All Here Together

Among a thousand things that impress me every time I go to Ghana, the co-presence of all ages in all places— especially in the dancing ring— always moves me. It is such a contrast to our structures of kids in schools, adults in workplaces, elders in Homes for the Aged. And then within each echelon, further divisions— preschool/ elementary/ middle/ high school/ college, etc. Even in our alternative life practices, no kids are at the Zen retreats or Orff workshops or jazz clubs. Few white-haired people are boogying in the dance clubs and often far too many at the opera or author interview. 

 

So it was especially sweet yesterday when I helped organize a panel of "Orff elders” at our local Chapter Workshop to commemorate it’s 50^th year. Mostly folks my age (and younger!) who used to come regularly to the workshops or were Past-Presidents on the Board but had now retired from active teaching. Without needing new material or lesson plans for Monday’s class, many naturally stopped coming to the workshops and it turns out we really missed each other. So not only was it a grand pleasure for some 12 out of 25 invited to come to the workshop just to see each other again, but also so fun to actually play, sing & dance as we used to and with the same spirit and skills. Sure, we didn’t leap up off of the floor as spryly as we used to, but impressive that we could at least still sit on the floor!

 

In the 20-minute panel that was scheduled for the day, the old-timers introduced themselves and where they had worked. There were many young teachers there who worked at some of the same schools and now they had a face to connect with the person who had their school buy the Orff instruments they’re using or in one case, write a school song that the kids still sang. They saw and heard from the people who had helped build the chapter, each one often contributing the next new tradition or procedure or suggestion. They heard their testimony about how meaningful it was to their lives to not only find the joys and pleasures of the Orff approach to music, but to find the people who became either still-connected lifelong companions or held fondly in their hearts in their absences. At one point, I said directly to the younger folks, “Imagine you up here in 20 years. I hope you’ll have the same kind of passion and long-term dedication and fun that we did!” 

 

And it was equally fine for the elders to meet the next generation and feel that their work was being carried forward. Sometimes the baton was passed directly to their successors when they left their school, but often they had to imagine it so and sometimes didn’t know whether the race was still being run or not. So again, a special pleasure and treasure to know that here we all were together, runners in the same relay race, all of us dancing to the finish line in the contest between “education and catastrophe” and not only helping education to win, but joyfully and artfully so, with great songs, dances and instrumental music-making. 

 

And thus, it goes on. 

 

 

The Kayak and the Cruise Ship

Every summer in our place on Lake Michigan, there’s a moment when the lake is calm enough that we push the canoe down to the water. It’s always a pleasure to paddle through the still waters, dock on a beach further down, swim and canoe back. Sometimes we go through the outlet to the back lake where the current is yet calmer and once there, a few moments where we set down the paddles and just drift. 40 years ago (!), on my 33^rd birthday, I wrote this haiku: 

 

My oar at rest

Drifting, drifting

Suddenly, the other shore!

 

My nod to the idea that we should trust in the beneficence of the universe, just savor each moment and know that the world will bring us to the place just right. 

 

But my experience is that to achieve anything that draws us nearer to our life’s purpose and destiny, we need to set our sights on a destination and paddle like crazy to get there, often up stream or with the wind in our faces. At least I do. And as confessed earlier, often with the hope that some big ship is going to come in and reward me for my efforts, pick me up, take me on board and sail off into the sunset of fame and fortune. 

 

Last September, I got to ride a kayak on the back lake and liked that even better than the canoe. More bi-lateral arm movement and snug in that low seat, yet closer to the water. So why this ambition for the ocean liner? The kayak is the more connected conversation between man (in my case) and nature. The pleasure of propelling myself at the speed I choose through my own efforts, steering precisely where I need to go and yes, remembering to just drift and equally savor that feeling— of course, this is the far better choice and why should I ever complain that my “ship” is a kayak? 

 

Truth be told, I’ve never been on a cruise ship and I imagine I would enjoy it up to a point for a week or so. But as a lifestyle choice, the ostentatious enormous vessel with its pre-programmed entertainment and excessive food and 45 minutes to run off the ship and hit the tourist spots in town buying up all the pointless souvenirs is not the ship I want to sail on into the future. So kayak it is and someday this ambitious fellow will learn to be wholly content with what the world offers. 

Dancing in the Streets

Still thinking about Martha Graham’s advice to “keep the channel open.” Here’s what sailed in last night as an antidote to my own sliver of despair threatening to grow. No expectations that this will actually make an impact, go viral and get people dancing in the streets. But hey, who knows? And so I posted it on Facebook and re-post it here and urge you to share it with your community. If nothing else, perhaps it speaks to that sense of private aloneness we all feel at times like this and reminds us that we are far from alone.

Friends, take a moment with me here and please read this whole post. 

 

When the worst happened in November of 2016, like everyone I knew, I was devastated. Stunned, in shock, shaken to my core that everything I believed in and stood for and felt was evolving was thrown to the ground in the country of my birth and my life. In the way that we do, I carried that oppressive weight on my shoulders as if it were only my burden to bear, my sorrow to shoulder. Even as I knew that wasn’t true, it felt abstract that others shared the feeling and there we all were feeling so alone, walking around in a daze as if it was just us who felt shattered and ravaged and helpless and hopeless. 

 

That all changed when I took to the streets in the Women’s March in January of 2017. There we were!! All together! The ones who actually cared about Democracy and justice and inclusion and kindness. We marched together and sang together and carried our creative homemade signs and I could feel our spirit and hope and people-power rise up. Of course, there was still much horror to endure in the four years that followed, but that kick-start of togetherness helped see us through it, all the way to the sweet victory in November 2020. 

 

Now here we are again and though I’ve done reasonably well holding the hounds of hopelessness at bay, still I sift through the 40 text messages and 50 e-mails each day swinging me between hope—SURGING! — and despair—PACKING IT UP.  Like so many of us, the polls are using me as a punching bag and it’s exhausting, dispiriting and for the first time, I’m beginning to feel the fear leaking in. 

 

And so I beseech us all to consider this idea— LET’S TAKE TO THE STREETS!! Massive turnouts in every major city (and yes, rural towns) in the U.S.— heck, the WORLD, gathering the weekend before Election Day not to re-act, but to pro-act. HERE WE ARE! There’s more of us than the polls will ever admit and we are here to stand for everything that is true and beautiful and just. A giant collective roar before the vote that will energize us all and let the world know in no uncertain terms that we will defeat a babbling psychopath through the sheer force of our love and determination and through the still-living ideal of a fair election in a country re-dedicated to Democracy. 

 

You March Organizers, come out of the woodwork—time is running out! Or why wait for someone to organize it? Let’s all just pick a time and a place and inundate our Social Media in the places we live and tell everyone who resonates with the idea of gathering collectively before the election to refuse our solitary fears and turn the tide with our physical presence and get the energy moving. In nothing else, to remind each other we are not alone and we will see this through together. 

 

Please share with EVERYONE you know and though it seems impossible that this little Facebook piece could ever go viral, let’s try the impossible. And then we can tell our grandchildren about it. Who’s in?

Back in My Lane

After my evening of scorching self-doubt, I remembered where my home properly is. I may never be anything but the most amateur of musicians, authors, speakers, but when it comes to teaching, there is never a sliver of doubt. Put me in a class with 3^rd graders sitting on a rug singing Halloween songs, a circle of Orff teachers anytime, anywhere, a group of wheelchair-bound elders gathered around the piano, and I am in my proper lane, en route on the highway to Heaven. Somehow the constant changing lanes and taking side routes seems a necessary part of the journey, but there is just one lane where I wholly belong and that is called “teacher.”

 

Today was the aforementioned singing with kids at a school where my neighbor goes. I slung my guitar on my back and walked through the park to get there and that was the beginning of the delight. I walked in the room and though I’ve sung with this class maybe three or four times a year for the past three years, still I recognize many of them and they remember me. With some prompting, they can come up with some of the songs we have sung and they did. 

 

As a music teacher, I owe it to all my students, young, old and middle, to be the best musician I can be. To reflect as deeply as possible about pedagogy and the practice of the teaching craft. To speak as eloquently as I can on behalf of the children, the teachers, our profession, our passion. It’s good to remember that this is the purpose of all my stumbling efforts and triumphant success in each of those fields is wholly beyond the point. For me, at least. Those who were born to play basketball like Steph Curry or Caitlin Clark, cello like Yo Yo Ma or piano like Yuja Wang —you get the idea— have their lanes clearly demarcated and they are welcome to them. My destiny may look like a small lane on a country road compared to theirs, but both get you to heaven. No comparison necessary. 

Blessed Unrest

“A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?”

 - Robert Browning”

“Your boundaries are your quest.”   – Rumi

 

“I yam what I yam.”  - Popeye

 

Recently I listened to a recording of my piano playing, to a draft of my first Podcast and read something I had written and my overall impression, to put it bluntly, was, “I suck!” The act of creation requires an unbounded confidence that you have something to say and the notion that you have the needed skill and talent to say it and say it well. Suddenly, all of that crashed to the floor. 

What are the criteria that measure success? That fuel one's determination to keep trying? 

 

1)   Enough of a response from World that you are up to the job, measured in comments from people and numbers of people attending, invitations for further work.

 

2)   An inner sense that you did well, that you would like to be an audience member in your own concert, a listener to your own Podcast, a reader of your own book.

 

As for the first, the numbers have always been small and intimate, 2,000 copies of each book selling out after five years, 9 people at my bookstore reading, 30 people at my self-produced concert, a small (but steady—thank you!) blog readership. My ship that comes in is almost always a one-person kayak or canoe rather than an ocean liner. Nevertheless, I persist. 

 

But the second hit me over the head yesterday and in my crisis of faith, I briefly wondered “Why bother?” It is discouraging to keep reaching so much further than my grasp, like turning the page in the Chopin Etude and being hit with pages of 32^nd notes that my fingers can’t handle. Rumi’s reminder brings some comfort, that hitting the wall of your own limitations is a test to see how serious you are in your quest. Like being willing to start the long uphill battle with Chopin’s notes one phrase at a time in slow motion and emerging more successfully some 25 hours later. 

 

And then there’s Popeye. Knowing there are tens of thousands of musicians, speakers, writers who can do it better and who needs you anyway? Just lower the bar and be content with what you have. 

 

I think what I most need to hear today is Martha Graham, who somehow captures a bit of “all of the above” and a bit more. After writing this, I’ll try again with the Podcast, which after all is new territory and my issue with not finding my proper tone speaking into a phone to an imaginary audience rather than a live one in a workshop is something that perhaps I can improve. I don’t love that Chopin piece enough to put in the hours, but why not be content playing that Erik Satie piece and feeling the full measure of its beauty? And didn’t I just publish some old poems that I liked reading? 

 

Here's Martha (boldface mine):

 

“There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique, and if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium; and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is, not how it compares with other expression. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.”

 

Saturday was a bittersweet reunion with so many old-timers from The San Francisco School Community. The occasion was a Memorial Service for one of ours who died too young at 81, with his playful childlike spirit intact and a body/face that looked like he was 50. Eli Noyes was not only the father of a lovely student I taught, but illustrated my Teach Like It’s Music book and my colleague James Harding’s From Wibbleton to Wobbleton.  I knew he was a Renaissance man of many talents but had no idea how many until this gathering. Film-maker, Claymation innovator, illustrator, oboe player, accordion player, jazz piano student, weaver, potter— the list went on and there were testimonies from so many how he approached each with such creative gusto and playful exploratory spirit. It was a lovely service and while looking through my poems folder mentioned in the last post, I noticed I had written my hopes for my own Memorial Service someday. Hopefully some far distant day. 

 

Here it is. 

INSTRUCTIONS FOR MY FUNERAL

To start with, the music.

 

Lots of it and don’t hold back.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

As for the people, of course, friends, family and neighbors and invite all the kids and teachers I’ve taught. 

Make everyone check their cell phones at the door.

Encourage some copious weeping freely vented. No embarrassment. Let it rip. 

No polite veneers or turn to your neighbor with a friendly handshake and forced smile.

No crap about going to a better place to rest. Show some rage at the brutal hand of death.

The acceptance of its loving embrace can come later.

 

And of course, humor. 

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

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

 

Eat well. Dance. Flirt. 

Talk to me. Tell stories. All of them. 

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

 

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

Don’t schedule other appointments, unless it’s the last night for the Misfits/ Some Like It Hot double feature at the Castro Theater. 

 

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

 

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

 

Or not.

 

—Dec. 5, 2010 

The Return of the Part-Time Poet

This morning I awoke out of dreams telling me I needed to find a 4^th-grade child’s poem written in 2019. Miraculously, I did! In an old blogpost!

 

But first I began the search in a folder titled “Songs, Raps, Poems.” Couldn’t find it there, but it felt good to see the titles of all these poems I’ve written over the years. It has been quite a while since I’ve written a new one and that’s a shame. So to remind my part-time poet self to re-awaken and share what I’ve yet to share in any coherent published form for the .001 % of people who would ever buy a poetry book, here's a few old ones that came up.

 

ELECTRONIC BUDDHISM

 

i-Pod plugged into the laptop

 

while I sit in meditation,

 

both of us re-charging for the day.

 

Message to Buddha:

 

“Do not disconnect.” Ø 

 

 

WHY HUMANS HAVE TO WORK SO HARD

The squirrel romps, 

the jay squawks, 

the pines drip sap.

Each freely expresses its own nature,

 

While we poor mortals

sit and strain for seven days and nights,

To get a mere fleeting glimpse of 

Who we are.

 

(Mt. Baldy Zen Center)

 

 

DOUBLE HAIKU

 

Spring snow in Finland

Blustery winds in Scotland

Plum blossoms in Spain.

 

Grey skies in Beijing

Balmy breezes in Brazil

Home to ‘Frisco fog.

 

MY SISTER TURNS SIXTY AND I FEED THE CAT

 

I keep the cat’s food in a large, purple tin.

Inside a red cup to scoop it out.

 

Each day, I put a cupful in his bowl

And he eats. 

Each day, the dry pellets in the tin

sink down

cup by cup 

toward the shiny bottom,

until one day, 

                                                                                                they’re gone. 

 

And so do our years descend in measured cups,

feeding some small creature who purrs with contentment

and rubs against our leg

in gratitude and affection. 

Bad News/ Good News

Out of the 30 political e-mails and texts I get daily, the ones I delete the fastest start with “Bad news!” or “We’re begging!!” Who needs it? We are built for hope and things are bad enough without having to be always reminded of it. At the same time, the only road to good news is through the dubious neighborhoods of bad news, through the stormy weather of anger and outrage, through the long hard look at the mirror of truth even if we don’t like what we see there. 

 

As a writer, I need to consider which route to take when I invite the reader to travel with me. And now, about to launch my first Podcast, I’m painfully aware that I have a short minute to see if I can entice the listener to keep listening and probably the bad news approach is not the best route to take. Here is a first draft of one possible opening episode, which I think I won’t use. You see I do get to the good news, but perhaps the listener will never arrive, having gotten out of the cab (well, Uber or Lyft, to be more contemporary) after the first paragraph. At any rate, having written it, why not include it here? (And yes, I will alert you as to when the first Podcast is actually launched and how to access it in case you’re interested. Hopefully by November 1^st!). 

 

Hello. I am Doug Goodkin and you’re listening to the ABC of Education. 

Today’s episode: “Between Education and Catastrophe.” Here I introduce the theme of this Podcast and why I chose it. 

 

The title comes from a quote by H.G. Wells: “We are in a race between education and catastrophe.” Think about that for a moment. When was the last time you had a serious conversation about education? That you read a book about it or listened to a podcast or bought an education magazine? Every day for some 12 to 15 years, parents drop their kids off at school, but how much do they think about what really goes on there? In our national discourse, everybody’s talking about the economy or technology or the latest diet plan or this crisis or that one, but how much do we hear about schools? In the recent Vice-President debate, the subject did come up briefly and the brilliant suggestion from one of the candidates was that we get “stronger locks on the doors.” I just filled out a survey about what issues I’m concerned about and out of 15 different choices—healthcare, immigration reform, creating jobs, etc.—no surprise, schools and education were nowhere to be seen on the list. 

 

If we don’t talk about it, don’t think about it, just keep going on with business as usual without considering how that business is actually doing, then catastrophe wins the race. And there are plenty of signs that it is. Our new unspoken national motto seems to be “my ignorance is as good as your education.” Here in the United States we are graduating people from universities who literally don’t know who won the Civil War. People who can’t distinguish a fact from a fantasy and don’t care which is which. People who are eating a daily diet of misinformation and disinformation, who are fed purposely manufactured lies by people in power and can’t see through them. People who will rarely read a book or go to a jazz or classical music concert or visit a museum in their adult life. People who are addicted to a steady stream of trivial nonsense on their phones and will rarely take a walk in the woods without them. And these people are empowered to vote. At a crucial time when we need more intelligence and more caring and more culture, books are being banned and teacher’s jobs are on the line if they tell the truth to students.

 

Everywhere I go, I see signs on the school walls like “Practice Mutual Respect. Be kind. Work hard. Work well with others. Knowledge is power.” And yet look at where we are. According to polls, it looks like close to 50% of the population is ready to vote for a President who is the exact antithesis of everything schools have said they stand for. There are signs everywhere that our schools are failing miserably, not just with low test scores, but with their mission of cultivating thinking, caring, responsible citizens. 

 

That’s the bad news. But there’s plenty of good news as well. School can be a place where children feel welcomed and valued and cared for, where they are trained to think critically and given a firm foundation in reading, writing and arithmetic, where they are introduced to music and dance and drama and poetry and visual arts, not merely as consumers, but as makers of art. This is not mere conjecture. I know such schools can be because they already are. They make a difference in both the present and future life of their students and those students go on to make a difference in the world as we wish it might be. Again, this is not mere dreaming. I have testimonies from over a thousand kids I’ve taught at school that contributed enormously to who they are and who they become. They give me great hope and remind me that if education is to surpass catastrophe in the marathon race, we better start talking about it and thinking about it and acting on it. And so here we are. Again, my name is Doug Goodkin and welcome to this podcast, The ABC’s of Education!

I Love San Francisco!

For thirty years, I’ve met once every two weeks with 8 or 9 other men in what is simply known as our Men’s Group. Every Wednesday night, from 7:30- 9:30, we met at a member’s house and discussed what it was like to be a contemporary human being housed in a man’s body. After check-in, there was usually a topic, ranging from fathers, mothers, children, work, religion, art, food, what have you— though a few repeats, we basically never ran out of topics.

 

Come Covid, the in-person meeting switched to Zoom and once people were tentatively socially gathering again a couple of years later, we decided we should meet in person, but outside. A combination of needing daylight hours and the honest assessment that we aging guys mostly in our 70’s were starting to nod out at night meant switching the Wednesday night meeting to Friday morning, from 10 to 12. This had the added perk of getting to explore different neighborhoods and parks in San Francisco and sometimes walking while we talked. And so we’ve continued. 

 

But today was quite different, as our host member decided to walk us down Market Street to look at some of the classic old buildings in our city’s illustrious history. In our new outdoor format, mostly the place we are is simply a backdrop to our talking about our topic, but now, the place was the topic itself. Starting at 8^th and Market, we took a look at the detailed work of the old theaters like the Orpheum, the Golden Gate Theater, the Warfield. We stopped at the 9^th Circuit Court of Appeals Building and got to go inside (impressive!). On we went past the Phelan Building and the Flood Building and the new Hastings Law Building, each one reminding us of the former times when utility and aesthetics were joined as one. So much attention to detail, to architectural elegance and grace. 

 

For those not familiar with San Francisco, Market St. is not the most pleasant place to walk. Everywhere the signs of the contemporary dispossessed, along with a bit of a ghost town feeling as so many downtown offices were vacated during Covid, never to return to their former hustle and bustle. The Blue Angels hadn’t come out yet, but the jackhammers were at full throttle, all part of a plan to try to revive and beautify Market Street. Not quite the European promenade I would hope for, but some effort to make it more attractive, friendly to walkers and interesting to tourists. 

 

With my eyes tuned to architecture, I notice other buildings that I’ve usually just passed by and now have renewed interest in visiting them, finding out more about their history, finding little treasures hidden in their hallways. It’s astounding how long one can live in a place like this and know so little about its nooks and crannies, its hidden and untold stories. I’ve done Stairway Walks of San Francisco, visited the 50 Must-See sights, wandered alone through just about every neighborhood and park, but the Building Tour awaits me. 

 

In case I haven’t mentioned it lately, I love San Francisco!

I Hate San Francisco!

They’re back. While real bombers are flying overhead bringing death and destruction in the Middle East and Ukraine, we have the Blue Angels putting on their show for our amusement. We’re supposed to be impressed by their tight navigation skills and sure, there is a level of artistry there. But the price is too high. Four days of non-stop sonic assault that not only makes it impossible to have a leisurely stroll out in the city and talk with a friend but rattles the walls and windows of your home almost wherever you live in San Francisco.

I shudder for veterans with PTSD whose terrors are triggered, for families with babies napping and confused elders, for dogs darting under couches and birds wholly disoriented. I don’t have a dog or baby or elder in my home and thankfully, am not afflicted with PTSD, but out walking in the park, I feel almost as if a mild case is now percolating. The sound is overwhelming, the surprise of where it will come from next disturbing and my beautiful city made ugly with this horrendous soundscape is intolerable. I’m wondering if I can make the city pay for three nights of a hotel far enough away that I don’t have to put up with this. 

 

Meanwhile, back in Covid times, I was walking in the park and stopped to listen to a little jazz band with drums, bass, quiet electric guitar and trumpet in front of the Arboretum. Here they were playing such great music that soothed and comforted all who stopped to listen and lo and behold, a Park Ranger says they must cease and desist because they don’t have a permit to make music in the park. It might disturb the passerbyes. Are you following me here? One hour of great jazz in a public place is against the law, but countless hours spread over four days of deafening thunderous noise (can we sue for hearing loss?), why, according to the SF Board of Supervisors, that’s perfectly fine. Why? Follow the money, my friend. 

 

Same deal with the building of the ugly phallus proclaiming itself above the skyline in the form of Sales Force Tower. How quickly did that project get passed and did the voters have a say? Compare it to a friend in his 80’s who made a wise choice to build an extension of his home in his backyard for his wife and him to pass their old age while their son and his family move into the new house. The amount of bureaucracy, paperwork, petitioning to multiple offices, permission from every neighbor in a 10-block radius, the various sign-offs from this department or that has drawn the whole process out to four or five years. A little extra house that will impact exactly no one else. Follow the procedure, say the city officials. Unless you’re Sales Force. Again, then all you have to do is follow the money.

 

Then of course, my pet peeve of reproducing-like-rabbits-Waymo-driverless cars that have ruined my pleasure in walking around the neighborhood. Seems benign compared to the above, but San Francisco, that hot-bed of human creativity in the form of on-the-edge jazz, world music, modern dance, experimental theater, modern art, people’s circuses, poetry reading, Zen practice, this city that has celebrated the human spirit and pushed out the edges of creative expression, is now known as the home of AI. Every driverless car is a reminder to me of our mad rush to replace humans and diminish humanity, not to mention further stick it to cab drivers and now, even Uber and Lyft drivers. Follow the money. 

Every bit of it reversable. Replace the Blue Angels show with a Hot Air Balloon Show or glider festival. Put limits on building heights and pay attention to architecture no matter how much money you have. Get these damn Waymos off the streets or at least limit them. Easy. 

 

San Francisco, I’ve been loyal to you for the 50 years I’ve lived here and kept defending you even when others have denigrated you. But now you’re trying my patience. I hate you at the moment because I love you so much and know you’re better than that. I’d love to take a walk in the park and talk to you about it, but we couldn’t hear each other with the Blue Angels screaming overhead. 

Busy

Most everyone I know has lived and still lives very busy lives. You would think that as my peer group transitioned into retirement that this would change. You would be wrong. 

 

Everyone seems to be as busy as ever, but in a different way. Whereas our previous work life could be summarized as a solid red line spanning from Monday to Friday and a short blue line denoting Saturday and Sunday, now our calendars look like a constellation of scattered colored dots. Mine, for example, in the past few weeks is a potpourri of doctor and dentist appointments, gathering with college alums, SF School alum teachers, the Men’s Group, online Zooms with folks in Brazil, Austria and Virginia to arrange various work opportunities, two different Zoom Board meetings, guest classes at three different local schools, playing piano at two Senior Homes and yet more. A call to arrange a lunch with a friend involves scrolling through our separate calendars for some five minutes before we can find a time we’re both free.

 

We are made for activity, we are made to work, we are made for social gathering and whereas our previous work lives guaranteed some version of all three without the need to arrange them all, it’s up to us in our retired lives to fill in the calendar ourselves. A work schedule feels like a symphony or suite, an ongoing piece of music with a theme announced on Monday that develops and heads towards the climax of Friday and there is a great satisfaction in that. The retired live is often like listening to a lot of short 3-minute songs in many different styles. Each song is pleasurable, but this kind of listening often lacks the continuity and the sense of a thread running through all the days that brings meaning and purpose. 

 

My particular retired life bounces back and forth between the two as I continue to teach 5-10 day courses or work on a book that has that larger design. And then have periods in-between with that colored-dot, short-song format. That’s where I am at the moment, with some of those dots the work needed to arrange more long-form work—negotiate dates, money, visas, flights for courses months ahead. Not as fun as actually teaching those courses, but it must be done. 

 

And so my busy day begins.

A Matter of Character

Today I saw a Facebook clip of Kamala Harris talking to a young person in distress. Her genuine concern, her constant eye contact, her authentic empathy without a trace of demeaning pity, her clarity that she is there for this person, her reminder of the person’s own inner strength and resources— really, this could be a training video for how to sincerely (no acting here) be there 150% for our fellow humans in need. Which means all of our fellow humans. 

 

On the other side of Red/Blue divide are those reprehensible Repugnitans (not all— a few finally drawing the line) who are using the devastating hurricanes to spread further misinformation and yet more insane conspiracy theories ("the Democrats learned how to control the weather and purposefully targeted areas with Republican voters"). The same folks who used AI to make a fake photo of Donald Trump, the man who has proven time and time again that there is not an empathetic cell in his body, wading through the flooded waters to help someone. Using the suffering of others to further their campaign of misinformation to dupe the folks who let themselves get fooled. 

 

I just find it extraordinary to believe that according to the so-called polls, some 50% of American voters vow to choose narcissism over empathy, cruelty and spite over caring and compassion, babbling at over listening to. I’m so weary of all the explanations, all the rationales, all the excuses that try to justify an otherwise normal human being making such a choice. A dog or 3-year old kid would sniff out in a nano-second the difference between a caring Kamala and tantrum-throwing Trump. 

 

“Every time history repeats itself, the price goes up.” There’s so much at stake here politically, culturally, ecologically, economically, but at the root of it all, we are simply voting to elect the character that we want to represent our own morality and ethics. Even when (not if) Kamala wins, close to half of our country will still be sharing this world with us and though I rarely meet them face-to-face (that I’m aware of), still I am astonished that they exist and will most likely continue to believe the lies they have been fed and are feeding themselves. As a teacher, as a citizen, as a human being, this hurts my heart. 

I keep believing in our best selves and here is an enormous population trying to prove me wrong. 

 

I’m looking for the words that strike deeper than my personal whining complaint and rant, however justified. They are not coming. 

 

Perhaps it comes down to this. People, stop the chatter in your head. Use your nose like your trusted dog, trust your intuition, like your 3-year old child. And vote accordingly. 

Lazarusphoria

 The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows is a brilliant book. Author John Koenig takes it upon himself to create words for nuanced experiences and feelings we all can relate to but have never been captured in language. Or rather haven’t captured in the English language. Schadenfreude, for example, well describes in German something we all probably have been guilty of— feeling pleasure in someone else’s misfortunes. Saudade in Portuguese describes a melancholy yearning, a longing that is at once bitter and sweet.  Ubuntu is an African Bantu word that means “I am because we are,” a word wholly unknown and mostly unintelligible to the American fantasy of the independent solitary self beholden to no one. You get the idea.

 

Koenig describes other feelings unnamed in English (or perhaps any language) by combining two known words and making a new one. For example, slipfast describes the longing to disappear into a crowd and become invisible, so you can take in the world without having to take part in it. From “slip” —to fly away in secret and “fast”- fortified against attack. Sonder is the awareness that everyone has a story, borrowed from the French “sonder”—to plumb the depths.

 

So today I would like to add my own word, though it describes an unexpected joy rather than an obscure sorrow: Lazarusphoria— the surprise elation one feels when we discover that someone we care about that we thought had passed away is actually still alive! This happened to me yesterday when an old childhood friend who I had lost touch with for decades resurfaced around 2000 and then seemed to disappear again, unreachable through e-mail or my little Facebook messages. Given our age and knowing he had had some heart trouble, I could only assume he had passed on. And there he was in a Facebook post yesterday, photo and all! Back to the land of the living!

 

I left a little message asking him to contact me and if he does, I’ll tell the longer story another time. As my first black friend who walked me across the tracks of my own town, I think it’s an interesting one. But you have a busy day ahead and so do I, so for now, just want to share my Lazarusphoria that Bill “Lump” Blackshear is alive and well!

PS Maybe can't assume everyone knows the Lazarus story. Check out the Gospel of John in the New Testament. Or Wikipedia.