Swimming with the Alewives

Those looking for adventure go to the Yucatan to swim with the dolphins. Me, I’m up near Frankfort, Michigan swimming in the lake with the alewives. Little sardine-like fish between two and six inches long. Okay, I know it’s not as romantic as the dolphins. And even less so because…well, because they’re all dead. A bunch of little silver corpses floating in the water.

Then on the beach, there’s a lined path of dead alewives stretching as far as you can see in either direction. Probably at least ten thousand between the summer cottage and the outlet a mile away. You have to watch where you step.

And it’s a little creepy when I’m swimming, because I keep imagining that I’m going to surface to take a breath and inhale one. Hasn’t happened yet, but certainly plausible. And since I hate eating fish, it makes me doubly paranoid.

But beyond my own personal discomfort, I wonder what the heck is going on. One theory is that it’s some natural cycle and no need to worry. One person mentioned that there’s botulism at the bottom of the lake and it has entered the food chain. We’ve all noticed that the seagulls who are usually here are not— and too bad, because it seems like it would be a festival of free lunches. Unless the botulism thing is true, in which case it would end up as mass seagull suicide.

I’m thinking of going into town to the local bookstore and get a copy of Barbara Kingsolver’s new book, Flight Behavior, which I’ve heard centers around some of the symptoms of climate change. But truth be told, these things terrify me. Really, what can one do to counteract the absence of bees and butterflies, the epidemic presence of dead alewives on a pristine Michigan beach?

So I leave it aside for now and go to swim in the lake. The back lake, that is. Not an alewife in sight.

Honor Thy Elders and Kill the Buddha

Still working on a piece about elders and youth, but hey, it’s my vacation out on a lake and it’s a lot of work stitching together all the ideas into any semblance of coherence. Ideas that no one is asking for.  But I like some of the sentences and I promised to deliver something in the last blog, so between abandoning it all together and seeing it through to the end, I’m opting for select quotes from a longer article that is yet to be. And so:

• “Honor thy father and mother” was the first commandment Moses received. And for a good reason. No them, no us.

• We are here by the grace of those who came before us and the proper etiquette includes large doses of gratitude.

• Such gratitude is a lifelong conversation that walks the full peaks and valleys of a complex, treacherous and extraordinarily beautiful landscape that has no map. It properly should begin with respect and end with love and appreciation, but in-between is some rocky terrain passing through challenge, questioning, rejection, disdain, dismissal and some intense eye-rolling.

• The job of the young is to rise to the bar the elders set, to caretake as precious jewels the wisdom and culture and beauty they bequeath, to carry the lit torch further down the field. (The job of the old is to beware of mixed metaphors.)

• But it is equally the job of the young to question, to challenge, to untie the knots of prejudice or narrow thinking or dubious practice, to make contemporary a way of life that grew in one era and now needs re-adjustment in another. If you meet the Buddha on the path, kill him! Even loving guidance can be an obstacle to finding your own proper way.

• That’s where the path gets steep, negotiating the cliff’s-edge balance between  “thank you” and “no thank you.”

• As we grow into adulthood, much of what we dismissed and rejected from our elders comes back to us in a new understanding. Mark Twain says it best:

“When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years!”

• The beginner in any field of endeavor should be properly awed by their seniors, but not intimidated. They must have enough humility to recognize their accomplishment and learn from them, enough courage to question them and enough confidence and audacity to think that they can surpass them. And the wise elder welcomes it all.

• When we live in “the sibling society,” all equal peers sharing our opinions, we live in a flat, horizontal world and lose the vertical dimension of spiritual blessing. Worse yet, when we look to the youth for guidance in matters more profound than how to download an ap, we place too great a weight on their narrow shoulders. They are properly terrified when granted power to decide things too large for their tender years. (When a school I know was  hiring a new head, the hiring committee gave the point of view of an elder staff member, a point of view formed by over 35 years of teaching, the same weight as the opinion of a 7^th grader who thought that this candidate was “cool,” that candidate “not as cool.”)

• A culture that looks to youth for guidance and bypasses elders is a confused culture.

All have something valuable to contribute, but the greater weight must come from above, from those with ample experience.

• Elderhood is a state of being that mere years alone cannot grant. It is achieved through certain kinds of experiences married to a refined practice, a mindful sensitivity and a storehouse of knowledge. The elders are the ones who have walked further down the path and noticed the important things. As such, they carry the power to guide those coming up the path, to beckon them forth and bless them. Not all old people are necessarily elders, but all elders are old enough to have earned their status.

• Some young people have an enlarged sensitivity, an alert mind, a dedicated practice that grants the necessary experience to contribute, but there are certain kinds of knowledge that simply need the long gestation of the years to come to full bloom.

• Some old folks talk on and on when instead they should be swimming on a hot summer day. And so today’s wisdom from this wannabe elder: Go jump in the lake!

Respect Your Elders?

I recently wrote a piece called Respect Your Elders and posted it on the national Orff Facebook page. It provoked quite a bit of reaction (some 86 responses) and surprisingly (for this medium), most of them quite thoughtful. The piece touched on various topics and it was fascinating what jumped off the page for people. Not surprisingly, the comments about electronic technology provoked the most response. We have a thousand opinions about that simply because it is so pervasive in our life. But disappointingly, the dynamic I was trying to reveal between youth and elders, what might constitute a healthy respect and what the role of each was, elicited hardly a single word. It seems to be a conversation we’re not ready to have and that itself is a symptom of some trouble in our culture.

But I did have to smile at me writing an article titled “Respect Your Elders.” Especially given the actual facts of my life. I think it’s safe to say that the values I formed and the work I engaged in were all based on rejection of what came before, of trying to change and re-make the world the elders had handed me.

Take education. I hated most of my schooling— that is, until I enrolled in Antioch College with its liberal progressive education. At Antioch, I worked at various alternative free schools in the early ‘70’s, from the Summerhill variety to a Quaker Boarding School. I landed in a Montessori preschool and eclectic elementary school in San Francisco and planted my flag there for the next four decades, attempting to correct everything the previous generation (and generations) had gotten wrong. And the surprising thing is, my colleagues and I actually succeeded in our efforts! (Still a work in progress though).

My time at Antioch was the heyday of “Don’t trust anyone over 30” and mostly we didn’t. I tried to stay on the cutting edge of a every musical innovation, be it rock, jazz or world music. I rejected racism and sexism and colonialism and war and homophobia and put myself out on the street to say so. I left aside my Jewish ethnic roots and Unitarian upbringing in favor of a Zen Buddhist practice. I protested against my narrow piano lessons and pathetic music education by encountering the dynamic transformative practice of Orff Schulwerk. I discounted my parents’ various choices they made, from childraising to politics and vowed to do just about everything differently. And mostly did.

So what am I doing writing an article titled “Respect Your Elders”?!!! Is this hypocrisy? A sell-out? An awakening? Or simply an affirmation that given my life of apparent disrespect, I might have an interesting point of view?

In starting to clarify my thoughts, I quickly realized I had opened Pandora’s massive steamer trunk! So much to say and just about all of it ambiguous. If I was invited to a debate team taking the side of the Elders or the Youth, I would be on both teams. But in-between long bike rides, swims in Lake Michigan, reading on the beach and such, I’m trying to gather the ideas into some level of coherence. This entry a mere enticement.

Whether you’re a young punk or an old fart, stay tuned!

The Portable Movie Theater

Poet Gary Snyder once called his airplane window seat his little “hermitage in the air.” A place for solitude, for reading, writing, free to let thoughts roam with the clouds below and marvel at the world out the window. I’ve enjoyed the same, but lately have been opting for the aisle seat. Without the window view, the sensation of travel changes and it’s simply time spent in a long narrow room.

Today’s flight from Madrid to Newark offered 60 movies. That’s a long way from the single screen with one film per flight and your fervent hope that you hadn’t already seen the movie. So now flying for me has become a trip in a portable movie theater. The length of flights are determined by the movie time unit— a three-movie flight, a two-movie-plus-one-TV-show flight and so on. Nothing takes me out of time like a movie and though I still enjoy reading and writing and my ritual Crostic, all three are hard to sustain for the 10 hour flight. Nothing like spending the day with Miss Congeniality, My First Wives and The Gangster Squad to pass the time.

The screens are tiny, everyone’s plugged into their private films and it’s a pretty expensive way to go to the movies. But the cool thing is that people come by to serve you drinks and food and when you walk out of the movie theater, you’re in a completely different place! And you don’t need to remember where you parked the car! Two flights to go, just enough time for one more movie and one TV show. Pass the popcorn.

Still Running with Bulls

“What’s on TV?” I asked yesterday and every morning, it’s the next day’s run at Pamplona. Today was especially difficult, an errant bull who trapped a young man and literally tossed him with his horns, while others pulled the bull’s tail and tried to distract him. Unsuccessfully, I might add, until someone finally pulled the guy away.

In this case, it seemed to be the bull who wasn’t playing the game correctly. But the commentary was all about the Americans and Australians who think it would be fun to cross Pamplona off their bucket list. They come into it casually, as part of their paradigm of the world as existing to entertain them. They know nothing of the reason for the event, the history of the event, the ritual songs, the details of the art of running. They just think it would be a cool thing to do. And preferably while drunk.

The Spaniards, by contrast, come to the event from inside the culture, They train assiduously, learn how to run while looking around, sing to San Fermin  and kiss their Rosary beads before the bulls are released. When the event flows smoothly, it actually is a beautiful dance, less people taunting and teasing the bulls and running for their lives and more (from this spectator’s point of view) running alongside of them in a stunning choreography, the waves of runners parting as the bulls run through the middle.

Of course, the bulls don’t differentiate between the nationalities, but I did notice that the photo of the American who was gored today showed him holding a camera in his hand. That camera was symbolic of a vast gulf in attitude. (I’m aiming for a point here, but the bulls running in my head are not exactly turning the corner!) It has something to do with the difference between deep ritual and casual entertainment. I admire greatly the former and am sometimes impatient with the latter. To the casual observer, it seems like the American, Australian and Spaniard are all doing the same thing— running like hell so they don’t get killed! But the preparation, the intention, the respect, the depth of understanding are all quite different. And that difference matters.

I just finished my Madrid jazz course with a moving closing circle in which each spoke the truth of their experience here this last week. Followed by a rousing performance of two pieces for the other 80+ people in the general Orff course. It was a fitting culmination to five days of running alongside the bulls of inspired pedagogy, soulful jazz history and powerful music-making. We prepared ourselves, took risks, sang to the Saint or Buddha or Orisha or Ancestors of our choice, watched out for each other running side-by-side, left the cameras closed while immering ourselves wholly in the experience. No one got gored and all the bulls were corralled into the ring.

Properly exhausted myself from 8 days (counting Barclona) of teaching the course, I’m not quite hitting the bull’s-eye here— and mixing metaphors besides! (Hmm. Where does that expression come from? Was that how one best killed bulls with bows and arrows?). But it has something to do with a level of preparation, depth and ritual seriousness that I often find missing in our “anything-goes-whatever” culture. World as our frivolous playground, to document and throw up on Facebook in place of deep participation in its mysteries and ritual engagement. An Orff course well-taught and well-received is a healthy mix of hushed solemnity, boisterous humor, joyful surprise and much much more. I’m grateful for every minute of it.

But we can’t stay in church all the time. Right now I’m opting for the swimming pool. No bulls allowed.

What's on TV?

I love what I do. Everything about it. I love teaching kids, I love teaching adults, I love teaching music, I love teaching. I love it when everything that I’ve taken the time to think about and investigate and practice proves useful in a teaching situation. Like yesterday.

In the 3^rd day of my Madrid Jazz Course, I began by introducing a new pattern in our intricate body percussion piece, made powerful by a booming wood floor and the precision of the 32 people playing. From there a game about shooing turkeys, a rhyme for 3-year olds and ending the session by playing the blues Bags ‘n’ Trane. The leap from the preschool game and rhyme to a cool minor blues may not seem obvious to the casual reader, but it made perfect sense in the class.

The next 90-minute session was the music theory class we all wish we had, one that actual connected the sophisticated mathematical patterns of functional harmony with real music. We learned the main characters of a jazz standard and then learned their particular relationships by playing the old chestnut Moonglow. After lunch, it was Jumpin’ at the Woodside with Count Basie on Orff instruments, then Lindy Hopping, such as I do it. I’m no Frankie Manning, but I can hold my own Messin’ Around, Peckin’ and Suzy Q’in. At least for a few more years!

The last session began with the appearance of my nervously-awaited pen pal (see last entry). In she came and joined us in the circle for a little pattin’ Juba and a Head and Shoulders clap play. We moved over to the xylophones and she tried out her first piece with us and did a lovely job. When the class was over, we went to the piano and had a little blues piano lesson, just as I promised in our postcards.

But after about 20 minutes, it was time for me to give a lecture in Spanish titled The Secret of Music Education. I told three “secrets,” the first simply having faith that everyone is musical. To prove it, I invited six people to come improvise xylophones in front of the 90 folks gathered there. One was my pen pal (I’m keeping her name private), one the husband of an Orff teacher, one the mother of an Orff teacher and one a man who has been in charge of the business side of the Madrid Orff course for over a decade, but had never played a single note on an Orff instrument. Off they went and Kaching!— first secret proved. (The other two I’ll save for another blog.)

By the end of the lecture, I had been at the workshop site for 12 hours, much of it spent teaching. We took my new/old friend home and I just loved every moment of conversation with her. She was super-sweet and engaging and interesting and interested in the work she was witnessing, but it was a little hard to read whether it meant much to her to finally meet me. As we dropped her off, I said goodbye and promised her more postcards and just as she was about to go through the door, she turned and asked if she could come back tomorrow. That was a good sign!

And come back she did. After a day of classes in Latin jazz and beyond, she came and saw a review of all the games and songs we had done the past four days and seemed simply delighted by it all. We then had another short piano lesson and it was time for my colleague Sofia to show a video of the school Holiday play. Another farewell to my friend and by the time we dropped everyone off and had dinner, it was 10:00. Fourth day in a row of working about 7 hours straight and out for 12 plus hours.

And so we come to the title. It’s all wonderful, but I am ready to plop in front of a TV and be entertained. I turned it on and there was a Western with Anthony Quinn dubbed in Spanish. It will do. 

First Date

I’m as nervous as a 14-year old on his first date. Tomorrow I’m going to meet my pen-pal. For exactly one year, I’ve been sending postcards to a 19-year old in Madrid. A friend who does music therapy in a a cancer ward told me about this young patient with a  a remarkable spirit who has a passion for postcards. She thought with all my traveling that I’d be willing to send her some.

At that point, I had just come back from several trips, but had my own little postcard collection in a drawer and started to send them. You can’t write much on a postcard— mostly I talked about whatever image was on the card. The writing and looking for postcards became a habit not unlike this blog, but somehow more satisfying knowing there was a person on the other end who I might come to know. On every subsequent trip, I bought and sent postcards and when home in San Francisco, I exhausted the supply of all our local images.

I never really expected a response, but some three months later, I got a lovely postcard thanking me and introducing herself and making funny comments like how bad my handwriting is sometimes. In the course of a year, I got two more postcards, each one a prized jewel and sent a hundred or more, each one a pleasure. It was odd that in these days of e-mail and Facebook and the like, I never once saw a photo of my friend, but I kind of liked it that way. This was a real old-fashioned pen-pal, built on the strong foundation of the imagination, a mutual fun project and two strangers passing in the night sharing little stories.

Knowing I was coming to Madrid to teach, meeting her was a big priority and tonight, we arranged it. I talked to her on the phone! So now I have a voice to go with some image in my mind and tomorrow, she may come to my jazz course and sit in.

And so here I am, that nervous 14-year old. What if she doesn’t like me? What will we say to each other? Should I buy a few more postcards? Meanwhile, I hope I don't wake up with pimples.