Dance, Sing and Read

I noticed that yesterday was my 100^th posting. There are 26 followers and the Stats part indicates that the site has had 4,809 visits since its inception in January. I know that compared to Justin Beiber’s billions of hits that’s pretty small potatoes and there’s probably some irony that I would complain that music and dance trump the slow world of print and ideas by an astounding ratio. But still I’m inspired by the act of trying to corral impressions and transform them to expressions via the written word, grateful that there are people still willing to go through the work of converting mere arrangements of letters to the fireworks of imagination. 

Some years back, I wrote a manifesto for my ideal culture titled Dance, Sing and Read. I had been reading a number of books on the history, psychology, anthropology of literate culture and was forming a sense of how every technological shift (and a book certainly qualifies as a technology) brings both gifts and losses. The printed word became a new way to store information across time—we can read the thoughts of Plato and Shakespeare—and across space—the poetry of Basho or Rumi. It extended human memory far beyond the bodies and minds of the elders in the village and expanded human thought and discourse past the edges of a particular tribal lore and custom. The educated literate person can handle multiple perspectives, grow larger and find affirmation from people far away in time and place, understand abstract ideas and build book by book whole philosophies and systems of thought. The rise of mass literacy— really, a recent phenomena of about 100 years amidst hundreds of thousands of years of the human experiment—has contributed enormously to our collective thought and knowledge.

But not without a price. The oral culture’s method of storing, disseminating and passing on knowledge relies on artistic media—poetry, song, dance, storytelling, icon and image, ritual and theater. Each member of a community is valued because they can contribute to the collective knowledge and the elders are particularly honored as the storehouse of local knowledge wedded with wisdom. Whereas the scope of the knowledge is more limited, it is also more connected to the local land and weather and culture and breeds a sense of belonging and meaning. Oral peoples are more likely to be connected to their own bodies and voices, their neighbors, their local landscape and biology, their sense of belonging and cultural identity.

All of this turns out to be directly relevant to the teacher because we all begin life as oral learners. All preschool children are exquisite dancers, expressive storytellers, intuitive singers and chanters. When we initiate them into print, we need them to shut down their bodies so the energy can concentrate in the left hemisphere of the brain to decode those abstract symbols. We hear their voice grow flat and dull as they piece the words together and later, if we put on a play with a script, we shout them to “add expression!” But the preschool child is expression, needs no exhortation to add dynamics or punctuate with the hands or body. It is literacy that, left unchecked, can shut down the body and even the heart, asking for cold calculation and objective handling of ideas free from pesky emotion.

And so, dance, sing and read. In another words, keep the natural propensity the young ones have for dancing and singing growing and developing. And Orff Schulwerk is a fabulous way to do just that.

At the same time that they develop scientific thinking, critical analysis and the capacity to open the heart in a different way through printed poetry, stories, novels, they also need to keep exercising the ancient ways of remembering, storing and transmitting information through the body and voice. If they give their power over to a book or computer, they can’t stay awake driving from Verona singing 100 rounds and reciting poetry.

The other day, our SF Orff Ensemble broke spontaneously into three-part Bulgarian harmony in downtown Salzburg and gave the passing tourists a few moments of pleasure. We put on a lunchtime body percussion show on top of the fortress. Yesterday, they entered the Orff Institute for the first time (a historic moment!) and accidentally met the man who composed one of the songs they sing. We sang for him in the entryway and then he led us down singing through the halls and into the meeting room where the delegates from the 47 International Orff Associations where meeting. After the thunderous applause and clear delight of the music teacher audience subsided, the kids went off on a bike ride, smiling from ear to ear to feel their power to sing and play in a variety of styles at a moment’s notice, the way it connects them together, the way it connects them to an audience. We improvised a piece with our differently pitched bike bells while we rode and later that night, while James, Sofia and I had to be elsewhere, they went to dinner with our parent chaperones and entertained the waiters with another song and Table Rhythms.

Earlier, I was talking with one of the 7^th graders about the film Midnight in Paris and she told me that after the movie, she went to the library and checked out some of F. Scott’s Fitzgerald’s books. These kids have been habitually trained to access their imagination through reading, to develop their thought and follow their curiosity about how the world works and this indeed makes them educated and interesting young people. But at the same time, they also have trained their bodies to be expressive, trained their voices to help unlock their hearts, turned their understanding of Vivaldi’s sequences or West African polyrhythms or the 12-bar blues to express another faculty of their soul. They are the leaders in an “oraliterate” culture that combines the gifts of both oral and literate culture.

Back to my 100^th Blog, my little piece of literary heaven. Thank you, dear readers, for lifting this out of the private journal mode and giving me the sensation that these little entries might at the least be mildly entertaining and at the most, contribute to a small community of thought and public discourse. The capacity to comment and make it more dialogue than monologue has yet to be fully exploited (I think my daughter Talia has made the most comments!), but I have a feeling I’m competing with Facebook here, a technology much more friendly to the quick reaction. Nevertheless, I still would welcome any ideas or parallel experiences you might have that were kick-started by these ideas and stories.

Meanwhile, on to today’s rehearsal and the next 100 postings. 

The Salzburg Connection

Iceland, Sweden, Finland, Estonia.

Spain, Italy, Turkey, Greece.

Germany, Austria, Poland, Czech Republic.

Russia, China, England, France.

Thailand, Taiwan, Singapore, Hong Kong.

Korea, Japan, Australia, New Zealand.

Colombia, Brazil, Canada, U.S.

Sounds like one of the rhythmic chants so common in Orff teaching—and it could be. But it is also the names of many of the countries represented here in the meeting of the Orff Forum in Salzburg. These are many—but not all— of the places where the wildflower seed of this inspired pedagogy has been planted and taken root. Some of the leading people in each country are here to share their successes, their challenges, their questions, their solutions.

But for me, the meeting has another dimension. I walked into the room and saw so many old (20 years since I met them) and new friends and acquaintances, many of whom hosted me so graciously when I gave a workshop or course in their country. So instead of abstract countries, I saw:

Nanna, Malo, Soili, Tuuli

Gabriel, Andrea, Fatosh, Katerina

Werner, Uli, Malina, Jarka

Slava, Cao Li, Margaret, Erich,

Sataporn, Hao Su, Paul, May-Tan

Young jeon kim, Ukiko, Biddy, René

Astrid, Mayumi, Cathy, Karen

Colleagues James, Sofia and I left Verona on Sunday night in our tiny rented Fiat car. Somewhere around 1 in the morning, James (the official driver) was getting sleepy. Solution to stay awake? Think of and sing 100 rounds. We did it and then took turns reciting memorized poetry, both of which re-charged us enough to pull safely into Salzburg at 2:30 in the morning. Next morning, up bright and early to begin the first round of meetings, meet the 17 kids from our school at the airport, have an outdoor dinner in the Sternbrau and watch them deal with some 25 hours of plane travel without sleep—ie, continue to hang out and run around. We all forgot about July 4^th and Louis Armstrong’s birthday (mythologically speaking, July 4^th, 1900) and I had no way to wish Chester happy 17^th birthday. Which didn’t matter to him, since he’s my cat.

Next morning, a rehearsal in the Youth Hostel where we’re staying. One month without meeting and they remembered every nuance of our opening body percussion piece. Then off to the Schloss Fortress on top of the hill in downtown Salzburg. We performed spontaneously there for people eating lunch and people seemed mildly interested, but no coins came showering our way. I needed to bike to the next round of Forum meetings while the kids went swimming, both in intermittent downpours. Welcome to Salzburg!

In our fantasy, our students would be fascinated by the details of the Schloss architecture and history and indeed, they were mildly interested in both. But of course, the highlight was the Funicular ride up and down and the promise of the swimming pool. As I said in some recent blogs, kids have their priorities straight.

After dinner, we went to the Marionette Show, which most commonly shows The Magic Flute. But tonight was The Sound of Music and the production was entertaining, intriguing, funny and at times, mesmerizing—“How did they do that?” Marionettes have the advantage of kicking up their heels during a number and continuing to hover and fly through the air, a skill the puppeteers took advantage of many times. We got a quick backstage tour and demonstration after the show and it indeed was impressive to watch the effect of a simple (yet, oh so complex— a three-year training) manipulation of strings. Inside the Orff Institute at our Forum meetings, we’re discussing how creativity and imagination are bread and water to the human spirit, while outside the room, people are devoting huge portions of their time to pulling strings to give 90 minutes of exercise to our pleasure and fancy. In the various meetings. there is always a sigh of discouragement about how little understanding and support the official world of Universities and media and politicians give to our endeavors to release and train the imaginations of children. And yet, we continue to do our work any which way we can and children all around the world are refreshed.

Like our 17 kids. Not only do they get the pleasure of learning, creating, playing and performing some great music and dance, but they get to go to Salzburg to do it!

Tinker Tailor

“Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor, Rich man, Poor man, Beggarman, Thief!”

This rhyme is on the first page of Carl Orff and Gunild Keetman’s groundbreaking book Music for Children (the first of five Volumes) and suddenly seems more prophetic than a mere collection of words that promote beat awareness. Since I already wrote about one of the rhyme’s extensions—“Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief”—I wondered if the beginning of the rhyme would hold up and sure enough, it kind of does.

Take Tinker. The Orff teacher is often not only tinkering around on the xylophones, but also putting in new nails and laying rubber tubing. As Tailor, we stitch together the different parts of a lesson without letting the seams show. We also mend the torn cloth of art’s full costume, joining playing, singing and dancing, integrating with other arts and subjects, tailoring the full Technicolor dream-coat. We Soldier our mallets high to defend the boundaries of music education and are prepared to play high F’s on the sopranino recorder to tumble down the walls of Jericho’s Dept. of Testing. We sail off to the horizon, always looking beyond the safe and comfortable into the uncharted waters of possibility. We are Rich in our soul-life, doubly blessed with the legacy of music and the constant surprise and delight of children’s curious and quirky minds. We are Poor by the outer standards of career prestige in this culture and yes, sometimes need to Beg to save our jobs—or at least raise enough money at the bake sale. As for Thieves, we freely admit it, we shamelessly steal any new idea or practice that enlarges the imagination. The coda of Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief, discussed in the earlier blog, completes the 12 faces of our profession— and I’m sure I could think of 12 more.

I’m back at work, in Verona, Italy, teaching a morning class on “Structures for Improvisation” and an afternoon one on “Brain Rules: Teaching to the Way We Actually Learn.” I’m teaching part in English, part in Spanish, much through the body and gesture and some with a translator. So we might add Neuroscientist, Psychologist, Linguist, Dancer, Actor and more to that list and not be far off the mark. Oh, and Musician.

It is as much a pleasure as it has always been and if I let myself ease down into that swamp of doubt we all have below the surface, my two biggest fears are arriving at the moment when I don’t feel the same pleasure anymore in this work. Or worse yet, my students don’t feel any pleasure in attending my workshops or classes and my name slowly slips off the invitation lists. That day may come and the law of natural selection suggests that it will certainly ease off in the next ten or fifteen years, both to make way for the young folks coming up and to listen to the inevitable changes in body and mind that await me. But when I see jazz pianists Dave Brubeck and Marion McPartland still getting gigs in their 90’s and marvel at my Zen teacher still teaching at 104 years old, I feel heartened that it’s not necessarily inevitable. So if anyone wants to make be feel confident here, book me for a workshop in 2041 and I’ll make sure I save the date.

Meanwhile, I’m back in the double pleasure of putting in a good day’s work and having a taste of tourism. Instead of going back to my hotel overlooking a parking lot and flicking through the cooking channels on Cable TV, I go into Verona, eat rucola pizza on the piazza, go see The Barber of Seville outdoors at La Arena and pay my visit to Juliet, alas! too late for the traditional breast-rub out of reach behind the closed gates. But the night is a perfect temperature, the streets alive with people, the gelaterias remarkable. The heart and soul of Italy is alive and well. Jimmy Stewart had it right—it’s a wonderful life.

The Return of the Traveling Music Teacher

It’s been three months since I set foot in an airport trailing my two trusty bags. There are no “welcome back!” signs, high fives from the ticket agents or nods of recognition from the Starbucks employees. I guess plane travel has gone on just fine without me—and I have been just fine without it. And yet there is a homey familiarity and twinge of excitement knowing I’m about to be catapulted into a markedly different reality, from Frankfort, Michigan to Frankfort, Germany— same first names, but whole different landscapes, histories, language, culture. Not that I’ll partake of much of the German Frankfort beyond the airport, because it’s a mere stop en route to Verona, Italy.

Why Verona? Is it a pilgrimage to rub Juliet’s breast for luck? (It’s a statue, folks). Hear opera again in La Arena, the outdoor theater where, in 1973 on tour with my college choir, we went to Ponchielli’s La Giocanda? (There’s a short ballet in that opera called “Dance of the Hours” and I almost fell out of my seat when I recognized the Alan Sherman song “Hello Muddah, Hello Fadda!” That was my innocent “ugly American” moment). Or simply eat great pasta at sidewalk cafes?

Alas, nothing quite so romantic. Though I may do all three of the above, the real purpose is to put the traveling-Orff-teacher hat back on that I wore way back in January, February, March when I started this blog. There’s a three-day course for Italian Orff teachers and it’s time to get back into teaching mode. I’m not sure yet if I’m teaching in English or Spanish or simply gesture, but no matter, we’ll figure it out. But first a short hop from Traverse City, Michigan to Chicago that leaves at 3:44 and arrives at 3:40 (quite a feat of time travel). Then a seven-hour layover in Chicago. (Note to self—start reading the travel agent’s arrangements a little more closely.)

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Now in Chicago, arrived from a plane small enough that some passengers had to move to the back to evenly distribute the weight. So proud of myself, remembering a hidden outlet to the right of Wolfgang Pucks where I can write this without losing battery power. But alas! no juice. So it’s the modern hunter’s search for a free source of electricity and score! in the walkway between gates D and B/C, there’s one on the silver air units. And it works!

Of course, all of this would be solved by the Red Carpet Club, where I once had privileges as a United Gold Card Premier Executive. But despite my lifelong allegiance, they either upped the requirements or I flew under the minimum one year and they demoted me to the lowly Silver Premier. “Too bad, buddy— you’re out with the huddled masses, sitting on the floor leaning against a post munching on your $4 Dirty Potato Chips while we’re in plush chairs replenishing our free drinks and snacks.” When will we start to discuss class in this country?

I’m sure I’ll ask this again when I board the plane and walk back through the plush first-class cabins through business class through Economy Plus to my cramped little seat in row 40. Why don’t they put the cheap seats up front and spare us the misery? Do they really need to taunt and torture us by making us walk through the seats of our dreams, with their fold down beds, private videos, smiling attendants who call you by name and say in their sexy voices, “More champagne?” while we peasants sit in seats designed by the Masochist Engineering Department watching the same movie we’ve already seen twice with the seat in front one inch from our nose? Do they really need to rub it in as we parade down the aisle from the luxurious to the bearable to our seats? Soon I imagine it will keep going to the hard-bench- church-pews to the standing room only cabin to the isolation chamber imported from San Quentin.

And by the way, what did these Corporate Executives do to deserve this anyway? Exploited some sweat-shop workers in Asia, sold their product regardless of its effect on human health and happiness, climbed over their colleagues to get the big desk by the window? Do they really need one more glass of champagne? Shouldn’t some other profession, say the dedicated lowly Music Teacher, be given some strokes for caretaking the bodies, minds and souls of our nation’s children? Well, really, why not?

With five more hours of layover, the long trip across the Atlantic, another three hour layover in Frankfort, arrive in Verona 6:30 tomorrow night and teach the next day, I better have more positive thoughts than these! Stay tuned—I’ll be checking back in.

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18 hours since I left the shores of Lake Michigan and I arrived safely in Frankfort. The flight turned out to be pleasant enough, immersed in the world of Water for Elephants, a spontaneous buy while browsing the Chicago Airport bookstore. And then I fell asleep before the end of The Adjustment Bureau video. (Can anyone tell me if Matt Damon got the girl?) Now gratitude to Frankfort Airport, which unlike its American counterparts, has many seats without armrests inviting you to stretch out and sleep. And another great perk, at least in the Lufthansa area—free coffee and tea machines with choices like cappuccino, expresso, machiatto, café latte, hot chocolate, roiboos tea, etc. Yes, free! But boo-hiss to both Frankfort and Chicago, who have yet to follow San Francisco and other airports and offer Free Wi-fi. So the actual posting of this scintillating travel blog will have to wait, keeping my readers in edge-of-their-seat-suspense. J

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Okay, suspense is over. I arrived in Verona on time without incident, my bags arrived and the person who was supposed to meet me was actually there to meet me. It doesn't always go so well. Out to the workshop sight, a pasta dinner and at 9:15 pm here and who knows what body-time, the fun game of “let’s see if I can sleep through the night.” Wish me luck!

Rebuttal to Yesterday's Post

It’s a rainy day and my step-grandson and his pal are sitting on the couch talking about boogers, Darth Vader, arguing whether their classmate Danny is a doofus and exploring other fascinating topics. They start to punch each other and I can see it start to escalate. “Use your words,” I say, tongue-half-in-cheek and one snaps back with a vintage 12-year old boy rebuttal—“Actions speak louder than words.”

Mercifully, the sky clears and I push them out the door. The Zen master Suzuki Roshi once asked, ”How do you control a cow?” and answered his own question with “Give them a bigger meadow to roam around in.” (Not that I’m comparing kids to cows—cows chew their food much more thoroughly and with their mouths closed.) The architect of the outdoors designed the space just right for kids’ energy and in no time, they’re racing to the beach, digging holes and burying themselves up to their neck in the sand. I’m ready to settle down to read my book and they’re begging me to cover their arms with sand.

When they’ve had enough, they burst out, spraying sand all over my towel, then beseech me with a whine to pleeeeeasse take them back to the Sugarbowl sand dune. Reluctantly, I mark my place in my book and down the beach and up the dune we go. They Ninja-roll down it and then climb back up again for more. Show-offs!

While they’re crawling back up the dune like wounded war heroes, I head back the quarter-mile to my book and beach chair. Next time I look, I see their heads bobbing in the distant water, conveniently forgetting the “stay in sight” rule when swimming in the lake. There’s not a soul in sight to help me watch them, leaving me with a moral dilemma—do I keep reading my book and hope for the best or walk all the way back to get them?

Pesky kids! Why can’t they be more like us adults?!

Bridge to Childhood

“I’m tired of being an adult” announced by sister-in-law Lori and lying on the Lake Michigan beach, I knew exactly what she meant. I mean, really, what’s the point?

I have had two near-perfect days sans watch and shoes, walking the shore to the outlet or up the enormous sand dune known as “the Sugar Bowl.” biking around the inland lakes and orchards, swimming in the back lake, sunning and reading on the front. Long lazy days feeling the layers peel back, so that when there was an indoor rainy spell and I decided to delete school e-mails, it felt strange to read about this meeting or that, who misplaced the stapler or moved the laminating machine, negotiations around schedule changes, the whole heavy load of keeping the machinery of school going and well-oiled. Even here in vacation paradise, my wife spent two hours traversing the seven levels of AT &T Voice-Mail Hell to get the phone re-instated, had to spend a morning at the bank in town dealing with her Dad’s estate while I went to the library to answer my 51 e-mails about details of upcoming workshops and such. You know—adult stuff.

I loved Peter Pan as a kid, but reluctantly accepted that some day, I too, would turn into that strange creature called a grown-up and listen to Wendy scold me about leaving hairs in the sink after shaving. And to my utter astonishment, I have managed to be a full-fledged functioning adult who owns a house, pays the bills and gets the garbage out on Thursdays. I’ve raised two children, managed to hold down a job, taken groups of students on field trips and brought them back alive. But it just takes so much damned work to keep the simplest of human activities going, be it a household, a soccer team, a school, a government—you name it. Of course, modern civilization is working way too hard for things we don’t really need and we’d probably be amazed at how much life could go on without filling out forms or renewing out cable TV subscription. But even the Pygmies in the rainforest have to hunt and gather, cook the meat and pound the tubers, fix the hole in the thatch hut roof and take care of the kids.

Still, there are days when we should consider the lilies in the fields and wonder if we might live a simpler life. Remember the old college graffiti (was it from a Bob Dylan song?) “If dogs run free, why not we?” Hanging out with my in-laws’ dog Hurley, I can only be envious of his abandon at jumping into the lake, chasing baby raccoons up trees, generally running around so carefree and happy and equally content to stretch out on the floor and sleep whenever she feels like it. Not a bad life. Of course, someone has to buy the dog food and spray the Fantastic on the rug when she decides to pee indoors.

If we have to be adults—and we do—I hope we all get the chance to cross a bridge back into childhood and live, if only for a few days each year, a life reduced to sand, sea and sky. To run full speed down the sand dune shouting in delight with arms spread, to catch frogs and build sandcastles, to ride waves and jump off rope-swings, lie on your back and look up at the clouds. You know—kid stuff.

Maybe that’s why I’ve spent my life hanging out with kids. They get it. Adults arrive at the cottage and start organizing their sock drawers while the kids run down to the beach and splash into the water, temperature be damned. Adults feel the need to write about these things on their blogs, while kids…hey! the sun came out! Last one in the water is a rotten egg!

Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief

“To prepare ourselves for how we will be needed.” The poet David Whyte once said something to this effect to remind us how to plan our day. Not that we necessarily choose our career from altruistic motives. More likely, we simply follow some call we hear, track down that “glimmering girl who called me by my name and ran and faded through the brightening air,” as Yeats so beautifully describes it. If we follow her with persistence and dedication, we may someday walk with her and pick “the silver apples of the moon, the golden apples of the sun.” Not just for us to savor and enjoy, but finally to offer them to whoever is nearby and hungry.

How lucky I have been! I followed that glimmering girl far down the path of “Orff music teacher” and lo and behold! it has proven to be of use to others. The children first and foremost, but these days, reaching far beyond the walls of the schools to people of all ages in all sorts of circumstances. It turns out that the skills needed for teaching a decent Orff music class can be of service in many other parts of life. “Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief” goes the old children’s rhyme (also the name of a Hoagy Carmichael song) and there is a little of each in my job description.

Take doctor. Music as a healing art is as ancient as the shamans in the forest and contemporary as the neuroscientist in the laboratory. Because music involves physical vibration, it works directly on our nervous system, our muscles, our heart rate and breathing, our brain waves. The details of precisely how and the stories of music’s healing power are freely available in many excellent books, but really, who needs proof? All I have to do is look at my mother’s face as the notes from the piano wash over her, listen to my 80-year olds friends as they sing the songs of their youth, watch their bodies sway to the waltzes and bounce to the swing tunes. The other day in Ann Arbor, I played at the home where my father-in-law passed away three months ago and seeing the difference in the faces of the folks there before I played and after was proof enough.

As for lawyer, music teachers these days are more practiced than most in defending our profession. We need to speak on behalf of our client, research the facts, connect the main ideas and speak with both passion and articulation to convince the jury that the schools are guilty of crimes against the young when they get rid of music programs. And when the verdict of “Guilty!” is brought in, we should let the punishment fit the crime. For all the politicians and school board members making these decisions, we would ban music from their lives for one month, put them in a virtual prison where not one note of music may be played, sung or sounded. Then they’ll understand (I hope) how vital it is to our sense of health. But I’d prefer to put them in reform school, where they had to go to an inspired Orff class every day for a month. Then they would get it.

And finally, political correctness aside, Indian chief. In my school, the music teachers often are the ones who hold the tribal lore, caretake the customs, teach the community songs and tell the stories. In the old politics, and still in traditional villages, it is almost always that way. Since the ways of a people are stored in ritual, dance, poetry, music, storytelling, the leaders must be practiced and trained in them all. And it turns out that these are precisely the skills the modern Orff teacher needs as well. Interesting, yes?

All of this is prelude to the second memorial service we held for my father-in-law Ted.

Having just put some of his ashes in a cemetery in Ann Arbor, the family wanted some scattered “up north” at the summer cottage by Lake Michigan they named “Ted’s Place.” They invited some of his summer friends and acquaintances, but being connected to no church here, who would minister the ceremony? Orff Music Teacher to the rescue!! I had the skills and experience to work with groups of people, knew the songs and could lead them, had lots of poetry at my fingertips and a musical sense of how such things might begin, develop and end. The details of the actual ceremony might be worth sharing as a model of sorts for others, but exceed the etiquette of Blog-length. Maybe tomorrow.

But back to the opening thoughts—to prepare for how we will be needed.  I’ve been accused many times in my life off taking too much of the spotlight and I’m sure some apologies are due. But I can’t help but wonder if this was a necessary step toward the ultimate purpose of it all, what Joseph Campbell called “being transparent to transcendence,” letting the light shine through you rather than on you, in service to others. It is such an unexpected pleasure that I’m prepared to walk into a senior home/ preschool/ university class anywhere on the planet and have something to offer. That I can officiate a memorial service, lead dances at a wedding, articulate inclusive decision-making processes at a staff meeting. I can’t help fix my mother-in-law’s plumbing, take charge of her finances or edit her old super-8 home movies on i-Movie, but it turns out that I can be useful to others in my own eclectic ways. Who could ask for anything more?