his eyes pop from their sockets or sink so deep in their bags that they seem to be peering up at the camera from the bottom of twin wells." And yet, his show both reflected and helped shape American culture.

 

And he was courageous. He once said, "In the conduct of my own show, I've never asked a performer his religion, his race or his politics. Performers are engaged on the basis of their abilities.” and indeed, he featured many black performing groups that were not given chances in other mainstream culture venues. Performers and groups like Bo Diddley, the Platters, Jackie Wilson, Fats Domino, the Supremes, the Jackson Five and more. He got flak from his advertisers for shaking Nat King Cole’s hand, kissing Pearl Bailey on the cheek on camera, putting his arm around dancer Bill Bojangles Robinson and stood up to it all. He gave visibility to an impressive list of black jazz musicians, including Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Count Basie, Cab Calloway, Lionel Hampton, Sarah Vaughan, Errol Garner, Nina Simone and Rahsaan Roland Kirk. 

 

The theater where all this magic happened was on 1697 Broadway in New York, built in 1927 by Richard Hammerstein in honor of his father, Oscar Hammerstein 1 (grandfather of the jazz song lyricist Oscar Hammerstein II) and appropriately named the Hammerstein Theater. Over the years, it hd many different names—The Manhattan Theater, Billy Rose’s Music Hall, the WPA Theater, Studio 50 and finally, in 1967, it became The Ed Sullivan Theater. In 1993, David Letterman took over the theater to house his Late Show and in 2009, Paul Macartney performed on his show, some 45 years after the Beatles’ first appearance. Stephen Colbert took over the Late Show in 2015 and continued the legacy of both reflecting and shaping the zeitgeist —the moral, intellectual and cultural climate of our times and our nation. 

 

Until last night. When the suits at CBS capitulated to the fascist bully-in-chief in a shameful display of spineless decision-making and made good on their promise to cancel the show. Yet another sad marker of the dying gasps of a struggling democracy. How did Colbert’s last show reflect this critical moment in our struggle to resist the evil and preserve the good? 

 

Read on. 

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.