The Salzburg Explosion

It’s remarkable how one word— “Salzburg”—can detonate an explosion of fond recall in people from all corners of the world. My simple Facebook status—“In Salzburg for two weeks” did just that as people rushed to comment – the first one came 3 seconds after posted, quickly followed by another.  Within a couple of hours, there were 60 “likes.”

No surprise. Every two years since 2003, I’ve spent an intense few weeks with some 15 students worldwide (90 total) and some 15 summers since 1990, have hung out with and taught some 100 students. With over 1500 folks I know who have partaken of the glory of Salzburg, all I have do is publicly name some other explosive words and they will smile with glee and affection. Secret words like: “Merkur. Almdudler. Café Tomaselli. Argekultur. Maibaum in Anif. Mr. Fisher’s lawnmower.” Only the initiated know.

Salzburg remains one of my favorite places in the world, despite the fact that they’re slow to wireless the place and still allow smoking in restaurants. Way ahead of its time with bike paths, still respecting the need for open space unfilled with malls and office buildings, mountains surrounding and a river running through, a balanced blend of old town and new, of nature and city, of Mozart heritage and modern artistic pursuits. I’m sure that all of this contributes to people’s fondness for the place.

But for the people I’m talking about, all that is mere backdrop to the spiritual center of their time here—The Orff Institut. This modest building next to the Frohnburg where Julie Andrews cavorted has been the place where radical experiments in art and education developed into a reliable pedagogy that has dispersed its discoveries far and wide around the globe. Those from far away who walked its halls and peopled its classes returned to their countries with seeds clinging to their socks. Some survived the new soils and with some dedication and patient care, grew to their own blossoming in the form of Orff Associations in 40 countries worldwide. Impressive work.

Today I had the double pleasure of being welcomed in a staff meeting as a guest teacher and then allowed to leave. My kind of meeting! But before I left, I told the teachers how moved I was by the Facebook response and said, 

“I suspect that in this meeting you will deal with the details of keeping things running here and be as restless, bored or bothered as I sometimes am at my own school meetings. But maybe it’s good to start such a meeting with a reminder of how many people out there in the world carry this Institut in their heart with such great affection and gratitude. How many children daily receive the gifts of the training that goes on here. How many lives have been transformed by the classes you and those who came before teach. I’m deeply grateful for the work you all do to keep it going and want to speak on behalf of all my Facebook friends who feel the same. Carry on!”

And then I left the meeting and went to the Merkur to buy an Almdudler. 

He, She, It

Outside the JUFA Youth Hostel in Salzburg are two circles of young teens. One group is standing around and talking and occasionally leaning in to hug one another. The other’s chosen line of communication is a sand-filled ball which they kick in the air and pass to each other, until at a given signal, all disperse like seeds blown from a dandelion while one grabs the ball and tries to hit another with it. Guess the genders of each group.

I recently had a long argument with someone in favor of gender neutrality when raising children. Claiming that gender is socially constructed and that acknowledging and accenting differences limited our identity, he was suggesting eliminating the pronouns of he and she and all activities that separated boys and girls. Nothing new to me, this fantasy social engineering that seeks a brave new world that will never and can never be.

My friend acknowledged that there may have been a biological reason for the different bodies and proclivities of males and females in the past, but modern life has rendered it obsolete. There is a partial truth there. Very few men go out hunting to put food on the table and between birth control, day care, modern appliances and more, women’s choices have expanded far beyond homemaker. But there is another larger truth missing here. We can’t outrun our biology, no matter how “modern” we think we are. Our bodies and brains are the same as our ancestors from at least 40,000 years ago and though the “software” can open us to new choices unimaginable to our ancestors, the hard-wiring is significant.

At my school where we’ve run the gamut of opening choices— girls playing sports aggressively and encouraged to enjoy math, boys sewing and cooking and encouraged to enjoy poetry, hardly a single activity that both genders don’t participate in equally— girls still wear lots of pink and female teachers complement them on their looks, boys turn xylophone mallets into guns and wrestle with their friends more than talk with them. In just about every class where kids choose where they sit, there is a consistent division in boys and girls.

Are kids and adults more interesting if they explore opposite gender roles and characteristics, boys getting in touch with their feminine side and able to talk, feel and express feelings, girls excited by abstract ideas and feeling power in sports, martial arts and the like? I think so. Should people be allowed to place themselves on a gender spectrum without shame and ridicule? I believe they should. Should there be moments in our lives when we are neither male nor female, but simply human? Sure, why not?

But none of this is going to happen without beginning with the reality of our biological default setting. Left alone, the girls outside the Youth Hostel gather to hug and talk, the boys kick the ball together and then hit each other with it. No shame, no blame, nothing in that scene that needs to be fixed. In another moment, the girls may kick the ball and the boys may hang out and talk and that’s fine too. But let’s acknowledge that it is a world of he’s and she’s. We are not made to be “its.” Difference is real, necessary and worthy of celebration. Just ask the French. 

Civilized Departure

You know what it’s like. The brutal 4 a.m. departure to be ready for the 4:30 Super Shuttle to get to the airport in time for your 7 a.m. flight. You’re the first to be picked up and the driver takes convoluted routes to get the next passengers. The clock is ticking and the tension begins. Finally arrive at the airport to long check-in lines that are moving way too slow and once finally through that, Security is yet longer and slower. You’re sleep-deprived, wondering whether you packed the necessary x,y or z and are one step closer to an ulcer wondering if you’ll make it on time to the gate. When you finally board, you discover you have a middle seat with a large person on one side, a crying baby on the other— and you’ve already seen all the movies.

But sometimes the exit is more civilized. Like today. The scheduled time is 3:15. In the afternoon! That means a leisurely morning to eat a slow breakfast, put the finishing touches on packing, go for a bike ride, close out the e-mails and even cook a light lunch. Get a ride (thanks to the wife) on a non-trafficked freeway, step right up to the counter to get the boarding pass and then on to Security with all of four people ahead of you. A leisurely stroll to the gate, you’ve scored an aisle seat and the plane is leaving on time. For awhile, it looks like you’ll have an empty seat next to you. A short disappointment when the man shows up, then relief then he’s thin and narrow-shouldered. And voila! there’s some of the movies you’ve meant to catch up on. Airport travel rocks!

So began my trip to Salzburg to teach for two weeks at the Orff Institute. I write this in the Frankfurt Airport after a smooth 11-hour flight. 2:30 in the morning SF time, five hours until my next flight. But here’s another mark of advanced civilization—America, take note. Seats without armrests where one can lie down and sleep. And so I do. To be continued.

                        ……………………………………………………

And sleep I did, lulled to the constant drone of the announcer “Achtung, bitte. Lufthansa 451…” the cities announced “Casablanca, Lisbon, Mumbai…” drifting in and out of my dreams. Awoken in time by my trusty travel alarm, a moment of panic when I wondered if they changed clocks an hour ahead today in Europe too and I actually missed my flight, but happily no. Boarded the short flight to Salzburg, a window seat and time to see the farms below and distant Austrian Alps. Arrived to a surprising warmish afternoon, bags out on the belt within five minutes, my host waiting outside to greet me and a quick settle in my single room in the Jufa Youth Hostel, the Schloss Castle in the distance out my window and the pleasure I always get unpacking and moving in to my new home for the next two weeks. Tomorrow a full round of classes with 14 students from 11 countries— back to my “Confessions of a traveling music teacher mode.”

I loved being at home for ten weeks with no airport trips, settled into the routine of teaching the kids at school and enjoying San Francisco. And I love this as well. Always appropriate to express gratitude to all the visible and invisible helping hands that make this life possible. Thank you and onward!

P.S. A word of advice. Never watch a Woody Harrelson film, especially if it has the word Psychopath in the title. Ah, Woody, what happened to you after Cheers?

A Childhood Recovered

What is irreplaceable? Everything and nothing. Each thing quickly claims its place in the cosmos. No matter if it’s as grand as a whole nation or as small as your dresser table—it is a companion in your world and when it is gone, things are not quite the same.

And yet if there is one law in life, it is that it must go on and go on it does. Other things or people fill the hole and in the case of the more memorable things and people, colors are not as bright for a while— until they are.

One of the better things my wife and I did as parents was keep a journal of our kids’ development, writing letters to them telling them of their progress and the stories of their funny comments or poignant moments or big breakthroughs. As one might imagine, we started writing every week, then every month, then almost every year up to the teenage years when we just gave up and turned it over to the kids themselves. We glued in photos, had the grandparents write when they visited and imagined that the kids would someday enjoy reading about themselves.

My older daughter Kerala did indeed dive back into those pages to compare her baby milestones with her new daughter’s. She found it fascinating, funny, intriguing and heartwarming. We encouraged her to begin one for her little Zadie and she did. It’s a grand tradition.

But four years ago, when daughter Talia moved away from San Francisco, she lost her journal. It made me heartsick to think of it in some dumpster somewhere. As I said above, nothing is irreplaceable, but that journal felt like a precious heirloom, the thing I would grab running out of the house in a fire. Every time I would think of that lost journal, my stomach felt queasy.

Tonight, talking with 28-year-old Talia back in her old room while she gets her feet on the ground in her San Francisco return, she showed me all the work she did cleaning her room. And then casually said, “Oh, and I found this.” And there was the journal!!!

We sat down and read through it together and it was every bit as precious as I remembered it. We looked at her preschool class picture and she named every kid in the 40 kid group. (Then went to Facebook to show me what they looked like now.) But even more interesting was reading my predictions of her character, mild complaints about her strong willful nature and praise for her bright, surprising and inquisitive mind, her athletic and  rhythmic physical self and all of it still present in this young adult who I admire and love as much as that little girl. And of course, the same for Kerala.

Nothing is irreplaceable, but some things are more precious than others. And when they return unexpectedly after being “lost” for four years, it’s a joy beyond words. A whole childhood recovered in handwritten letters and printed photos gluesticked onto paper.

After the Revolution

I went to college in the glory years— 1969-1973. The ‘60’s were reaching their apex and the times were ripe with turmoil and good vibes, chaos and community, hope and despair, radical politics and Eastern-style enlightenment— and great music as the soundtrack to it all. Vietnam and Woodstock side-by-side, Karl Marx and Buddha sitting in on the college classes, black and white (literally and metaphorically) stretched to the edges and no tolerance for grey. And all of this made yet more intense at my particular chosen spot for higher education—Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio.

Antioch was founded as a radical departure from business as usual and on the front campus, there still stands the statue of one of its founders, Horace Mann, with the inscription, “Be ashamed to die until you have won a victory for mankind.” Antioch took that seriously and was not only an advocate for social justice, but also a leader in experimental and experiential education. It had an ongoing “co-op job” program which alternated study in the ivory tower with work out in the “real world,” an opportunity for young adults to mix theory and practice and get their feet wet in the work world without the full measure of responsibility. 

Why am I talking about this now? Simply because I was invited to be listed in the Antioch Alum Directory and write a little something about life post-college. Here’s what I submitted:

“Back at Antioch, we used to imagine life 'after the Revolution.' It was a central topic of discussions in formal classes, on weekend walks through Glen Helen Nature Preserve and in evening gathering in the dorm rooms passing lit substances around. We naive and idealistic youngsters talked about 'After the Revolution' as a given. It never came, but instead was the slow evolution of growing up and finding out how to better the world one inch at a time. For me, that meant teaching music via the Orff approach to chldren and teachers alike, cultivating a Zen practice, performing jazz and writing about it all, all passions that started in those good ole college days. John Ronsheim that remarkable music teacher, Nippo the guest Zen Master, Avon Gillespie, the guest Orff teacher, Cecil Taylor, the guess avant-garde jazz musicians, all helped shaped my vision and eventual practice in each field.

All my co-ops were at alternative schools and I've spent the last 38 years at one such school in San Francisco, with no plans yet for retiring. My first trip to Europe was with the Antioch Chorus and I've since returned some 35 times since teaching Orff workshops—and to South America, Africa, Asia and Australia as well. Still married and with two wonderful daughters doing good work and one delightful granddaughter. Still in touch with many of the folks who lived together at Drake House on Xenia Avenue, none of whom have “sold out to the Establishment” and continued to do their own good work in diverse fields. The Revolution never came— thank goodness!—but those fledgling ideas from back then have indeed blossomed and moved us closer a foot closer to the freedom of the human spirit. Still many miles to go and so we sow the seeds for the next generation to water. But every day I’m grateful that I had the good fortune and good sense to spend four memorable years in a small, vibrant college community in a little town in Southwest Ohio. Thank you, Antioch! May your legacy live on!”

PS And for the record, it almost didn’t. But when the Board of Trustees announced that the College would close a few years back, the alums, true to the spirit of their alma mater, answered “over our dead bodies!” and began the drive to re-open the College with a new alum-driven board. The New Antioch is in its second year and growing. Hooray for that!

 

Sensation Inflation

Hey folks above 50! Remember being a teenager and starting your record collection? Each purchase dreamed of, saved for, deliberated over, anticipated with eagerness? The browsing at the record store, the moment of purchase, bringing the treasure home, holding the large object in your hand and gently setting it down on the turntable? Reading the liner notes and admiring the artwork? Shelving it next to your other 15 records?

I went through the same process with books and still have a few of those dog-eared paperbacks with their old paper smell. The books that burst my world wide open were few— the old classics Catcher in the Rye, Catch 22, Cat’s Cradle,  Walden, Wind in the Willow’s and Whitman’s Leaves of Grass,  Tale of Two Cities and Manchild in a Promised Land. They sat on my growing library shelf with about 20 other companions, each one a door into a larger world.

Things felt more precious way back then, not only because I was 18 and just starting out, but because there were so many fewer things to choose from! Each thing had a character— an album with its cover design, a book with its cover and a special heft and weight—and each had a special meaning because of all the effort required to acquire. Same process for waiting for a movie to come to town or scouring the TV Guide for the moment when a favorite would appear.

Fast forward to the virtual world of today, The choices of what to watch, listen to, read or buy in myriad formats, most with a mere button push, is staggering. Youtube alone apparently can keep you occupied for 600 years. How do I know this? By walking to the library and going through an extensive search in the stacks of the back rooms for the hidden volume containing the sought-after information? No, by an instant button click. And a quick copy and paste:

Total number of YouTube videos -- over 120,000,000

Number of videos uploaded per day -- about 200,000

Time required to see all the videos -- over 600 years

Number of videos watched daily -- over 200,000,000

Music is no longer the precious record/cassette/CD carried home and shelved. For most, it’s floating out in i-Podland. Books read on Kindle all have the same size and weight and smell. The once-coveted Cassette-tape-compilation of favorite songs given as a gift to that special someone is now a playlist merged into the ocean of weightless and colorless information.

Is this bad? Is this good? Would anyone willingly go back to the labor of searching and waiting? Is the earth happier without abandoned plastic disc covers from CD’s? Is this even a discussion worth having?

Don’t ask me. After all, I’m writing it on this virtual blog. But I suspect that there is at least a small loss in human health and happiness when everything is instantly available and stored so abstractly. The amount of sensation available to us humans craving novelties has increased in massive geometric proportions compared to the townfolk a mere 150 years ago waiting for the circus to pass through town. And a sensation inflation brings a corresponding meaning deflation. When amazing things are available to see on Youtube and we see so many of them, I wonder whether each decreases slightly in its effect. With 600 years of viewing ahead of me, I’ll suppose I’ll find out.

 (Question: Has this blog has just decreased the value of my other 474 postings?)

Tranquility

Where does tranquility live?

Is it in the mind, when the mischievous monkey thoughts

stop their ceaseless cavorting

and come to rest?

Is it in the body, muscles toned after a vigorous bike ride, stomach satiated

from a light lunch,

all bodily systems in a state of perfect equilibrium?

Or is it in the heart, all bitter regrets finally accepted

or let go or forgiven?

Or perhaps it’s in World itself, for example, right here, right now,

at the Calistoga Spa,

the air uncluttered by the loud of machines,

instead, the trills of red-winged blackbirds,

planted palms around the steam-rising hot pools

and distant hills beckoning.

To all the above, I say yes, yes, yes and again,

Yes.