The Wheels on the Bus

“Oh the wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round…”

This the opening song in my first music class with granddaughter Zadie, guest student at The San Francisco School. How much did it mean to me to see her sing it with the 3-year olds (with my 33-year old daughter also in the class, who also once sang it with me when she was 3 in the same place)? Well, to quote another song; “How deep is the ocean, how high is the sky?” There is no language that can capture the sensation of beginning a life all over again and boarding that bus with such joy and delight.

My daughter and granddaughter freshly dropped off at the airport to return to Portland, it has been a glorious four days. And a constant theme for me doing the things with Zadie that I once did with her Mom a lifetime ago. To see Zadie sleeping in the bed where her Mom slept, to have her sit next to me for a moment in my morning meditation in the half-lotus posture, to make her the old favorite meals, to watch Fantasia on video. We went on the steam train in Tilden Park, the Caroussel in Children’s Playground by my house, slid down the concrete long slide on cardboard (me once, Zadie 18 times), read the old books on the couch at night, improvised music on the piano and xylophone, kicked a small soccer ball down the hall. It’s all happening again.

And if the Fates be kind, will continue on to the first movie at the Castro Theater, the old Hitchcock films on video, the long nights of Little House on the Prairie read-a louds, the camping trips, the swims in Lake Michigan and canoe rides on the back lake and so on and so on. The doors of the bus will open and shut, the wipers on the bus will go swish-swish-swish and off we’ll go down the road where I have traveled before, but with a new little being at my side, a different face in the mirror and a different spring in my step. How it goes on.

Little Bobbie Dylan

I often tell stories in my music workshops about prospective preschool parents who corner me at a meeting and whisper in hushed confidential tones, “You’re going to love my little Susie. She just loves music!” And go on to tell about how I resist the impulse to whisper back, “So does every child ever born on this planet!” Because they’re trained to think of music as an unusual talent reserved for the special, these parents see their child’s proclivity to sing and dance all day long as something special. Of course, I don’t burst their bubble, but just nod my head and smile.

Well, I’ve become one of those parents!!! Grandparents, to be exact. I am simply amazed by my granddaughter Zadie. At two and a half, not only does she know the words to some 10 songs and sings them somewhat in tune, but she scat sings her own compositions while playing xylophone, while painting, while dancing. (Some of this posted on Facebook for anyone curious to see and hear for themselves).

Here on her visit to my house, she grabs me by the hand and leads me to the piano so we can have a duet session together. Then goes to my small percussion basket and works on her shaker, scraper, kazoo, slide whistle and recorder skills. Some of which are piercing, some occasionally astounding (some amazing rhythm she stumbled into on the shakers) and all of which are unabashedly expressive in the integrated style of the young toddler before the culture of specialization gets its hands on her.

Today, she added harmonica to the repertoire and immediately got both the inhale and the exhale. Then started singing in-between harmonica solos and Bob Dylan, move over! Of course, comparisons are odious and I have no aspirations for her to be a professional musician. I haven’t booked a spot on American Idol or So You Think You Can Dance. I just love to hang at with her as a model of the way humans are supposed to be. Not only musically, but in so many other ways. Her expressive face, her inquisitive mind, her hilarious comments, her genuine sense of humor, her loving hugs. Yeah, she’s “naughty” too and has a few things to learn about social integration, but I’d choose to hang out with her over most adults.

Remember my last entry? I’m close to saying to Zadie what my Mom said to me:

“I love it. I love everything about you. Everything.”

Now let’s go play some harmonica, baby!

Unconditional Love

I suspect that everyone has two voices, one perched on each shoulder. One says,

“You are worthy of love and capable and can accomplish anything you set out to do.”

The other says, “You are worthless and a failure and everything you attempt turns to ashes.” Or in the favorite phrase of my Dad’s, “You’re no good, you never were any good and you never will be any good!” (Which in his case, was his convoluted way of telling me he loved me).

In the archetypal set-up, the mother is the carrier of conditional love, the father the demander of conditional love. In the real world of mothers and fathers, either can carry either and most carry a mixture of both. Though still I suspect a survey would reveal that the unconditional side falls more to the mother and the other to the father.

In my case, it was certainly true. Even in his last months of his 88 years, my father was still setting tests for me and was not shy about expressing his disappointment if I didn’t pass. When after six months of constant visits to support him in coming back to life after a triple-bypass surgery, my wife and I opted to go ahead with a Grand Canyon rafting trip long planned, he was furious when I returned, having felt abandoned (though my sister was there and he was well-cared for). He told me that when his Dad was ailing, he visited him EVERY SINGLE DAY and made no bones about it that I had fallen short. “How many days was that, Dad?” I asked and missing the irony entirely, he replied “7!” I had been driving two hour round trips for over six months, but he still gave me a D- in filial obligation. He did finally forgive me again in the last weeks and indeed, I know he was proud of me and loved me, but it was a good example of this lifelong habit of conditional love.

Such love can help feed that voice of self-doubt sitting on one shoulder, but it also helps one feel some humility. And after all, some measure of self-doubt is essential to growth and development. By contrast, unconditional love could breed a kind of spiritual laziness even as it provides a solid bedrock foundation for our character and sense of self. I imagine it is the conversation between the two that keeps things healthy and part of the dynamic of balancing the motherly and fatherly, the feminine and masculine. And once again, while not entirely ignoring the connection with real mothers and fathers, there is great flexibility here when the archetypes come to the real world. I imagine gay couples with kids play out these different roles and I’m sure there are plenty of examples where mothers demand proof of accomplishment and fathers are content with the mere fact of their child’s being.

But as I said, my mother was the Queen of Unconditional Love. One of the many times she seemed to be taking dictation from the other world, I took out my little notebook and starting writing as fast as I could. Along with one other story that I shared in the memorial, I spoke these one-liners at the Memorial, gifts that I will open time and time again when the world tries to beat me down or people tell their ugly stories about me or when that voice on one shoulder is out-shouting the other one. 

• How can you tell what a little boy can do? And you did it!

• You did all that hard work and you’re a good person. And you always find me when

you want to. Amazing!

• Wait. Just wait and see. People will find out what you’re capable of.

• I love it. I love everything about you. Everything.

Thanks, Mom. 

Gratitude and Grief

Life goes on, as it tends to do, and today I spent the morning with some 200 other folks, most of us trying to get out of jury duty. And most of us did. From there to school to properly close out the week and then home for another hilarious evening with my children back in my home, with Zadie as the centerpiece. 

But yesterday I promised some more words about my Mom's Memorial Service and I think there's yet more after this. But I'll start with my opening as the officiant in case it's of interest or use to anyone else crafting their own service. Below are my opening words:

"We’re gathered here to mourn the loss and celebrate the life of my mother, Florence Goodkin. Normally, this service would take place in a synagogue, but the Rabbi was unavailable for this date and it was not a place that mother ever spent time in. Indeed, I never heard her talk about religion and mention the word God in the 62 years I knew here— except once, as you’ll see later on. At any rate, since she was born Jewish, went to Unitarian Church during my childhood and ended up with two Buddhist children, this will be a non-denominational service. The good thing about that is that we have to construct our own meaning about life and death in general and a life and a death in particular without blindly accepting any dogma handed down to us. That’s the way my sister and I were raised and it feels right to pay homage in that spirit.

If I had to choose one tradition of paying respects to the departed, I’d go for the

New Orleans funeral. There’s that somber processional to the graveyard with the band playing a slow, mournful hymn and the folks shedding tears shed for the emptiness that is left, the deep grief that never again will we hold that hand or hear that voice or kiss that cheek. And then after the body is lowered into the grave, the music kicks up, the band starts swingin’ “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In” and everyone’s dancing joyfully back to the reception where good food and drink await. Now they’re celebrating together that such a person has been and we were fortunate enough to know them and feel how they touched our lives. So there in one ceremony are the two poles of proper respects and everything in-between— the joy and the sorrow, the gratitude and the grief, the empty hole and the perpetual fullness.

That’s what I hope for in this simple ceremony. It starts with gratitude— after all, without my Mom, none of us family members would have existed! But beyond the mere biological fact is the whole drama of how she helped shape our lives. This is a time to tell her story and a time to tell stories about her, all those tender, poignant, silly, wacky things that only she could have said or done, the things about her that left a scent in the air and her signature on our hearts.

If we do this well, we should offer comfort and condolence, invite the tears and laughter, help each other figure out how to endure without her physical presence, to “learn acquaintance with the invisible form of the dearly departed.” According to many ancient traditions, it is also a way to help her in her journey on the other side. We know nothing of the afterlife, but most agree that remembrance from us folks still here is essential to keeping a spark of life lit. That’s why our rooms are peopled with photos of those we once knew and why all those little moments when we live on their behalf— thinking of them as we cook their favorite dish or tell one of their signature jokes or wear a shirt they used to wear or listen to their favorite song.

So, Mom, I hope you’re listening out there and receiving the love we feel for the miracle that was you. We want you to know and hear yet again what so many of us told you many times over— how you blessed us with your love and enriched us with your character. And so here we go…"

From here, my sister spoke eloquently and movingly about the basic facts of my Mom's life. I followed with my own remembrance and then 3 our of her 5 grandchildren added theirs, two more chiming in with letters read out loud. Then an open mike and some beautiful words from some of the staff and residents. In between, various songs as palette cleansers— my friend Sofia playing Bach and flute with me on piano to open, my Jewish Home friend Fran singing Embraceable You with me on piano and Joshi Marshall on sax, all singing Swing Low Sweet Chariot, nephew Damion singing Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah and all singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow at the end. A few closing words, refreshments and the chance to look through photo albums. 90 minutes total and I believe we did well. Sometime soon, I'll share a bit of my remembrance, but now it's time to read Zadie a night-night story. 

Larger Than Words

If the last entry was about the power of language to make ordinary days feel larger, today’s is about the failure of language to do justice to a life lived larger than we can capture in print. And yesterday was such a day.

It was a joy beyond our usual allowance simply to pick up daughter Kerala and granddaughter Zadie at the airport. When your loved ones live far away, the mere fact of being in the same car with them is a golden moment. But when Zadie entered school and sat in on her first formal music class with 12 three-year olds and me as the teacher— and joined in on the song and danced with the other kids with such focus and delight— well, friends, it doesn’t get any better than that.

Though it might have been a little bit better if I could have finished the class before the fire alarm went off or better yet if it hadn’t been a false alarm and if someone could have figured out how to turn it off and I could have returned with her to finish the class instead of waiting outside for 45 minutes until the opportunity was gone because now it was lunchtime. I would have liked that.

But it was almost as much fun to watch her outside with the other kids, to see the gang of 1^st graders (who’s teacher is Zadie’s aunt!) run around with her and follow her wherever she went. (And report later: “Zadie’s fast! I’m so tired now!”) In her grab-life-by-the-tail way, she jumped right into the scene, no shy hiding behind Mama’s skirt. Down the slide, pet the duck, throw the ball, play in the puddle and then run some more with those 1^st graders running after her.

Home she went to nap while I had 22 2^nd graders playing, singing and dancing. A mere single class to prepare and half were playing Old Man Mosie on the xylophones while the other half sang, danced and acted out the sick old man cured by the Hokey Pokey and a trip out of town. And then in true Orff fashion, they switched. The xylophone players sang, danced and acted, the other’s played. 45 minutes well-spent.

And then on to the Jewish Home for the Aged to lead the ceremony for my Mom’s Memorial Service. 90 minutes of tears and laughter, stories and music, insights into the arc of a remarkable 93-year life. (I’ll save the details for the next entry.) And then my sister’s family and mine back to my house and off for a walk to the Thursday night Food Court in the park nearby. Always was curious about it and after standing in too-long lines, we sat down on the grass and picnicked on Filipino, Middle Eastern and Indian burritos. Could have been a lovely scene, but the generators needed to keep things cooking in the trucks were not exactly the right soundtrack for the setting.

Back to the house and Zadie entertaining us with her 2 ½ year old humor. Where her Mom asked her to count to ten and she would go to five and stop with a mischievous grin all over her face, “tricking” us into thinking she didn’t know how to do it. Over and over again, stopping at different numbers. Pretty sophisticated!

And so ended a day where life loomed larger than my ability to report it. I was certain I would fail to capture the height and depth of it all and I was right!