A Modern Fable

Our hero, such as he is, was born in another era. A time of paper and pencils, of TV’s with three main channels, of letters written and received in the mail. There were phones that took a some 10 to 15 seconds to dial and if you wanted to talk to someone far away, be prepared to pay a lot of money. Most of the time there was something called real conversation, live and in the moment, with eye contact and two people who could actually follow a common thread of thought. Along with the words came the posture, the facial expressions, the tone of voice, all of which enlarged the actual communication. 

 

So it was with trepidation mixed with a measure of kicking and screaming that our hero was dragged into our present hyper-speed and media-saturated culture. He organized Turn Off TV weeks at his school as early as the 1980’s, wrote on a typewriter until 1990 when he got his first Mac SE Computer for free, as payment for doing an Orff workshop with a group of Apple Systems Managers. He wrote five books on that old machine before reluctantly switching some 11 years later to that big-hooded Macintosh—and 11 years later to his laptop. He actually was one of the first on his block to get an i-Pod, a welcome change from packing tapes and CD’s in his suitcase for his various workshops. He was one of the last to get an i-Phone, holding out until 2018 and finally getting one to make spontaneous videos in his music classes. 

 

Being a product of his time and having that time roaring by like an unstoppable river, he could only swim upstream for so long. Following his motto of “whatever it takes” to get to pursue his passions of teaching and music and teaching music, there was no choice but to follow the “latest, greatest” way to conduct business. But not always happily so. 

 

And to set the record straight, in his workshops, it’s still the ancient time-honored practice of creating vibrant music and dance with the most essential tools— our bodies, voices, imagination, simple percussion instruments and Orff xylophones and occasional recorders. Still he mostly uses a white board if he needs a text or rhythm written (which he rarely does) and occasionally shows videos of the kids that he took with that i-phone or some relevant rare clips from Youtube. It’s the way that the people inviting him conduct business that has changed so drastically. And that brings us to our tale.

 

Preparing to be a guest teacher at a University next month, he received an e-mail with a link to all the paperwork that must be filled out. By now, standard procedure. First obstacle was not being able to write directly on the document. So an e-mail back asking for help and the advice to press “Continue.” Done and now it was working. Name, address, identifying numbers, the usual. Then came the invitation to upload a copy of his Driver’s License. Thought he had such a thing on my computer, but of course, he didn’t. 

 

Here's where things get complicated. That old laptop from 2012 finally crashed and the only way to rescue it was to take out the hard drive, restore it and re-install. But of course, it wasn’t that simple. A friend had given him her laptop from 2014 and he tried to get everything migrated over to that, but no dice. That story is way too complicated, but the upshot is that he’s now using two computers. The new one is not yet connected to the printer or able to scan from the printer. So he scanned his driver’s license into the old computer and planned to e-mail it to the new computer. But the document he was working on was one he got to through his e-mail and he was worried that he couldn’t sign on to his e-mail with one computer when it was open with the other and didn’t want to close out the other for fear of losing the document. Following?

 

So in a moment of inspiration, he realized he could take a photo of his driver’s license and air drop it to the new computer. Brilliant! It worked! But… the form said it was too many megabytes to send by e-mail. And then, because survival is the name of the game and human beings are infinitely adaptable and he was a human being, he took a screenshot of the photo and lo and behold, it was sent!!! He reflected how lucky he was to use these labor-saving devices that save so much time.

 

Consider. In the old days, someone would have mailed him a contract with a copy in an envelope , sometimes with an SASE inside. (All you LOL texters probably don’t know what an SASE is. Go to the library and look it up! :-)) He would have signed both copies and sent it back. Done. No photo id’s needed and no sexual harassment videos to watch or DEI statements to sign or 55 page handbooks to read through. If they invite you, it means they’ve seen your work or read your books and trust that you’ll do your work. If you say something edgy at the workshop, it’s the grounds for something called conversation. One that might potentially enlarge both parties understanding. Live conversation with eye contact, body language, voice tones, facial expressions. 

 

Review the layered steps of electronic forms/ scans/ photos/ screenshots/ etc. and compare to signing a piece of paper, putting it an envelope and dropping it in the mailbox. Compare the old-fashioned communication options of live conversation, phone and letter with group e-mail/ personal e-mail/ text/ Facebook message/ Twitter/ Instagram/ leave a message on the phone because no one picks up to actually talk anymore and you see that our devices have not simplified our lives the way it promised.

 

Yes, our reluctant modern man agrees, he appreciates writing this Blog, getting his dopamine rush when 300 people like his Facebook post, sending a workshop announcement with a group e-mail list instead of designing a flyer, pasting some images on it, getting it copied at Kinko’s, folding three hundred by hand (later paying Kinko’s to do it), printing out address labels (earlier all by hand!), sticking them on plus a stamp plus stamping a return address. That was a lot of work! 

And yet, our hero recalls almost nostalgically, there was a ritual pleasure in the process, a slowed-down way to remember each person on the mailing list and imagining them attending the workshop, a way to draw the family together and get them to help with some promises of ice cream. And a grand satisfaction taking them all to the mailbox and watching them drop in and then receiving in the mail the little clip-off part of the flyer with name, address and phone number with something called a check inside and watching the list of attendees grow. There was a sense of full presence in the process that he doesn’t necessarily miss, but maybe just a little.

 

And now, he sends this whisking off into the ether so you, dear reader, can nod your head with agreement or in sleepiness reading about this boring subject. Perhaps you’re rolling your eyes or shaking your head in disbelief thinking how you could have solved his form-filling problem. But our hero will never know because you and he are missing the real live conversation. So call him up and ask him out for a beer. I promise he’ll answer his phone.

Footprints in the Sand

Conventional wisdom tells us that life is temporal and that for so many of us, our legacies are like footprints in the sand, washed away by the next tide in the ever-changing flux of time. But we humans endowed with living memories and the ability to leave footprints more durable through our recorded words or artwork or stories passed down have the possibility of keeping our loved ones alive even as they depart. 

 

So it is that I want to take a moment to acknowledge the passing of two more stellar human beings who have crossed over into the unknown places awaiting us all—Wolfgang Liebelt and Danai Gagne. 

 

Wolfgang was a neighbor who, with his wife Linda, lived two doors down from us and welcomed us into the neighborhood with a tree-planting project. That Mayten sapling we planted in 1982 is now just outside my window, some 20 feet high and waving in the breeze as I write. That same year Wolfgang and Linda helped us plan our first neighborhood Christmas Caroling, offering their house as an after-singing gathering place. When my three-year-old daughter Kerala and her best friend Ariel somehow managed to topple their Christmas tree and break some precious family ornaments, they forgave it all and still offered their house the next year with stabilizing twine attached to the wall—and for many years after that. When they both moved out of the neighborhood, still they always came back for the caroling party, that has continued on to this day. Already suffering from Parkinson’s and then cancer, Wolfgang couldn’t make the last party, but we called him and Linda on Facetime and sang Oh Tannebaum to them both. 

 

Wolfgang was an extraordinary handy-man, who time and time again generously helped us with various house projects, sometimes for money as he built that cabinets that hold my CD’s (to my right as I write, a solid footprint he left) and often for free. His mark is everywhere in our house and yard. His day job had to do with some city finances and his temperament could not have been more different than mine— a man of few words with artistry in his woodworking and later photography, but no music or dance or poetry inclinations. But there are many ways to be in this world and many ways to contribute and he reminded me that one could be a wonderful neighbor without having to be a best friend. I’m grateful that this last Spring, our old upstairs neighbors Ken and Carol, Karen and I and Linda and Wolfgang had the good sense to enjoy a wonderful lunch together, equally enjoying reminiscing about the neighborhood and discussing our current lives. 

 

We got a message a few days ago while we were in Portland that Wolfgang was on the way out and would we come visit him? We planned to go this Monday when we returned to San Francisco, but he passed on Saturday night. I’m sorry to miss that chance to say goodbye, but happy that we shared both our deep appreciations and funny stories at that lunch last Spring. (Wolfgang in the middle below).

Danai Gagne was an Orff colleague who lived in New York. She was born in Greece and was in the very first class of students at the Orff Institute in Salzburg when it opened in 1961. I mostly got to know her as we crossed and criss-crossed paths at the American National Conferences, a few Orff Symposiums in Salzburg and a one-day workshop she did for our local chapter. She came into the Orff approach through dance and was well-loved, respected and admired by all who knew her. I hadn’t known she was ill, so was surprised to hear the news of her passing last week. I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to tell her directly how much I appreciated her, but as we attended each other’s workshops and enjoyed chatting in the halls, I believe she knew. Last year, six or seven iconic teachers from that first generation of American Orff teachers passed and here we are again. It is simply the way of this life and sobering to find myself closer to the front of the line. But so it goes and so we go.

 

This morning, I gave special attention to the end of my Heart Sutra chant:

 

Gya te gya te hara gya te hara so gya te bodhi-sowaka Han ya shin gyo

 

Which roughly translates to:

 

“Gone, gone beyond, everyone gone to the other shore, awakening. Hail the goer!”

R.I.P., Wolfgang and Danai. You both have left so much more than footprints in the sand. 

Lake Wobegon Up North

Though for obvious reasons named Ron, I would never ever, ever, think of moving to Florida, the fact is that I’m a winter wimp. While my daughter just came back from snow camping and a friend recently joined the cold plunge craze, here in Portland I can think of nothing but cozying up to the heater vent in the wall. San Francisco winters I can tolerate, but Portland these past few days have been in the late 30’s and early 40’s, with both wind and rain. Though I know people in Minnesota or Finland are smirking and thinking, “You call that winter?!!!”, still it’s cold for me. 

 

But the frigid air is balanced by the warmth of renewed contact with family and friends. Watching my grandkids play basketball, visiting my son-in-law at his new University job, helping my daughter take 75 books to Powell’s bookstore (my Mecca!) from her closed physical office and getting $85 in credit. Today I’ll have brunch with old college friends, an afternoon with my nephew and his kids, tomorrow brunch with an old friend from our Kerala, India days (45 years ago!) who we haven’t seen in a while. The other day was lunch with the man who has supplied instruments to our course for decades and finally getting to see the warehouse where they all live. We know a lot of people in Portland!

 

My daughter and husband left yesterday to drive to Seattle to have some rare time alone while my wife and I are on full-time grandparent duty. Besides being tourists in a city they’ve never visited, they’re going to a Madonna concert! Son-in-law Ronnie has long been a fan, so why not? 

 

That’s the news, such as it is, where indeed the women are strong, the men are good looking and the children above average. *

 

*Malik scored 22 of his team’s 30 points yesterday! Zadie showed us a report card of mostly A’s! Grandparent pride! 

Life in the Northwest

 

Buddha at the Basketball Game

Often people have asked, “If you could have dinner with any historical figure/ artist/ musician/ writer/ etc., who would it be and what would you discuss?” An intriguing question to be sure. But why just dinner? What would it be like to play “Capture the flag” with Jesus and his disciples? Make some playdough sculptures with Plato? Play Parcheesi with Emily Dickinson up in her room?

 

Today, I would have liked to have seen Buddha cheering on his son at a basketball game. This thought triggered by going to my granddaughter Zadie’s basketball game and feeling the full spectrum of feelings—anger at the ref for unjustly calling a foul on her, body contortions every time she shot wishing the ball to fall through the hoop, fists in the air when it did, sympathetic sadness when her team lost and she felt she played badly. You get the idea. Would Buddha just have sat calmly through it all with that slight smile on his face?

 

Of course, I hate to disparage his extraordinary achievement of spiritual enlightenment and the legacy that followed. But from one point of view, Buddha was a deadbeat Dad. Left his wife and son to follow his own quest and never looked back. Named his son Rahula, translated as “impediment” to his spiritual progress. How many years of therapy would one need to be thought of as an impediment by one’s father? And needless to say, Buddha never went to a single one of Rahula’s basketball games. 

 

But if he had, I would have liked to have been sitting next to him in the stands. Seen if he cheered him on or got emotionally involved in the game or could feel the pain of his son’s disappointment when his team lost. Just curious. 

A Love Letter to Scam Artists

I'm of the belief that more people in this world are simply hurt and lonely, than are actually mean-spirited.   – Benny Green; Jazz pianist

 

It’s Valentine’s Day and love is in the air—or at least should be. I haven’t received any little Valentine’s candies or roses or love letters. Just some eight different scam Paypal requests for my money. 

 

My lesser self wants to say to scam artists: 

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!!!! Is your life so pathetic that you have nothing better to do than prey on innocent people and try to scam them with this, that or the other thing? If you do manage to cheat someone out of their money, does it bring you satisfaction? Does it fulfill some fantasy you have that people are dumb and deserve to be cheated and look how clever you are? Instead of earning an honest dollar and actually doing some worthy work that contributes to the world and might even help others or make them happy, you are using the precious gift of a human incarnation and using your intelligence to hurt others whom you have never met. Please read that first sentence again.”

 

But because it’s Valentine’s Day and Benny Green is asking me to step up to a more compassionate view of the situation, I’ll simply say to you:

 

“I’m so sorry that you have been somehow hurt. That you haven’t found—yet—the way for your best self to contribute. But don’t give up. It’s never too late to flip all the energy and intelligence you’re using to hurt people and learn how to help them—and yourself as well. If you look hard, I imagine you can find someone—or remember someone—who was kind to you, who saw your better self, who perhaps even loves you. And if that inspires you to learn to love yourself as you deserve, then of course, you wouldn’t want to cause anyone else harm. Since I never met you, I can’t offer you an authentic personal love, but I can say that I understand how hurt people often hurt others and also have witnessed how hurt people have gone in the exact opposite direction to help and heal others. I just finished Maya Angelou’s 3^rd out of 7 volumes of her autobiography. If you need an example, I suggest starting with her and her first book “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”

 

Meanwhile, Happy Valentine’s Day. And would you please be so kind as to stay out of my Paypal account?” 

PS The above is also addressed to UPS fakers, Nigerian princes and the folks from "Netflix" who offered to make a movie of my Jazz, Joy & Justice book and pay me $400,000. Any real Netflix people reading this, that's a darn good idea!

Goodbye Mitch Lerner

The San Francisco park system offers the possibility of remembering a loved one by purchasing a bench with a plaque in one of the city parks. A lovely idea. (Though sobering when I discovered it costs $10,000!). 

 

There is a bench in the Fragrance Garden of the Arboretum in Golden Gate Park that I particularly enjoy sitting on. It’s dedicated to someone named Mitch Lerner. I never met him, don’t know anything about him other than that he was born close to my birth year and died too young. But after all these years of sitting there, I’ve felt a certain bond with him, a kind of imaginary friend who I greet by name each time I go there to sit.

 

So today I bought some new shoelaces and thought, “I’m going to go visit Mitch and put on my new shoelaces on his bench.” Imagine my shock when there was a brand new bench there with someone else’s name on it! What happened to Mitch?! Gone altogether or moved somewhere else? In either case, why?

 

So I went to the Arboretum library to see if anyone could answer my question. No, but they gave me the phone number of the head of operations. I called him and lo, he actually answered the phone and was very polite and sympathetic to my question. He said it’s likely that the bench was too old and their replacement policy was to open the space to a new bench and dedication. He was also willing to text me another phone number of someone who might know more.

 

Off I went, deciding to shelter on a cold day in the De Young Museum Café and weirdly, my wife was there! I sat down and told her the story and the man at the next table chimed in. “We have a bench in the Arboretum. I can probably answer your question.”

 

“Please do.”

 

The scoop is that when you buy a bench, it is good for 15 years and then can be renewed or not. I suspect that Mitch’s time was up. 

 

So long, Mitch, it was good to know you. And in case you’re wondering, I don’t think I’ll bond with your replacement. I’ll just find another place to sit.