Unfinished Books

I have three unfinished books on my bedside table. The bookmarks are still in them, each about halfway through. Which is my way of saying, “This really isn’t working for me anymore. But before I sign the divorce papers, let’s keep the window of possibility open.”

 

One is The Idiot by Doesteyovsky. His writing is compelling enough that I stuck with it, but the story is just so non-compelling. People in closed rooms having endless conversations, mostly about the dance of courting without ever connecting. I just found myself bored by the talk and craving an open window or an interesting event. 

 

The second is The Three Musketeers  by Alexander Dumas. Again, good writing and much more action than The Idiot while sharing the constant pursuit of the woman by the man with some rivalry between Church and State thrown into the mix. But the whole premise of the culture where somebody looks at you cross-eyed and that justifies challenging them to a duel, and yes, killing them for the transgression. Come on, folks, get a life! Enough of this macho crap!

 

Then there’s On the Road by Jack Kerouac. Sometimes I re-read these kind of iconic classics and feel that they hold up. But not this one! How much dysfunctional behavior and drinking can one take? No real character development and where there’s some, not a character you want to hang out with. No plot beyond getting one place to another and getting rip-roaring drunk. What was touted as an anthem of liberation from the square 50’s mentality comes across as just plain hedonistic indulgence. I did relate to the hitchhiking experiences having traveled cross-country some 4 different times in the early 70’s. But hell, my book about it would be so much more interesting. I never once got drunk and instead, could wax poetic about the breathtaking beauty of the American landscape, some intriguing people who picked me up and a couple of situations I found myself in and that feeling of freedom underneath the open skies and utter dependence on the kindness of strangers. 

 

Meanwhile, I’m listening to James, the re-telling of Huckleberry Finn told from the point of view of Jim and there’s a compelling story. The adventure of rafting on the Mississippi, the deep insight into white supremacy told from the other side, the deep shame about what my country has done and deeper shame that it’s doubling down today to keep that horror going, the compelling relationship between Huck and Jim. Here’s a book worth my time.

 

Meanwhile, anyone want to buy three used books?

Accentuate the Positive

                                    “You’ve got to accent-tuate the positive,

                                    E-lim-inate the negative,

                                  Latch on, to the affirmative

                                  Don’t mess with Mister In-Between…”

-       Harold Arlen/ Johnny Mercer

Back in the day, we used to take sixty  3^rd to 5^th graders camping for five days up in Calaveras Big Trees in the foothills of the Sierras. In the last week of school, when report cards were due and we needed to close our classrooms. It was insanely hard work and organization—especially since we slept out in the elements and did all our own cooking with the kids. But it was glorious and memorable and I would not have traded it for the world. And we did it for some twenty years!!

 

I was unofficially the camp head because I knew all the songs and could work the crowd. I remember one year I gave a talk at the beginning that went something like this:

 

“Now pay attention, because I want to warn you about all the things that have happened before. One year a rattlesnake crossed our path. Another time a bear came into camp. Yet another some raccoons came into a kids’ tent at night because he had hidden some candy there. We found some mushrooms once and a kid was about to eat one when we stopped him and found out it was poisonous. Another kid climbed too high in a tree and fell and broke his arm. Sometimes it rains really hard and we have no shelter other than our tents. And one year it snowed! Oh, and then there was the time helicopters were flying overhead and we heard there was an escaped convict in the area. So I just want to prepare you for these dangers. Any questions?" (Note: All of this really happened!)

 

A kid meekly raised his hand and said, “Can you stop scaring us please? Is there anything fun about this trip?” It was a needed reminder to remember to “accentuate the positive.”

I’m enjoying the grand pleasure of re-reading a book by Wynton Marsalis titled To a Young Jazz Musican, Amongst many gems of advice he gives this young man is this:

 

“We’re always thinking about what’s wrong in our practicing. We have to realize: What keeps you play is what’s right. You’re not going to keep pursuing something that tastes nasty; it’s got to have some sweetness somewhere in it. 

 

Always pursue that joy, the sweetness. Don’t work solely out of a negative frame of reference.  Yes, there’s bullshit going on, corruption, people doing bad things. Truth is, all of that is to help you identify a positive frame of reference. That is what will sustain you.”

 

To which I say, “Amen!” Yesterday’s April 5^th rally was a reminder of the joy of people gathering to say “NO!” to what’s going on as a way to say “YES!” to the wonderful things in this life that bring fairness, happiness, health and a positive quality of life. As I knew it would be, the energy was upbeat, uplifting and empowering. I loved the wit and creativity and intelligence and caring and artistry of the hundreds of homemade signs (see photos below). Alone at home reading or watching the news, we are dragged down to the pit of despair, but gathering together, it’s a whole different feeling. Isolated despair paralyzes, collective hope inspires. 

 

Back in the Yippie days of the late 60’s and early 70’s, there was the idea that more people would wake up to justice and peace and love if they realized it was more fun to be “on the bus” than “off the bus.” That mantra from  The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test describing a bus traveling around the country with LSD in the Kool-Aid that (temporarily) expanded consciousness. For some, that led them to a spiritual yearning and brought them to a more sustainable spiritual practice and a life lived with more heart, soul, intelligence and caring.

 

Now the Kool -Aid is laced with fear and lies and ignorance and the 80 million people who drank it, duped by leaders who care nothing about them, keep wearing the “red hat” of “hat-red” (hatred). Not only are they causing immeasurable damage, but they're missing out on the fun of caring and thinking and feeling and living a good life. (Though some are waking up as their jobs disappear and the economy is tanking). 

 

In summary. There is SO MUCH to be negative about but don’t let it grab you by your throat and throw you down. There is also SO MUCH to be positive about, but don’t go there naively, happy because you had a good meal and the suffering masses be damned. Feel the grief and pain and rise to the joy, in company with others by your side. And for goodness sakes, keep getting out to the streets. It feels good, it’s a positive action and it makes a difference. 

 

Over and out. 

 

Me and Charles Ives

Three days since I’ve written here and I feel like I’m betraying my routine. I’ve been happily busy with various pursuits, but none of them an excuse for hanging up a “Gone Fishing” sign. Reviving some sense of daily exercise—a long walk alongside the Embarcadero with the always-refreshing reunion with the waterfront.  A bike ride with my wife battling winds in Golden Gate Park. Another bike ride down Market St. to the Redwood Grove at Transamerica Pyramid and charming stroll around the Jackson Square neighborhood with the Men’s Group enjoying the lovely historic buildings and discovering an enchanting alley. Yet another afternoon in my 17 years of playing piano at the Jewish Home and meeting an old school parent in the audience and her daughter who I taught in the late 70’s. An intimate house concert in Emeryville featuring two horns and three drummers playing classic and newly composed Indian music. Some riveting and deeply moving episodes of This Is Us on Netflix. But again, none of this so busy that I couldn’t write a post as I usually do.

 

But the main reason is that with three weeks ahead of me without much on the calendar, I’ve reached to the back burner of writing projects and moved one of them to the front, with a fire now lit beneath it. It’s time to bring The Humanitarian Musician out into the light of day, to gather the ideas and stories that have been floating around for some ten years and give them a home and a form and a structure. (Sorry, alert writers, a carnival of mixed metaphors here!). 

 

And so I began and I’m back in the satisfying feeling of waking up with the next sentence or idea ready to set down, walking around with my little notebook for when the next needed thought appears, feeling that gratifying sense of connecting the days with the thread of a project that slowly takes shape like a photo in a darkroom (more mixed metaphors!). Such a fine feeling to take the constant free-floating ideas swirling around in my mind and set them down on the electronic paper to eventually be put on real paper in that still satisfying technology of a book with a cover and a spine.

 

Here I’ll share my proposed opening quote that sets the tone for the radical thought that musicians and the training of musicians could be a more humanitarian undertaking than merely learning to play notes well and that the humanitarian impulses in us can be nurtured both by actual music-making and musical metaphors. Before I ever read this quote from the American composer Charles Ives, I had an intuition that these ideas would inform my teaching. And they have.

 

Meanwhile, today’s the April 5^th protests I’ve highlighted in the previous posts and instead of a sign, I’m bringing my ukelele and a tambourine. 

 

“I feel strongly that the great fundamentals should be more discussed in all public meetings, and also in meetings of schools and colleges, not only the students but also the faculty should get down to more thinking and action about the great problems which concern all countries and all people in the world today, and not let the politicians do it all and have the whole say.

 

I have often been told that it is not the function of music to concern itself with matters like these. But I do not by any means agree. I think that it is one of the things that music can do, if it happens to want to…  —I have had some fights about this. “

 

Charles Ives (1874-1954) Letter to Lehman Engel. (p. 72- In Praise of Music)

  

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