Babes in Arms

I began the day with that little piece about Three Kings Day and later, stumbled upon something I wrote 14 years ago in 2011, 5 weeks after the birth of my granddaughter Zadie. It reminded me of the horrific association with January 6, 2021, and the extraordinary shame that the man who inspired it is back in power. But simply whining and tearing whatever hair I have left out accomplishes nothing. In this long ago piece, I came up with an out-of-the-box suggestion that circles back to the babe in the manger. The kind of solution that actually could awaken us from our trance of doing the same old things with the same old horrific results.  

Our last night in the nation’s capital was spent circumambulating around the Capitol Building on a cold, crisp evening. From the Capitol steps, the multicolored Christmas tree was perfectly aligned with the Washington Monument in the distance, while in the night sky to the left, the crescent moon hung low with Venus its companion. Five-week old Zadie was snuggled close to my chest in blissful sleep and as we circled the building clockwise, I couldn’t help but offer some prayers of hope. 

 

Inside that building, the circus of power would awaken again in the New Year, wholly unmindful of the innocent little girl that I carried and millions like her. After seeing the line-up of clowns vying to be Ringmaster (with clips from the Daily Show), a circus ever more absurd and shameless and frankly, unbelievable, I worried for her future. Any one of the 8^th graders at my school running for student council would be better qualified. And though one side seems, to my eyes, clearly more desperate and full of buffoonery masquerading as functioning adults, the big balloon of hope so many of us felt three years ago has had its air forced out by the self-referential game of politics so extraordinarily out of touch with simple common sense and common human decency. (Astonishing to think that I wrote that during Obama’s Presidency, utterly incapable of imagining how much lower we would sink and sink and sink again!)

 

Perhaps this has always been so. Perhaps not. Especially if one is to take to heart all the quotes engraved in stone in Washington’s monuments—the recent Martin Luther King Memorial, the FDR, the Jefferson, the Lincoln Memorial. Profound, inspiring, compassionate and hopeful quotes that lift us from our seats in the media circus and set us squarely on the ground, helping us to come back to our senses and remember that this country was built on a vision that needs to be constantly renewed each generation, each decade, each year, each day. In my role as the first Buddhist-Jewish-music-teacher-jazz-pianist-bagpipe-playing President (watch for me on the ticket!), I would march the Senate and House of Representatives down from the hill on a monthly field trip and have each one choose a quote and write an essay about, concluding with its relevance to the bill at hand. 

 

I’d also have them walk (dance?) around the Capitol Building at least once a month with a baby in their arms and renew their vows to offer that child a plausible future. Then switch babies to make sure that they weren’t lobbying just for their kind. 

Twelve Drummers Drumming

Epiphany has arrived. The three wise men enter a humble manger after their 12-day pilgrimage, accompanied by six species of birds, maids milking, ladies dancing and lords leaping to the music of pipers and drummers. They offer gifts of aromatic tree resins and five golden rings. There is the baby Jesus surrounded by a rested mother spared the ordeal of labor, a proud father, some local shepherds, farm animals like oxen and donkeys. It is a diverse gathering bringing together men and women, the rich and the poor, kings (one from Africa, one from Asia and one from Europe) and shepherds, the human and the animals, the earthly and heavenly (a few angels hovering above). It is a peaceful scene and evokes the promise of new life we all feel in the presence of innocent babes. This one is granted a special divinity, but grew to suggest that we are all, each and every one, born sacred and if we live well and claim our divinity, we can come to know that the Kingdom of Heaven is within us. 

 

In the Dark Ages, Christianity was a heavily patriarchal religion with the Virgin Mary given scant attention and the wrathful, vengeful God from the Old Testament still on the scene. Christmas was barely acknowledged and it was Easter that was at the center. Instead of an innocent babe in the manger, it was a suffering man nailed to a cross that dominated the imagery. (When my children, aged 5 and 9, first saw that image in the hall of our Austrian pension, they were aghast). My theory about a thousand years of the darkness of that historical period is that the absence of the feminine and the childlike made for a quality of life that produced very little that was memorable. 

Enter the Middle Ages and the rise of the Virgin Mary in the Cosmology and suddenly, there is a cultural explosion. Grand cathedrals like Notre Dame (Our Lady) were built, paintings depicted the Nativity, troubadours sang praises to women, the art of courtly love entered the culture. The energy shifted somewhat from the gruesome crucifixion and death of Easter to the serenity surrounding the birth of Christmas. The gifts offered spoke of generosity that yes, got later twisted to rampant capitalist consumerism, but also birthed a jolly, pagan, benevolent man who brought magic and mystery into the scene and shared front lawns sitting in a sleigh next to the manger. 

 

Speaking of which, it was St. Francis, the patron saint of my city, who made the first three-dimensional version of the Nativity scene in 1223. He also emphasized the humble, gentle and tender side of Jesus, as personified in the purity of a baby and the infectious joy in a baby’s smile. I need not comment on the havoc that followed and continues to this day in the name of that baby. Sigh.

 

The two days of constant rain in San Francisco have finally let up, there is blue sky outside my window, and it’s time to put away the Christmas decorations until, fates willing, next year. Maybe I’ll see if there’s a taiko drum practice somewhere so I can hear twelve drummers drumming. 

 

Or not. Happy Epiphany!

  

Little Fires Everywhere

In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, I have remained a hopeful person. Being in the company of exuberant children, inspiring teachers, and uplifting artists is a constant affirmation that human beings are evolving toward the promise of our best selves. I find solace and comfort from those who, as my friend Aaron Kierbel so eloquently said it, choose a “grounded, defiant optimism that refuses cynicism while acknowledging how difficult and broken things are, engage in an active practice of rejecting despair and insisting on meaning, beauty and possibility anyway.” I draw joy and courage marching with the millions who have taken to the streets, reading about the morally sound and courageous artists who refuse to perform at the Kennedy Center, and even hearing about a few Republicans, who having enabled the destruction of all that a true American citizen and decent human being holds dear, are finally jumping ship. 

 

And yet. Every morning I wake up and wonder, “Why is he still here?” Every day, another little (or big) fire is set, purposefully lit to distract us and keep us from putting out the roaring inferno. Only four days into the New Year and we have already invaded another country and captured a leader. Just as there is a glimmer of hope that the Epstein files will do their work, (remember the Muller Report? And two impeachments? And 42 felony convictions? Such a long list thinking THIS will finally get him out and then the football is snatched away again), we have to turn away for a moment. and attend to the next outrage. The Venezuela invasion, the next ICE attack, defacing the White House, the audacity of putting his name on a building dedicated to truth and beauty, the fantasy of a Nobel Peace Prize (!!!!!!!), the … well, take your pick, the list is long. Little fires everywhere is the purposeful strategy and it seems to be working to keep us all distracted and impotent to effect needed change. 

 

I am heartened by the intelligence and heartfelt stories in so many Facebook posts and books I read, but the irony is not lost on me that posting on social media and buying books from Amazon (I still go to local bookstores and then Powell’s online if needed), helps support the Billionaires Club. Everywhere we turn, we’re inextricably ensnared in the poisonous narratives of White Supremacy, the Patriarchy, and Unchecked Capitalism.

 

I can find some solace in the healing stories and practices that have always lived side by side with the toxic ones and against all odds, seem to be gaining power. That “crisis calls on us to grow larger souls,” that it is “darkest before the dawn,” that David (or more likely, Delilah) will defeat Goliath, helps shore me up when the news rains down too heavily on my head. Yet still I awake like all of us each morning with the unacceptable fact that he and his hench-people are still here, granted the power to wreak havoc and destruction. These half-humans who awake with one thought in their addled brains and armored hearts: “Who can I hurt today?”

 

Before returning to choosing “a defiant optimism and refusing cynicism,” I just needed to say out loud these thoughts from the path of momentary despair. Sometimes that’s part of the process of exorcism. Back to the task at hand, in company with all you beautiful souls working both to put out the fires and prepare the ground for the garden of our true inheritance. Hands in!

Rap for My Daughter Kerala

Today’s activity had us waking early and out the door by 8:00 am to drive the hour to Palm Canyon, a hike we have often done and sometimes so popular that cars are turned away when the parking lot is full. But having left early enough, there was plenty of space when we arrived and an extra bonus getting out of the car and seeing a bighorn sheep clamber up the rocks. Then off through the canyon and up into the hills where a sign warned: No water. No shade. No cell-phone service. No problem. We were well-stocked with our water bottles, the day was temperate, and the sun never wholly came out. And who needs a cell-phone amidst the marvels of diverse cacti, constant views of rolling hills and mountains, and the comradery of hiking together with your family. 

 

Around mile 6 of the 8-mile hike (my second such distance in a row!), we turned off East Fork trail to Dry Wash trail, a sandy level stretch that reminded me of a walk I took with my daughter Kerala 30 years ago in Australia. We were both trying our hand at freestyle rapping all those years back and having fun trading couplets back and forth. So I began trying some walking the trail and came up with this. No Grammy’s in my near future, but I had fun doing it!

 

Let me tell you a tale, from back in 1995,

When I was 44 and your Mom was 45.

We flew across the ocean and it really was a wonder,

When the family arrived at the Land Down Under.

 

I was there to teach, and we were there to tour,

You and sister Talia, Mom and I, all four.

I taught in Sydney for five days and nights,

Then it was time for us all to see the sights. 

 

Way back then, I was I and you were you,

We were walking on a path right next to Uluru.

The place the white folks stole, and called Ayers Rock

A sacred dreamtime mountain that never knew a clock.

 

And so my little girl, who I once held in my lap.

Was now a teen by my side, singing freestyle rap.

We were having so much fun, a jolly good old time.

Taking turns rapping, and trying to make it rhyme.

 

As a young father, I was worried I would fail ya,

Now here we were together, rappin’ in Australia!

We later traveled there, and then we traveled here.

And finally you were old enough to share a beer. 

 

Still we walk together, and now you’re 45

Both of us grateful that we’re all still alive.

Mom 30 years older, and me 74,

And all of us hoping for many years more. 

 

So glad to share this life and tell about it in this rap.

But today we walked 8 miles, so I think I’ll take a nap! 

Dance Party

I’m a person of constant ritual, my daughters caught the bug, and so every family gathering with the grandkids has its ritual markers. Some are independent of place: games like Rummy 500, Salad Bowl Charades, Taboo, and more, me bringing a loaf of Tartinne bread, often a specially selected movie. And some are intimately connected to place— the various hikes in our December Palm Springs gathering, the walks on the Michigan beach, Drive-In movie, bike ride on Rails to Trails and more. But in all places, there is at least one night when we have our ritual—DANCE PARTY!!!!

 

The thought of me having a dance party with my parents and grandparents is beyond imagination, but it has become our modern three-generation norm. Each person gets two selections, we appoint a DJ (now Zadie) and each in turn decides if it is to be freestyle, directed or some combination of both. Last night’s was particularly varied. My wife chose Hava Nagila and we line-danced as if at a Jewish Wedding. Her second choice was a lovely sung canon This Pretty Planet, with turning, swirling and other motions connected to the words. I taught my version of the Lindy Hop to Lester Young and Teddy Wilson swingin’ the standard Love Me or Leave Me and then went to James Brown and Cold Sweat for my second choice, segueing into the electric slide. I recognized one daughter’s Spice Girl’s tune and the other's Cupid Shuffle and the rest I couldn’t name. But the variety of grooves and tempos was pleasing to us all. And at the end, we all jumped into the pool!

 

I try to imagine my grandchildren telling their children many years hence about this family institution and hopefully, keeping it going. Besides the obvious pleasure of people dancing together, there is something profound about the generations connecting in this way. So easy to do and I suspect, so rarely done. 

 

If it intrigues you, the reader, you are most welcome to borrow the idea and start your own version. No need to document or splash out on social media—just enjoy the moment! And remember to include it every time the larger family gathers. If you are so inclined.

 

And at the beginning of a year, with all of us on the edge of our seats as to what will finally come to pass with so many cruel and selfish people in power, it’s a good way to remember Irving Berlin’s advice, wholly aligned with the family dance party idea (with less accent on the “romance”).

 

There may be trouble ahead
But while there's music and moonlight

 and love and romance
Let's face the music and dance

Before the fiddlers have fled
Before they ask us to pay the bill
And while we still have that chance
Let's face the music and dance

Soon, we'll be without the moon
Humming a different tune - and then...

There may be teardrops to shed
So  while there's music and moonlight
and love and romance
Let's face the music and dance

Keep Going

Back in mid-life, I often celebrated New Year’s with three other families up in the snowbound Sierras. We concocted elaborate ceremonies—writing something you wanted to leave behind— a behavior pattern, a job, a person, what have you— and then throwing the paper in the fire. Then another positive resolution (or more) written on another paper, put into a bowl and then each randomly picking one and reading it and guessing whose it was. We probably threw in a little burning of sage, short Buddhist chants, drumming, ringing Tibetan bells or banging on pots and pans or both. Of course, the mandatory kiss at the stroke of 12— usually with our partners. 

 

As we aged, all aspects of our lives grew simpler and that included the Resolutions Rituals. One of the families still hosted a party, but the full house at 8:00 pm was pretty cleared out by midnight, just a few of us out on the streets ringing in the year with our bell collection. Then came the idea of celebrating the New York New Year—9 pm our time! So it went. 

 

Now most all of us simply stay home, go to bed at the normal time, and having failed for decades in most of our resolutions, wisely decided, “Why bother? If I wake up tomorrow morning, that’s victory enough!”

 

Here in our Indio family retreat, we also didn’t stay up past 10 and no group fuss was made one way or another. The rain continued this morning as it had for most of yesterday and mostly we puttered around, each doing our little routines. But after lunch, the rain finally stopped and my wife, children and I got out the door and left the grandkids alone (their choice) while we set out on a hike. A mile walk to the Indio Badlands and then a six-mile loop through this remarkable landscape where rocks looked like frozen waves, caught in stop-motion. The sun peeked out in the late afternoon, the almost full moon began to rise, the conversation flowed and at one point, I asked my daughter Talia if she had any resolutions. She said they were a work-in-progress and then asked me the same. And I came up with this:

 

“Keep going.”

 

I like it. Simple and to the point. Since I enjoyed most everything I got to do last year, it makes sense that I simply want to keep going with doing the things I love. Why make it more complicated? 

 

The calendar indicates that (always health permitting) I certainly will continue to teach workshops to adults. In Singapore and Bangkok in January, Tennessee and Mississippi in March, New Orleans in June, China and California in August. I’m signed up for subbing in San Francisco in April, guest residency in a school in Toronto in May, so I’ll certainly keep working with kids. I plan to keep playing piano at the Jewish Home for the Aged, keep playing piano at my home, spending time with the grandkids in March and August and remarkably, with Zadie in February taking her to Japan! 

 

All is lined up for me to keep reading, keep writing, keep showing up at No Kings Rallies, keep walking and biking (and possibly a May group trip to the Dolomites!). Just keep moving. Not just moving for the sake of random exercise of body, mind and heart (though all are important—today’s 8-mile-hike was just what I needed), but going with a sense of direction and sense of purpose. Going someplace that one can see on the horizon like the shining city of Oz, never, ever, quite arriving, but transformed in the journey by staying focused on the rainbow’s end. 

 

So there you have it. Resolution 2026. Keep going.

Reciting the New Year In

Poetry was not a big part of my informal upbringing nor my formal education. Though I did get a poem published in The Harrison Echoes, my elementary school “literary magazine,” when I was in first grade. I believe it was:

I was up in the sky

And I waved goodbye.

 A good sign that poetry was not to be my career path! 

 

In high school, I believe Walt Whitman was my first poet of note that I read, perhaps sprinkled by a few grains of Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach,” Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven,” and of course, Robert Frost and his two roads and snowy evening. But it was e.e.cummings, sometime around late high school or college, who lit the flame that has burned at different intensities my whole life long. His imaginative structure and syntax, his singing the praises of Spring and Love and the mystery of mere existence, spoke to my emerging romantic self. I still have the big hardcover book of his collected poems gifted to me by my first girlfriend, with select poems marked. 

 

Fast forward a few decades to when I began a project of memorizing poems. At the height of my powers, I had some 45 poems on the tip of my tongue—a few each from poets like Yeats, Shakespeare, Mary Oliver, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Emily Dickinson, William Stafford, Robert Frost and more. But oddly, not anything by e.e.cummings. Was he just a passing fancy?

 

Today, I hope to honor a new New Year’s Day ritual of re-memorizing many of the poems that have been hibernating for much of the year, something I’ve done for the last ten years or so. I awoke with the line “when serpents bargain for the right to squirm” on my mind, so a clear message that it is time to include my first favorite poet in the mix. I’ll begin memorizing that poem and then hope to include “o sweet Spontaneous earth” and “In Just-Spring” in my repertoire. To my mind, he holds up. A good reminder to us all on this first day of the year to reclaim what is truly normal and refuse the rest. Happy New Year!

 

                       when serpents bargain for the right to squirm
                    and the sun strikes to gain a living wage -
                    when thorns regard their roses with alarm
                    and rainbows are insured against old age

                    when every thrush may sing no new moon in
                    if all screech-owls have not okayed his voice
                    - and any wave signs on the dotted line
                    or else an ocean is compelled to close

                    when the oak begs permission of the birch
                    to make an acorn - valleys accuse their
                    mountains of having altitude - and march
                    denounces april as a saboteur

                    then we’ll believe in that incredible
                    unanimal mankind (and not until)