Ode to the Auto

To cross into Wyoming on a summer’s day with Mustang Sally pumped up on the car radio is to enter an American mythological landscape larger than life. “Ride Sally Ride!” you sing along at top volume, your skin tingling, your blood pumping, the wind in your hair (or what’s left of it), swept along into the heartbreaking beauty of the green meadows, snow-capped mountains and big blue sky. As my friend Chris Cunningham likes to remark: “It doesn’t get any better than this.”

It was also Chris who once remarked in a Joseph Campbell Study Group: “My first sensation of what it might mean to ‘follow my bliss’ was driving my car.” I remember being mildly shocked by this somewhat politically incorrect confession. Here we were talking about the great themes of mythology and he’s talking about a gas-guzzling, environmental-wrecking, factory-produced machine?

But Chris had it right. Political, practical and ecological concerns aside (as they must be in the mythological landscape), to “head out on the highway,” to “plan to motor West,” to “ride along in your automobile, with no particular place to go” is to have “fun, fun, fun”—that is, until “your daddy takes the T-bird away.” Remember these songs singing out the bliss of the American version of the open road? Getting into your G.T.O. or Little Deuce Coupe, passing The Little Old Lady from Pasadena out on Route 66 on the way to Surf City? They were the soundtrack to the great American Keruoackian mythology and promised to deliver everything that mythology cares about—adventure, search, flight, freedom, taking the hero’s journey snug in your Volkswagen bug or sitting up high in the van seat.

Mythology touches on the timeless and placeless universals, but often enters through particular manifestations of such. The excitement of moving and the double-excitement of moving faster than your own legs can carry is as old as the horse, the chariot, the stagecoach, the train, each of which constellated its own mythos. (I’m still enamored with the European train mythology, captured in countless movies and brought to life in my actual European train travel.)

But the car brought something new into the picture—a quality of autonomy and independence, the balance between giving yourself up to what the world offers and maintaining some sense of autonomy, independence and control. After all, trains demand that you follow their schedule, go only where the tracks are laid, get off and on at predetermined places, accept the décor of the car you sit in and deal with the people sitting next to you. But the automobile is indeed your mobile home. You choose your style of car, you choose who sits in the front seat with you, you set your radio dial where you want it and the volume you want it at. You also choose (schedule-permitting) what route to take, what side roads to visit, what pace your prefer. No wonder the auto trumped the train—choice is a red-blooded American virtue. And perhaps a universal one as well.

The automobile is a supreme paradox. The prefix “auto” means “self, one's own, by oneself” while “mobile” means “movement.” At the same time that you’re out there moving in the world, you’re also inside seated on your moving meditation cushion, your comfortable easy chair, your rocking chair on the proverbial front porch. Robert Bly called it “this solitude covered with iron.” It takes you to new and exciting places, but when the excitement gets too much, you can lock the door and drive away. You can eat meals in the car, you can sleep in the car and when you’re young and have no place to go, you can dive into the back seat of the car and hope that some of life’s supreme mysteries may be revealed in a tangle of disheveled clothes and heavy breathing.

I’m carrying with me Garrison Keillor’s new collection, Good Poems: American Places,  the perfect choice for this road trip. The poems are about places in the American landscape— one’s own back yard, the subway or a grand adventure into wild places—where something happened to capture the poet’s attention and poet took the trouble to tell about it and include the place in the telling. The first of fifteen sections is subtitled “On the Road” and as the titles reveal— Driving through the Poconos, Driving at Night, Driving West in 1970, Top Down, Mambo Cadillac—the car was one of those significant places where something special occurred, some sense of blessing was bestowed, something holy happened. Stephen Dunn’s poem, The Sacred, is alone enough to capture what I’m trying to get at here.

And here’s another paradox. This vehicle of flight, freedom, music playing, love in the back seat, the world trailing behind in the rear-view mirror while the road beckons ahead, has perhaps also been the most destructive force of the 20^th century. It helped create our addiction to fossil fuel, which in turn excused our ravenous appetite for war. It killed off the small towns and grew up the strip malls, it birthed the assembly lines and factory models that leaked into our schools, it invited trucked-in food from corporate farms to out-compete the local and home-grown—well, it’s a long list.

And yet, how we loved it. And love it still. A little like smoking—we know it’s terrible for us, but wasn’t that a pleasure to take time out and do nothing but inhale and exhale, a few smoke rings here and there, a style that we cultivated, a chance to chat with fellow smokers, the haze of the jazz club mixed indelibly with the slow curls of the saxophone’s notes.

But just as I’m more grateful than not that I can go to any restaurant or jazz club or train car without smoke, so will I graciously accept the demise of the automobile (or the rise of the electric car?). It had its time and behind the scenes, it was a horror, but up there in the driver’s seat (or back there during the drive-in movie), wasn’t it grand?

Let's Get Sirius

Well, live and learn. I got some books on CD at the library before beginning the trip, knowing that the narrow band of what radio plays is too little and its constant shouting and commercials too much. Imagine my delight when I saw a little USB port in the rental car inviting me to plug in my I-Pod!!  Imagine my frustration when it kept reading, “Error. Can’t access.”

And then one more round of delight when I accidentally pushed a button and something new came on—radio without commercials and choice far beyond the norm. I’m talking not one, but SEVEN different jazz options and then classical music of all sorts and then comedy, sports, news, even some books on tape. And of course, pop, disco, hip-hop, what have you. You all probably know all about SiriusXM, but this was new to me.

On the Sirius Website, they say things like “Imagine just about every kind of music.” Under “Tell Me What I’ll Hear,” they say, “The question is what won’t you hear on SiriusXM?” Under “How Much Does It Cost?” they say, “You can’t put a price on being able to hear exactly what you want, when you want.” This is typical Madison Avenue, with its over-the-top promise and exaggeration, but it’s also part of a pervasive thinking that bothers me. The kind of thing like “I-Pad. It does everything you could ever want or imagine.”

And I just have to take issue with that. I-Pad may help me order tomato seeds, but it won’t water them. It may give me a recipe, but it won’t cook my meal or wash my dishes or light the candles at the dinner table or assure a scintillating conversation. It might get me a date through some dating network, but it won’t mend my broken heart. It might help send out the funeral notice, but it won’t heal my grief. You get the idea. You just have to be careful about that “everything” claim. It’s both insulting to the machine by claiming too much and to the human being by claiming too little for our deepest needs and desires. 

Now in my short two days with Sirius as commercial free radio, I’m pretty impressed. The jazz selections were wide and varied and hit both the classics and some new material. The categories—Siriusly Sinatra, 60’s rock, Latin jazz, etc. —were intriguing. But when it claims to cover all kinds of music, it is throwing the gauntlet into my territory. I have no choice but to pick it up and set things straight. Pay attention— there will be a test.

For starters, I noticed that amidst the 50 or 60 choices, I never found one for American folk music. I’m not talking Peter, Paul and Mary here (though that would be sweet), but real homegrown folk music— Appalachian ballads and dance tunes, Georgia Sea Island ring plays, New England sea chanteys, Louisiana Cajun music, cowboy songs, Tex-Mex music, Native American chants, Minnesota polkas, Mississippi Delta Blues, chain-gang songs, spirituals and much, much more. Part of the car journey mythos traveling through landscape could be actually hearing the music that grew from that place, the whole rich heritage of our musical polyglot. Wouldn’t that be something? So note what’s omitted from the “everything “ claim— not just that it’s hard to find Sundanese gamelan or Afro-Columbian Currulao, but difficult to find Jean Ritchie singing her Kentucky family’s songs or Mississipi John Hurt plucking out his blues or Bessie Jones singing clapping plays with children in Georgia.

Sit up straight here, because this is important stuff. We all see (and hear) the world through our narrow band of exposure and experience and that’s okay as long as we’re aware that it ain’t the whole deal. Stop anyone on the street in America and ask them, “What types of music are there?” and I imagine (though maybe I’m being generous here), that most will say “Rock. Pop. Rap. Jazz. Classical. Country.” Pressed further, they might sub-divide into Alternative, Heavy Metal, Punk, Disco or Swing, Be-bop, Jazz-Rock, Latin or Opera, Baroque, Romantic, etc. The more musically conscious might spin off into New Age, Techno, Minimalist and that catch-all, World Music. But still, this is just the tip of the tip of a mammoth iceberg that most can barely imagine.

Take my bagpipe. Please. (Snare drum, ka-chunk!) If I say bagpipe, you say Scotland. (Except in Scotland, where a kid pressed to figure out where it’s from said “Tenerife.” Huh?) And now I have to tell you about the Uillean pipes from Ireland, the Northumbrian pipes of England, the Gaita from Galicia, the Zampogna from Italy, the Dudelsack from Germany, the Sackpipa from Sweden, the Musette from France (one of 15 different French bagpipes, each with its own name) before finally arriving at the Gaida from Bulgaria (also called gaida in Greece). And that’s not getting into the Middle East, North Africa or India—nor does it cover all the European pipes.

And if you should get into Bulgarian gaida music, you’ll have to distinguish between different size gaidas and the distinction in styles that come from each region. And within those styles, the particular dance rhythms (pravo horo, paidushka, richinitza, lesnoto, daichovo, etc.). And probably not a single one of them is represented on SiriusXM.

If you’re very musically hip, you might know that samba and bossa nova come from Brazil, but you won’t impress anyone there if you also don’t know something about Maracatu, Frevo, Ciranda, Choro, Lambada, Samba-Reggae. And by the time you finally learn something about these styles, four more new ones have probably been invented. Same with Cuba, Colombia, India, China—well, really, just about every place on the planet.

And besides musical styles, there are all the composers and musicians whose work is worthy, but underexposed. I’m thinking Johannes Ockeghem and John Dunstable, Herbie Nichols and Blossom Dearie, Federico Mompou and Gunild Keetman, Mark Growden and…well, the list is long.

Music and musical style is a moving target, a response from people to the landscape and the times they live in and often both. Cosmopolitan culture groups them under broad categories that give the illusion of uniformity, but the actual diversity is extraordinary. For SiriusXM to truly represent “all kinds of music” would probably require thousands of channels. And that’s just the recorded music. Keep in mind—and I know I’m stretching your imagination here—that most of the music played today and certainly in the past has not even been recorded. Before recording technology (just a mere century old), its notes and structures might be captured on paper (and again, a very, very small percentage of it at that), but most of it evaporated in the air or echoed in the minds, ears and hearts of the listeners and the players. And that is still true today. It’s a large, large world and there are enormous chunks of it—music, dance, art, poetry, what have you—that still has not been captured, recorded, studied, shared and made public. Just a reality check for the "everything" claim.

SiriusXM feels like a good step in a good direction and I thank them. But why stop here? Two suggestions for the Sirius programmers to take their job more seriously:

1)    Consider a yet broader band of music to reach the listening public. Offer a few things off of the beaten paths. (Starting with the 26 recordings I’ve made of the kids at The San Francisco School since 1983! Over 900 pieces arranged for the Orff Ensemble by kids from 3 to 14 years old.)

2)    Don’t feed the hubris that we know it all and have captured it all on our machines. Modify your adjectives—from “every kind of music” to “a number of kinds of music”—from “hear exactly what you want” to “hear some things you want to hear and others you didn’t even know you wanted.” You get the idea.

And this to serious Sirius listeners: Everything you enjoy listening to—from Jean Ritchie's Wondrous Love to James Brown’s Popcorn to Mozart’s Requiem to Thelonious Monk’s Round Midnight and beyond came from a particular time and a particular place and a particular culture and a particular person or group of people who were living it at the height of their senses, emotions and intelligence. They weren’t just entertaining themselves pleased that they had videos, recordings, games, at their fingertips. They were actively making and shaping the culture by actively making and shaping art.

Let’s not forget that. To make art one must live an authentic life larger than the constant distraction of instant entertainment. You gotta get your hands dirty, your heart broken, your shoulder punched, your car repossessed—and then tell about it. You gotta turn off the flickering screens and look around you, take the earphones out and listen, put down the book and talk to someone.

So stop reading this Blog, go out and do something and then write a song about it. Record it on your Flip, put it up on Youtube, advertise it on Facebook and if you’re lucky, someone will record it and include it on SiriusXM. And I’ll listen to it the next time I drive out West.

Apologies to the Jains

Summer officially began at a Thai restaurant in Davis, California, 90 minutes from the San Francisco fog, eating Pad Thai outdoors. Off comes the fleece vest, out come the shorts, Tivas replace shoes. Then the climb into the Sierras, expecting snow on the side of the road, but it was only on the distant peaks. Down the other side toward the bright lights of Reno. (A recent Prairie Home Companion radio show was in a city that consciously shut off lights at night so stars were visible. Can’t remember the term, but like “slow food,” seems like it could be a trend— Reno/Las Vegas, take note.)

In the senior equivalent of “living on the edge,” we had set off without hotel reservations and found a place at the Sunrise Motel in Sparks. I guess it is still possible to just show up and find something that isn’t a chain. We awoke to the roar of the nearby freeway and the smell of the owner’s Indian cooking, took off further down the road to Lovelock and lo and behold, breakfast at another non-chain in Lovelock, La Casita. A quaint place and a waitress impressed that I could pronounce Chilaquiles. A nearby booth was filled with three grey-haired ladies and that part of the brain that instantly classifies people—gender, age, race, weight, attractiveness (which comes first?)—thought “three old ladies.” And then another part of the brain snickered, “Hey! They’re probably your age. Or younger.”

Before breakfast was over, the waitress came out singing Happy Birthday to the folks at a nearby table (pretty good singing, patrons of La Casita restaurant!) and a candle embedded in an ice cream taco. Seemed a bit early in the morning for my taste and I should have asked more about the ice cream taco, but the matron of the small group started telling us how her niece was 15 and her nephew over there also 15 and the other fellow 22 and then got into the family history. I thought about my friend in Germany who was astounded in her visit to the Midwest by conversations like this, strangers telling you their life story after a one-minute acquaintance. At first, she was amazed—such instant revelation not a common practice in Germany— and later, critical, “It seems like Americans can appear to get very close very fast, but it never goes any deeper.”

And then off across the vast expanses of Nevada. Whenever I worry about overpopulation, a drive through Nevada is re-assuring. It really seems about the same as it was some 40 years ago when I first came through. All those little towns—Winnemucca, Ely, Battle Mountain, Elko—didn’t seem much bigger now than they were then. Though I could be wrong about that. I regretted I didn’t have my camera up front in the car, amused by some of the signs:

• Hitchhiking Prohibited: Prison Area

• Beverly Hills (this at a turn-off to nowhere)

• Bullets Leave Holes (with photos of kids)

Well, this last was not quite so amusing, perhaps a sober reminder to kids used to video games to understand the difference.

On past the mirage-like salt flats of Utah, zipping by downtown Salt Lake City and remembering Joseph Campbell’s profound analysis of the symbols of cultural shifts. The church used to be the tallest building (as it was in Europe through the Renaissance), then trumped by the State Capitol building as the political power of the State grew stronger than the church. Finally, the high-rises of business in the 20^th century signaled the corporate economic power that trumped the political power—which is where we are today. (And why Donald Trump running for President makes it more above-aboard and official as to who’s really running the show.) In Salt Lake City, you can see the whole story within a few blocks.

On we pressed into the more lush green of Utah, fueled by the crunch of corn-nuts to keep us awake and ignoring Michael Pollan’s advice to not buy gas and food at the same place. Pulled into Pocatello, but with a rodeo the next day, there was no room at the Inn—Days, Ramada, Best Western, that is. So on to Idaho Falls and the surprise of actual waterfalls and a lush park by a thriving river. Big blue skies, crisp, fresh air and ready for a morning walk to “listen to the murmur of the cottonwood trees.” (Most people think that “Don’t Fence Me In” was an old cowboy song, but in fact was written by urban esthete Cole Porter.)

From here, back in our rented Hyundai to view more of the landscape from our bug-splattered windshield. And so the title. The Jains are a sect in India who take the philosophy of Ahimsa—“do no harm”—to the extreme degree of wearing masks to avoid inhaling and thus, killing, microbes. They would be horrified driving the freeways of the West. Our car is the Genghis Khan of the bug kingdom, decimating them with our windshield and front grill in genocidal proportions. Sorry about that, little creatures. My advice: stay away from freeways. 

On the Road Again

“Aloof and lighthearted, I take to the open road.

Healthy, free, the world before me.

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose…”

And so summer begins with Whitman’s inviting lines and that fleeting sense of release from the tangles of the daily round, loosing the knots, soaking in the soothing waters of time without schedules and the call to attend to morning birds and evening stars, the landscape no longer the backdrop for one’s personal movie, but the living, animated world inviting us to partake, observe, savor and enjoy:

“Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content, I travel the open road.”

Of course, that “long brown path” is a paved highway with clearly marked exit signs and my choices of where to go are constrained by hotel reservations and rental car return dates— not exactly the larger freedom sung by The Incredible String Band years ago:

“Farewell sorrow, praise God the open door. I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.”

But still. I feel my blood tingling as I pack, anticipating that moment when the last bill is paid, Orff contract mailed, e-mail answered and longing for that exhilarating sense of driving way toward the wide open skies of the West. Now this travel blog will earn its name again, starting with a drive Eastward through the Grand Tetons and Mt. Rushmore en route to Michigan and the old cottage up north by the lake. At the end of June, it's back to the airports (three months away from them!) and a hop across the pond to Verona, Salzburg, Madrid. A chance to invite all those qualities of self locked up in busyness, business and the battles of the working life to come enter the room again, stretch out and sit on some front porch somewhere in quiet conversation. Of course, I will be working in Europe and happily so, but back in the Lone Ranger world of teaching without meetings, working with adults who have sought me out and if there are any tensions (which there rarely are), no need to resolve them—we’ll be saying goodbye in one or five days.

But every opening in one direction is a closing in another, every hello matched with a goodbye, every sweet joined with a bitter (that marvelous phrase they use in Brazil—saudade: bittersweet). Even as the spirit thirsts for this moment, there is an accompanying regret and sadness leaving my 90-year old mother for six weeks, my 17- year old cat and all the others I love and care for. But back to Whitman:

“I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go…

I am filled with them and I fill them in return.”

See you all at the Motel 6— that is, if they have free wireless.

The Arrows and the Olive Branch

Take out a dollar. Now put it in an envelope and send it to me. (Just kidding!) Instead, look on the flip side of George Washington. Ever noticed the pyramid and the eye? This was one of the two Great Seals proposed by Charles Thompson in 1782. Annuit Coeptis roughly translates as “He (the eye of Providence) favors our undertakings.” Novus Ordo Seclorum refers to a “New Order of the Ages” (as distinct from the New World Order of the Right-wing Spinmeisters.)

Well, isn’t that interesting. We’ve handled thousands of these bills, but probably rarely stopped to notice to ponder this. But wait, there’s more. The second of the seals is an American Eagle with 13 stars above his head, a shield of 13 stripes (both representing the colonies). Note what’s in the Eagle's talons—13 arrows in the left, an olive branch in the right. Simplistically speaking, the arrows represent war, the olive branch, peace. Now note which way the eagle is looking. Optimistically toward the olive branch, but not releasing the arrows from its grip— hence, aiming for peace, but prepared to defend itself with war if necessary. (I thank Joseph Campbell for first pointing this out.)

Shouldn’t this be common knowledge amongst schoolchildren and citizens? The Seal suggests that Institutes of Peace should outnumber preparations for war. Instead of—or perhaps, in addition to—military maneuvers training young people to kill, we need Boot Camp for peace—training in non-violent conflict resolution, verbal communication, emotional intelligence, historical analysis, artistic expression. Well, that could be called school.

But this is a matter for another Blog. I’m fresh from the last day of school, where the growing tensions between the old style of egalitarian decision-making sitting around the table and the new style of hierarchical decision-making by select groups behind closed doors reached its breaking point. The school has felt like a place that the eye of Providence favored, a New Order and Vision for the Ages to come. Lately, if feels like it's trying to be like everyplace else. So the staff got together and voted on proposals  designed to restore our sense of voice and inclusion and bridge the lands of “them” and “us” until it feels like “we” again. In the course of these discussions, out came everyone’s relationship with conflict, from “let’s not talk about it” to “let’s just all get along” to “I don’t even trust my own mother” and every point in-between.

And this brings me to the arrows and the olive branch. I’m long trained to gaze toward the olive branch and it’s a good view. But more and more I appreciate those arrows in the talon. I’m feeling that so much of the conflict I’ve had these past months has not come from issues with anger management, personality disorder or clashes of temperament (though they all have their place)— I see the problem coming from systemic procedures that block communication, shut down conversation, concentrate power in the hands of the few without sufficient checks and balances and accountability. In short, failure to follow good democratic procedure.

And to analyze this requires the sharpness of arrows, a true aim that recognizes the target, that can distinguish between the bull’s eye and the outer ring, that can understand how much tension is needed in the bow to release the arrow. It requires the eye of a good scout, the ear of someone on night-watch listening to the snapping of twigs, the nose of someone who can smell when “something is rotten in the state of Denmark.” It requires a community of people who are vigilant in defense of their own core values, who are watchful and alert to the small and big signs of danger. It asks for a guarded trust beyond the naïve faith that “we all have good intentions,” a faith based on fact, a mind that can detect the words intended to hide from those that say exactly what they mean.

Another weapon favored in this kind of metaphorical thinking is the sword. Manjusri, one of the enlightened Buddhas, is often depicted holding a flaming sword that cuts through ignorance and duality. (Note—it is the sword of discrimination that moves us from the “them/us” duality to the “we” unity.) Chinese mythology sees the sword as “penetrating insight,” in Japanese mythology, it represents courage and strength, in Arthurian legend, it is the “Sword in the Stone” that identifies the true king.

Brandishing the sword, stringing the arrows to the bow, these are sometimes necessary actions to defend territory—“This is a line you may not cross.” We all have these lines and since it is fairly certain that someone will try to cross them at some point, we would do well to be trained in sword-raising. Sometimes just showing the sword is enough to let folks know how serious you are. Sometimes bad ideas need to be escorted out the gate at sword-point. Once good faith and intelligent discrimination is restored, we can always turn those swords into ploughshares and plant those olive trees.

But as the dollar suggests, keep a few arrows or swords around. Just in case. 

Leaping Into Summer

Harrison Elementary School, Roselle, New Jersey. I’m 8, 9, 10 years old and watching the clock nudge its snail’s pace toward 3 o’clock. One final click, the liberty bell of freedom rings and I spring from my seat, run downstairs, burst out the double doors and leap off the steps straight into the arms of summer. Every year the same ritual, that glorious moment of release and promises of long days following my curiosity instead of squeezing it into textbooks and schedules. Wandering through Warinanco Park, pick-up baseball, the summer playground with its nok-hockey, tetherball and ping-pong possibilities. Sitting on the front stoop, cat on lap, greeting the passing neighbors while waiting for the fireflies to come out. Tinkering on the piano, watching Million Dollar Movie at night, reading The Wind in the Willows while listening to my scratchy recording of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto, Mole, Rat and Toad inexorably linked with certain musical motifs. Running to Uncle Louie, the ice-cream man, piling in the car to drive down the Garden State Parkway to nearby Sandy Hook Beach or far-away Asbury Park, with its magical boardwalk and games of ski-ball.

Ah, summer! Whatever evil madman thought up mandatory schooling is somewhat excused by giving us the 10-week summer vacation. Though it’s threatened by year-round schools, the sly shift to beginning in late August, the idea of following Europe’s six-week model, I am loyal to the 10-week summer. As a teacher, I know my students lose lots of momentum—the difference between the music the kids can make in September and June is measurable in light years. But still. I’ve had the long summer break just about my whole life and I love it, even as it has made many of my non-teacher friends insanely jealous. (But they have their revenge when I’m putting together Holiday Shows and Spring Concerts while they’re clocking 9 to 5 and come home without their work.)

Of course, these days, summer is not exactly long, lazy days where the main event is buttering corn and salting tomatoes. I always allow a week or so at the family Lake Michigan retreat to keep in touch with “real summer” and it’s lovely. But generally, I’m teaching Orff courses and weirdly, often in places with dubious summer weather. Last year was Brazil, where it was winter, in Salzburg it rains often and Madrid is hot, but without the beach. And then three weeks in San Francisco where the out-of-towners are at first charmed and then quickly fed-up with fog, fog and then—more fog. “What’s the point of walking the beach in blue jeans and sweatshirts?” they ask and I can only agree. But hey, it’s summer! “No more homework, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks!” Well, not quite true. We give homework in our Orff course, ask students to read our books and bend a nail on our xylophone and we will give you a look!

But all of this is down the line. Today will be the staff-8^th grade basketball game, farewell lunch with our school tradition of mud-pie desserts, with the special song the kids have to sing (1 mudpie, 2 mudpies, 3 mudpies, 4 mudpies, 5 mudpies, 6 mudpies, 7 mudpies, Yum! Ice cream, sauce and oreos, oreos, oreos, Ice cream, sauce and oreos, chocalate, chocolate, chocolate, Yum!: etc.).  Then the kids look down at their mudpie and sit for 30 seconds of complete stillness—one move and I snatch their mud-pie away. This is an event to behold. Next comes the closing ceremony, always with song (Side by Side, Que Será, Summertime, etc.) and closing remarks. Each teacher speaks about their class and officially rings them up to the next grade on our ceremonial Balinese gongs. Then the youngest and oldest child in the school, who rang the gongs to start the year back in September, ring them again (much more sonorous than my harsh Harrison School 3 o’clock bell). When the last vibration fades into the 190-kid silence, school is out! But no jumping off the steps yet—first the hug-line outside, where every child hugs every teacher before going off into Summer. (Nervous about making this public— the Limiters may sniff us out and send Child-Protective Services to forbid this practice).

That’s how we will end school today, as we have done so many years before. Still 8^th grade graduation tomorrow and two days of meetings before it’s really done and have I mentioned that I’m not finished with report cards yet? But I’m giving myself permission to leap off the steps into summer— something I now can only do metaphorically without hurting my ankle. But it’s just as sweet and delicious now as it was 50 years ago.

Yeeee-haaaaawww!!!!!!

Whatever It Takes

Whatever it takes. That’s the implicit motto of the SF School music department—James, Sofia and myself. No one put it on our contract, no one is clocking our hours and making sure we’re financially compensated and certainly no one is telling us to slow down and not work so hard. It just arose out of our mutual commitment and dedication to do whatever needs to be done to walk the full length of the path we chose. (Or perhaps the path chose us because it saw we were willing to do the work?) It comes from what Daniel Pink (see his new book Drive) calls “intrinsic motivation” and the pleasure of doing what we love.

But as we all know, love is sometimes far too demanding and needy and will set unreasonable expectations without apology. Was that why I was a pole-vaulter in high school? (And broke the school record, I might add!) Some part of me knew the bar was going to be too high for my own two legs to straddle and I was going to need some help. It was exhilarating to speed down the runway, plant that pole, pull and gracefully soar over the bar to land in the soft-pillowed bed of congratulations. But my legs don’t run quite so fast these days, my arms are not quite as strong as they once were and my back is dubious from loading all these instruments into the van.

I look back with longing at these earlier blogs and my travel and teaching. Each and every day, there was a human-size proportion of tasks to be completed and time to savor and enjoy. These past two months have been an Olympian-size list on the shoulders of us mere mortals in the music department—and it ain’t over yet.

Consider: In the past four weeks alone, after returning from teaching at the weekend Orff retreat, we have mounted two Spring concerts with 190 children, which means not only making sure every child has a significant part to play and is clear about the music, the instruments played, the choreography, the transitions on and off stage, but also that we are clear about each detail, remember to pack each of some 100 instruments down to the triangle beater and snare drum brush. With help from some parents and kids (but the burden on us), we load the 17-foot U-haul at school, unload at the theater, load again after the concert, unload at school, just in time for Grandparent’s Day the next day, where select groups will perform again.

The next week is turning the music room into a recording studio and trying to get the perfect take of each of some 70 pieces. Then comes the hours in the studio listening and splicing and working out the order and making the liner notes with cover art for our 26^th school double CD. After checking the final master and liner notes, it’s off to the duplication place to complete the process.

Meanwhile, we’re rehearsing with the Salzburg group on Sundays, organizing that concert, performing that concert (thanks to all that came!) along with the mandatory four-van loads, attending to the considerable details of taking 17 Middle School kids to Europe under our watch. Meanwhile, we’re also attending to the details of hosting our summer SF Orff Course, where some 200 people come from around the world to study with us. Meanwhile, we’re checking in on the Finland, Italy, Spain and Salzburg summer courses we’re teaching in. Meanwhile, we’re trying to get Sofia’s new book fully born into the world, with all the business details that involves. And meanwhile, we’re teaching our regular classes at the school, going to meetings, preparing report cards, taking the 4^th graders to sing for the seniors at the Jewish Home, coming into the pre-school potluck to sing with parents. Meanwhile, we’re ticking off and adding to the lists of all the “meanwhiles” before summer snatches us away and whispers into our ear, “Breathe.”

I’m not asking for sympathy or adoration here (well, maybe a little of both), but the next time people tell me how lucky I am to do such fun work and get to travel and teach and enjoy the satisfaction of playing and singing and dancing with all kinds of people of all ages in all places, I still will agree wholeheartedly. But like anything worthwhile, it is a luck born from hard, hard work that is demanding, relentless and at times, more weight than the human frame can carry. I wouldn’t necessarily wish it on anyone.

Now that I got that off my chest, it’s back to report cards.