Group Learning Is B.E.S.T.

I took a long solitary bike ride around the perimeter of San Francisco today that was delightful, delicious and de-lovely. Solitude and I are old friends, though often we are joined by folks like Langston Hughes as I tried to re-call and remember and re-recite his epic poem “Let America Be America Again.” He missed a few opportunities for the kind of repetition necessary for recitation, but the meaning is profound and just right for the upcoming Martin Luther King Day.

But before the ride was over, night fell and I found myself at the famous SF bike route known as The Wiggle. (No, you don’t have to stand up and shake your booty while riding, it refers to the various turns on the streets.) Suddenly, I was in company with some 15 other bikers with red lights flashing on the back. I felt like a lone eagle who had reunited with his flock, an errant fish swept back up into the school. And why a “school” of fish? Is it because group learning offers something to us social creatures that solitary pursuits can’t quite reach?

I immediately noticed a difference riding with a group— a group of strangers, but a group nonetheless. I felt a surge of energy, a few measures more of safety, a subtle sense of teamwork and a short-lived but nevertheless palpable sense of belonging. All pretty basic human needs and drives. So by re-arranging the order, I decided anew what I’ve long known— that group learning is the B.E.S.T!

B for belonging. In the midst of the red lights, I achieved an instant identity as a biker separate from a pedestrian or auto driver. Granted, it’s superficial and five minutes later, I might be walking or driving and cursing those damn cyclists! And it’s the kind of belonging when you’re traveling in Timbuktu and meet someone from California who you would never ordinarily talk to, but suddenly, you’re so thrilled to meet each other. What Kurt Vonnegut called a “granfalloon” in his book “Cat’s Cradle.” But hey, you take belonging where you find it and for as long as it lasts. It feels good. It’s why we go to professional conferences or join select Facebook groups. And my field of music is a great binder of instant belonging, as you sing, dance and play together with others.

E is for energy. As mentioned, I felt swept along by the pack of flashing lights and probably rode faster than usual to keep up. I’ve sat meditation alone for decades, but five minutes at the Zen Center and I’m drawn up into a larger energy of people with common focus. Has a lot to do with the physics of entrainment, entering the orbits of other energies and having it increase your own.

S is for safety, or at least the illusion of safety as we rode together in defiance of large gas-guzzling large-framed vehicles. I recently discovered that the etymology of the word “community” joined the prefix “com,” which means “with, together,” with “munis,” derived from the Latin “munire” which means to “fortify, strengthen or defend.” So one of the root meanings of community is people banding together to insure each other’s safety from a common enemy. Not my choice definition, but pretty interesting in this context.

T is for teamwork. Compared to playing basketball or being in a jazz band, the teamwork from a group of random cyclists is pretty low key. But it does take an awareness of the other and a kind of dance filling in all the spaces in which one can move ahead, fall behind or curve into.

The Orff music class has long been big on group learning, with the circle of students, the Orff instrument ensemble and small group creative work at the center, a very different sensibility from the Conservatory solitary practice room. Music is learned in conversation with the other, with constant teamwork, with the safety of leaning on others for your part and not having to jump in and solo right away, with the constant energy of group music-making and the sense of belonging (to many different groups) that such work invites.

And at my school, at least, much of learning in the classroom is organized the same way.

There is a time and place for solitude and solitary practice and dreaming alone, but the greater part of the dynamic learning community is in community. It’s the B.E.S.T.!

Cleaning the Refrigerator

“Order is the only possibility of rest. “  —Wendell Berry

I cleaned out my refrigerator yesterday. Such pleasure! Such satisfaction! Emptying the chaos of its contents, scrubbing out the spills and stains and leaks and then re-ordering each item in perfectly arraigned rows and clusters. Every time I opened the door, I was greeted by such tidy order. Sauces and beer bottles and milk cartons standing at attention and saluting me with a smile, assuring me that all was well in Refrigeratorland. The cheese drawer, the vegetable drawer, the butter nook on the door, all neatly tucked in to remind me that God is in his heaven and all is right with the world.

Seems we humans need a certain semblance of order to feel at home in this world. Whether it’s cleaning the refrigerator or spinning an elaborate Chaos theory to find stability and sense and meaning and orderliness in the apparent jumble of the Universe, our drive for meaning over mess, constancy over commotion, permanence over pandemonium, runs deep. We drag a comb over unruly hair, straighten our tie, set the table, stop at the red light, to create the effect of a neatness that reassures us. We know it’s only a temporary ordering in a world beset by apparently random and helter-skelter events, but hey, it helps!

And what is art put a setting in order of the cacophony of noise until it becomes the soothing tones of music, the muddle of myriad objects brought down to two pears and a glass, the roaring river of language calmed to the bubbling brook of a few well-chosen words? Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote a marvelous sonnet that begins, “I will put Chaos into fourteen lines” and describes how despite his efforts to escape and run wild, “I hold his essence and amorphous shape, Till he with Order mingles and combines.” She takes on the tone of a jailer, but implies that it’s for his own good, his meaning not to be explained, but found simply by submitting to Order.

“I have him. He is nothing more nor less

Than something simple not yet understood;

I shall not even force him to confess;

Or answer. I will only make him good.”

Simply the attempt to capture him in the strict form of the Sonnet is enough to “make him good.” In an essay about Robert Frost, the poet Mary Oliver follows a similar theme:

“In the lyrical poems of Robert Frost there is almost always something wrong, a dissatisfaction or distress.…At the same time, in the same passages, the poem is so pleasant—so very pleasant— to read or to hear.

In fact we are hearing two different messages; everything is all right, says the meter and the rhyme; everything is not all right, say the words…”

That is to say that the poet’s sorrows and dissatisfactions and agonies are contained within the orderly act of making a poem and so transcend mere complaint to give us a strange comfort. And the same can be said of Bach and John Coltrane and Monet and Merce Cunningham, take your pick. Making a conscious ordering, whether it be beer bottles in a refrigerator or bodies on the dance floor. And such ordering is not always neat and trim— think Picasso and Thelonious Monk (who was also said to drive his wife crazy by putting the paintings on the wall in their house slightly askew). Order takes on many shapes and forms.

So off to get a snack after writing. Can’t wait to open that refrigerator!

Keep Moving!

I often see a man I know running around the neighborhood— and I’ve been seeing him for over 30 years! Now a retired Literature Professor, he’s still out there jogging rain or shine. Yes, moving a bit slower, but moving nonetheless. I once asked him why he’s so faithful and he replied, “My father gave me two good words of advice: ‘Keep moving.’ And he was right.”

Today I needed to plan an upcoming workshop and sat at the computer with two blank screens— the machine’s and mine. So while there was still a spot of sun left, I hopped on my bike and rode some fifteen miles. When I returned, the workshop was fully planned. What was needed to get the ideas moving was to get me moving. And on the bike going through Golden Gate Park to the ocean and around Lake Merced, it was a triple bonus: clear thinking, needed cardio-vascular workout and the refreshment of Monterey pines and the ocean’s expanse and the lake’s calm waters. Intellectual, physical, aesthetic— and all without an expensive gym membership card!

John Medina’s Brain Rules puts “Exercise” at the top of the list. Our human bodies are about the same as our ancestors 10,000 plus years ago and are made to move. Around 12 miles a day is the calculation for hunter-gatherer societies. Farmworkers I imagine get a different kind of workout. All of which has been compensated for in our sedentary culture by Stairmasters instead of impala chases and weights instead of bales of hay.

But what fascinates me is the quality of thought possible by moving. Medina points out that exercise “gets blood to the brain, brings it glucose for energy and oxygen to soak up toxic electrons. It also stimulates the protein that keeps neurons connecting.” Sounds good to me. While biking, I was able to imagine each detail of the workshop to come and all the connecting pieces and how to choreograph the ideas. When I got home, I jotted them down fast and all that’s left is to prepare the notes.

Of course, exercise alone doesn’t generate inspired thought. (Note post-game interviews with most athletes.) It’s the combination of an idea that’s incubating, a problem asking for attention, a thought-process begun with a vigorous walk or bike ride or swim (probably doesn’t work while playing basketball and such— too much to pay attention to) that gives feet to the vision, gets things rolling alongside the bicycle wheels.

So “keep moving.” Sage advice literally and also metaphorically— keep reading, keep traveling, keep seeking the next frontier, be it in your feet, imagination or heart. Just keep moving. 

Virtuoso of Intimate Spaces

When I sat down for my first organ lesson at 6-years old, who could have imagined where it would lead me? I heard my father and sister playing our Hammond organ and wanted in on the action. So Mrs. Lutz, who lived across the street and eight houses away, agreed to try me out. Apparently, I passed her little test and went dutifully and happily each week for an organ lesson. Two years later, we got a piano and I alternated between the two for another five years before stopping formal lessons altogether.

I haven’t played the organ in almost 40 years, but have remained faithful in my own strange way to the piano. It hasn’t led me to the concert stage, the jazz club or the recording studio, but has born fruit in unexpected ways. I seem to be carving out a new genre for myself, one that brings no fame or fortune, but a deep satisfaction. I have become a virtuoso of intimate spaces.

Here’s what I mean. In the past two weeks, I played for the school Holiday sing, instantly transposing Christmas carols that didn’t need the broken G above middle C. A few days later, I played for our neighborhood caroling party (with a G that worked!), on piano inside the house, accordion outside. After Christmas, I went up to a country Inn on Mt. Tamalpais with my family and three others. There was no electricity, but there was a piano and I played for about two hours while others read or played cards or talked and occasionally sang along or called out a song. Then at a New Year’s Eve party, I sat down at the piano and someone sat down next to me and requested a song his Dad used to play. That song led to another two hours of playing, with a few others gathered by offering occasional requests. And then yesterday, another fabulous session at the Jewish Home with my dear friends there.

In each of these sessions, I played without written music and moved seamlessly from one song to another without a set list written down. This genre I'm exploring requires that. It's not a performance or a rehearsal or a songbook sing-a-long. It's not so much what you play, but how you play it and what you play next and how you move between them. It requires a high level of musicianship—ie, playing a few hundred songs by ear in all different keys in a wide variety of styles. It requires a mind that can make connections, so that one song suggests another. The connecting tissue might be a theme (songs about travel or rain), a songwriter (Gershwin, Kern, Berlin, Porter) a time-period (1800’s, ‘20’s, ‘50’s), a style (ragtime, blues, big band, be-bop, bossa nova), a composer (Bach, Beethoven, Debussy) and so on. It requires a sensitivity to what’s needed next. A waltz? A minor piece? A fast rag? And always, it requires an openness to what people want to hear. Mostly when I ask for requests, people are paralyzed— too many choices!— and are happy for me to choose. But sometimes they can pull out a favorite song and usually, around 75% of the time, I can play it. Believe me, none of this is bragging, I'm painfully aware of my shortcomings as a musician and a pianist. But I seem to have developed an unusual combination of skills that is useful in very specific situations. 

The man at the New Year’s party seemed both moved and astonished by the session and complemented me on my gift. Part of me wanted to shout, “Maybe, but do you know how many hours I’ve put into being able to do that?!” But the gift is my interest in doing it, developed over the six years of playing piano for my Mom and my dear friends Fran and Edie at the Jewish Home for the Aged. That’s where I paid my dues and continue to hone the craft of seamless music with no fumbling through books, no predictable repertoire always played in the same order, always looking for the moment when Fran will exclaim, “I don’t think we’ve ever done that one before!!”

But still it’s a bit odd, inventing a new genre that doesn't quite fit into anyone's expectation. And a bit frustrating, especially in a culture that tends to measure worth by numbers— in most of these cases, the “audience” ranges from 1 to 10 people. Not a big impact compared to Justin Beiber’s listening audience. And yet there are many moments of sublime beauty that lift the listeners into another space and gives them energy or pleasure or comfort and solace. Yesterday at the Home, one of the new listeners was dancing to the Bach. Literally. Today I hope to play for my mother-in-law in Michigan over Skype. She’s in need of something other than words now and though so distant to play through a phone, it’s something.

And so I’m growing into this role as a musician of intimate spaces. I wouldn’t turn down a concert audience of a hundred or even a thousand. But even if such an unlikely invitation came, my hope would be to re-create the intimacy of the small venue that has become my default performance setting. Of course, when you stumble on something that feels right and authentic and connecting and healing, you want to spread the good news. You hope for more people to partake. But whether it be writing or speaking or playing piano or teaching (or blogging), my life path seems destined to be perpetually off the grid of Oprah and Terry Gross. 

And maybe that’s just fine. 

Worthy Professions

On the first day of the year, I have certain rituals to help send resolutions forward to the months ahead. Mostly it’s about paying attention to the things that feed me and refusing all other distractions. So the morning began with a long zazen meditation and full chanting of the Sutra book followed by oatmeal breakfast and three Solitaire games. I wrote a blog, played piano starting with Bach and ending with Bird and enjoyed a quinoa salad lunch. I got out and walked through the park and up to Golden Gate Heights hill while reciting memorized poetry, then sat looking out at the city and wrote in my journal. I watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean and then headed home to butternut squash lasagna and green beans. Then out to the movies (“The Theory of Everything”). A perfect day!

Perhaps inspired by the scales of past poems memorized, I wrote a poem myself atop the hill. A nice surprise— it’s been a while. Needs work, but here’s the first draft.

ADVICE FROM A GUIDANCE COUNSELOR

“What professions should I choose?”

“Be a carpenter of the soul

and build a shelter for your longing.

Be a plumber of the heart

            and flush down the clogged pipes filled with your wounds and hurts.

Be an electrician of the mind

            and connect the brain’s neurocircuitry until you light up

                        like a Christmas tree.

Be a stern judge of your own crimes

            and banish your greed and vanity and smallness to the dungeon.

Be a compassionate judge of your own self-judgment

            and declare yourself innocent of the guilt others heap on you.

Be a musician of the spirit

            and strum the strings that send you soaring

                        beat the drums that set you dancing.

Be an artist of your genius

            and paint the self-portrait that looks like no one else

                        and yet is everyone else.

Be a doctor of your failings

            and diagnose the symptoms in time for healing.

Your job training is in every waking moment.

Your diploma is a peaceful heart.

Your retirement benefits are the heaven you have made for yourself
              by living well."

Letter to 2015

Dear 2015,

It’s just another day in a succession of days that rival the stars in number. But we ever hopeful human beings use it as a chance to narrow the gap between our dreams and the daily news. We resolve to never do again what we inevitably do again on January 2^nd, but still the act of resolution is worthy— and sometimes actually makes a difference. Each day dawns to remind us to renew our vows or reconsider them, each day is worthy of “re-solution” to our many problems, but we need a day marked “New Year’s” to take it seriously. “We create ourselves by our choices” said Kierkegaard, and these moments of reflection are the reminders to choose wisely.

And so what do I wish for 2015? There’s all the petty personal things like lose 10 pounds and don’t go too often to Facebook and such. But if each of us 7 billion made larger vows, things like “dedicating ourselves to service, opening to beauty, caring for all creatures great and small,” there would be no need to ask for hope. I have my own little list like that, but here I want to announce my hopes for you, 2015. Of course, it’s maddeningly difficult enough to fulfill even the tiniest of personal vows, never mind ask the World to do a better job. (And by World, I mean us complicated human beings. I’ve never met a tree yet who needs convincing to be a better tree, or a rattlesnake, fly or platypus.) But by publicly proclaiming my expectations for you, 2015, perhaps it might spark others to do the same and if our hopes are aligned, I believe in the power of language and intention to start moving things in certain directions.

I’m done with “peace on earth, goodwill to men, the lion lying down with the lamb” and other such lofty fantasies. I hope never to be lowered into cynicism, but neither do I want to be naïve. I think the best I, we, you, can hope for is the slow inch-by-inch evolution of growing toward our higher nature and this seems do-able. I see it every day in my work with children, in my work with adults and occasionally in myself. So, 2015, here’s what I expect from you, a kind of Alphabet of Active Hope:

More beauty, less bombs, more care, less consumption, more democracy, less despotism. May we have more forethought and fun, less fundamentalism and fear, more gratitude and guitars, less guns and greed. more humor and humanitarianism, less horror and hate. Consider more kindness, less killing, more loving and laughing and listening and looking, less loathing and layoffs and loyalty to ludicrous lobbyists. How about more meditation and music, less murder and malevolence, more poets and less pundits, more sustainability, less slashing and smashing, more vulnerability and less vanity. Throw in more wit and wisdom and worthy work, less waste and worry and wrecking and I think we got ourselves a pretty good year ahead.

So, 2015, what do you think? Can we do this?

All the best,

Doug