Cancel the Appointment

 

                  “I know the world’s being shaved by a drunken barber. I don’t need to 

                   read about it.”     - From the film Meet John Doe

 

I’ve never been a big fan of reading newspapers or watching the news. And knowing how doing so never made me happy, I wondered why so many do. Here is a whole industry devoted to the shining the light on the worst of humanity, accenting nature’s unpredictable upheavals, thriving on disaster, entirely uninterested in the miracles of human goodness I witnessed daily in my music classroom. Why make a daily appointment to sit in that barber’s chair?

 

Well, I know as a citizen I’m responsible for a certain amount of knowing “what’s going on” and in the old days, I’d glance at newspaper headlines and my parents would spend 30 minutes or so with Walter Cronkite and the 6 o’clock news. But somewhere around the 90’s or so, 24-hour-news was TV’s preferred venue, a mammoth beast that once created, needed to be fed. So its appetite—and ours— became voracious and insatiable, organized into an entire corporation of drunken barbers working around the clock. Like that old folk tale “The Clay Pot Boy,” it devoured everything in its path and grew larger and larger. Then came the Internet and now the pings are pinging every 10 seconds with the “news” you neither want nor need and following us everywhere. And while having a few corporate executives deciding where to aim the camera was not ideal, now everyone had one and it became increasingly difficult to tell the “real” from the “fake”. 

 

What is the effect on us consumers pulled into the vortex of the constant tornado of news? Mostly that life is to be feared, people are horrible, hope is a hoax. It beats us down, feeds our cynicism, dismantles our optimism. Despair manufactured for a tidy profit wins and we all lose. 

 

But the whole show is built on us tuning in, leaving the phone on to be pinged, sitting down in that barber chair. What if we refuse? What would happen?

 

Here’s some advice from Akaya Windwood, someone on Facebook who I’ve never met, but am mightily impressed by her insight, eloquence and courage:

 

I’m done with wringing my hands, gnashing my teeth, and clutching my pearls. 

Every time I engage in these behaviors I relinquish power. I become centered in someone else’s story, and lose track of what’s true for me and everything I care about. I become a puppet of those whose intentions are to rattle, to sow doubt, and to render hopelessness. No more - I’m done. 

So I’m going to take heart again, and take huge audacious leaps of faith in our common humanity, purpose, and resilience. We are in a time of great transformation, and I know that we have everything we need. We actually are ready for this - our ancestors have our backs, and our descendants are cheering us forward. Grab hands with a cousin/pal/neighbor (even if you don’t know them yet) and let’s all go together. 

 

We have everything we need. 

 

Let’s remember that the Earth revolves around the Sun, which is our magnificent, beneficent, and eternal source of life. I call that Love, and it is our birthright. 

 

That’s the only real truth I know. My heart to yours.

 

Amen to all of that. 

The Tree in the Forest

Remember those days when you had so much time on your hands that you could spend an hour with your college friends discussing whether a tree falling in the forest that no one saw or heard really happened? This is not to lapse into false nostalgia, because really, who cares about that hypothetical tree? Maybe we could have spend that time talking about how we might dismantle the patriarchy or turn around the toxic narrative of white supremacy or hold the rich accountable to give back to the common good. Well, truth be told, we did that too and look at where we are. Maddening how little seem to have progressed. 

 

But I’m thinking about that tree this morning because I was a part time tour guide to a dear friend from Hong Kong the last four days. Both on her own and with me, she went to Alcatraz, took the Bay Cruise, went to the Dear San Francisco show at Club Fugazi, took in the Fillmore Street Jazz Festival, ate sushi in Japantown, wandered through Chinatown and North Beach, went on an evening Ghost Tour, walked the labyrinth at Grace Cathedral, snuck into the Crown Room at the Fairmount Hotel with its stunning view, peeked into the Tonga Room Bar, drove around the edge of the city with short stops at The Palace of Fine Arts, Fort Point, the Legion of Honor Museum, went to a Body Music workshop in Berkeley, admired the view from Twin Peaks, played music with me at The Jewish Home for the Aged, peeked into the gates of The San Francisco School (it was closed) and yet more. 

 

Throughout all that, she never once saw the Golden Gate Bridge, as every single minute of every single day it was wrapped in fog. Even at Fort Point when we were right below it, all you could see was a dim outline of its girders. The sun shone often in many other parts of the city, but the fog stayed stubbornly clinging to the bridge.

 

So here’s a question for today’s college students. If a diehard tourist visiting San Francisco never once sees the Golden Gate Bridge in four days, does it truly exist?

Morning Birds

Caw, caw, caw, caw, caw. I woke up straight into the arms of morning crows and I could have been 5-years-old in my New Jersey home, the birds calling from the two oak trees just outside of my second- story bedroom window. They often welcomed me into the day like this and that cellular memory is like the smell of cookies baking in Grandma’s kitchen, warm, comforting, a daily announcement that we belong to this earth, this life, this extraordinary gift of consciousness. It was lovely to revisit that reminder offered to me yet again on this foggy morning in San Francisco. 

 

But there is a deep shadow hanging over all the joys of my present life, from the New Orleans Jazz Course to Slovenia biking to the SF visit from the grandkids in the big picture and playing at the Jewish Home, walking 7 miles yesterday touring a visitor around this beautiful city, watching the end of 8 Seasons of Monk last night. It looks like my first daughter, who I have loved to the ends of the earth these past 44 years, is headed for divorce. 

 

Of course, there is no shame in divorce and no honor in never divorcing (sometimes when it might have been a better idea for both partners). Indeed, most of the people I have admired who helped shape my life and my thinking—Carl Orff, Gary Snyder, Louis Armstrong—all had four different wives. And working in a school for 45 years, I worked with probably over 50% of the kids coming from homes of divorced parents. 

 

But it struck me today how rare divorce has been in my immediate family. My grandparents, parents, four uncles and aunts all stayed with one person, as has my sister and six cousins. 3 of the 9 men in my Men’s Group had been divorced, but all of them before I met them and none in the 34 years we’ve been meeting. And only one (to date) amongst their sixteen children. It seems like with this background, some part of me is hardwired to stay the course.

 

Yesterday was my daughter’s 16^th wedding anniversary, so her present struggle felt yet more sad. As of now, she and her husband are separated and having a very difficult time communicating with each other. I won’t go into the details, but it ain’t pretty and from my point of view, 95% of it is his significant traumas long kept at bay rising up and overtaking him. In spite of her heroic efforts over the years to give him the love and support he never got that he deeply needed (as we all do), it wasn’t enough and he’s in some kind of trance where he’s incapable of thanking her and indeed, blaming her for everything that’s happening to him now. She herself is doing impressive inner work to own her part in the dynamic while also committing to take care of her own needs and those of her two children. Who seem to be doing much better without the tension in the house, but of course, are still suffering.

 

12 years ago, Hurricane Sandy blew through my childhood town and felled the two oak trees outside my house. Not only were they gone, but they crashed into the house and the entire house had to be demolished and built anew as a new home. Being the nostalgic person I am, this was a severe blow to me, a literal version of “you can’t go home again.” I have been back to see the new unrecognizable house and my one tiny consolation is my old garage toward the back is still there. 

 

But the birds sing on in new trees, people are living in that new house and as Robert Frost says in his one incontrovertible truth, “Life goes on. “ No one knows how this complex drama and trauma will play out, but all I can do is be present for my daughter and grandchildren and yes, for my son-in-law as well in spite of my anger with him at the moment for his refusal to take responsibility. I need to acknowledge the deep sadness and at the same time, be grateful for these two children, celebrate the many victories my son-in-law achieved, the many sweet moments their family knew and keep listening to those birds announcing “our place in the family of things.” (Mary Oliver- Wild Geese) 

The 4th of July

 

… is Louis Armstrong’s birthday. Well, later they found a piece of paper that said it was August 4, 1901, instead of July 4^th, 1900, but Louis stuck with the latter and so do I. After all, who better to represent Independence Day than the man who embodied and spread the joy of authentic freedom in every note he played or sang? He didn’t own other people or enslave his own children or say one thing and practice another as Thomas Jefferson did. He was the real deal, showing how soulful notes birthed in the soil of blood, sweat and tears can rise triumphantly to the freedom of the Spirit. Just listen to West End Blues if you don’t believe me. July 4^th as Pops’ birthday is a holiday worthy of celebration. 

 

But that other one, the rah-rah of fireworks symbolizing the freedoms promised in the Declaration of Independence and Constitution, has a bitter taste in light of the Supreme Court supporting the death of democracy, the unbelievable support a convicted felon still has amidst all the evidence that he is a traitor to the Constitution he swore to uphold and the sheer astonishment that he is a serious candidate poised to lead us like lemmings over the cliff’s edge. 

 

I have quoted many, many times H. G.Wells’ warning that “we are in a race between education and catastrophe" and never have those warning bells rung louder. As a teacher, I feel it yet deeper and point my fingers at all in my profession who have allowed ignorance to flourish. I call on those who have had their mouths taped shut by school boards demanding that they continue to hide the truth to rip it off and speak out. I hold to account all those who continue to try to stupefy the population with mere distraction and sensation and unchecked Hollywood violence and unthinking social media ranting. Our 20^th century history is riddled with fears that Communism would destroy our beloved freedoms, but it turns out that the “Red Scare” was not nearly as threatening as what Walt Kelly’s Pogo said a long time ago: “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

 

And if we are to sincerely celebrate the 4^th of July, we would do well to listen to the words of the creators and defenders of democracy. (See below). Please celebrate the day by listening to Louis Armstrong, sharing it with your kids, telling some of the story of how he came to be and renewing your efforts to educate yourselves and others. If you do, Pops will call out:

 

“Oh, yeaah!”

 

Circle of Tears

And so we came to the end. Or rather, the beginning of next steps for all of us, made more meaningful and powerful knowing we are forever walking by each other’s side. The first part of our last three out of 60 or so hours in each other’s company began with a quick (sung and shortened) review of all the activities and material we shared. Then came the final exam— a creative project in four small groups bringing select Langston Hughes poems to life through song, movement, Orff instruments and wind instruments. Everybody “passed” with flying colors. 

 

A short video of Louis Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie singing Umbrella Man and then it was time for the closing circle. I had prepared them ahead of time, suggesting they pick one or two games/ pieces/ activities they’re inspired to try with their kids, one inspired pedagogical idea, one insight into jazz history and/or social justice. That’s all. Short, clear and sweet so the 28 people don’t take up 56 minutes to say their piece. 

 

But they didn’t listen. From the first person around to the next-to-the-last, people instead spoke of how personally moved they were by playing the music, hearing the stories, and singing and dancing with people that are now genuine friends. Already by the second sharing, the tears started to flow and instead of the usual Kleenex box we have ready at the end of our Levels trainings, someone had brought a roll of toilet paper. It became the “talking stick,” held in the hand of each person who spoke and almost unanimously unrolled to wipe the tears. When the last person began, "My pedagogical insight was…" we all laughed. He was the only way to do his assignment correctly but wasn't it lovely that the others didn't!

 

I’ve been to Zen Buddhist retreats where the Sangha community generates the energy to approach spiritual awakening. I've attended poetry retreats where the poet evokes Camus’ lines “live close to tears” (though very few do that I witness) and guides us into profound territories that only poetry can touch. But compared to Orff workshops where people actively play, sing, dance and create together, both Zen and poetry retreats fall short. Compared to general Orff workshops, the Jazz/Orff marriage stirs up extra layers of history, joyful jazz and needed-to-be-discussed issues of social justice and the bar is raised yet higher, the intimate bonded circle held much tighter. And compared to Jazz/Orff workshops in San Francisco or Sydney or Sao Paolo, the Jazz/Orff Course in New Orleans erases the boundary line between the workshop space and the street, the classroom and the club, and we rise up higher in the heavenly firmaments, not having our own little private epiphanies but fully gathered into a collective euphoria. 

 

Listening to the band at The Spotted Cat last night— well, dancing to the band in company with most of the Jazz Course class—I took a breath and stepped back for a moment to fully feel and witness the powerful horns and drums singing out our capacity for raptured exultation. The energy was vibrating in every cell of the body, every nerve, every muscle. The heart was fully opened, the head was following the intricate stories of the solos, the soul was fully sounded and the spirit soaring. All in company of people who spent ten days immersed in the miraculous, much of it created by their own efforts in the class activities. I never had anything approaching that level of experience at the Zen Center or poetry retreat. Not even close. 

 

The class gifted me with a signed tambourine that I will cherish it forever. And also play it in the more traditional style that Herlin Riley showed me and I’m beginning to get the hang of! I used it to accompany our closing game Little Johnny Brown, the beautiful invitation for everyone to “show their motion” and for the group to give it back. One final photo of our hands (see below) and off we dispersed to our various corners of the country and the world. 

 

Immeasurable thanks to our New Orleans host Allen Dejan, to my comrade-in-Orff-and Jazz Joshi Marshall, to my colleague James Harding, to each and every one of the 28 beautiful souls who attended, to the musicians of this extraordinary city of New Orleans and the culture that sustains them. May it flourish forever!

Such Sweet Sorrow

And so we come to the final day of this most extraordinary gathering of laughter and tears, swingin’ music and exuberant dance, going down into the deep grief of the stories behind the music and rising up into the unbridled joy and triumph of this most exceptional American art form—Jazz. In the classroom, each of these 28 beautiful souls witnesses to the beautiful marriage of Jazz and Orff and renewed in their determination to raise the children so they discover both their cultural inheritance and their own musical and humanitarian promise. Then every night—every night!—out on the streets and in the clubs in New Orleans partaking of non-stop music and dance that blows the roof off of our humdrum everyday selves and reveals the shining stars we are meant to be. Last night our “Untalent Show” sharing and led by my forever colleague James Harding, this moving tribute to the tune of “They Can’t Take That Away From Me.” It will be hard to say goodbye today, but we all are now connected in unforgettable ways— to each other, to our best selves, to this music, to this city, to the true history and promise of this country. May we meet again!!

  

Pull Back the Curtain

Before leaving the Whitney Plantation, I noticed there was a big bulletin board with comments from the visitors written on Posts-Its. Things like:

 

• More kindness and understanding.

 

• Learn from extraordinary resilience of black people, apologize and thank them for all they’ve given to uplift all lives.

 

• Learn history to not repeat.

 

I didn’t have time to add my own, but this is what I would have written (evoking the scene in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy pulls back the curtain to reveal the sham Wizard and his illusory special effects); 

 

• Pull back the curtain and expose all the guiding narrative that both excuses and causes atrocities against fellow human beings. 

 

• Pull back the curtain to expose the ways the privileged who benefit from the false narrative bamboozle voters and pass laws to keep it going.

 

• Pull back the curtain and vote.

 

• Pull back the curtain on the stage and sing, dance, play music, recite poetry, exhibit artwork that tells truth in all its multiple dimensions— intellectual, emotional and spiritual. 

 

• Pull back the curtain between the Other World and Our World to reveal the presence of the Ancestors. Heal their world of unmourned restless wandering ghosts through knowledge, right speech and truth-telling, and feel them help heal our world as they gather beside us when properly called. 

 

Indeed, this is one way to express my philosophy of education. A constant revelation as the teacher pulls back the curtain that blocks our view of the truth, of the miraculous, of the way things actually are and the ways they actually work. While the privileged fearful keep dropping curtains to hide what we need to know and feel and understand, our job is pull them aside one by one. Let’s get to work.