Footprints in the Sand

I dreamed the other night of the Blog I would write. Title and general outline were clear in my mind and I was confident it would be one of the more articulate entries. When I woke up, it had vanished. I thought if I could retrieve the title, the rest would follow, as it often does. But no luck. Reminded me of ye old college days when, aided by certain controlled substances, “the meaning of life” revealed itself completely, only to disappear the next morning like footprints in the sand after the tide comes in. Sometimes my friends and I would write it down, but the next day it read like those attachments I get that don’t open properly for me and read something like this (and just about as intelligible):

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So the Blog remained unwritten and the real life I’m supposed to be living called for my attention. Since the last entry, I taught my full Friday with stunning musical achievements by the 4^th and 8^th graders, another lovely flute-piano duet with Lisa Allen and I playing for my Mom and friends. A superb movie that night—The Butler. Many comment-worthy moments and a blog about the evolution of race relations began to form. But it was not to be.

Saturday had me up early loading Orff instruments in my car to take to The SF Jazz Center with cohorts-in-crime Joshi Marshall and Sam Heminger to lead a Family Jazz Workshop. Last time we did it, the kids did everything and the parents watched, but this time, they all joined in. How often do kids get to play, sing and dance with their parents? Plus the added bonus of “hitting them on the head with a rollin’ pin!” (Imaginary, of course, from the kid’s song “Step Back Baby.”). Family music— that’s a theme worthy of an entry or two. But—you guessed it— it was not to be.

After the workshop, off for a Thai food lunch and then to the Bill Frisell Family Concert. Quite a challenge for the kids, to say the least— one long piece with drums, guitar and violin in no identifiable genre. Still, kids always amaze me. During question time, one of them asked, “What kind of music was that?” Later, another asked, “What’s the most important thing in art? “ The musicians had to dig deep to answer! And what they said was worthy of a Blog entry. But—well, not now.

I loaded up the Orff instruments, drove home and hopped on my bike for some long overdue exercise out to the ocean and around the Legion of Honor. Dinner and an evening rearranging the photo albums so all the poetry books will fit in the same cabinet. Satisfying and many bloggish thoughts arising looking at old photos and reacquainting myself with my old books.

But once again it was not to be. Come Sunday and it was an inspired piano practice that constantly baffles me, graced with a sense that I can hear everything and play everything I hear. Of course, the maddening thing is how seldom this happens in a concert setting! But when it comes, I have the good sense to stick with it. At least until lunch rolled around and a quick ride to the Farmer’s Market and up big hills to keep the exercise routine going. And then settle back in the same place where Opera in the Park was last Sunday to listen to Comedy in the Park.

Life went on—and thankfully so—and I felt a tiny twinge of remorse that I didn’t extract anything interesting to say. But no one is suffering from the silence and truth be told, the whole 600 plus entries of the past few years are nothing more than footprints in the sand. Not that I’m going to stop walking on the beach, just a good reality check not to take it too seriously.

See you on the screen tomorrow. Or not.

Proud Papa

We raise our children to surpass us. Send them forth as arrows that fly beyond where we have stepped. With my two girls, now young women, the first sign was being roundly defeated in Boggle, then humbled by their writing skills, then astonished by their creativity in the kitchen, making my cooking seem so pedestrian and predictable.

Yesterday was Back-to-School night and with some time to spare, I sat in on the first grade presentation. I listened to the teacher so poised and articulate, felt her commitment to her craft shine forth in every sentence, her immense love for the children, both collectively and individually, drip from every word. I thought, “ I sure would love to have this teacher teach my daughter.” And then thought, “Wait a minute. She is my daughter!”

After my 4^th grade presentation on the music program, one of the parents came up and said, “Well, I’d like to tell you that you’re great, but what I really want to tell you is that your daughter is really, really great!!” The arrow had been launched two “really’s” beyond my lifetime’s efforts. How does this make me feel?

See title.

Writer's Blogk

All is well. Loving showing San Francisco to the Interns, one of the largest of my independent workshops last Saturday, Opera in the Park, Mary Poppins Sing-a-long, each class with kids a jewel of sorts (some rough, some polished), a happy spirit at school, good music for my Mom and a few SF heat-wave days. And yet, the hidden spring of inspiration, such as it is, that feeds this blog has slowed to a trickle. And always the question in such cases. Why?

Though each thing I’m doing is fun and meaningful, what’s missing is a certain continuity, a certain rhythmic stride that I haven’t yet hit as I shoulder the big wheel of school’s beginning. No surprise, usually takes three to four weeks for me to settle into the schedule, organize my time, choose a few threads to stitch the days today, from my traditional Fall Dickens to a biking routine to a piano routine to a writing routine. Just haven’t felt like I’m wholly arrived back into my San Francisco life after the summer travels. And then there’s still the piles of papers in my front room waiting to be filed.

So not much blogworthy here except a clever title. Maybe that’s enough for now. 

Orff Teacher Wanted— No Warts

Having just come from the Mary Poppins Sing-A-Long at the Castro Theater, it occurs to me that the next time a job teaching music via the Orff approach comes up (or any teaching job, for that matter), the school should have the kids write out the job qualifications. Except for the rosy cheeks, no warts, bringing too many sweets and the weird bit about barley water, the two kids in the movie advertising for a nanny pretty much nailed it. As follows:

If you want this choice position

Have a cheery disposition

Rosy cheeks, no warts

Play games, all sorts

You must be kind, you must be witty

Very sweet and fairly pretty

Take us on outings, give us treats

Sing songs, bring sweets

Never be cross or cruel

Never give us Castor oil or gruel

Love us as a son and daughter

And never smell of barley water.

If you won’t scold or dominate us

We will never give you cause to hate us.

We won’t hid your spectacles, so you can’t see

Put toads in your bed or pepper in your tea

Hurry, hurry, many thanks

Sincerely, Jane and Michael Banks

A Divine Message

Sometimes while preparing to sit a morning meditation, I grab a poetry book to set the tone for the day. Sometimes it’s a game, reaching blindly on the shelf and grabbing a book and turning randomly to a page. But today, I had a clear desire to read a poem by a poet whose work I rarely read, a venerable Irish poet named Seamus Heaney. So I searched in the H’s and came up empty-handed. Then reached behind the books and fished out a couple of Ted Kooser’s books, but still no Seamus Heaney. So I settled for a few poems by Maxine Kumin and went off to teach for the day.

Tonight, I gathered with a group of men and almost fell off my chair when one of them announced, “Hey, did you hear that Seamus Heaney died?” How strange is that? I’m sure we all have stories of such mysterious coincidences, but it doesn’t make them any less remarkable. Why did I feel this strange connection to someone whose work I barely know— really two poems—and why did this thought pop into my head that I should read him right around the time he passed away? And where the heck is that book?

One of his poems I remembered was about dowsing, that ancient art of searching for underground water with a hazel stick. The poem speaks eloquently of the idea of calling, the way in which the secret waters reveal themselves only to those who are worthy by gift, intention and a disciplined practice. Such commitment to one’s work grants us certain powers that are not freely accessible to the casual bystander. And yet our passion can be so strong that merely gripping the wrists of our student can make the stick quiver with electric energy. Below is the poem:

THE DIVINER

Cut from the green hedge a forked hazel stick

That he held tight by the arms of the V:

Circling the terrain, hunting the pluck,

Of water, nervous, but professionally.

Unfussed. The pluck came sharp as a sting.

The rod jerked down with precise convulsions.

Spring water suddenly broadcasting,

Through a green aerial its secret stations.

The bystanders would ask to have a try.

He handed them the rod without a word.

It lay dead in their grasp till nonchalantly.

He gripped the expectant wrists. The hazel stirred.

Thank you, Mr. Heaney. I know not which secret message you hoped to stir in my mind, but it did drive me to search again for the book and now I found it, a book of selected prose titled “Preoccupations.” I shall read it and perhaps discover why I thought of you this morning. In fact, I just now randomly opened to a page and read this:

“All the activity and push of the enterprise, the aim of the poet and of the poetry, is finally to be of service, to ply the effort of the individual work into the larger work of the community as a whole.”

A lovely invitation to keep reading. And so I will, wishing you a resting in peace knowing that you did just that. 

A San Francisco Day

I love showing off my city. Especially on a glorious September Day. So yesterday I met up with three of the music interns from afar (Chicago, Italy, Turkey) at Dolores Park to see the last show of the season from that venerable insitution, The San Francisco Mime Troupe. This year’s show was titled “Oil and Water” and expertly walked the thin line between the brutal facts of climate change and dirty politics and signs of hope and calls to action. (“No to Keystone Pipeline! No to war in Syria! Boo Chevron!”). My friend from Turkey was astounded that such radical critiques could be publicly voiced without the actors getting arrested and it was a good reminder that despite our frustrations with political process, free speech is still alive and well and to be valued.

After the show, we sauntered over to the new playground in Dolores Park, which is quite extraordinary. A testament to building something of beauty and fun for our children, including a small section with tuned drum columns and hanging chime bars with mallets. Human imagination and intellect put in service of life and affirmation instead of death and destruction. It’s a good idea.

On we went to Mission Dolores, part of my mission to prepare my guests for the movie we were about to see—the San Francisco classic by Alfred Hitchcock, Vertigo.  While walking through the cemetery, I told the story of my daughter Talia’s 16^th birthday party where we went around the city with a videocamera and seven girls making our own version of Vertigo. For the cemetery scene, we made a cardboard gravestone for Carlotta Valdez.

Onward through the bustling streets to the Castro Theater, that icon of cinema glory still alive and well (may it be so for decades to come!). Sadly, the organist was not playing for the 5:00 pm show, but on the screen were photos of all the former movie theaters in their days of glory— the Surf, the Ahlambra, the Avenue, the Bridge, the Coronet and more, all sadly gone in the new world of characterless multi-plexes. With some time before the movie started, I walked out to Castro Street searching for another San Francisco icon, the It’s-It ice cream (two cookies with ice-cream in-between, the whole deal covered in chocolate). Score! (Thank you, Mollie Stone). We savored our tasty treats, the lights went down, the signature music began and off we went into another world.

Of course, I’ve seen Vertigo at least 25 times, but still fun to share it with folks seeing it for the first time. As a veteran, the suspended disbelief art requires began to waver a bit and I found at least four major inconsistencies that Hitchcock could have done better. (For example, in that opening scene, how did Scotty actually get to safety while hanging from that drainpipe? How did he find the correct apartment door when he followed Judy? How could she fake non-surprise when she opened the door? Etc.)

Post movie to a Thai restaurant and so ended a quintessential San Francisco day. Later on, we’ll go on a Vertigo tour through the city. But meanwhile, the three-day weekend has passed and time to re-enter The San Francisco School. I wonder whether the miracles (and high dramas and betrayals and secrets) that have passed in that venerable institution will ever make it worthy to be on somebody’s tour?

No Progress

“I don’t develop— I am.”  —Pablo Picasso

I wanted to title this blog “The Acorn and the Oak,” but thanks to my thorough documentation, I discovered I had already used that title. Next choice was “Testimony of a Pack Rat” and that would have worked well, since this posting was inspired by finally tackling the dreaded piles of papers I’ve referred to many, many times and uncovering an unexpected jewel. But the title wouldn’t have pointed to the main point, soon to be revealed. And so “No Progress” comes from Gary Snyder’s observation: “There is no progress in art or religion.” And though the topic here is my life of teaching music via the Orff approach, it is a religious affair for me and it does deal with transmitting an art form artistically. And so the story.

The year is 1979. My soon-to-be wife Karen and I are fresh from five remarkable months in India, at the tail end of year’s trip around the world. We have arrived in Surakarta, Java, where an old roommate of Karen's has been studying Javanese dance. She helps us get settled and I begin studying Javanese gamelan. For about two lessons, that is, before something suddenly seems terribly wrong. After a bad couple of days of misdiagnosis and useless antibiotics, I discover I have hepatitis. Probably from water in Nepal (it takes a while to manifest).

The cure? Simply complete bed rest and simple diet, with the fear of a much worse re-occurrence if I push the limit and become active too soon. And so I literally have to mostly lay in bed for three weeks with nothing to do but watch my weight go down to a record low of 135. I have a few books, but I need something to give me a continuity to connect the long days ahead. And so I buy some Indonesian school notebooks and set off to write a book (by hand) about teaching music via the Orff approach. Which I did. When I returned to San Francisco, my brother-in-law edited it a bit and typed it up and I sent it off to a publisher in Princeton. And it was this typed manuscript— all 231 pages— that I found today sorting through my papers.

Now keep in mind that I was 27 years old and had been teaching this way for a grand total of three years. Re-reading these pages I expected to laugh uproariously at my naiveté, to shake my head in disbelief how misguided I was, to want to quickly burn it all before someone discovered it and my reputation was forever damaged.

But instead I heard that inexperienced younger self saying the same things I just said to my Level III students. Yes, the language was more stilted, the delivery more clumsy, the experience to back it up wafer-thin compared to now. But I was astounded to see that everything was lined up in place, the ideas solid and dependable, the vision already wholly arrived. Really all that could be said about the 36 years of teaching that followed was simply filling in the details of all the ways the ideas could be manifested, experienced and lived by students and teachers alike.

Below are some paragraphs from the rediscovered manuscript:

Create a Supportive Atmosphere Free From Fear and Competition

Since we are concerned with process as well as product, the primary enmphasis is on each student’s effort to fully realize his or her own musical potential. In this realm, there is no room for comparison with other students. The child’s (or adult’s) motivation should come from within, not from a need to compete. Since making mistakes is part of the process, there is no reason to induce fear. This will only destroy the equilibrium and the sense of relaxation necessary for the music to emerge. A teacher should correct mistakes patiently, like a parent helping a baby learn to walk. The baby is encouraged to pick himself up and try again. Thus, with a well-paced program and a patient teacher, the student will develop the positive self-image vital to success. Free from competition, free from fear of rebuke, encouraged in all serious attempts to express themselves, even initially shy students will eventually participate happily.

Not bad, Doug! And then my closing of the whole book (which needless to say, was rejected by the Princeton publisher and has sat for decades in my closet):

The particular balance of material presented in this book is not a model for all to follow, but simply the aspects of music and teaching that have worked well for me. I invite you to filter it all through your own personal vision, to truly make it your own. Rather than go through the frustration of trying to “do it all,” start from where you are and dig in. Using that as a center, you can begin to expand outwards to broaden the base of your exploration and to dig further to add to the depth.

Good luck to you in your efforts. Remember that your failures are your most valuable teachers. It may two years of teaching every day for things to click and fall into place. Persevere, knowing that you never arrive “there” but are constantly in the process of expanding and refining. To give children the tools and opportunity to express themselves in music and dance is reason enough to plow through the setbacks and frustrations. It is their rightful heritage.

I have nothing to add here. It was true then and it's true now. 

My friends, hold on to your old papers. The oak tree of your life is contained in those acorns. We don't develop— we are.