The 2 a.m. Brain

Though I’d beat the system by flying out one day early to Korea and having an entire day free before teaching. But alas, I’m awake on my second night at 2 a.m. with a full day of teaching ahead in six hours and things are not looking good sleepwise. It’s a perfect time to slog through all those e-mails lined up in Procrastination Lane or update my mailing list or plan my year’s curriculum at school. Instead, I’m lying around thinking random things like:

• Do birds get jet lag when they migrate?

• Do dishwashers at Korean restaurants earn more? (We had a dinner with some 25 bowls per person, each an enticing addition to the rice.)

• Visiting the palace with the king’s quarters and servant’s quarters, should I be nostalgic for hierarchy in human relations? After 38 years at one school, couldn’t I be given a reserved parking place?

• Do my colleague Sofia and I really have room in our luggage for the two large Korean Samul Nori drums we bought? Will the airlines charge more than the cost of the drums?

• Will I get points in heaven for not turning on the air-conditioning in my hotel room in the midst of a humid 100-degree heat spell?

• Do such acts affect butterflies in Kentucky? (According to Barbara Kingsolver’s novel Flight Behavior, the answer is “Yes.”)

• Though I think I’m constantly inventing new material, I noticed that everything I thought about teaching in this upcoming course I had already done two and a half years ago. I also noticed in a photo someone brought from a course 10 years ago that I was wearing the same shirt that I had on now. Am I in a rut?

• If you like the rut you're in and the people you share it with enjoy it, is it a rut?

• If you think about it, is the word “rut” really weird?

Welcome to my 2 a.m. brain. Fascinating, huh? If I could only be bored as you are reading this, maybe I could get back to sleep. 

Screenwriter/Director/Actor

I never look ahead of time to see what kind of plane I’ll be on and what the amenities are, but was surprised that this 11-hour flight to Seoul was the old-fashioned one-screen-no-choice-one-movie-for-all variety. Missed the credits to the first one, but it didn’t look enticing until I noticed that it starred Gwyneth Paltrow, Robert Downing Jr., Don Cheadle and others, respectable actors/actresses all. So I started tuning in to what can best be described as two and a half hours of non-stop explosions interrupted occasionally by inane dialogue. (For those curious, it was Iron Man or Iron Man II or some unbelievable suffix hinting that the first must have been so terrible they had to go lower yet.)

But I did salvage a thought from deep in the dumpster. Didn’t Gwyneth Paltrow win an Oscar for Shakespeare in Love? Yes, I believe she did back in 1998. From the jewels of Shakespeare to the juvenile trash of Iron Man is quite a plunge. And there was Don Cheadle, who stunned me in Hotel Rwanda. Robert Downey Jr. I’ve never liked all that much, but he did decent work in Chaplin and Sherlock Holmes, amidst other films. So though not a stunningly original thought, it struck me how actors are at the mercy of their scripts and equally at the mercy of invitations that will keep their career alive, even if it be pure junk. Pity the poor movie stars!

And admire anew the Orff teachers giving workshops. We write our own scripts, direct our own classes, produce our own itinerary and act in our own plays, sometimes the lead, sometimes the supporting actor, sometimes the guy in the crowd scene as we turn over the story to the participants. When it comes to giving an Orff workshop to adults or course for teachers or class to kids, we never feel compromised, stuck in someone else’s bad script. Though we may complain about having to do everything, the freedom it gives us and the integrity that it preserves is not to be taken lightly.

And telescope that thought out further. On some level, we’re all actors stuck in someone else’s script— our parent’s role that they assigned to us, our government’s, our gender’s, our culture’s. If we’re fortunate, it’s a life-giving story and a great role worthy of Oscar-nomination. But at the end of the matter is our struggle to find the story we are meant to play in, to write the screenplay, direct the action and fill the role from head-to-toe. Like Jackie Robinson in the next airplane movie, 42.

And so off the plane in search of the bed that is paradise for the jet-lagged traveler, about to step yet again into the comfortable shoes of the traveling music teacher. Goodnight, good morning and good luck to me hoping to awaken at the far end of a Korean sunrise.

Full Circle

Home for one day from the Orff course with my piles of papers awaiting my sorting and then the happy thought, “I’m going to Korea tomorrow!” Orff workshops as a way to perpetually avoid cleaning up the front room. Of course, then I come home with more papers to sort, so it’s only a matter of time before it all catches up with me and I have to face up to the trail of debris each course leaves behind.

At the United Club in the VIP Lounge, my rare moment of official privilege and artificial dignity, and thinking, “It was two and half years ago that I started this blog and it all began with a trip to Korea." My first posting was in San Francisco on January 11th, 2011 and the next from Seoul, Korea on January 22. Almost 600 postings since then talking about this, that and the other thing, mostly to do with music and music education, trying to find the words that capture the shape and texture and meaning of the work.  It has been a happy discipline and made happier that a small group of people (usually 100 per day) find it interesting enough that they keep coming back. That’s you, dear reader! And I thank you for it.

Though fine about this next adventure, it is slightly insane to reach the end of one course and take off immediately for the next. There is a wisdom in letting something settle first, to digest it before beginning the next meal. But time is short and demand is high at the moment and so off I go. I always imagine that something will happen that makes it clear that this course had to be and so far I haven’t been disappointed. We’ll see what riches await.

On the first trip to Seoul, it was winter and snowing. Now heading into 90 degree heat and a retreat setting somewhere outside of the city. But first the 11 hours on the plane. Wireless permitting, the story will continue.

Until then, Anyanghaseyo!

Waking with Wings

Yesterday, the Level III Orff students and I sat in a circle and drank copious amounts of Tear Water Tea. Like Arnold Lobel’s Owl in the children’s book of the same title, it tasted salty, but we found it to be very good. We boiled the water by singing heart-wrenching songs about birds leaving the nest and saying goodbye to friends and such, songs from the Ukraine, Bulgaria, Finland with exquisite melodies and harmonies that reached into the depths of the heart, alternating between major and minor to make clear that tears lived in both profound happiness and sadness all mixed up at once. Then we steeped the tea in the stories of each person’s journey to this moment of completing their three-summer journey.

And such stories! So many speaking of all the people who tell us we’re not good enough, we don’t measure up, we’re a C student. Or praised us for being good in the things that don’t matter—the good report card, the sexy body and pretty face, the perfect lesson plan that never saw the children. Or the teachers or friends or colleagues who simply ignored us, couldn’t see who we are and were not interested in finding out. Or those voices in our own head that tell us that we’re not worthy, that start to believe in “that defiling and disfiguring shape that the mirror of malicious eyes casts upon our eyes until we think that shape must be our shape” (Yeats).

And then the good fortune of stumbling into a community that is not there to judge, label, sort, or place us in the hierarchy of winners and losers, of cool and uncool, of the good, bad and ugly. A place where teachers give us permission to be beautiful and an invitation to discover precisely how we’re beautiful, far beyond the small choices of talented, sexy, fortunate or wealthy. Our beauty may be as small as an exquisite gesture at precisely the right moment in a dance choreography, a 30-second glockenspiel improvisation, as large as a Teleman recorder duet flawlessly performed or a stunning group composition of Taiko body percussion or a lesson taught with a flow and musicality equal to Beethoven or Miles Davis composition.

But the size and the form of the beauty don’t matter in any kind of hierarchical way. Beauty is not to be weighed and judged and compared. Our Orff course is not a Miss America Contest. What shape it takes is important for the person to know so they can see which thread to follow in their continuous unfolding, but ultimately that it happened is more important than how it happened. And more important than when it happened. Amidst many stories I told that opened my tear ducts wide was of the boy who was difficult in my class for 10 years and then burst into bloom in the 11^th. A caterpillar for so long before he surprised me and himself when he woke up with wings. And so permission to be beautiful requires great patience on the part of the teacher and student, great faith that wings will sprout and always on their own timetable. All we can do is keep that faith and be patient. These things take time.

And so as we sat sipping our tea of communal tears, marveling at each story and what miracles were possible in a short six weeks spread out over three summers. Without exception, we could name the many wing-sprouting moments and publicly acknowledge and admire them. In-between our sobs and trips to the Kleenex box.

And now it’s over. These butterflies flying out back to the world with their fragile wings must search for a habitat where they can thrive. For some, it’s back to the world that mostly doesn’t care all that much and is more interested in pinning them to the classification board than feeling the breeze of their wings in flight. Back to the world where they have the responsibility of helping create a friendly habitat, at least in their own classroom if not their whole school. For they will now be in charge of the delicate souls of young children and have to find their own way to grant the young one permission be their beautiful selves in their own particularly beautiful ways. A great challenge and a worthy one. I wish them all well.

And to them all I say, “Remember to keep some Tear-water Tea close by. It’s a little salty, but always very good. Thanks for sharing it with me.”

Permission to Be Beautiful

I have as much reason to be cynical about human beings as the next guy. I know my history—the long brutal story of wars, conquest, genocide, slavery— and it ain’t a pretty story. I grew up in a family, made a family, worked side-by-side with others in a community and we all know what that’s like. And if ever I feel too naïve or optimistic, the daily news is there to remind me to get real— we humans are a depraved lot.

And yet I remain steadfastly loyal to the glories of human potential. Like yesterday, after watching my 22 students in the Orff training do their 15-minute practicum teach. Such intelligence! Such fun! Such humor! Such heart and soul! Such musicality! Every lesson a stellar example of “the way it spozed to be.” Why were the lessons so great and such affirmations of the heights and depths of the human spirit?

The major credit, of course, goes to the teachers themselves. Dedicated folks who came to the Orff training to further themselves, perfect their perfection and grow an inch forward from their imperfections. Folks who take teaching seriously and are willing to have fun with it. People who love children and want to give them a more joyful and effective education than they themselves got.

But as their teacher, I know I had the potential to squash their exuberance by demanding lessons that ticked off the national standards list or followed the script of the latest “innovation.”  I could have marked them down for revealing their personality or being too familiar with their students or too playful. I could have sat in the back with my pen in hand and lowered them to the fear part of the brain knowing that I was sitting in judgement and prepared to change their future by the grade I’d give them.

Instead, after spending 6 days modeling the kind of teaching I cared about and inviting them to do the same, I helped create a community open to possibility and inviting to the imagination. After the lessons, I summarized what I saw and it meant more than giving them the list first and asking them to make sure they succeeded in each. The list, some related to music teaching, and some to all teaching, was as follows:

• Begin in the body and the voice in a circle, preparing what comes next.

• Have at least one imaginative “hook” to entice the students.

• Let the lesson flow like music—enticing beginning, connected middle, satisfying end.

• Teach in your natural personality.

• Use your cultural background and style.

• Pace the lesson according to the response of the students.

• When teaching a set piece, adjust the parts to the needs of your students.

• Give feedback to students with words, thumbs up, encouraging smiles.

But at the end of the matter, the thing that allowed everything to flower as it did was simply my permission for them to be beautiful. I had faith that they are and I wanted them to show the full force of their beauty. And they did.

Beautifully, I might add.

Musical Hygiene

Our mouth feels grungy and music brushes our teeth. Our face is caked with dust and music lathers us up and washes it clean. Our stomach growls and music fills our belly. Loneliness creeps up on us and music embraces us with a loving hug. The libido screams for attention and music brings us to climax. Weariness sits on our shoulders and music gently lies it down and leads us by the hand to sleep.

In my recent lecture at the SF Orff Course, I began with the three questions of my TEDx talk:

1. Who here is a musician?
2. Who is musical?
3. Who likes music?

And then proceeded to suggest that Orff Schuwerk properly done feeds all three. I began with the third, asking why it is that the answer is almost always 100% (with some exceptions—see my June blog “Music for All?”).

Music is rarely static. It swells and quiets, speeds up and slows down, builds in complexity and rests in simplicity. And so do we. Our bodies are in a constant state of disequilibrium seeking equilibrium, disquiet aiming for homeostasis. Food, drink and sleep are the fuels that recharge, refresh, satiate and calm us, helped along by exercise, work, play, sex. And so the structures and vibrations of music hit us directly and become the food, drink, sleep, sex, work and play of our sonic world. As vibration speaks to vibration, our bodily rhythms change— heartbeat, breath, brainwaves—and as they move, so are we moved. Emotion means a movement inside, a change in various rhythms that translates as feeling. And so music speaks our feeling and equally creates our feeling life.

And so we all need music. Those soaked in a culture steeped in music are given what they need. Those who need formal music education can get it also and by playing an instrument or singing in a choir or dancing in an ensemble, have a deeper and clearer understanding, and thus, appreciation, of music.  The music teacher delivers a deep human necessity, increasing our pleasure in listening to music. Just listening to music seems passive, but in fact, there is a subtle dance going on inside us with each note we hear— we are actively engaged and the more we understand because we are led to understanding, the more intricate the dance is. Playing music increases our capacity to listen to music. In short, music education matters.

And so ended Part One of my talk. (Parts Two and Three to follow.) Now to brush my teeth with a little solo piano alone in the theater at night.

Graceful Arches

Let me confess from the get go— I have no idea what I’m about to write about here. Usually I have an experience or a title that invites all the words that follow. But tonight, I have neither— just the need to take advantage of a rare moment of solitude and to write my signature on August as I head into summer’s last month. And so off I go into the void of the blank page, with word following word.

Well, it’s not entirely true that I don’t have anything to report. It’s been an extraordinary— though also quite familiar— week at the SF International Orff Course in the Carmel Valley. Beautiful classes with beautiful people in a beautiful setting making beautiful music. One of the better talks I’ve given on Thursday night, combining pedagogical reflection, music history, piano performance and a comic shtick— vaudeville inside of a scholarly lecture, storytelling alongside concert piano. The usual hilarious banter with my inspired colleagues, most of us together for these two weeks for over a decade and relishing each other’s company with so much pleasure. The usual convergence of folks from all around the globe—Colombia, Brazil, Mexico, South Africa, Germany, Spain, Finland, Thailand, Hong Kong, Singapore. Taiwan, Japan and more—co-creating the world to come where music, dance, games, laughter and creativity are the common language, the lingua franca that sings equally the differences and commonalities. (A particularly weird connection today as we Skyped our Ghanaian friend Kofi in Vancouver while another Skyped Alba in Spain and we put the two computers face-to-face so they could say hi to each other! And both of them, course graduates, wishing they could be back here with us.)

Today was a “day off,” begun at the nearby Laundromat with colleagues James and Sofia and I meeting to discuss our future incarnations of shared joy— the upcoming school year, our newly launched Intern Program, the Body Music and World Music Festivals in November, our joint schedules giving workshops throughout the year, a proposed Orff/African music course in Ghana next June and so on. When we finally arrive at each gathering, the rewards are enormous, but the work necessary for planning is relentless, demanding and at times, exhausting.

But we managed to rush off with the gang to go whale watching in Montery Bay and how good that felt to let business fly away in the ocean air and watch the graceful arches of whales breaking the water’s surface, the patterns of sea birds whirling overhead and diving into the ocean head-first, the antics of the seals. It was a San Francisco summer day, ie, overcast and chilly, but fun nonetheless. Then back on to dry land and an early dinner of fish and chips on the water’s edge. One more day to catch up on work and let work fall away, ending with a possible movie in the “barn” where we gather tomorrow night—East of Eden, rented from the local video store and projected on the big screen. Got some popcorn at Trader Joe’s in Monterey and ready to roll.

And so August rides in on the backs of humpbacked whales spouting their presence and showing off their grace. It’s a good way to begin.