Dancing in the Streets

 

“The job of a citizen is to keep his mouth open.” —Gunter Grass

 

This blog, my Podcast, Facebook, speaking out at the workshops I give, speaking out with the children I teach, talking with friends— wherever there is an opportunity to question incompetence, selfish greed, mean-spiritedness, attempts to shut down free speech and Constitutional rights, I choose to speak out. While I can, without being sent to Siberia. Sometimes it feels like facing Goliath with my little slingshot of words, putting flowers in the barrels of guns, throwing pebbles at tanks. One never knows if any of it makes the slightest bit of difference. 

 

But I do know that masses of people taking to the streets not only makes an impact, but feels more empowering, more effective and certainly more fun that doomscrolling through the screaming headlines and raising my one little voice to protest. And the effective of collective protest may be so much larger than we might ever know.

 

Back in the 1980’s when I worked on the Nuclear Freeze Movement, I had a meeting in someone’s house with about 10 people—and Daniel Ellsberg (of The Pentagon Papers!) was one. He told a memorable story about asking the organizer of the Vietnam War protests in the early 70’s whether he thought his efforts made any difference. The man shook his head sadly and replied, “No.” Then Ellsberg told him this story.

 

Apparently, Nixon was on the verge of using nuclear weapons in Vietnam at the time of the massive protest in D.C.. (In fact, I believe it may have been the one that I attended!) Nixon told the press he didn’t care about it and was going to sit in the Oval Office and watch the football game. Instead, he was looking out the window at the thousands of protestors and decided that in the face of such massive opposition, it was not an opportune time to make such a decision. (As reported later by a Nixon aide). Nobody knew this story—including the protest organizer—but it was a powerful example of how such things can make more of a difference than we imagine. 

 

So with that in mind, I repeat my post on Facebook below and encourage you to get out on the streets wherever you may be. And pass this on to friends, family, relatives, co-workers far and wide. We may never know if it will make a difference, but we do know that staying silent is indeed complicity and allows the power-mongers to steamroll over the democracy we need and love without resistance. And if nothing else, getting out and dancing on the streets will feel so much better than doomscrolling alone in isolation. See you there!

 

“Grandma and Grandpa, what did you do to try to save Democracy?” ask your present or future grandchildren, either whispering in a fascist dystopian state or celebrating in a democratic free nation. I hope you can at least say, “I cancelled all appointments for this Saturday, April 5^th and took to the streets with tens of thousands of others in 600 cities worldwide to protect your future.” If you don’t know where to go, just Google April 5^th and find out where the nearest one to you is. Stand, be counted and let your voice be heard!”

April and the Holy Grail

I turn the calendar page to April and wonder what to expect this time? Will it be the “cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire…” or will it be “mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful” with the “little lame balloon man whistling far and wee?” or will “April come like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers?” T.S. Eliot, e.e.cummings and Edna St. Vincent Millay have all had their say. As have jazz songwriters Vernon Duke (April in Paris), Louis Silvers (April Showers) and Gene de Paul (I’ll Remember April). But what will we do with this precious month lying in front of us?

 

The month begins with a reminder that never have we been more fools than to peaceably elect our own demise. So April 5^th invites us to take to the streets to insist that we wisely restore the country we signed up for. Put it on your calendar, people! And show up. 

 

Meanwhile, April most certainly announces Spring and Spring reminds us that lilacs indeed will bloom out of the dead land. In the natural world, this cycle needs no help from human beings. It is simply the constant turning of life, death and re-birth. But in our human folly, we can create a bleak winter landscape in the midst of the most glorious sunny flowery day. And the cruelty of April is the reminder that we have fallen from the grace of Nature. The flowers bloom but we cannot smell them. They enliven the land with their bright hues but we are color-blind to them. They invite the bees to spin honey from their offerings, but we cannot taste them. 

 

Those opening lines, “April is the cruelest month,” come from T.S. Eliot’s epic poem The Wasteland, which in turn has reference to the Medieval tale of Parzival. Parzival is a naïve young knight in search of The Holy Grail who stumbles into the castle where it is hidden. There a king is brought before him on a litter with a wound that bleeds day and night without healing. Because of the bleeding Grail King who was wounded and shows no signs of healing, the land all around has become a Wasteland. (Make the connection here!). Parzival had been brought up not to ask questions, so he fails to ask the King what ails him or how he can help. When he awakes the next morning, the castle has disappeared and he spends many years trying to find it again. During that time, he matures and gains some degree of wisdom and an increased nobility of purpose. When he finally finds the castle again, he now asks the needed questions. “What ails you?” In some versions, the question is “Whom does the Grail serve?” And the answer is “The Grail King who represents a higher purpose and the potential for healing and transformation, rather than serving the individual.”

 

And so. Here we are, with a wounded King who thinks his wounds make him tough, a population trained not to ask why the bleeding wound of white supremacy and patriarchy and uncheck capitalist greed won’t stop bleeding and those who have the intelligence and courage and caring to ask the needed questions and begin the healing and transformation that will turn our desolate wasteland landscape into a joyful riot of Spring flowers. In the old legend, all were waiting for a hero (Parzival) to redeem the land, but now we know that the Hopi prophecy is the myth for our time “We are the ones we have been waiting for.”

 

Welcome to April and see you on the 5^th!

 

Leaving the Lane

Amidst so much that bothers me these days, there’s a mentality from the left side of the equation that suggests that everyone can only play music or write books or plays or teach history from their own ethnic group/ gender/ class/ religion or else you’ll be charged with “cultural appropriation.” Some appropriation is, of course, real and of concern, but it is not in anyone’s interest to deny that a woman can write with insight into a male character and vice-versa, that a Japanese person can play gamelan, a black person study yoga, a Jewish person capoeira and so on. It’s particularly disturbing to me because it goes against the grain of my entire life’s work and point of view. 

 

Today I stumbled into an article I wrote for an Orff journal back in 1994 and I found it held up well in describing that point of view. Some excerpts:

 

A newborn baby comes into this world with the entire history of human potential radiating out of a body/mind of immense possibility. Every human quality is floating freely in seed form. Various factors affect which of those qualities gets watered and nourished—race, gender, genetics, climate, family and human culture. Each society will shine the light on some qualities, thus encouraging growth, and leave others in the dark. Some cultures honor expression of feelings, others choose to ignore them; some reward innovation, others adherence to tradition; some celebrate material wealth, others spiritual wealth and communal sharing; some look to the heavens for inspiration, others to the earth for nourishment. These choices make a distinct difference in the life experience of an individual and the life of a culture. They are at once reflected in, expressed in, shaped by the particular art forms of a culture and their most positive qualities given an artistic shape, form and style to grow in. One can say that the arts in each culture offer a gift to the human psyche in the form of one strand in the greater music of who we might become. 

 

The negative side of the cultural pruning of our vast possibility of human possibility is the wound of unlived qualities. What is offered to us in the music we listen to, the movies we watch, the books we read, the dances we dance, the rituals and ceremonies we attend may not wholly resonate with us. We may feel ourselves as spiritual beings, but not find it in the Catholic Church and discover it in Zen Buddhism. We may feel incompetent as a jazz drummer, but come alive when we play Taiko drums or Indian tabla. We may not find our blues singing voice growing up as a black woman in Mississippi, but discover we were meant for opera. We may think that poetry has nothing to say to us and then discover Rumi or Mary Oliver. By experiencing music and dance (or arts or literature or religions) of another culture, we are opening to the possibility of contacting an undeveloped part of ourself that turns out to be central to our fuller identity. 

 

Written over three decades earlier, it feels like a viable response to today’s “stay in your lane/ back to tribe” movement where your inherited identity defines what's appropriate for you to learn or teach. I stand firm in my conviction that a multicultural perspective helps us to, as I wrote then:

 

 "Learn about ourselves through the eyes of the 'other,' in realization that the other is often an unlived and unloved part of ourselves. Joyful and successful experience in 'other' musics opens up a psychic doorway in the child (and adult) that allows freer passage in the corridors of consciousness. Amidst all the other reasons for including multi-cultural music, this seems to me the most important—that children can learn to move freely in the marvelous dance of their human possibility."

 

That certainly has been true for this guy Jewish by blood, Unitarian by upbringing, Buddhist by choice and practice, musician playing Bach, Beethoven, Brubeck, Bird, banjo, Balinese gamelan, Bulgarian bagpipe, Brazilian samba, cooking tacos, miso soup, stir fry, pasta, falafel, gazpacho, curries, pad Thai, etc. etc., reading Rumi, Hafiz, Basho, Pablo Neruda, Shakespeare, Dickens, Doesteyovsky, James Baldwin, Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie, Amy Tan, etc. Would someone suggest I only read Phillip Roth, eat bagels and listen to Benny Goodman? 

 

I imagine there are many like myself who didn’t find everything I needed in my given lane and had to cross lines to discover who I was meant to be. Let’s keep the roads open, please.

Out of Line

“You’re outta line, young fella!” you might hear in a movie or TV show to reprimand some young person who said or did the wrong thing. And there is a place for adults to remind kids when they go too far. Or anyone, for that matter.

But this profound little story I found on Facebook puts a whole new perspective on things. Especially at a time when the fascists in charge are demanding everyone walk to their goosestep and support their lies and purposeful misinformation—or else! 

 

When we refuse to pass on the inherited and newly-minted lies of toxic narratives, the traumas passed on that thrive on us passing them down to the next generation, we not only begin the first step toward healing ourselves, but also contribute significantly to healing others. And sometimes it takes a 10-year old kid to remind us. 

Here's the post from someone named Katie Ford:

"My 10-year old son just offered me more healing than 15 years of therapy.

I was talking with him about healing and generational cycles of trauma and this is what he said:

' Mama, it's like dominoes, you know? They just keep hitting each other until one gets slightly out of line. The rest stay standing because of one small move.

You moved out of line, Mama.'

You guys, there's hope for this world."

Indeed there is, Katie Ford— especially if more of us move out of line.

Standing Ovation

I promised a review of the Bela Fleck, Edmar Castaneda and Antonio Sanchez concert I attended last night and I can give it in three words: “Go hear them!!”

What can you expect?

 

1)   Virtuosity: While technical mastery and virtuosity is not the sole criteria for musical expression, it is certainly indispensable. As Wynton Marsalis once said, it’s the guard at the gate that determines who’s allowed into the palace of sublime musical expression. Each of the three are masters in their respective instrument and are not shy to show it.

 

2)   Innovation: Bela Fleck on banjo and Edmar Castañeda on Colombian harp have both brought their respective instruments for beyond the borders of their original expressive styles. Bela has performed with jazz musician Chick Corea, old-time musician Doc Watson, rock musicians Jerry Garcia and Dave Matthews, Indian tabla player Zakir Hussein, classical violinist Joshua Bell, numerous African musicians in a wide variety of cultural styles (see his movie Throw Down Your Heart ).

 

Edmar has likewise played with a number of crossover musicians—Sting, Wynton Marsalis, Hiromi, Paco de Lucia, Gonzalo Rubalcabo and more, as well as mastering the folk repertoire of the original Colombian/ Venezuelan harp. 

 

3)   Connection: The chemistry between the three last night as they called and responded to each other in the heat of the moment, echoing and contrasting each other’s musical ideas, arriving at a cadence at exactly the same moment, is the stuff good live performance is made of. As Antonio Sanchez mentioned in a moving talk about music as Democracy, the ability to equally contribute, to listen to and affirm and expand each other’s point of view is a hallmark of great music and great government.

4)  Generosity: While they clearly were having fun and would have enjoyed playing if no one was in the audience, music, of course, is a shared experience and their generosity in bring joy to the audience was evident in every note. 

 

Not everything I write has to reference the terrible state of affairs over half the country has chosen, but I couldn’t help but notice that Mexican Antonio Sanchez and Colombian harpist Edmar Casteñeda could easily be on the deportation list. It would have been entirely possible for ICE to break into the concert and haul them off the stage. Think about that. 

 

Standing ovations are a dime a dozen in our country, with it’s “Rah! Rah! Everything is AWESOME!” mentality. But the one the audience gave these extraordinary musicians was as sincere as you can get and perhaps packed with a little more punch because we are all so hungry to witness virtuosic competency, exalted thought (musical and otherwise), innovative ideas responding to the genuine needs of the moment, connection between people and generosity of spirit. 

 

After Bobby Kennedy was assassinated, Leonard Bernstein gave a speech and said:

 

"But this sorrow and rage will not inflame us to seek retribution; rather they will inflame our art. …This will be our reply to violence: to make music more intensely, more beautifully, more devotedly than ever before."

 

 Of course, this is far from enough. But it’s part of turning things around and yesterday’s concert was a testimony to its power. It was intense, beautiful and reflected what happens when people are devoted to their art and to spreading joy. On we go. 

  

My Week in Lake Wobegon

Sometimes we live life and sometimes we just fill out the paperwork. The latter well describes this week back home. Preparing my taxes, my Asian invoices, my Ghana Visa application, buying my flight to Portland for the end-of-the-month grandkids’ visit. All of it necessary, but none of it fun. 

 

I remember my Peter Pan childhood watching my Dad pay bills at the dining room table and hoping that I could live in Never-Never Land forever and Never have to do that! Having made my living sitting on the floor playing games with kids,  I’m quite happy that a bit of Peter Pan has lived inside me for over seven decades. But I’m equally clear that as bodies grow toward adulthood, minds and hearts must as well. The mind that plans, organizes, looks ahead, imagines consequences, makes informed choices, prepares and dreams ahead of time the moments when one will feel wholly present is the territory of the adult and has its own pleasures. Not necessarily while filling out the paperwork, but when arriving where it leads you.  

 

So it hasn’t exactly been a memorable week to write about. And yet here I am, trying to see if there’s anything worthy of reflection. I could mention my return to the Jewish Home, a new resident who knew every song I played and beamed with delight as she recognized each. Another new resident who started to sing along with a soulful jazz style and my disappointment to learn she was only there for short-term rehab! But we exchanged phone numbers and perhaps she’ll come again next week. 

 

I walked in my beloved park, got on my bike again, loved cooking in my kitchen (with its newly painted blue walls) after three weeks of restaurants, enjoyed shopping for groceries and hooked into a new nighttime TV Series that really has me hooked (This Is Us on Netflix). Had a short reunion with daughter Talia, who is now on Spring Break in Belize with boyfriend Matt and his family, a place Karen and I visited in 1975! Then of course, the deep pleasure of returning to Bach on my piano and the calisthenics of getting back in shape with his Inventions, French Suites, Partitas, Preludes and Fugues. And always finishing off with some jazz and keeping that part of my musicality at least alive, if not well. 

 

So yes, it’s been a quiet week in my San Francisco Lake Wobegon, where all the women are strong, the men trying their best and the children mostly delightful. (These the people I know, not the ones in the news!) Off to a concert tonight that promises to feed my faith in the extraordinary accomplishments of some human beings— in this case Bela Fleck, Edmar Castañeda and Antonio Sanchez. Stay tuned for the review!

Dorothy, Chopin and the Demise of Democracy

The piano teacher came twice a week to erase the awful gap between Dorothy and Chopin.

Like so many (but not enough), I keep trying to make sense of that which makes no sense. Here is my latest attempt, using music as the central metaphor:

 

“People are endowed with certain unalienable rights and among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. ” These words that birthed our country were like a Chopin composition, inviting us to rise to master the virtuoso techniques, nuanced emotion, intricate forms of our human promise. They asked us to use the full range of the keyboard of our humanitarian possibilities, in all 12 keys, to navigate through the churling stormy passages and savor the quiet tender moments that lived only measures apart in the same composition. 

 

The gap between what we said and what we did, between the exquisite vision and the brutal reality, was awful indeed. The very man who penned those words owned enslaved human beings who were systematically denied those unalienable rights. As did many of those white male landowners who signed that Declaration of Independence. But still they set in motion a mission for succeeding generations to achieve. Like the child first sitting down at the piano, their hands were too small, their minds just beginning to make the needed neural connections, their frontal lobes of empathy a long way from development. Their hearts could only hold what the past bequeathed them— the collective traumas and toxic narratives and cruel practices jumbled together with another lineage of inspired spiritual teachers, artists, authors who suggested a higher calling. 

 

The idea of consciously crafting a government with a more lofty and inclusive vision than the legacy of kings and queens and conquerors and caste that offered no choice and no invitation to rise higher, where life was merely “nasty, brutish and short” was something new under the sun. Those words from the Declaration of Independence became our North Star, our guiding light by which we navigated that turned our gaze upward to the heavens. It promised a life more majestic and astonishing beyond what we could previously imagine. It offered a whole universe of possibility and encouraged us to rise higher through our own efforts. Like hearing Rubinstein play Chopin and coming out of the concert inspired and determined to practice diligently to erase that awful gap between the mundane and the sublime. 

 

That North Star made all the difference and it was the terrible tension between the blood-soaked ground and the splendid sky that defined our American story. That was where the great drama was played out and where so many had their moment on stage to ennoble us all. From Phyliss Wheatley to John Brown to Emily Dickinson to Henry David Thoreau to Harriet Tubman to Walt Whitman to Frederick Douglas to Sitting Bull to Mother Jones to the Grimke Sisters to W.E. Dubois up to Ida B. Wells and Cesar Chavez and Martin Luther King and Fannie Lou Hamer— the list is long and still growing. Not to mention the Jim Thorpes and Jackie Robinsons and Muhammed Alis and Wilma Rudolphs, the Zora Neale Hurstons and James Baldwins and Maya Angelous and Barbara Kingsolvers, the Louis Armstrongs and Duke Ellingtons and Billie Holidays and Charlie Parkers and Thelonious Monks and Nina Simones and John Coltranes who invited Dorothy to aspire to new complexities different than Chopin. All of them and thousands more dancing in that awful gap to bring us yet closer to our destiny among the stars. 

 

And now look at who we are. Schools are forbidden to teach the science of the stars, our history is being silenced, our art ignored, our very attempt to educate shut down. Tech giants prey on children to addict them to the machines so that they’ll walk beneath the star-studded sky and never once look up, their gaze buried downward in their device that reduces their immense intelligence and feeling life to distraction and sensation, violence and porn. 2% of our population listens to jazz, 3% to European classical music, so Chopin and Ellington don’t even cross their screen. Music is now only played on the white keys and confined to the middle range of the keyboard, reduced to dull repetition of meaningless simplistic phrases at loud volumes. If you listen hard enough and look for it, beautiful music of all sorts is still being played, but is not banned from the Kennedy Center and not broadcast on public media. Our founding documents are being trampled on left and right and not enough are noticing. In short, there is no gap to close anymore. The North Star is now real estate for billionaires to take their trip in space and claim it as their own. 

And yet. All around us are people refusing the attempt to slam the piano lid on their fingers. Like that extraordinary video of a woman playing Chopin in her home in the Ukraine reduced to rubble, this is how we will bear up while resisting the dismantling of our founding vision. This Dorothy has traveled fully across the gap to arrive at the promise we all equally share. And so should we. 

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-wS_Zio8Mg&pp=ygUrdWtyYWluZSB3b21hbiBwbGF5aW5nIHBpYW5vIGluIGJvbWJlZCBob3VzZQ%3D%3D

When It Rains

Back to “some clichés are true” as the bad news that usually is a trickle is suddenly pouring in. Of course, every day in our national disaster, but for me, also in the personal realm. The last post was about the unexpected passing of my friend Mary Goetze. And then in the next 24 hours I found out that:

 

1)   Another good friend who was my student in 1972 (and we’re still friends!) discovered she has ovarian cancer and is going into surgery soon. 

2)   A teacher I taught with for 40 years has another kind of surgery scheduled and it’s dangerous. 

3)   An elder Orff colleague fell on the ice and broke her hip and spent six weeks in rehab while trying to handle the bad care her 90-year old spouse with Parkinson’s is getting in his Home for the Aged.

4)   My daughter had a mediation session with her husband trying to sort out divorce proceedings and he told lie after lie to justify demanding outrageous sums of money from her in a settlement and refusing to help with the kids.

5)   And her good friend who has been a godsend of support is moving. 

 

Meanwhile, I saw a video of an ICE agent smashing the windshield of a 7-month pregnant woman to drag her out of her car and arrest her for deportation. Storms close to home and far away (and so many more the latter!) and I think of the last two lines of the poem I’ve been opening workshops with:

 

“We’ll weather the weather whatever the weather,

  Whether we like it or not!”

 

Indeed, what other choice do we have? Well, some people think there is a choice, that I should blame all of the above on immigrants or liberals or take-your-pick and lash out with anger. But I choose instead more kindness, more generosity, more love, as my friend Mary suggested in a song she wrote. To remind us all and to honor her memory, I include it here (along with a youtube link of a choir singing it). 

https://youtu.be/D2-_Dr8-WiE 

 

We dream a tomorrow with sunny days and birdsong,

Where all life can flourish in our time and beyond

 

We dream a tomorrow where all people are fed

And go to sleep at night with a roof overhead.

 

REFRAIN: 

As we live, let us give, each in our own way.

As we go, let us show kindness every day.

As we thrive, let us strive to do what we can do

Hand in hand, side by side, to make tomorrow’s dreams come true

 

We dream a world where all people are free

To choose how they live and who they want to be.

A world with more compassion, 

More generosity-- more love, more love.

 

We dream a tomorrow

When all violence will cease

And people round the planet 

Will prosper in peace.   

-       Words and music by Mary Goetze

 

 

Silver Bells and Cockleshells

Walking around the Buddhist temple in Hong Kong the other day, I was struck by the sense of loss of people I have known who are no longer with us. Many of the people who came to mind— an Orff colleague, a college friend, a former neighbor, a school alum parent, all who died within the last year—were not folks I saw on a regular basis. Maybe once a year at most and some, once or twice in the past 20 years. But still I always felt warmed and comforted knowing they were still alive and walking on the same planet. And so I unexpectedly felt myself missing them knowing that I couldn’t write or call or visit them anymore.

 

Of course, loss of loved ones is the price of membership dues when we join the human race. And especially as my peer group has hit the late 70’s and into the 80’s, it comes as no surprise. But yet it always is a surprise. And a difficult one at that.

 

Facebook is the new obituary pages and I was stunned to read of the passing of Mary Goetze. Mary was a nationally renowned children’s choir director, educator, composer and arranger, truly tops in her field. I first met her around 1990 when we were teaching parallel courses in Hamline University in St. Paul, Minnesota. We immediately clicked, appreciating each other’s expertise and enjoying each other’s wit and humor. It was Mary who invited me (and convinced me to accept her invitation) to be part of the Macmillan McGraw-Hill textbook-writing team of their Share the Music series. Every six weeks for over a year, we met in Manhattan with some 12 other authors and in-between the productive meetings were fun dinners out. One of my odd statistics is that I’ve never been flat-out drunk, but I do remember ordering a cocktail that was larger than I expected and while talking and laughing with Mary thought, “Ooh. I’m feeling a bit tipsy here!”

 

Mary combined the highest level of rigor with great wit and warmth when working with both children and adults. She could lecture on the physiology of vocal cords and the nuances of phonemes and equally enjoy humorous exchanges with whoever she taught. One of my favorites was her making her Australian debut with a lecture about the importance of “singing on the loo” referring to the vocal sound. One cheeky participant raised her hand and said, “Can you repeat that bit about singing on the loo again?” When she realized that loo is “toilet” in Australia, she joined in the laughter!

 

Her musicianship was impeccable and her children’s choir performances stunning. While at the top of her game with the Western Vienna-boys choir-style of vocal production, she got interested in other cultural expressions (and credited me a bit for this step into “World Music”) and began a second chapter in her career working with gathering material and recording singers from diverse cultures and styles. Mary also was a person with a big heart and cared for both abandoned kittens and big issues of social justice. 

 

After the Macmillan project, we continued to meet at various Orff Conferences (including Australia in 2002!) until she retired and we lost touch. She was on my Christmas card electronic mailing list and I was so happily surprised when she wrote to me after reading this year’s missive. Here is her touching and heartfelt letter. (The last two paragraphs she references were about the recent election):

 

Hi Doug

Thanks for your update and congratulations on all your successes in teaching, writing, performing and of course living fully, compassionately and generously—all with such contagious joy!  You are a gift!

 

I was totally overwhelmed and in tears reading the last two powerful paragraphs-brilliant, eloquent! You captured such an array of emotions that I’ve been holding in.  I was deeply touched and am grateful that your words gave form to what I’ve been feeling.  

 

So first THANK YOU!  And second, would you permit me to share those paragraphs with others, with credit of course.  And I’m wondering about adapting parts of the final paragraph for a benediction or anthem for our Unitarian church choir—just thinking about it. If I happen to find that the words “sing” then maybe we could collaborate on it.  

 

I’ll send you a link to a piece I wrote a couple of seasons ago with a recording by the choir entitled “We Dream a Tomorrow.”  

 

I’m doing well and keeping involved with volunteering—working with refugees, kids of incarcerated parents, food pantries, and most selfishly, fostering kittens for our animal shelter. (Such joy!) Bob has Parkinson’s but fortunately it is progressing slowly. He continues with Red Cross, virtually coordinating those who deploy to disasters.  

 

So again thanks for sharing your news and thoughts with me!  

 

With love and admiration

Mary

 

It felt so wonderful to re-establish contact, inspiring how she was continuing to do her marvelous work in various formats post-retirement and moving to read her kind words about my work. I wrote back and ended with:

 

Let's keep in touch! And maybe someday (gasp!) see each other again!

 

 

And now that door of possibility is closed. I still don’t know precisely what happened to her— she certainly sounded healthy, vibrant, alive and well a mere three months ago. I’m taking some time today to let that sadness sink in. 

 

Mary’s life was contrary to the mainstream horror going on yet more forcefully today, refusing in her gentle way the shallow, the noisy, the unjust babbling of so much of our contemporary culture through her deep commitment to caring, choirs and kittens. Combatting the ugliness by cultivating her own beautiful garden. And so — imagining the “pretty maids in a row” as children in the girl’s chorus—this seems a fitting farewell rhyme for my dear friend and colleague, Mary Goetze.

 

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells and cockleshells,

And pretty maids all in a row.