Somebody and Nobody

I’ve often written in my journals about my two must faithful companions— Somebody and Nobody. They take turns walking with me, but occasionally the three of us hang out.

 

For example in 2003 in Salzburg, I was invited to teach The Special Course, a group of 16 international Orff teachers gathered for nine months at The Orff Institut to further their training. I stayed at a Austrian Bed & Breakfast, a farmhouse in the quaint village of Anif. I managed to get a hold of a bicycle and mostly biked the 20 minutes each day to the Orff Institut, passing by the charming village houses, nodding to the lions in the zoo, gliding through beautiful Hellbrun Park past the Sound of Music gazebo and then a straight shot up Hellbrun Allee, where Julie Andrews famously frolicked and sang. Every day, be it rain, sunshine and even occasional snow, I took that trip back and forth, both the body and the spirit exercised and refreshed. Occasionally I opted for the 40 minute walk and that was equally delightful.

 

That was the time of the Nobody I love so dearly, that companion roaming the streets of a new city or exploring the parks, going nowhere in particular with no end in mind beyond just the pleasure of wandering aimlessly. Nobody knows me, nobody cares that I’m there and that’s not only fine with me, it’s delightful. Just me and my shadow with our occasional heel-click dance step, released from all schedules, all expectations, all identities that someone expects us to live up to. It’s a delicious freedom and I cherished it every day of my six weeks in Salzburg.

 

But when I arrived at the Institut, that’s when the Somebody showed up. The person who had been invited because he showed some talent at teaching, a passion for the Orff approach, a long, long bag of activities, lessons, ideas gathered from over (at that point) 28 years of teaching kids from 3 to 13 years old at one school. I had four books under my belt, a resume marking some 25 countries in five continents where I had taught and the confidence that the 90 hours ahead I would have with these students would be filled with happiness, great music, inspired ideas. And the slight sensation that it was still not enough—another 90 or 180 would have been welcome from both sides. 

 

So when I showed up for class each day, I bid farewell to Nobody, held hands with Somebody as we entered the building and then reversed it at the end of the day. That two-step dance kept me happy, healthy, humbled me down a bit when the Somebody demanded too much attention, raised me up when the Nobody worried that I had nothing to offer the world any more. Those six weeks represented a near-perfect balance, but the dance had been going on a long time and still to this day. 

 

This on my mind as I read an excellent book called A Philosophy of Walking. by Frederic Gros. There were my own thoughts spoken in his voice. 

 

“By walking, you escape from the very idea of identity, the temptation to be someone, to have a name and a history.…The freedom in walking lies in not being anyone; for the walking body has no history, it is just an eddy in the stream of immemorial lifel.”

 

I appreciate my Somebody. Heck, I spent a lifetime creating him. He (or she?) brings a great deal of focus and satisfaction to my life and according to the testimonies of a few thousand people I’ve taught or who have read my books, he is useful, helpful, occasionally inspiring and capable of bringing happiness to others.

 

But he does have a voracious appetite that is never quite satiated. Like Rockefeller’s reply to “How much money is enough?” — “Just a little bit more,” this fellow always hopes for a few more book sales, workshop opportunities, recognition in a world that isn’t wholly interested in his work. 

 

But my Nobody is wholly content with whatever moment in which he appears. If asked, “Where is Heaven?” he nods, “Right here. Right now. Nothing more needed.”

 

We need both. I need both. But secretly, I have a favorite. 

 

Henry and Gary, Duke and Monk

I was 16 years old when I read Walden and Thoreau became my hero. I was convinced I would follow his lead and live out in the woods somewhere, falling in love with shrub oaks. In college, Gary Snyder became my contemporary Thoreau, hiking the West Coast mountain ranges, working as a lookout for the Forest Service and building his own house in the foothills of the California Sierras. My wilderness experience up to that point mostly consisted of roaming around Warinanco Park a half-block from my New Jersey house and later, Watchung Reservation a short car ride away. I clearly felt a call from the natural world and was happy to respond. 

 

So in the years that followed, I camped and backpacked, went to Zen Retreats atop a mountain and taught in a music camp tucked into the California redwoods, worked at a school in rural Maine and another in the Black Mountains of North Carolina, took 60 kids camping at Calaveras Big Trees for some 20 years in a row, lived by a rice field while studying a drum in rural South India and spent a few weeks every summer waking up to Lake Michigan spread out before me in my wife’s parent’s (now hers and her brothers’) cottage in Northern Michigan. So yes to time spent in company with sand, sea, stars and sky, with lakes, streams and summer thunderstorms, with birds, bugs, deer and even occasional bears. Good companions all and a part of my true identity much more important than my personal pronoun, class or sexual preference. 

 

Yet here I’ve gone and lived 50 years in a city! Yes, like my childhood, a half-block from a park (Golden Gate Park, at that!), summers mostly away in places like nature-infused Salzburg, Carmel Valley and always Michigan and international teaching that sometimes lands me near Australian beaches or Ghana villages or Finnish lakes. But still, I’m a bonafide urban dweller. I like the buzz of cities, the enticing (but now oh-so-expensive) restaurants, the jazz clubs and movie theaters and colorful neighborhoods. And when I do walk through the park (almost daily), I’m often listening to an Audible book and am aware of my step-counter. I get a weird satisfaction from knowing I just walked 8.6 miles (as I did on Sunday) and enjoy the company of a good story while strolling through the dahlia garden (Ann Patchett's new book Tom Lake). Would Henry and Gary be disappointed in me?

 

Maybe. But then there’s Duke Ellington, who never ever took a walk in the woods and certainly never camped. He ate steak every day of his life, spent his time on trains, planes, on stage, in jazz clubs and the only flowers he stopped to smell were the ones fans would send post-concert. Same with Thelonious Monk living in the heart of Manhattan on San Juan Hill. The gardens they tended were filled with black and white dots on paper and trumpets that were a whole other animal from swans. And yet they touched the same kind of wonder you might find gazing up at a star-studded sky, a sense of being touched by magic, mystery and a sense of belonging. There are many paths to Spirit, be it a dirt one in a tree-filled forest or the steps down to the Village Vanguard in company with horns, drums and strings. I love them both. No need to choose.

 

But here I am back in the Michigan home, the lake beckoning me down to the beach and two books that will help remind me to stop counting my swim strokes and steps and just be more fully present. One by Frederic Gros titled A Philosophy of Walkingand another by Barry Lopez titled Embrace Fearlessly the Burning World. Maybe I’ll even re-read Walden and the poems in Earth Household. But first, a morning swim.

To Each Her/His Own

   

If each person is unique— and we are— then it stands to reason that each relationship is unique. For example, the one between teacher and student. We ll know the “teacher-pet syndrome,” the teacher who has it out for a student, the teacher who ignores students, the teacher who praises some and critiques others. In the current climate of “everyone is equal and deserves equal treatment, I agree with the importance of equity of opportunity and fairness and the intention to meet each student’s needs at either end of the learning spectrum. But not with the idea that we shouldn’t give a special kind of attention to those we feel a special connection with, to those who show a special skill or talent.

 

I take seriously my responsibility to try as hard as I can to see the unique genius in each and every one of my students and to praise them for it both privately and publicly, to let them know I see it and feel it and value it. As noted in yesterday’s post, I spoke about each of my 27 students at the graduation ceremony and then each of my seven fellow teachers at the post-course lunch. As I hand them their check, I also give them a handwritten little Thank You note, after reading it out loud. When I finish, I give myself a check and this year (but not last!), people noted that this structure doesn’t include anyone speaking about me.

 

So a few did and the first appreciated how I created a sharing performance that gave space for various student’s unique talents. The Orff Oath I make all the teachers I train take is “to teach all the parts to everyone all the time.” And I mostly do. The Orff instruments are a great way to do that, no private lessons, practice of techniques needed. But always, whether it’s the kids at school or the teachers in my course, I invite them to bring the instruments they have studied and make a point to integrate it into the ensemble. Not on every piece, for sure, but also at least on one, for sure. 

 

So in the three pieces we performed, different people got to strut their stuff on one piece before returning to the Orff instruments. Our bluesy first piece featured solos on French horn, trombone and saxophone, two fabulous drummers trading 8’s, a killin’ piano part. I fit the form around the people who I knew could do all those things and everyone was refreshed by it. In the next piece, another person stepped forward sharing their extraordinary frame drumming skills and their evocative singing with music from his culture. The third piece invited a bass player, two jazz singers and a metallophone solo from someone who had never improvised jazz (but did it marvelously). One teacher asked if she could dance and I said, "Of course!" And she was great! 

So both sides of the spectrum are equally important. Featuring someone already skilled and giving them a moment to share their hard work and likewise, inviting others to try something new. I’m reminded of the 8^th grade student who brought the house down in a performance we gave at the Orff National Conference in Las Vegas in 2002. He had been singing Ethel Merman and Judy Garland songs since he was 3 and ten years later, gave a killin’ version of “I Got Rhythm” that got 2,000 music teachers on their feet at the end with thunderous applause. Back at school, he asked to play drums on another jazz piece and managed a steady hi-hat/ride cymbal that was enough to help with the groove. When writing a reflection of his highlights at the end of the year, he named both Las Vegas— his comfort zone wildly appreciated— and the drum set moment—trying something that didn’t come easily and doing okay. 

 

And the moral of the story? Don’t worry about people accusing you of not being fair when you feature one student over another. Of course, look for opportunities for each and every student, but be realistic that not every single one has an interest, talent or desire to stand out in your particular subject. Know that they will in other subjects and hopefully find teachers who give them opportunities to show what they love and know.

 

None of this is as clearly expressed as it deserves, but just a passing thought as I pack for the airport. Not worthy of a standing ovation, but hey, no one got hurt!

 

Goodbyes and Hellos

Returning to my San Francisco home was mostly a great pleasure. One final dinner together with three other teachers sharing the little stories from our past two weeks together over good food in a favorite restaurant. The evening was only slightly marred by the cold fog after two weeks of perfect 70 degree sunny weather and the presence of 26 (!!) damned driverless cars (we counted them) clogging the streets of San Francisco with their reminder that we have given up on human beings. I need to either go into acceptance therapy, move out of San Francisco or create a resistance movement of saboteurs disabling these reminders of how soulless we have become. (And come on, San Francisco!! Here? Whatever happened to the place that spawned the Summer of Love, the SF Mime Troupe, the SF Zen Center, progressive schools like the SF School, the Blackhawk/ Keystone Korner/ SF Jazz Center, car-free JFK and bike lanes everywhere? Have we completely sold out our Soul to Silicon Valley?)

 

Yesterday was sunny and I loved returning to my walk in the park, sitting on the Mitch Lerner Bench in the Arboretum’s smell garden, circling Stowe Lake, playing the piano on JFK Drive with passerbys stopping by to hear a song or two, dropping by the Dahlia Garden beginning its glorious bloom. Then meeting my dear Colombian friends Cathy Correa and Javier Vinasco for a bittersweet farewell to the end of their year in San Francisco. 

Cathy was my Orff student in Salzburg, Colombia and an Orff intern for four months at The San Francisco School and she came back to SF to complete a program in Elder Care. Almost a year ago when we first met for lunch, her husband Javier asked if he could play clarinet with me at the Jewish Home and so began a marvelous year of making music together there, developing an impressive repertoire of classical pieces, Latin American pieces, Jazz songs and more (thanks to his prodigious sight-reading skills!). He just got a job at a University in Greeley, Colorado and will begin working there next week. They both wished they could have stayed in San Francisco, but were also lucky that Javier got that job and Cathy will be on her way to a green card.

 

I treated them to dinner at a favorite Burmese restaurant and then drove over the Golden Gate Bridge to share the marvelous view of the city they will be leaving up in the Marin Headlands. We sat outside drinking it all in while eating some delicious cookies they had brought and then driving down the hill, I played Tony Bennet singing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.” Once over the bridge, I headed to Lombard Street where they had never been and we drove down that curvy SF icon before I took them home. Lovely all.

 

So after all the tearful farewells to a 100 folks in Hidden Valley, final goodbyes to my wonderful colleagues heading back to Barcelona, Munich, Nashville and yet another to Cathy and Javier, I turn to the next hellos to my wife, daughter, grandkids, in-laws on our little corner of Lake Michigan paradise. Looking forward to it all.

 

Especially driving in Northern Michigan without passing a single driverless car!

The Party's Over

Woke up yesterday thinking, “It’s all over but the shoutin’!” And this morning, it’s done. Our closing yesterday was, as predicted, a mixture of exuberant shouts, tender whispers, a waterworks of salty tears and the bittersweet farewells as we go separate ways. The trembling testimonies around the circle of the 27 beautiful souls in my class rightfully proud of graduating after the long journey, but also aware that walking through that singing tunnel of accomplishment with an Orff certificate in hand is only the beginning of the next steps on the path. As we passed the small ringing bowl around the circle, I asked them to share one takeaway about a piece we did that they would like to try and a pedagogical principle they will try to remember, but it quickly became obvious is that they needed to thank each other for the opening our collective love and support allowed, both the pain and beauty of all those exiled parts of themselves society demanded they put away slowly come out of hiding, with renewed confidence and joy and not only walking with them again, but dancing. Yes indeed. 

 

And all of this in full view of the whole community in their sharing performance the night before, rocking the house with their New Orleans street parade feeling in Humpty Dump, bringing the room to pin-drop silence as we accompanied our Iranian student singing and playing his frame drum, lifting off again with a joyful rendition of Perdido,  the jazz spirit finding a voice on the Orff instruments. Alongside beautiful Renaissance recorder consort music and a slowly and steadily crafted movement piece exploring the idea of resonance. Glory everywhere we turned.

 

After their circle of testimony came the graduation where I called each up one by one to receive their diploma and gave myself the task of trying to capture an essential quality of each unique person in a one-minute talk. And I did. As my vision grows clearer about who we are and who we’ve been and who we’re meant to be, I can see into each person with those special glasses, helped enormously by the 20 or so classes where the singing, dancing, playing, reflecting gives them the chance to show themselves. And almost without exception they do. Once people feel safe to show what everyone else wants them to hide, in company with seekers looking for something beyond the accepted narrowing of our magnificence, my experience is that they indeed show it and everyone is refreshed. 

 

And as one student testified, the world is so much more interesting and beautiful and connected than she thought, a revelation inspired by singing the haunting melodies from the Ukraine, Sweden, Azerbhaijan and China, playing the exuberant music of Ghana, Uganda, Zimbabwe and Jamaica, dancing through bamboo poles in the Philippines and Finland, journeying a thousand years from Gregorian Chant to the blues and beyond. All those outer manifestations of our diversity awakening our inner festival of souls, each invited to the party.

 

But now “the party’s over, it’s time to call it a day,” time to go back to our homes and loved ones and the work that awaits us as we prepare to share the joy with the children most of us will teach. But for some, a few last breaths of summer before school starts and for me that means the annual reunion with Lake Michigan and the ritual time with my family riding bikes on “rails to trails,” scrambling up sand dunes, paddling canoes, going to the Drive-In, walking the beach looking for Petoskey stones, cooking and of course, games, games and yet more games. To quote Frank Capra:

 

“It’s a wonderful life.”

Invisible Blessings

I’ve heard that hidden away deep in the Himalayas, there are Bodhisattvas— enlightened beings who choose to reincarnate to help heal a suffering humanity— who are secretly meditating to invisibly bless a troubled world. When I went to Zen meditation retreats many years back hidden away at an old Boy Scout Camp on Mt. Baldy in the San Gabriel Mountains of Southern California, I sometimes got the feeling that our small group or 40 or 50 black-robed beings was offering the same kind of solace. Few people knew we were there, but somehow our efforts, awakening at 3 and sitting cross-legged, chanting, walking in silence, radiated out to a world that never was consciously aware of us, but somehow was made a bit less distressed and agitated because of our secret presence and practice. 

 

I’d like to think the same forces are at work here. That tucked away in a “hidden valley” (at Hidden Valley Music Seminars), our efforts to express ourselves through dance, song and music,  to create something of beauty with fellow seekers from widely different cultures, that nine days straight (and one to go) of mystery, magic and miracles, are radiating out to the world beyond our little piece of paradise. Each class I teach continues to feel like a universe unto itself, complete with such joy and laughter, profound moments of soothing silence, powerful moments of dynamic music, deep discussions about the things that really matter. The children we once were, full of innocence and promise and possibility, are alive and free again romping through the playground of our zest for life and the children we teach, the ones we have dedicated ourselves to that prompted our gathering here, are present in the room as well. The intensity and density of each day is light years beyond our normal workaday lives and will echo far into each of our futures. 

Yesterday’s delights for me included trips to Jamaica, Zimbabwe, Bolivia, Bavaria and American blues. That night was the always impressive “Untalent Show” where the students get to reveal their talents not always obvious in our scheduled classes. From flamenco to mariachi to Iranian drum solo, original songs, a Chinese story and dance, a magic levitation trick, a hilarious Zumba class to Mozart, a Lindy Hop dance with amazing air work and much, much more, the show joined a long legacy of memorable performance. I got to use piano skills begun 67 years ago with Mrs. Lutz, my teacher who lived down the street, to play a Bach Sonata with Eloi, our recorder teacher, accompany the Offenbach Barcarolle with two opera singers, play an obscure Jobim tune with bass and sax and then end with the traditional Level III lying under the piano and everyone on the floor with lights out while I played the ballad Blame It on My Youth.

 

Today’s classes will bring us to the Ukraine, Bulgaria and Sweden with haunting sung minor harmonies and we’ll prepare a performance for tonight’s sharing from each of the three Levels. Soon—too soon!— we’ll prepare for the final cadence before we return from the retreated world with bliss-bestowing hands. I don’t know what I did to deserve having this in my life, but I am grateful beyond words. On we go.

 

Permissions

Did I mention how much I love teaching Level III?  The Romance of it all blossomed anew yesterday as they paired up to teach some 13 short lessons that were inspired beyond any measure of a fantastic and memorable class. Using music from Orff and Keetman’s books Music for Children as the springboard, they dove into the depths of their imagination and the heights of inspired invention to bring the whole of themselves and their culture to their undertaking. Those old warhorse pieces conceived by two Germans over 80 years ago given new life with Chinese games, Colombian cross rhythms, Spanish castenets, Iranian Farsi texts and rhythms and more. There were stories about witches and birds and baked goods, new lyrics written, partner games and always, always, a circle with the full involvement of the body and voice before heading off to the Orff instruments. Had I attended any one of these lessons at an Orff National Conference, I would have left the room mightily impressed with the Orff approach and the quality of the presenters. (Truth be told, more so than I usually am). As it is, the future of this work seems to be in capable and wild, weird and wacky hands, fed by the underground stream of deep thought and dedicated practice. 

 

Without undue pride, I believe I can take a slice of credit for it all, not only by modeling the essential details of effective teaching, but having written about them in my Teach Like It’s Music book and given homework assignments where the Level III folks read the chapters and comment. Both their written papers, their daily response to my teaching and their own teaching prove beyond doubt that they get  it. They teach like it’s music with an enticing beginning, connected middle and satisfying end, teach from the body, expressive face and musical impulses uninterrupted by explanations “(Now we’re going to…"), understand the power of 3D teaching by Doing it first, Discussing it next and Doing it again, lead the group from playful exploratory Romance to the work of Precision and the culminating pleasure of Synthesis as they create something new. They hit each of the 4 H’s (Head, Hand, Heart and Hearing) and are learning the power of Variation with Repetition as they do one thing 100 ways. Instead of drinking the Kool-Aid of the latest pedagogical dogma dreamed up in windowless rooms far away from children, they’re drinking from the cool, refreshing springs off the path in the forest that slake the thirst of children by teaching the way children actually learn.

 

All of this is important. All of this makes a difference. All of this helps heal the wounds of how we have been poorly taught and how we have carried that dubious baton unthinkingly into our classroom before encountering another possibility. But I think the greatest gift I am giving them is simply permission. Permission to teach from the depth of their own character without apology, to allow those wild, weird and wacky parts of themselves to come out into the fresh air knowing that they won’t be shamed and in fact, welcomed and celebrated. Teaching a challenging rhythmic pattern and phrasing with a fun game with tennis balls, playing the one-legged chicken game where they bump their partner and send them sprawling to the floor as a way to get to play the instruments, going outside to meet the wise woman waiting by the bush. 

 

My friends, life is far, far too short to waste it checking off dull National Standards and using the keywords the bureaucrats decided you must say to obedient, head-nodding (actually from being bored to death, not from understanding) children. In my post-practicum closing comments, I affirmed all of the above and asked them to make each class memorable, to make themselves memorable, indispensable, irreplaceable so that when they’re gone, people will miss them like hell! Of course, none of us are indispensable or irreplaceable, life marches on. But for as long as the children  or adults we teach can remember the feeling they had in our classes, we indeed will be honored by the scent in the air we left behind. And if that’s not motivation enough to keep growing and glowing, I don’t know what is.

 

Best news of all? Three more days with these beautiful people! On to Day 8.