First and Last

Today may be the “first day of the rest of my life,” but it’s also the last day of a delightful and delicious six months off from school. I never take for granted school’s generosity in allowing me to craft the job around my other professional needs and desires. Having set up a job share with my colleagues way back in 2000, I’ve had anywhere from 6 weeks to 4 months off each of 18 years to travel and teach, write books and generally follow my bliss. That’s a large part of what has kept me fresh and enthusiastic in my 44^th year of teaching at school.

Of course, school is always with me. Even in this Fall off, I went in once a week to sing with the preschoolers, subbed for a week while Sofia was in Salzburg and came in often in December to take over classes that allowed Sofia and James to have more time for the Holiday Plays. I even went to a Staff Meeting or two!

The rest of what I did is well-chronicled in these Blogposts—travels and teaching around the U.S., time with the grandkids, a performance or two with my jazz band, some bike riding and much sitting—on my meditation cushion, on the piano bench and in my chair trying to get two books ready for publication this Summer. The one I’m hoping to co-write with Sofia and James is awaiting their contributions, the one I’m writing myself is edging closer to a final draft. Some of today will be spent planning my week’s classes, some trying to knock off yet one more almost-complete chapter. Of course, I’m a little disgruntled that in the midst of a driving rhythm, I could use another week off. But if I was in tomato-throwing range of other teachers, I’d be splattered in red right now!

And so tomorrow it’s back to marching to the beat of another drummer’s schedule, stepping out of the idealized general love for children I’m writing about back into the messy fray of their actual personalities and energy and issues, returning to meetings and decisions others can make that impact my life. School is mostly still a happy place for me and for the children and parents and other teachers and that’s the good news. But I can feel the end of my time there drawing near. When it does, don’t think I’ll call myself retired, but when asked what I do, would answer “I’m a teacher.” When asked where I teach, I would answer “Wherever I’m invited.” Maybe I’ll call myself “a free-range teacher.”

A fond farewell to these most marvelous six months and turn to the first day of the rest of my teaching life at The San Francisco School and beyond. After I edit Chapter 6.

Shitty First Drafts

When it comes to writing, I have a healthy dose of self-esteem. So when I sat down to write my 9^th book, I was thinking, “Hey, it’s my 9^th book. I have written almost one post a day for the last 8 years on this blog, kept up my handwritten journal, written some 150 articles. I pretty much can recognize when things are flowing well and the Muse is with me. Maybe I can edit my own book.”

Ha.

But it's always good to get a second opinion. So I reluctantly hired the editor of four of my previous books, thinking he would shower me with praise and cross out an unnecessary adjective or two. I sent him the manuscript and he called me on the phone. I heard a lot of heavy exhales as he remarked; “Well, there’s certainly a lot of fat to trim.” I confess I was miffed with him and thought about getting someone else.

Then I read through it again. What was I thinking? What felt inspired at the moment was filled with too much verbiage, unnecessary asides, long-winded stories a la how I talk to kids and more that made me wonder: “Did I write this? Why did I think this was good?”

Short of calling a therapist to heal my deflated self-confidence, I remembered Anne Lamont’s book Bird by Bird. It's a book about the writing process with a chapter titled “Shitty First Drafts.” Here’s what she said:

Almost all good writing begins with terrible first efforts. You need to start somewhere. Start by getting something -- anything -- down on paper. A friend of mine says that the first draft is the down draft -- you just get it down. The second draft is the up draft -- you fix it up. You try to say what you have to say more accurately. And the third draft is the dental draft, where you check every tooth, to see if it's loose or cramped or decayed, or even, God help us, healthy.

Here she not only gives permission to write terribly at first, but suggests that it’s integral to the process. Just splash it all out and fine if you think you’re riding the golden horse of inspiration, but don’t be too disappointed when you realize later that it was a lame donkey. (This my metaphor, not hers—but hey! I like it!). The important thing is to know how to use your eraser and knowing how to sift the real gold out from the fool’s gold. (I know, I’m mixing metaphors here—and there won’t be a second draft!)

In the way that I do, I began to make some parallels outside the field of writing. Maybe a lot of our life is shitty first drafts— just living without brakes and then pausing to see where you are and wondering what you were thinking when you turned down that road. Then back the car up, take out the map or re-set the GPS and keep moving, perhaps a bit more cautiously and slowly. And when the scenery starts taking your breath away, just roll down the window and inhale it in great gulps, knowing you never would have arrived here without first driving recklessly to there.

Back to the book, armed with erasers, maps, sifters and a slow and steady healthy donkey, my full team of mixed metaphors. Charge! 

Muse with a Whip

At 5am, the house was cold and I was warm and cozy under my blankets. But still, I threw them aside four different times to get up and write something down. The Muse had struck and at the same time that I was grateful for the inspiration of a perfectly formed sentence gifted to me in a sleepy state, I was cursing her for making me get up. I know from experience that if I let it go and went back to sleep in hopes it would still be there later, it would be gone, evaporated in the air.

That’s how she works. I think it’s her way of knowing who’s serious enough to pay their dues. If I’m not willing to get out of bed, then I’m not worth her time and there are plenty of other aspiring writers she can visit. I’m reminded of Truman Capote’s introduction to his book Music for Chameleons:

“One day I started writing, not knowing that I had chained myself for life to a noble and merciless master. When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip…”

She cracked the whip at an ungodly hour, I responded and then spent the morning spinning off her gifted sentences in my 4^th draft of my new book. I’ll thank her later, but I suspect this afternoon I will need a nap. And I wouldn’t be surprised that just as I’m drifting off, I’ll hear the crack of the whip again. No one ever told me that the creative process had an S & M component. So it goes.

Deadly Moccasins

“Never criticize someone until you’ve walked a mile in their moccasins.”

I’m sure most of us know the above quote, but how many times have we tried it?

I’m going to give it a go here.

FACTS

1.     The Orff approach to music has been proved to be the most effective pedagogy of all time, far surpassing Kodaly, Dalcroze, Suzuki and other approaches.

2.     I have been named as the world’s top Orff teacher.

3.     The kids at school voted me as their favorite teacher of all time.

4.     Traveling around the world, it has been difficult to hold off all the gorgeous women who are wildly attracted to me.

5.     Bobby McFerrin said in a recent interview that the most important things he learned in music came from watching my classes.

6.     Keith Jarrett approached me recently and…    

OK!!!! I GIVE UP!!!! I CAN’T DO IT!!!!!!

It’s no secret that I have been critical of our President, so I thought it my duty to try that moccasin walk thing. But according to the Washington Post, I fell 10 lies short of Trump’s average 15 per day. Yes, you heard that right. There have been some 7,600 lies of small and large magnitude told in the last two years! by the guy who brings pathological narcissism to a new level. That averages to about 15 per day!!!!

I was struggling to come up with 15 just once in these past 8 years of blog posts and felt the urge to vomit after number 5. How does he do it? What goes on in that head of his? It is simply extraordinary.

Try walking yourself in those moccasins and if they fit, go get help.

PS All but one of the above were boldface lies.

PSS I can’t even sleep at night knowing I just lied again just to get you interested. Okay, they’re ALL lies.

PSSS  “Liar” was the last word of Bob Woodward’s book Fear, concisely summing up all the evidence.

PSSSS We simply have to get this guy out of office. Now. And that’s no lie.

Winter Lemonade

The calendar has turned and not a single one of creation’s four-legged or winged creatures cares. It’s only us big-brained bi-peds that need to invest this day with more meaning that the day before or after. I, for example, wanted the day to announce the possibilities of the next 364 like the opening theme of a grand symphony, an intentional and enticing melody that would keep singing throughout the year. And so I stepped into my thread-worn Zen robes and chanted a full sutra book, much to the annoyance of my wife who was trying to sleep late. Won my opening ritual Solitaire game, re-wrote a section in my emerging book, played Bach Partitas on the piano. It was an auspicious start.

And then things took a dubious turn. A call from school about an unexpected schedule change that would mean either missing the opening day of school next Fall or cancelling my summer course. Finding my bike’s tire flat again after just getting it fixed. Walking it to the bike store that my wife said was open (she had checked online) and finding it closed. These were not good signs.

Humans from time immemorial have recognized that we’re not exactly in control and look for signs or omens from the gods, seek advice from the alignment of the stars. We ask for apples and get lemons and are worried that we have fallen out of favor with the fruit deities. All fine and well, but at the end of the day, it’s the decision to make lemonade that makes the difference.

So with the plan for a New Year’s Day bike ride thwarted, I suggested a walk through the city to see the movie about Ruth Bader Ginsburg On the Basis of Sex. My wife agreed and off we went for a brisk hike on a sunny winter-chilled day through our still-beautiful San Francisco. 90 minutes later, we realized we needed to find a bus to make it on time and one came along just at the right time. Worried about seats in the theater, we found two left that were perfect. The movie was excellent and afterwards, we steeled ourselves for the usual frustrating long wait for the N-Judah Streetcar. It came in one minute. Things were looking good!

An evening searching for jazz tunes to teach to my upcoming 8^th grade classes and a few more passes at the Partita. I came up with a plan B for the school dilemma and I’ll get my flat fixed tomorrow. Before sleep, one more pass at my project of rememorizing Keats difficult poem “A thing of beauty is a joy forever…” and almost got it. Though not the preferred drink on a cold night, my glass of winter lemonade proved refreshing after all and I turn to the New Year with grand hopes intact.

May we all drink cups of kindness—be it hot tea or lemonade—in the days to follow.