Hello to England

Peter Rabbit, Peter Pan, Mary Poppins, Alice in Wonderland. Winnie the Pooh, The Wind in the Willows, The Secret Garden, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Merlin, King Arthur, Robin Hood, St. George and the Dragon, the whole of Mother Goose. I may have grown up in New Jersey, but I roamed through England in my imagination long before I ever stepped foot on its soil. 

 

So having arrived in London, I begin again my ritual invocation of the ways I was prepared to love this place. Whereas art and music were quite present in my coming to France version, literature takes top spot here. 

 

From the childhood authors came the considerable adult literature. Charles Dickens at the pinnacle, in great company with Wilkie Collins, Thomas Hardy, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes an enormous part of my vision of London and surroundings), Anthony Trollope, Robert Louis Stevenson, J.R.R. Tolkien, Graham Greene, the flowering of women authors—Mary Shelley, Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Emily Bronte, George Eliot, Virginia Wolff, Agatha Christie. Oh yeah, and what was the other fellow’s name? Ah, William Shakespeare! And also Chaucer!

 

Then the poets. William Blake, William Wordsworth, John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Robert Browning, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Christina Rossetti, Gerard Manley Hopkins, T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas and of course, Shakespeare again. I’ve memorized poems by many of the above and they have proven good company indeed. 

 

When it comes to music, all that comes to mind is Ralph Vaughan Williams and Benjamin Britten, neither of who’s music I particularly know well or love. Ah, but now am remembering Henry Purcell, William Byrd, Thomas Tallis from earlier times. A quick cheat on Google reminds me of Frederick Delius, Gustav Holst and Edward Elgar who have written some things I’ve enjoyed. Then of course, there’s George Frederick Handel, German by birth, but went to London at the age of 27 and died there 47 years later as a British citizen. So I guess he counts! 

 

As for jazz, two jazz pianists come to mind—Marian McPartland and George Shearing. Not much. But then there’s the “British invasion” in the world of rock that informed so much of my adolescence. The Rolling Stones, the Dave Clark Five, Chad and Jeremy, Peter and Gordon, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Manfred Mann, The Kinks, the Hollies, the Animals, Herman’s Hermits, the Moody Blues, the Yardbirds, Petula Clark, Tom Jones, Donovan, Led Zeppelin, the Who. And what was the name of that other band? Oh yeah, the Beatles. 

 

And the influence of the arts continued in the explosion of recent TV Series that has filled so much of my life, especially since the pandemic. Starting with Downton Abbey, the Crown and Foyle’s War and then into all the detective/ murder mysteries—Broadchurch, Shetland, Endeavor, Inspector Morse, Unforgotten, Vera, Grantchester, the Mayflower Murders, Scott and Bailey and on and on. 

 

So in the world of art and imagination, England was everywhere in my life. Happily so. But then there was that other British Invasion, the extraordinary havoc and genocide and slavery that reached into just about every corner of the world— Australia, India, China, much of Africa, the Caribbean, Canada and the U.S.. Yes, France had its hand in it all—much of West Africa, Vietnam, Haiti, Louisiana, French Canada and beyond and Spain dominated just about all of South America (except for the Portuguese in Brazil), Central America, Mexico, Cuba and beyond. But the reach of the British Empire was simply extraordinary, even more so that it all came from this tiny island in Europe.

 

So it is. Every country has its particular mix of light and shadow and coming from the U.S.A., who am I to judge? Here we all are, trying to clean up the mess our ancestors made while also uplifted by all those other ancestors who shed light on our compassionate and life-loving selves. 

 

So two days ahead to roam around this ancient city, a spot of sun out the window inviting us to do so after a breakfast hopefully better than the eggs and beans traditional fare!

 

 

 

Farewell to France

In a couple of hours, we’ll be on the Eurostar headed to London, so a good time to bid a hearty “Merci beaucoup” and fond farewell to a most invigorating and restorative two weeks in France. Goodbye to morning croissants, lunchtime baguettes, evening ice cream desserts, to biking through pristine and green-lush countryside on back roads, to wandering the streets of Paris, to charming towns and vibrant cities, to museums, churches, cobblestone streets and red-awning cafés, to friendly people and the bike group comradery, to art, culture, beauty, to Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité! I haven’t spent nearly as much time here as I have in Spain, Italy, Austria, but am wholly motivated to return again. 

Viva la France!

Labor Omnia Vincit

For those whose Latin is rusty, that means “Work conquers all” and is certainly what guided —and continues to guide at 88-years old—the artist David Hockney. We stood in line for an hour to get into his massive show at the Fondation Louis Vuitton and perhaps odd to be in Paris to see a British-born artist who lived for many years in L.A. (but also London, Paris, York, Normandy) instead of going to the Louvre. 

 

But it was well-worth it. From charcoal sketches to watercolors to oil paintings to mixed media to i-Pad art to Opera sets, the man is prolific, if nothing else. If you didn’t like one style, there’s a good chance you would like another. While indisputably himself in style, like just about every good artist, he paid his dues studying assiduously the work of the Masters before him, from Medieval times to modern. He also is well-read, paying homage to authors from Blake to Whitman and beyond. 

 

Three quotes jumped out at me to add to my collection to get through these dark times. Or any times. 

 

The first was the “Work conquers all,” the feeling I had today waiting in line and coming up with a body percussion piece to accompany an old canon for my summer teaching ahead. When I am at work—be it planning a class, teaching a class, arranging a jazz tune, writing a poem, article or book — there is no space for the devils of distraction or the devils of despair to enter. The work becomes an active antidote to whatever poisons are in the air and is part of the collective strategy to diminish their power. Of course, I’m talking about “good” work— creative work, compassionate work, spiritual work. 

 

Another notable quote that he borrowed from some unnamed Chinese source: 

 

“You need three things for painting: the hand, the eye and the heart. Two won’t do.”

 

With a slight shift, you have exactly the sentiment of one of my chapters in my Teach Like It’s Music book expressed so refreshingly here: 

 

“You need three things for music: the hand, the eye and the heart. Two won’t do.”

 

I also add the head, but maybe more succinct with just three. I like that ending little phrase: "Two won't do."

 

I can personally attest that though my heart is always willing, my hand could use another 10,000 hours of practice and my hearing would have been better with a different childhood that locked in the synapses in Nature’s proper window. But nevertheless, I persist.

 

Finally, one that is oh-so-timely in these days of the neo-fascists shutting down any institution, funding, law, idea designed to help others. Every day another one that defies belief. In light of it all, we would all do well to remember this last little quote that David Hockney connected with a series of paintings celebrating the end of Winter in Normandy:

 

“Remember. They can’t cancel the Spring.”

 

Dinner awaits and tomorrow we bid farewell to France on the way to London. It has been a marvelous two weeks indeed. 

The Way It Is

The first time I walked the streets of Paris I was 22 years old. Traveling with my college chorus and singing 15^th century Masses in the great cathedrals. Like Notre Dame. In my free time, browsing in Shakespeare and Co. bookstore. Going to the Louvre, of course. Sitting on a bench in the Tuileries Gardens writing in my journal. Wandering the cobblestone streets enchanted by the red-awning outdoor cafes.

 

Yesterday, my wife and I walked that same territory. 9.4 miles of it, to be exact and 52 years later. There were close to a thousand people waiting in line to enter Notre Dame, but the line was constantly moving, so we got in it and entered the cathedral 15 minutes later. A Mass was in progress, but truth be told, the music we sang over a half-century ago was better. There was another line to enter Shakespeare & Company, some 20 people, but again, didn’t take long to enter that marvelous place. There was a poster for a reading from San Francisco author Rebecca Solnick and the murder mystery series by Cara Black, an SF School alum parent whose child we taught. No surprise that none of my 10 books were there, but I spoke to a clerk about carrying The ABC’s of Education and Jazz, Joy & Justice and she gave me the e-mail of the person to contact. 

 

On we walked along the Seine to the Louvre and decided not to enter, but just walk around the outside of that extraordinarily expansive building. Sat again in the Tuileries and I wrote in my journal. Wandered those cobblestone streets and arrived after 8 hours out in the world to my friends’ Michael and Pam’s apartment. Michael was the co-founder of gamelan Sekar Jaya, a group I once played in and Pam and I took the Orff Level trainings together way back when and stayed in touch all this time. Great food, convivial company and took the 8 Metro line back to the hotel, arrived at midnight. 

 

Some three years before that first trip to Paris, Joni Mitchell released her song The Circle Game and sang exactly what I felt yesterday. The seasons going round and round in the endlessly cycling circle game. Me taking a moment to “look back from where I came” and marveling that I’m still here and can wholly recognize that fellow from oh so long ago. Below is a photo of that 22-year old (fourth singer from the left) and the 74-year old yesterday in the reflection of Shakespeare and Co., the one looking back at the other and both of them connected not just by walking the same streets so many years apart, but by a thread of vision that has never wavered. 

 

And so William Stafford’s marvelous poem comes to mind, speaking a truth I feel down in my bones.

 

The Way It Is

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.  
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.

You don't ever let go of the thread. 

And I never have. 

 

Paris Awaits

A bit of culture shock coming to the big city of Paris after the charming country towns of the Dordognes. Instead of a river flowing outside our hotel window, it’s a stream of cars on the freeway. Instead of the ongoing song of the mourning doves, it’s ambulance sirens. Instead of empty alleys with inviting twists and turns, it’s busy streets filled with people rushing to and fro. Living in San Francisco for over half-a-century, I’m quite accustomed to city life, but suddenly I feel like the country mouse visiting his cousin. 

 

After the intensity of the railroad station, trying to find a public toilet and figure out where the Metro was and make our way through shoulder-to-shoulder crowds, we finally found our way to the hotel in the southeast corner of the city. After getting settled, we strolled down a tree-lined boulevard, got some peanuts and our first chocolate bar, took a short walk in a nearby park and found a perfect restaurant with a Thai chicken rice dish. The diversity of food choices one of the perks of city life, to be sure. 

 

With an evening still ahead, decided to treat ourselves to the first movie viewing on our trip and thought about all the films set in Paris. Negotiated my way through all the obstacles to get to see Midnight in Paris on Youtube and settled ourselves down to it, only to discover that the sound and image sync was way off. As if it had first been dubbed in French and then returned to English 10 beats later. Too disturbing, so opted for Netflix and The Da Vinci Code and dang if the premise of a purposefully hidden femininity in the original Christian origins didn’t ring true. Damn patriarchy! And all the Inquisition/ Witch-burning havoc it caused, still living on in the current Regime’s reversal of progress in women’s rights. Look at the painting of Da Vinci’s The Last Supper and tell me you sincerely think that the figure to Jesus’s left is really John and not Mary Magdalene. 

 

Meanwhile, a cloudy day awaits and invites us to stroll along the Seine and in the gardens and to peek in churches and walk up cobblestone steps and sit at sidewalk cafes. I have lists awaiting of books and films with the word Paris in the title, another list of the same set in Paris and then there’s four jazz songs I can think of without looking anything up—I Love Paris (Cole Porter), April in Paris (Vernon Duke), Afternoon in Paris (John Lewis), The Last Time I Saw Paris (Jerome Kern). Change April for May and all could be the title for the day ahead. 

 

A Cup of Coffee

Following through on yesterday’s post about Josephine Baker, I found her speech from the 1963 March on Washington. My admiration for her continues to rise. Here are the words that our current regime would have banned— too much truth, too much kindness, too much revelation about how things have worked in the now Divided State of America. While we still can, please read this out loud to your family at dinner, pass it on to your children’s teachers to have them share it with their students, take a pause in your business board meeting and have the CEO speak it out loud. Discuss why she couldn't order a cup of coffee. Really. 

 

 Friends and family…you know I have lived a long time and I have come a long way.  And you must know now that what I did, I did originally for myself.  Then later, as these things began happening to me, I wondered if they were happening to you, and then I knew they must be.  And I knew that you had no way to defend yourselves, as I had.

 

And as I continued to do the things I did, and to say the things I said, they began to beat me.  Not beat me, mind you, with a club—but you know, I have seen that done too—but they beat me with their pens, with their writings.  And friends, that is much worse.

 

When I was a child and they burned me out of my home, I was frightened and I ran away.    Eventually I ran far away.  It was to a place called France.  Many of you have been there, and many have not.  But I must tell you, ladies and gentlemen, in that country I never feared.  It was like a fairyland place.

And I need not tell you that wonderful things happened to me there.  Now I know that all you children don’t know who Josephine Baker is, but you ask Grandma and Grandpa and they will tell you.  You know what they will say.  “Why, she was a devil.”  And you know something…why, they are right.  I was too.  I was a devil in other countries, and I was a little devil in America too.

But I must tell you, when I was young in Paris, strange things happened to me.  And these things had never happened to me before.  When I left St. Louis a long time ago, the conductor directed me to the last car.  And you all know what that means.

 

But when I ran away, yes, when I ran away to another country, I didn’t have to do that.  I could go into any restaurant I wanted to, and I could drink water anyplace I wanted to, and I didn’t have to go to a colored toilet either, and I have to tell you it was nice, and I got used to it, and I liked it, and I wasn’t afraid anymore that someone would shout at me and say, “Nigger, go to the end of the line.”  But you know, I rarely ever used that word.  You also know that it has been shouted at me many times.So over there, far away, I was happy, and because I was happy I had some success, and you know that too.

 

Then after a long time, I came to America to be in a great show for Mr. Ziegfeld, and you know Josephine was happy.  You know that.  Because I wanted to tell everyone in my country about myself.  I wanted to let everyone know that I made good, and you know too that that is only natural.

 

But on that great big beautiful ship, I had a bad experience.  A very important star was to sit with me for dinner, and at the last moment I discovered she didn’t want to eat with a colored woman.  I can tell you it was some blow. And I won’t bother to mention her name, because it is not important, and anyway, now she is dead.

 

And when I got to New York way back then, I had other blows—when they would not let me check into the good hotels because I was colored, or eat in certain restaurants.  And then I went to Atlanta, and it was a horror to me.  And I said to myself, My God, I am Josephine, and if they do this to me, what do they do to the other people in America?

You know, friends, that I do not lie to you when I tell you I have walked into the palaces of kings and queens and into the houses of presidents.  And much more. But I could not walk into a hotel in America and get a cup of coffee, and that made me mad.  And when I get mad, you know that I open my big mouth.  And then look out, ‘cause when Josephine opens her mouth, they hear it all over the world.

 

So I did open my mouth, and you know I did scream, and when I demanded what I was supposed to have and what I was entitled to, they still would not give it to me.

 

So then they thought they could smear me, and the best way to do that was to call me a communist.  And you know, too, what that meant.  Those were dreaded words in those days, and I want to tell you also that I was hounded by the government agencies in America, and there was never one ounce of proof that I was a communist.  But they were mad.  They were mad because I told the truth.  And the truth was that all I wanted was a cup of coffee.  But I wanted that cup of coffee where I wanted to drink it, and I had the money to pay for it, so why shouldn’t I have it where I wanted it?

 

Friends and brothers and sisters, that is how it went.  And when I screamed loud enough, they started to open that door just a little bit, and we all started to be able to squeeze through it.  Not just the colored people, but the others as well, the other minorities too, the Orientals, and the Mexicans, and the Indians, both those here in the United States and those from India.

 

Now I am not going to stand in front of all of you today and take credit for what is happening now.  I cannot do that.  But I want to take credit for telling you how to do the same thing, and when you scream, friends, I know you will be heard.  And you will be heard now.

 

But you young people must do one thing, and I know you have heard this story a thousand times from your mothers and fathers, like I did from my mama.  I didn’t take her advice.  But I accomplished the same in another fashion.  You must get an education.  You must go to school, and you must learn to protect yourself.  And you must learn to protect yourself with the pen, and not the gun.  Then you can answer them, and I can tell you—and I don’t want to sound corny—but friends, the pen really is mightier than the sword.

 

I am not a young woman now, friends.  My life is behind me.  There is not too much fire burning inside me.  And before it goes out, I want you to use what is left to light that fire in you.  So that you can carry on, and so that you can do those things that I have done.  Then, when my fires have burned out, and I go where we all go someday, I can be happy.

 

You know I have always taken the rocky path.  I never took the easy one, but as I get older, and as I knew I had the power and the strength, I took that rocky path, and I tried to smooth it out a little.  I wanted to make it easier for you.  I want you to have a chance at what I had.  But I do not want you to have to run away to get it.  And mothers and fathers, if it is too late for you, think of your children.  Make it safe here so they do not have to run away, for I want for you and your children what I had.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, my friends and family, I have just been handed a little note, as you probably say.  It is an invitation to visit the President of the United States in his home, the White House.

 

I am greatly honored.  But I must tell you that a colored woman—or, as you say it here in America, a black woman—is not going there. It is a woman.  It is Josephine Baker.

 

This is a great honor for me.  Someday I want you children out there to have that great honor too.  And we know that that time is not someday.  We know that that time is now.

 

I thank you, and may God bless you.  And may He continue to bless you long after I am gone.

Homage to Josephine Baker

It is enough simply to be alive, biking each day through the great, green land of the Dordognes Region in France. Yet two more glories awaited us— the other day, the cave paintings of Lascaux and then today, the story of Josephine Baker told in the tour of her Chateau. I’ve known something of her legacy, but today was knocked over by her extraordinary life. Amongst many pinnacle achievements:

 

1)   She fought for the French resistance in gratitude for a country that welcomed her (and adored her) light years beyond her own American culture. 

2)   She adopted 11 children around the same age both because she loved children and wanted to show how humanity should—and can—live as one family. The kids —who she called “The Rainbow Tribe”—were from Japan, Morocco, Algeria, Ivory Coast, Colombia, Venezuela, Finland and France. 

3)   Revered as a dancer and a singer, she also was a remarkable entrepreneur, amassing enough money to own and live in a castle for 30 years and using her fame and fortune to create jobs and parklands in the surrounding village and hold various festivals and fairs, including anti-racism gatherings. 

4)   She marched alongside Martin Luther King in 1963 (along with Burt Lancaster, Marlon Brando, Harry Belafonte, Bob Dylan) and gave the speech right before his I Have a Dream speech! (Am I the only one that didn’t know that?)

5)   She performed off and on up until 5-days before her death at 68. 

 

And more. (Look it up.) I wished I had included her in my jazz, Joy & Justice book and certainly will if I ever write a Volume II.

Meanwhile, today was (a bit sadly) the last day of the bike tour. We pulled into the Medieval city of Belves, bid farewell to our faithful bikes, strolled around town for some final shots of beautiful buildings, windows, doors, alleys.  I bought a book of folk tunes from the area in French and Occitane, with an accompanying CD! My first little brush with music the whole trip! I didn’t expect anything, but would have been nice to have stumbled upon a street musician playing accordion or hurdy-gurdy somewhere. Never happened. I’ll listen to the CD later to see what I missed. 

 

A farewell dinner with appreciations of each person and what they contributed. Bringing seven strong-willed people together to agree on what time to leave each morning, where and when to eat, whose GPS map is correct, whose weather report is correct, could have been a challenge, but all in all, it went very smoothly. Tomorrow we all board the bullet train to Paris, though probably some of us in separate cars. So thanks to Gerry, Terry, Mary (yes, they rhyme!), Doug and Dennis, Marcia and Karen for a marvelous 10 days together. 

 

Now Karen and I continue with three days in Paris and then London, Oxford, the Cotswolds, before she goes home and I continue on to Austria and then Ghana.  That’s today’s news, such as it is.

Lay Your Burden Down

It’s unusual that one’s day-to-day report is “I rode my bike for many hours through beautiful French countryside” but that pretty much sums up my day and all the other 9 that preceded it. The notable difference today was the Gardens of Eyrignac, which truth be told, was not quite worth the 13 Euro price. (And seems like senior discounts are not a thing in France). Yes, there were some interesting topiaries and bush-lined pathways and fountains with sculpted frogs shooting water from their mouths. But truth be told, the most interesting part for me were these metal sculptures made from old-fashioned keys and other bits. Roosters, insects, geese, a musician, a man holding a balloon. 

 

But the one that caught my attention was a woman releasing a bird from the cage. That’s an image that well describes the feeling of freedom I feel coasting down the long back-country roads on my bike. I often find myself singing the chorus of an old Incredible String Band song:

 

“Farewell sorrow, praise God the open door, 

I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.”

 

That sense of release, of laying down the burdens of this life and floating up feeling so light. Freed from the cages imposed from without and within and ready to fly. 

 

Back to the hotel in the late afternoon and I realized I hadn’t touched base with my daughters in a while. So courtesy of WhatsAp, I sent some photos and a few words about the trip. My older daughter Kerala wrote back:

 

“Here’s my photo. I feel a thousand pounds lighter!”

 

The photo was of her official divorce from her husband of 17 years. 

 

We greet news like this with sadness and there is some in there, for sure. We all would have preferred that the fairy tale marriage they worked so hard at could have had its happy ending. But the two that it takes to tango was my daughter’s solo dance in the last few years, with her partner not only refusing the dance, but blaming her for closing the dance studio. No one here need know the details (and for those interested, see Kerala Taylor’s posts on Substack), but that heavy burden she has carried is finally off her shoulders. Like that bird in the sculpture, I feel her flying free and I am relieved for her sake. 

 

She worked so hard against all odds trying to make the marriage happen and in the end, was blamed for its failure. I have cared for my son-in-law and still do on some level alongside the anger at what he has done and what he has not done, as a husband, as a father and as a struggling human being who needs to own his own healing from multiple traumas. 

But my love for my daughter, from the moment I cut the umbilical cord in her home birth until today and every day that follows, is immeasurable, unequivocal and unconditional. 

Even if it was conditional, she has earned it all through her extraordinary efforts to be a supportive wife, a loving mother and simply one of the finest human beings I know. Her moment of release is something to wholly celebrate and here thousands of miles away, my wife and I raised our glasses with our friends and toasted her long-awaited moment. 

Tour de France

 

 A leisurely morning, the rain clearing and then back on the bikes again for a loop to a chateau and back. Like every day biking in these Dordognes Mountains, there are long stretches of uphills and downhills and truth be told, this San Franciscan still riding his “acoustic” bicycle in my fair and hilly city could handle it. But since 6 of the 7 folks in the group (all the ones over 70) decided to go with electric bikes, it made sense to go for it. (The 7^th is impressively keeping up, but hey, she is some ten years younger). 

 

When I tell others we’re riding electric bikes, you can feel their head nod and their sense of being impressed by our bicycling hardiness go down several notches. I think many imagine these like mini-electric scooters. But truth be told, we are pedaling the whole time, the bikes are some four times heavier than our normal ones and with the help of our heavy batteries, the “electric” side of the equation mostly comes into play on the long uphills. Trust me, biking some 30 to 35 miles a day, we’re getting plenty of exercise. 

 

For those who don’t know, there are four settings, from the least boost to the most. Eco, Tour, Sport and Turbo. I always save the turbo for the long, steep hills and yes, I’m quite glad I have that option. But mostly I opt for Eco or Tour and on long downhills, I often choose “off.”

 

The chateau we arrived at was an impressive old stone building but entirely closed to the public. So the day was mostly a pleasant ride through the countryside. For those curious, there are very few dedicated bike paths on our route and when sharing the road with cars (and trucks), there is no shoulder whatsoever. Our ride is punctuated by the last of us often shouting “Car back!!” and alerting us to hug the shoulder yet tighter. The cars seems used to it, so no one passes by and curses at us. 

 

We got back in mid-afternoon and everyone gathered around the too-chilly-to-swim swimming pool buried in their private pursuits—sketching, watercolors, reading, writing in journals and such. Tonight we’ll walk into town and search out a restaurant, with a slight interest in finding a crepe place. When in France, why not? After all, I’ve been eating white-bread baguettes (but with a unique crunch texture and great taste) with an array of French cheeses. Truth be told, there have been many challenging meals for this mostly vegetarian/ chickentarian, especially since chicken is last on the list (if it even makes the list) behind duck, beef, pork, goose liver and other meats. Pizza is a lifesaver and there are some salads. So again, a lot of bread and cheese and that’s fine up to a point—especially the point on stepping on the scales!

 

As for the title, since I’m biking in France and often use the Tour setting, I believe I can honestly say I’ve ridden in the Tour de France. :-)

  

Intermission

As predicted, it did indeed rain. But as the Swedish say, “There is no bad weather. Only bad clothing.” So we were prepared enough to weather the precipitation and it was on and off, so mostly okay. Arrived at our hotel around 12:30 and retreated to our rooms as it continued to rain. I had a return of my on again, off again, chronic dizziness, so mainly lay down and napped and then lay in bed reading —or rather re-reading—my little vice of Sue Grafton novels. Something about the setting, characters and story that I like and thanks to my leaky memory, having read the almost A to Z collection (she died before writing Z), I’ve enjoyed re-reading I Is for Innocent and my current R Is for Ricochet. 

 

Without much to report about the day, there’s always my reflections on what’s wrong about my country that could be so much better. And let me clear. Neither France nor Ghana nor Bali nor Brazil nor any of the other 60+ countries I’ve loved being in and learned so much from and admired so greatly are without their cultural shadows and their murderous histories. But my critique of my own country is always a blend of true patriotism, a love letter, a grave disappointment and a shameful disgrace.

Having waxed rhapsodic about the quality of food and culture and intellectual engagement and aesthetic appreciation I find in so many places, this quote below from Rachel Carson’s book The Silent Spring rings true. We all talk about the political disaster we’re slogging through, but so much of that is tied to the piss-poor quality of life we endure. Our daily diet of violent movies and TV shows, our profound ignorance of art and literature and music and poetry, our fast food and ugly shopping malls, our obsession with guns, our superficial social relations limited to texts and social media. This all is deeply connected to the political decisions we make and what we accept as okay. And remember that Ms Carson wrote this in the 1950’s!

 

“Why should we tolerate a diet of weak poisons, a home in insipid surroundings, a circle of acquaintances who are not quite our enemies, the noise of motors with just enough relief to prevent insanity? Who would want to live in a world which is just not quite fatal?”

 

Who indeed. And Victor Hugo says something similar in his novel Les Miserables published in 1862! So much of our poor quality of life comes from our obsessions with quantity of money:

 

“Races petrified in dogma or demoralized by money are unfit to lead civilization. Genuflection before the ideal of the dollar atrophies the muscle which moves or the will that goes. Heiratic or mercantile absorption diminishes the radiance of a people, lowers its horizon by lowering its level, and deprives it of that intelligence of the universal aim, at the same time human and divine.”

 

Our radiance has certainly been dimmed down to the barely visible. Our horizon keeps lowering more and more so that just when we think it can go no lower, well, there it is! Hundreds of times in the Toddler King regime and still not touching bottom. Each time, as we adapt to something “not quite fatal” as the new norm, our intelligence, universal humanity and divinity is diminished. 

This is not mere whiny complaint, but hints as to how to really turn things around so we’re not merely bouncing back and forth between the almost tolerable and the unbearable. Mere votes in an election won’t solve that without digging deeper below the surface and organizing our lives, our schools, our government institutions around that which promotes a diet both nutritious and delicious slowly savored, a home in beautiful surroundings, a circle of acquaintances that reflect and inspire our best selves and the quiet music and right speech and early morning bird song that restores us to our sanity. That helps us not only survive, but thrive. Thanks to Ms. Carson and Mr. Hugo for the reminders.

 

More Hidden Treasures

One of the great pleasures of traveling is stumbling upon surprising places. On the bike trip a few years back, I was astounded by the city of Matera in Puglia, Italy. How did I never hear of this remarkable place? Last year in Slovenia I remember that most people know of the beauty of Prague and Venice and Salzburg, but for my money, Ljubljana was every bit as enchanting. 

 

Then this morning, walking through the town of Les Eyzies (yes, I had never heard of it either), I had the same feeling of discovering a hidden treasure. No, not as dramatic as the boys finding the Lascaux Caves, but actually the short trip to those caves is one of the town’s many attractions. But it also has a lovely riverside walk and then turning up towards the cliffs, an eye-catching blend of human architecture joining nature’s handiwork (a few photos below). We came across a charming flea market, so alongside the marvels of antiquity, there was the buzz of the folks today exchanging both pleasantries and goods. 

The town also hosts two museums featuring pre-historical artifacts and well-presented information. And inviting small streets and alleys with unique stone houses and red slanted roofs. It’s fortunate that this Blog readership is small— I wouldn’t want to be responsible for a tourist deluge magnified far beyond what the place already invites. But I’d strongly suggest you put it on your list if you’re so inclined.

 

After our morning walk, we biked to another town through the usual tunnels of lush greenery and yet more astounding cliffs. A picnic lunch alongside the river in company with locals (but minus their tablecloths). Then we met a pre-arranged company putting us in canoes to paddle downriver while they drove our bikes back to our hotel. It started as a bit of a challenge as two of our group set a blistering pace which my wife and I had to struggle to keep up with. In hot, hot sun. But once we found more shady patches and realized we could paddle more leisurely, it was a nice contrast to the biking. Truth be told, I could have done with 5 less miles of the 11 we traveled, but were happy to have done it and we all rewarded ourselves with a swim at our hotel pool.

 

And so our triathlon plus 1 day (quadrathon?)— walking, biking, canoeing, swimming—ended with a lovely meal at a pizza restaurant with unique salads served inside of a pizza crust bowl. Alongside a well-earned refreshing beer and memorable scoop of chocolate ice cream. 

 

After three days in one place, we move hotels today. We have had simply perfect weather, no rain and early 70’s, but today is the first threat of precipitation. Not my favorite way to bike. We’ll see if we can beat the odds. 

  

Marcel in Wonderland

 

“When you gather to plan, the universe is not there.” — Novalis

 

As both an adult and a teacher, both my capacity and need to plan things ahead of time is essential. From my next meal I’ll cook to the next class I’ll teach to the next workshop I’ll give to the next book I write, it’s planning, planning and planning. The better I plan, the better the outcome. 

 

Up to a point. To plan meticulously is admirable, but often we become attached to how we thought the outcome should be and we shut the window to the voice of the universe chiming in. We need to leave space for the unexpected, the surprise, the miraculous to enter. And just sometimes, the universe knows better than we do and throws us an opening that will change our lives. 

 

Remember Alice following the White Rabbit down the rabbit hole? Her extraordinary adventure in Wonderland (see yesterday’s Rachel Carson quote) never would have happened if she hadn’t noticed and then followed that rabbit. You may object that this is just a dreamy story, but it’s precisely what happened to reveal the hidden wonders of the Lascaux caves! 

 

The story goes that in 1940, Marcel Ravidat and three friends, all teenagers, were walking in the woods when his dog chased after a rabbit. The dog tried to follow it down a rabbit hole and got stuck. When they pulled him out, a stone fell into the hole and made a surprising reverberation. This attracted the boys' attention, who thought there might be a hidden treasure. They returned a few days later with tools to make the hole bigger and lowered themselves into it. In the dim light of the torch they fashioned, they were mostly looking down to get their footing. But in one remarkable moment, one happened to look up and saw the bull painted on the wall. And then more. And then more. 

 

They vowed to keep the secret amongst themselves, which lasted of all two days before one of them brought their school teacher there. The word spread quickly and in a short time, the whole world knew about it. The four teenagers were associated with the caves for the rest of their lives. One moment with their dog chasing a rabbit and their lives were changed forever. 

 

As was the world’s. It seemed that this apparently serendipitous moment was meant to happen, as if the ancestors were calling out from 21,000 years ago: “Hey! Look what we did!! Beat that, Picasso!” (Who apparently greatly admired the upside-down horse drawing that he once saw in a photograph). It seems that hidden treasures long to be discovered and will have their say.

 

And I, for one, am grateful.