Keeping My Promise

In “The Blogs That Never Were” posting, I made an offer to publish any pieces written using one of the titles. Lisa Allen, music intern at The SF School, dedicated Orff teacher, accomplished flautist and as you will see, evocative writer, took me up on it. So here it is. I particularly like the scene at the bus station, a reminder of how people can come together in times of public inconvenience. Enjoy!

The Dog in the Wind— Lisa Allen

Like a dog with its head out the car window I enthusiastically set off to the San Francisco Orff Internship with no BART services.  And as in the simple children's story, The Carrot Seed where the adults say, "It won't come up", family members said, "Stay home.  We think you're crazy to get out there today.  It's going to be a mess."  And like a kid playing in a symphony orchestra for the very first time I thought if nothing else, it would be an interesting use of the day to be out there in the center of the struggling hordes mobbing across the bay above ground.  After all, this is a semester where as of yet, nothing suffers in my absence.  Classes won't be waiting outside of locked doors, the school won't be sitting there in the gym waiting for a rehearsal without a conductor, if I'm late it will hardly be noticed. 

So off I went, with the faith of the family dog smelling the sea air on the drive to the beach, eyes half shut against the wind, hairy ears flapping in the breeze, my mother in the driver's seat generously driving me to the transbay bus, line F.  Arriving in plenty of time for the very first stop, my friend, Celia and I had our choice of seats from which to watch the day begin to unfold.  Admittedly, the progress was almost infinitely slower than in the Bart train.  But we had an early start.  And guess what!  This was my first journey above ground to see the new bay bridge headed west!  As I looked around at my fellow passengers I felt a renewed gratitude for my lifelong Berkeley roots.  I love this place!

Upon arriving in SF we were greeted by many, many muni helpers ready to guide us to the needed connecting bus.  And with my ears flopping in the wind I was excited to be in the downtown of a big city, again, reminded of my exciting days living in Paris and New York.  Admittedly the ensuing bus ride was quite long.  But when we arrived at school, serendipitously we had only missed fifteen minutes of class time!  I was in plenty of time to work with Sofia on presenting the speech piece assignment to the seventh graders, as I had hoped.  It was one of those days when there was a beautiful balance of challenge, leisure and connection.  The high point was one of Sofia's most heart-felt talks to the interns over lunchtime.  Her generous spirit runs deep underneath tender guidance toward those under her mentorship.

Then after a spirited performance of Andean flute and drum music from the sixth graders I even had a chance to collaborate with Andrea, finishing out our bird unit with Jack and the Beanstalk with the goose who laid the golden egg actually turning out to be a swan!  (Oh, I forgot the spoiler alert.  Sorry!)

Then out into the wind, again, finding a way back across the bay.  I took what I thought would be the express 9 bus, but it still took an hour to get back to the SF Bus terminal to try to find the Berkeley bus.  And then there it was...  The line for the F bus.  An absolute mob.  By my estimation, it would be midnight before getting home and I hadn't even bothered to use the bathroom before getting there.  And then there was an extremely chatty person next to me in line.  No, I take that back.  Everyone around me was extremely chatty.  Wait a minute, everyone was downright friendly, and calm and reasonable, a general sense that we couldn't do anything about it, so why get too grumpy?  As a matter of fact, the man behind me said, "Well, I guess you and I will be spending the evening together!"

And before we knew it, we were all boarding the bus.  And pretty soon I realized that those in charge knew this was a very stressful situation for a very large crowd.  And so everyone was being very kind and considerate to make sure we had a chance at remaining calm through the ordeal.

We made it across the bay in, well, I won't try to explain how long.  When I got back to downtown Berkeley and found it would be another 30 minutes before the bus would arrive I decided it was the perfect opportunity for a brisk walk up the hill.  And as I climbed the steepest part up Euclid Avenue toward Cedar I thought to myself, "Wow, this walk is far shorter than I remember!"

When I got into the house my mother asked, "Well, was it worth it?"  And like a spaniel turning her back on the wind, circling onto her soft old cushion in her favorite spot, I said, "I wouldn't have missed it for the world."

Arrested Development

Yes, that TV series was kind of funny, but that’s not what this is about. In fact, the title is deceptive because I’m looking for another term that I don’t know yet, that perhaps doesn’t exist. But first a word about the known term.

There’s a fairy tale called Faithful John about a servant who is turned to stone. He remains so for most of the story until he’s released into a fluid, flowing human being again. The brilliant Jungian analyst, Maria Louise Von –Franz, talked about the metaphor of being turned to stone, the psychological phenomena of arrested development where part of the human psyche shuts down, gets stuck, is locked away or hardened so it can’t grow any more. Not only is such stunted growth sad for the individual, but it can be dangerous to the culture when a toddler or teenage mentality becomes dominant in adulthood. Witness the Republicans who lost the game and are taking their ball away like pouting sore losers, or the frat boy styles of the various good-ole-boys political scenes. So walking around in grown-up bodies are various people throwing toddler temper tantrums or pulling teenage pranks and it’s not a happy scene.

But that’s not what this blog is about. Today I taught the 3-year olds for the first time this year and no one has invented a heaven more heavenly than that hour spent with these remarkable beings. I’ve long announced that my two favorite ages to teach are the 3-year olds and 8^th graders (for markedly different reasons) and today reminded me why. This year at school, my colleague James is teaching them and today I subbed—hence, this re-awakened sense of why I love them so much. There’s something about the 3-year old mind that hits me where I live. I could analyze it, but why bother? It just is! The quality of their humor, their curiosity, their infectious excitement, their quirky perceptions, their love affair with rhythm, movement, chant and song.

So what is the term for naming the age that is at your core? Not that I’m stuck in the 3-year old mind and body— I think I’ve done a reasonably good job keeping the growth toward a mature adult alive and flowing. It's more about defining the age or ages that manifest a quality of being you admire and value. Really “ages”— I also loved the 22- year old embarking on the adult journey and was quite happy with the 30 plus-year old raising a family. And in every way except all the associations with the number and the math of mortality, also quite content with the 60 plus-year old starting his first jazz band and still able to ride my bike up the Third Avenue hill.

But those 3-year olds today just stole my heart, melted any trace of the frozen parts, turned all the stones of my psyche into water and now I have to plot how to steal them back from my colleague so that I can teach them every week. Maybe here’s where my teenage prank mentality might be of service!

Three Steps to Happiness

Someone once said to me: “You only need three things for a fulfilling life:

1. Good work.
2. Someone to share it with.
3. Something to look forward to.”

I woke up this morning with this on my mind, so excited about the day. Today I get to begin teaching the ritual Halloween songs and pieces to elementary, will play, sing and dance with the marvelous three-year olds, will rehearse with the Body Music after-school group and try out the new choreography that’s in my head. Good work all with some of my favorite people on the planet (the children). Then already have the delicious leftover stir-fry noodle dish in mind for dinner, followed by a video that takes place in Verona, Italy where I will teach this summer. From there, a family trip to new territory for me in Italy (Amalfi Coast, Cinque Terra) is in the works and already the anticipation of a rare leisure summer trip gives a different brightness to the already luminous here and now. Instead of a list of chores to be endured and gotten through, each part of my day today feels like moving from one joy to the next.

But only if I stop writing and get myself to school! 

The Swinging Gate of Doubt

When do we finally get to declare, like Popeye, “I yam what I yam?” When do we finally come to peace with the way we’re put together and stop wishing we were different? When do we fully grow into who we were meant to be? I don’t know about you, but most every day, I’m walking back and forth through the swinging gate of self-doubt and self-acceptance.

I was thinking this weekend at the World Music Rehearsal of all the things I wish I could do or be that I can’t. Things like speak six languages, master the snare drum roll, play tabla, play Chopin’s Fantasie-Impromptu, really get the Bulgarian bagpipe ornaments, speak English in different accents, play a convincing jazz piano solo, be handy around the house and comfortable in the garden… well, the list is quite long. The healthy part of self-doubt is the way it pushes you forward, keeps you moving and occasionally reaps rewards (I’m hopeless with the English accents and handyman stuff, but I’m getting closer in the jazz piano and even Chopin realm). Maybe people completely content with who they are have set the bar too low.

It’s the conversation between the doubt and the confidence that keeps things interesting, but truth be told, I’m ready to enjoy a bit more of the confidence side. Whenever I see a multi-faceted flowing and colorful Orff class (like the kind my colleagues Sofia and James often teach) or hear a great piano player and even watch someone graciously host a dinner party, I find myself thinking, “Dang! Why can’t I do that?!!” If it’s close to my reach, it sets me thinking about how I might approach it, but I often need to be stern with myself and remind myself that I can only do it in my style, with my voice, with my way of thinking, however short it falls of what I hope it might be. There simply is no other choice.

I keep coming back to Suzuki-Roshi’s brilliant quote that covers both the desire to improve and the affirmation of who we are. No one has said it better:

“You are perfect as you are. But we could all stand a little improvement.”

The Blogs That Never Were

During the past five days, busy as always, I had ideas for blogs that never made it out of my head. That’s the maddening thing about the imagination. We all have great ideas for the next invention, great American novel, screenplay turned Hollywood blockbuster or additions to our house, but it’s that big leap from conception to creation that is the killer. Without it, the world will never know what we’re capable of and how it might be refreshed by our thoughts given form. Of course, in the case of this blog, it’s no big loss, but there are those five books I keep wanting to write. The back burner’s getting crowded and there’s mold growing in the pots.

Anyway, some titles of the blogs that never were:

• Finish Your Ice Cream!

• The End of the Five and Dime

• Polymorphic Perversity

• A Miracle Photo

• No Need for Angels

• Like a Dog with It’s Head Out the Car Window

Oh, well. Life will go on just fine, thank you very much, without these fleshed out little stories. While you’re waiting for a genuine entry, write your own little story based on any of the above titles. If you send it to me, I’ll post it as a guest blog entry. 

Sorry and Thanks

What to do about Columbus Day? Old habits die hard, but if you ever take a moment to read from Columbus’ journal (see first chapter of Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States), I can’t imagine how anyone could justify the continued celebration of brutality, greed, arrogance, genocide and persecution, all in the name of God, of course. Here in California, we’ve tried to switch it to Indigenous People’s Day, but it hasn’t exactly taken off.

I wrote about this in my ABC’s book, our need for heroes, our reluctance to let them go when they’ve been built up to us and in the case of Columbus, his mythic status as the daring explorer going beyond the boundaries of accepted knowledge and changing our worldview— a worthy quality. Mostly lies, that "whole world is flat, think I’ll prove it different" shtick. More about follow the money (“I hear there’s gold in them there hills!”), but it would be too honest to name that myth out loud.

Given what we now know— or should know (most still don’t)— what’s an appropriate use of this holiday? I do suggest reading that Zinn chapter mentioned above and spreading the word. One Facebook post suggested celebrating by breaking and entering someone’s house and telling them it’s your home now. (Be sure to bring a flag). Here in San Francisco there was a ceremony performed by the few remaining indigenous Ohlone Indians (though way too early in the morning for me).

But I imagine most folks, as we do on Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day and other such holidays, will simply think “Yee ha! A day off!” and go for a long bike ride, as I’m about to do. But at least a pause (this blog) to apologize to all who suffered from Coumbus and what he represented and some gratitude to have the privilege of being here now in this place, something that ironically wouldn’t have happened without him. And the renewed vow to keep telling the true story and be alert to signs that the Columbus mentality (still with us) is at it again and stave off its future incarnations. 

I wonder what our Congressional representatives are doing today? I guess not taking a hike in a National Park. Hmm.

Coins on the Floor—Again

This morning when I took my pants off the back of my chair, all the coins scattered to the floor. “Dad!” I shouted. For when I was a boy—and how very long ago that feels now!—the same thing often happened to him. The moment I heard the jangle of metal on the wooden floor, I leaped from my bed and scrambled to pick up as many as I could. The game was that whatever I could grab before he did, I got to keep. (Hmm. The thought just struck that perhaps he did that on purpose to get me out of bed— the foolproof “coin on the floor” alarm clock.)

My Dad has been gone six years now, but all it takes is a quarter falling from a pocket to invoke his memory.

(While writing this blog, the title felt familiar and sure enough, I cross-checked with my alphabetical list of blog titles and found an identical one (minus “again”). I wrote about this on April 16, 2012. I guess there’s only so many stories a fellow has to tell.)