Return to Suzhou

Someday I make take my own advice. As marvelous as it is to enter a room, make a circle of people hungry to know something and proceed to create a universe in the image of the world as we would like it, it’s not the whole story. 

We all also need to just get out into the world and wander, to awaken to wonder while we wander. To let go of an identity forged by willful, focused, relentless work and release into that nobody-in-particular who is in awe of the sights and sounds around us. No matter how life-giving and joyful that identity may be, it’s important to remember it’s not the whole story. 

 

And so I set off on a little pilgrimage to Xiyuan Temple in Suzhou, a place I had visited in 2006 and remembered being astonished by it. I was awestruck by the giant statues depicting the many different incarnations of Buddha and disappointed that there was a clear “no photography” sign. In a rare act of compliance to the law, I refrained from taking any photos and then regretted not having the images to remember and share. In the back of my mind, I always thought, “I have to go back there some day.”

 

Today was the day. Earlier this week, at a dinner out with my hosts, I noted that we seemed to be far from downtown Shanghai and they confirmed that is was over an hour away. On a long shot, I asked if we were close to Suzhou and the exciting answer was, “20 minutes by train.” I had Saturday somewhat free and told them the story of wanting to return there. Within ten minutes, it was all arranged. Yet another sterling example of both the generosity and the organizational skills of my hosts. 

We pulled into Suzhou around 9:30 and it looked nothing like I remember. 18 years ago, it was a sleepy little town with barely a high-rise and a reputation as “The Venice of the East,” a reference to the various canals (minus gondolas) threading through the town. Now it looked like Sao Paolo, endless rows of 30 story buildings. We left our bags at a hotel, took the omnipresent Chinese Uber to the Temple and there it was, more or less as I remembered it. 

 

First stop was to get some incense, light it and then join the many folks bowing in the four directions with the lit sticks. Into the courtyard, enter the main temple and three bows to each of the Buddhas in the four directions, each one representing a different aspect of our true nature— the calm smiling one, the demon, the one playing the lute, the warrior. I’ve often felt like my non-attraction to Christianity came from the way it reduces our polytheistic natures to just a few— The Father and the Son. (Admit it, who really knows who the heck the Holy Ghost is?). The entrance of the Virgin Mary in Medieval Times was an enormous boost in the theology (witness the cultural explosion of art and music and cathedrals named Notre Dame), but still doesn’t compare with ancient Greece, the West African orishas, the Buddhist incarnations and most extraordinary of all, the Hindu Gods and Goddesses.

 

Circumambulating the inside of the temple, there were some twenty other statues representing a pantheon of Buddhist guardians, each with their own particular territory— love, kindness, charity, etc. So far I wondered why I thought these statues were so extraordinary in that first visit. As I circled to the back, there was a three-dimensional depiction of the heavens where all the Bodhisattvas live and I thought, “Perhaps it was this.” (A few photos to come). 

 

Out into the gardens, some folks gathering around a few cats, many feeding the carp in the pond, some climbing in and about jagged rocks with staircases threading through. My host Tonny and I then went inside a busy, bustling restaurant that served only one dish— a fabulous ramen in broth with vegetables and tofu. You sat wherever there was an empty seat with strangers slurping their soup and there, elbow to elbow with the buzzing, jostling crowd, skin slick with sweat, not a class plan in my head and a delicious anonymity, I paused for a moment and silently exclaimed, “I am home.”

 

Home meaning actually in a particular place in a particular time. Actually in China, without a Starbucks or KFC in sight, without me sharing songs and games in English, with kids and parents and grandparents bowing to remarkable statues in public, with a few sidewalk vendors selling sour plum tea, dumplings, fans and such, feeling my Buddhist ancestors around me as I walked through the temple grounds. The kind of travel I’ve delighted in my whole life and doesn’t easily come without me making an effort to find it. 

 

And today I did. Perhaps it didn’t quite reach the exalted epiphany my 18-year wait promised, but still, it was marvelous. Now back on the train to Beijing and a 5:00 pm flight tomorrow back home.   (8/31)

Working on the Train

I suppose I could, but I never work on my computer on a plane. For one thing, the seats are often too close together. But here on the train, it’s more spacious and there’s something soothing about working with the quiet rumble and steady rhythm of the train and the world zipping by outside the window. (With a little extra zip on this bullet train!). 

 

While closing out the notes to the Shanghai course, I stumbled into the idea of cataloguing all my Sibelius PDF’s on a word document, both to remind myself what pieces I have that I might consider reviving and to see how many there actually are. 356, I discovered, and that doesn’t count Sibelius arrangements that never got made into PDF’s and handwritten arrangements that never made it to Sibelius. When my old computer died, I couldn’t get my active Sibelius files onto the new, so that’s on my to-do list to see if a phone call to Sibelius might help revive them. And organizing the handwritten ones that I have in several actual folders (not the desktop variety) is a good rainy-day project. I suspect both projects would uncover another couple of hundred, which means over 500 choices when planning workshops. That’s more than enough to keep things fresh. 

 

And while I praised the fellow that doesn’t need to work all the time in the last post, the one that loves to is not to be discounted. I have two Orff Chapter workshops coming up at the end of September and the planning and dreaming about which of the 500 plus pieces/activities I’ll choose is part of what adds depth to the present moment, that anticipation of something to look forward to. I remember on a rafting trip in the Grand Canyon, a fellow traveler told me there are three keys to a good life: 

 

1)   Good work.

2)   Someone (or many) to share it with.

3)   Something to look forward to. 

 

I agree. 

 

Like tonight. Tonny invited me to go to the Blue Note Jazz Club to hear a local Chinese group, so instead of my usual time-filling habits in the hotel room (most Crostics, Solitaire, and Apple TV), I’m looking forward to stepping out for a little night life. 

 

Meanwhile, back to work. (8/30) 

Report from the Street

If all you know about China is the news reports about a repressive government, you might expect to come here to be greeted by a bleak landscape with smoggy air, a beaten-down and repressed people, police everywhere and perhaps soldiers with machine guns. Not so. I’m here to report that the streets are clean, the trains run on time, the people seem lively and lighthearted and there’s not a single homeless person in sight. 

 

Last night I went to a jazz club in Beijing looking out at a beautiful lake with many such clubs and restaurants around it. Sitting there listening to a high-quality Chinese quartet play their original music, there was the familiar buzz of conviviality, sociability, sensuality, lively chatter, beautiful women and handsome men and that atmosphere of freedom in its many faces that jazz personifies. It had the cultural vibe of New York, Paris, New Orleans, Berlin and old Shanghai, those iconic places where the arts thrive or have thrived. 

People hungry to express themselves, to gather and talk, to revel in the freedom of each other seeking to find themselves. 

 

I’m not saying that all is rosy here. (Though the air is impressively clean compared to a mere ten years ago and the sun shines bright.) The iron fist of government in places where it doesn’t belong is real and of concern. But from my limited point of view, it can’t reach all the way into the soul of the people and is doing some good work (clean streets, clean air, keeping things running smoothly, etc.). The growing interest in jazz is a good sign as a symbol of the yearning to be free and wholly express oneself, as is the parallel interest in Orff Schulwerk. 170 teachers in my two recent workshops and more on a waiting list turned away, while I’ve done some Saturday workshops in the U.S. where 20 people show up, if that. 

 

Some of the finest and inwardly freest people I know come from places where outer freedoms are curtailed—Turkey, Iran, China, for example. They are well educated, intelligent and keep a great sense of humor. Whereas in the United States, we are free to say or do whatever we like and look what so many actually say on Twitter and Facebook, what so many actually do (like certain Republicans in the limelight shooting their dog, having sex with minors, paying off porn stars, beheading a whale, spending 500 million dollars that could go to schools on a yacht— and weep. Our streets are filthy, we’re stepping over the homeless, our values are so confused, our ignorances purposefully manufactured and celebrated. Some will only consider voting if a rock star tells them to. I had the weird thought that if the worst happens (it won’t!) and we dismantle democracy and embrace the fascist dream of the Project 2025‘ers, perhaps we too might wake up and finally value and fight for our freedoms when they’re gone. But let’s not test out that thought. 

 

Meanwhile, I hope that inner and outer freedoms may meet one day soon in China, Iran, Turkey and other places and that places with the latter liberties may continue to consciously cultivate the former. It has been a most marvelous two weeks with these most delightful people. (9/1) 

Report from the Park

Knowing I had a long flight ahead after yesterday’s five-hour train ride, I had the good sense to get out walking right after breakfast. Every day last week walking to my workshop site, I passed this park, but never went in for two good reasons. 1) There wasn’t really much time before or after the workshop. 2) It was generally 96 degrees out. 

 

But now it was a cool 80 and once inside, I was mightily impressed by it. Quite large, bridges over the river, a few Amusement Park areas (Pirates of the Caribbean), lovely willow trees bordering the many paths and most important of all, people! People out at 9:00 am to exercise the body— jogging, working out on some exercise apparatus, dancing in groups and a few (not many, surprisingly here in China, doing Tai Chi.) I happily meandered amongst them all, got a bit lost and worked hard to find my way back to the main gate (I did) and on the way, heard some flutes being played. Of course, I rushed over to where three men where playing long bamboo flutes, introduced myself as a music teacher and asked if I could take a short video. Mostly in gesture and a few common English words. They happily obliged and when I suggested a specific song and sang a bit, they joined right in. 

 

So add these parks and the people in them to the list of things that are working wonderfully well in China. It was the perfect way to start the day. 

(9/1) 

One Song

Piggybacking on the flute story, just a thought here that everyone should know at least one song from each culture that people in that culture will recognize. It’s an instant connector. I have stories a’plenty about the power of shared reconnection. One of my first was at the end of a trip around the world in Kyoto, Japan back in 1979. I attended a Bon Odori folk dance, delighted to watch the community dancing their shared repertoire and almost jumping out of my skin when I recognized a dance I actually had learned in San Francisco called Tanko Bushi. I jumped into the fray and the people around me were astounded —either that I could learn it so fast or that I actually already knew it. In either case, they gave me a lot of appreciation.

 

Many years later, I was Christmas caroling around the neighborhood with the neighbors as we have done each year since 1985. At one house, a woman came to the door and said “My father is ill but I’ve brought him downstairs because he wanted to hear you sing.” Somehow it came out that he was from Italy and I sang an Italian folk song that he instantly recognized and he lit up like—well, a Christmas tree. Another year, some folks came to the door and when we asked if they had any requests, they said, “We don’t know these songs. We’re from Bulgaria.” With missing a beat, my daughter and I began singing a two-part Bulgarian folk song, much to their delight and amazement. 

 

And so it has continued. Whether singing for people visiting San Francisco or singing with them in their country, everyone is so touched that you know a tiny slice of their culture. 

 

This has been one of our hopes in introducing kids at The San Francisco School to songs from all cultures. I’ve heard a few other stories from alums as to how that came in handy visiting Brazil or Bali or Bolivia. As it did for me singing my now favorite go-to Chinese folk melody, the Kang Ding Song. Maybe it’s time to ask my friends in all parts of the world which songs they consider the most well-known (folk or classical, not pop) from their culture and put together a “Meet Your Neighbor Songbook.” I’ll put it on my to-do list.

(9/1) 

Mushroom Manna

Knowing I’m mostly vegetarian, my host made a point to take me out to three different vegetarian restaurants, the third for our final lunch before heading to the airport. All three were of the precious variety, the kind that spends four hours making a soup that you will take ten spoonfuls of. Each had a fixed menu of some 10 items, each one unidentifiable using exotic ingredients like flowers, juice from the birch tree and 20 different kinds of mushrooms. Served on a big plate with a little dollop in the center. 

 

I appreciated it on some level, that attention to detail that makes an art of cooking and creates nuanced and subtle flavors worthy of the most refined connoisseur palate. My favorite was a mushroom dish, two different ones with two different intricate toppings, both a semi-circle so you could have put them together on a hamburger bun and had the best vegi-burger of your life. It was most definitely memorable and problem something I’ll never find again. It was a brief visit to a heavenly mushroom manna land and a good example of the extraordinary artistry of a Chinese cooking light years beyond my chop suey and chow mein upbringing. 

Still though, I was as happy and truthfully, a bit happier, to be in that bustling ramen place yesterday with one item on the menu— a bowl of soup. And as I look forward to a return home, I believe I’ll be quite happy to revisit a good burrito, a grilled cheese sandwich on Tartinne bread and burrata cheese pizza. 

All just around the corner!    (9/1)

 

Parting Shots

Leaving the restaurant, we drove around a neighborhood unlike any I had seen in Beijing. Intimate tree-lined streets with local stores, no hi-rise buildings and no American chains, a Chinese equivalent of Ann Arbor, Michigan or Mill Valley, California. Between that and the jazz club site the night before, I’m getting a sense of places I want to hang out in my next trip to Beijing. And with both the students and my host asking me most every day when I’m coming back, I suspect there indeed will be a next trip, probably within the year and happily so.

Off we went to the airport and another thing that seems to work well in China is that in all the considerable driving (well, being driven around) I did, I hardly ever was in a traffic jam. There was a hint of one going to the airport, but it ended up being mild. The China that used to be famous for thousands of bicycles was already fading out when I came here in 2006, courtesy of a government push for cars (to the distress of the environment). Now there are rows of yellow bikes that a swipe of the phone unlocks and an increase in the number of bicyclists (all without helmets) riding alongside the scooters and cars. I never rode a bus or used the subway while I was here, never touched a single coin or piece of paper money. Or even used my credit card, for that matter. As I’ve mentioned many times, they take care of me here and pamper me like a prince. One could get spoiled. But I won’t, because I actually like the independence of taking care of myself. But when in Rome— well Beijing or Shanghai.

 

Speaking of pampering, my lovely hosts/friends Tonny and Cao Li went with me to the ticket counter and as I was looking at my ticket with an economy seat in row 31, Cao Li mentioned to the agent that if there was any upgrade, I was deserving of it. She looked on the computer and came back, “How about this seat in Business Class?” Boom!!! Amazing!!! I got it! Farewell hugs, boarding the plane, settling in my little luxury apartment and a fond farewell to China. It has been a most lovely two weeks. 

 

And now, “California here I come, right back where I started from!” (9/1)