Dancing in the Streets

I was 18-years old when I went to my first mass demonstration—one of the early marches on Washington to protest the Vietnam War. It was exciting, thrilling, important-feeling and bit scary when tear-gassed in a restaurant. But it felt like the right place to be with the right people for the right reason. Wanton death and destruction in the name of freedom was not, is not and never shall be a good idea. And so we said with our presence out on the streets.

And again today, marching with the school contigent at the Gay Pride Parade. An especially festive atmosphere with the overturn of Prop 8 and DOMA and the next step toward allowing people to define themselves without shame and to love whom they choose and to be accorded the same rights in a loving relationship as anyone else. Simple, yes?

In-between 1969 and today, I spent some time on the streets protesting nuclear weapons proliferation, the Desert Storm war, the war in Iraq and other death-dealing/ environment crushing/ freedom-limiting ventures. I also took to the streets in San Francisco’s Carnaval Parade, Day of the Dead Parade, Halloween and other festive ventures celebrating—well, celebrating the fun of celebration! With music, dance, and fellowship. (And some of the most memorable festivals have been in places like India, Bali, Japan, Ghana, Brazil, Mexico, Spain.)

Of course, I also enjoy a quiet evening at home, a meeting in a café with a friend, an intimate concert in a cozy jazz club or political discussion around a dinnertable. But whether protesting a political outrage, celebrating a political victory, joining the fans after a World Series win or simply dancing to bells and drums in full costume, the streets are the place I keep coming back to. We need those moments when like-minded folks join their voices to create a larger presence. It felt like at least a million people lining SF’s Market Street today, cheering in exultation. Exciting!

But I think tomorrow night I’ll stay home and read a book.

24 Hour Minister

I’m going to marry someone today. That is, officiate a wedding. I have a 24 hour license from the Alameda Marriage Commisioner which expires tomorrow. My virgin voyage as a minister and thrilled to be doing it.

Before the wedding, I’m off to march in the San Francisco Gay Pride Parade. Should be quite an event, with the recent DOMA and Prop 8 Supreme Court decision. But it occurred to me that I should take advantage of my status and offer to marry anyone interested on the spot. And quick before another court changes its mind.

“To prepare oneself for how one will be needed in the world.” That’s a good definition of education and one’s own commitment to lifelong learning. I’m grateful beyond measure whenever an opportunity presents itself to use my particular combination of skills and interests. From inviting kids into the house of jazz to leading a wedding ceremony to leading a funeral ceremony to playing piano at the Old Age home to helping edit and publish someone’s book (and my own) to giving public talks on music and education to teaching kids to teaching adults to playing ukelele and singing to my granddaughter, it’s a wonderful, wild, wacky and weird ride and I’m so happy to be on the rollercoaster. Yes, grouchy when someone doesn’t let me on the ride, but that’s part of my confidence that I have something to contribute and how can you not see that?! (spoken with indignation, disappointment or outrage).

But that’s my particular insanity, wanting it all and today is the moment to celebrate the flip side, my amazement and again, deep gratitude, that I get to do the things I get to do. All by design, all by hard work, all by the fortune of the right connections, but mostly, all by grace and the generosity of the world. Thank you, world, and don’t forget, Gay Pride Marchers, I have a license and I know how to use it!

Childrenese

Patience and perseverance. Sometimes they pay off. Today I fulfilled a long-time dream of performing a Family Jazz Concert in the prestigious Stanford Jazz Festival with my group The Pentatonics. (Thanks to Jim Nadel!) With a bigger audience than I’m used to, I should have been a little nervous. But I wasn’t. For one simple reason. Much of the audience was kids between 1 and 8 years old and I speak Childrenese.

Can’t take much credit for it. After teaching kids between 3 and 14 for 38 years, I better be fluent! But it was thrilling to use my skills to help kids cross the bridge into jazz in a way they can relate to and understand. Family Jazz is hot right now and I love it that great jazz musicians are taking time with the kids. But they’re used to speaking Adultenese and sometimes shoot over the heads of the kids with the facts and figures of jazz a bit hard for the three-year old to relate to. Of course, the music is great and goes right to the muscles and bone, but still it helps to have a child-sized door to go through.

Today’s strategies began with participation through singing, through gesture, through movement (all in their seats). After a welcome song, there was the story of the family, each a different size and shape with a different voice and a different personality—“Just like your family!” There was Mr. Bass going for a walk and then Ms. Drum, a bit more hyper, picking up a stone there and picking a flower there, accompanied him. Then came Mr. Sax, who loved to tell the story of his day and then Ms. Piano, interjecting “Ah hah’s” and “Really?” and “What happened next?” and then telling a little story herself. Then they all sang a song together and in came Ms. Singer, telling them how much she “Loved Being Here with You.” It helped give the kids some images as to how to listen to the different relationships. And the adults too.

Other strategies included Mozart hiding a song inside notes (his variations on Twinkle Little Star melody) and then having a weird dream (now a jazz version of the song the kids know so well). There was the song about working on the farm, with its invitation to practice pronouns while pointing to different people around in the audience. The old Boom Chick a Boom, with kids trying out different voices that their parents had to copy and then some coming up on stage to play xylophones and drums with all parts coming from the text. There was my Juba mosquito-slapping routine (always a hit!) and then select kids going through a silent movie about waking up and going through the day while I played ragtime piano. A song about being happy and optimistic (The Sunnyside of the Street), another about the season we’re in (Summertime) and finally the rollicking Latin jazz tune “Soul Sauce.”

Almost 90 minutes with kids with it almost every step of the way. At the end, they swarmed the stage to try out some of the instruments. Like 100 of them. Proof that the show affirmed their own musical desires and enticed them to participate further. That they knew that the band spoke Childrenese and we understood how kids think and feel. Music is its own direct language, but it sure helps to have some help entering its conversation. And that takes as much thought and intelligence as composing, playing and improvising the music itself.

Thanks to fellow members Joshi Marshall, Sam Heminger, Micah McClain, Connie Doolan (music teachers of kids all) and Josh Reinier (14 years old) for the great music and great spirit. The smile of the little girl who ran up and shouted, “That was so much fun!” was the best review we could have gotten. A memorable morning!

Outrage Lite

“If  you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.”

I like this bumper sticker. Not enough to buy one, but then again, I don’t need to— I’m living it. Outrage is my constant companion these days and truth be told, it’s not always the best company. Good for a vigorous walk around the block, but not the person you want to wake up next to or hug goodnight.

For reasons far beyond my understanding, I seem to have the same capacity for outrage at near 62-years old as the 12-year old finding out for the first time about the slave trade. “Do you guys know about this?!! Slavery sucks!!!” I also seem to have the bad luck to actually pay attention to the things going on around me and these days, that act of attention mostly ends in indignation, disbelief, anger, disappointment and…well, outrage.

I believe in outrage. It serves a noble purpose and the world would be less without it. But when it starts becoming the state you live in, even if for understandable reasons, it starts to get toxic. Not only for your own health and well-being, but for anyone who has the misfortune to be in striking distance and expected to share your dismay. We need the option of ordering Outrage Lite. 

So I tried an experiment today. Instead of expecting the things I consider sane and just and compassionate and true to cross my threshold, I imagined that something else outrageous was going to happen and instead of being shocked, I should just be curious as to what form it was going to take. Then go out and greet it calmly, “Oh, there you are. Good to see you again. Wow! Nice suit. Looking good as you wreak havoc.”

Sure enough, two things came in through the proverbial mail slot that normally would raise my blood pressure and merit the now customary, “What the &$%#?!!!” response. Instead, I just said, “Well, isn’t that interesting?” and went on with my day.

And here’s the amazing thing. It worked!!! I felt light and dispassionate and untouched by it all. Of course, people I know will be hurt by it or our capacity to think and feel will be diminished, but for once in my life, I took the mainstream stance: “Hey, it’s not my problem.” It felt great!! Why am I beating my head against the wall of some vision of the world the way it “should be” and the way it is? Just accept it all, get through, keep my head down and my mouth shut and hope for the best. What a great strategy! Why didn’t I think of this before?

Are you detecting a little sarcasm here? Oh, you clever reader. But there is a hint of seriousness. It does feel great not to keep trying to kick the football that gets snatched away. It’s a relief having shouldered the burden of a caring beyond reason to set it down for a moment. It’s a brilliant thought that at least some of the energy spent brooding and fuming and writing and talking to others might be better spent mastering Ravel’s Le Tombeau de Couperin on the piano.

Do I care about the people who will bear the consequences of a dubious decision? Yes, I do. But for now all I can do is play the piano on their behalf.

Son of Numbers Nerd

Sorry. I just can’t resist. Yesterday’s posting was my 555^th entry since I began this blog and my followers tipped over to 100. And then the TEDx talk went to 4,555. That’s a stellar day for Numbers Nerd! (Thinking about getting a T-shirt made to proclaim my new secret identity— or a tattoo?)

What is it about numbers? I think they tickle that part of our brain that sets us apart from our animal kinfolk, that capacity to perceive and name and measure pattern, the ability to abtract ourselves from the messy, muddy world and enter a pure realm of thought. It was the last part of the brain to develop, tucked away (though not solely) in the left hemisphere far from the line that goes to the heart. It’s safe and dry there and when we understand how things work, predictable and dependable. In short, all the things that life is not.

And so it’s a place to retreat to when emotions feel too muddled, a haven where the arrows of outrage, grief, bitterness, anger, disappointment can’t reach. I think of my recent encounter with the woman who felt that music was too intense for her to listen to or play. Apparently, she’s a brilliant mathematician and perhaps the two are connected for her. Music is too scary to invite in.

And yet what is music but math in sound and motion? What is math but disembodied music? Every aspect of music can be—and is— described mathematically. The carnival of numbers and patterns in rhythm— measured intervals of beat, the 3/4, 4/4/, 6/8, 15/16 groupings of beats in meter, the elongations, divisions and subdivisions of beat in all their half note, quarter note, eighth note and beyond glory, the common denominators of polyrhythm as 2 and 3 meet down the line, the tempo markings on the metronome—it’s all math. Pitch itself is described mathematically (A=440 cycles per second), melodies have a geometric shape and contour. Harmony is advanced mathematics as the V⁷ chord resolves to the I and then goes on to journey through a veritable playground of simultaneous sounds described at the IIm^b7  or the Bb13 or the D7#5, those sonic vertical constructions. Timbre is also math-defined, the louds and softs measured in decibels, attack measurable in visible sound envelopes, instrument tone colors determined by ratios of frequencies and overtones. And finally, form is yet another playground of mathematical relationships— the AABA models or the 12-bar blues or the canon with one part chasing another. Math, math, math.

The beauty is that music is the place where math can open the heart. It’s the beckoning door from the closed castle of abstract thought that leads back to the world, takes the chaos and puts it in order (or rather reveals the inherent order in the apparent chaos), writes a love note where V7 falls into the arms of I and they live happily ever after.

And that’s the question here. How to live with the heart open to love? Anything can become a retreat from the hurt or fear of hurt—math, machines, even music. And we need such retreats to survive. But it’s not a good idea to live there. The world beckons us forth, in full knowledge of the pain and suffering that comes from loving too deeply, caring too much, trusting too much. On yet another inviting summer day, I step outside ready to meet it.

But first I want to check how many Facebook friends I have. 

Triple Surprise!

I am always prepared to be astonished and the world came through today.

First was visiting my Mom and finding her upright in her chair, complete awake, lucid and present. She’s been a roller coaster her whole life and the sharp descents and difficult ascents are yet more extreme in the past five years and yet more in the past five weeks. Truth be told, the evidence seemed to be pointing to steady decline and exit. But today she was wholly there. Happy, coherent, observant. How does this happen?

Next surprise was a slap in the face from science. Almost two years now that I began the Doug Diet that finally allowed me to tuck in my shirt in public. As time went on, I became more and more lax and yet my metabolism seemed to have changed and didn’t punish me. I felt like I was really beating the system, eating large helpings of ice cream and such and having a grand old time and every time, the needle on the scale stayed in the same place. Until today. Seems there was five pounds tucked away in some negative universe in my body and it jumped out from its hiding place and shouted, “Gotcha!!” Seriously. Yesterday, one weight and today, plus five! Dang! Back to some restraint.

But of course, such trivia as my weight pattern barely merits mention on Facebook, never mind this elevated blog. What really astounded me today was getting the news that Supreme Court did something right for a change. Astounding! Striking down DOMA and Prop 8 and a step in the direction of justice, equality and for goodness sakes, letting people love whom they choose! All this Conservative huffing and puffing because their paradigm is challenged while they seem oh so comfortable to put guns in the hands of serial killers. Well, good on you, Supreme Court, for taking this necessary, bold and just step. Keep on going! Keep surprising us!

Three surprises were about all I could handle, but there was one more waiting for me. Some God of Public Transportation has decreed that whenever Doug waits for the N-Judah underground, the J, K, L, and M shall always come first and often come again before the N appears. Never fails. But today, I walked down the stairs and straight into the open doors of—the N-Judah!!!

Just when we’re prepared to accept all the disappointment, bad decisions, failed hopes, things like this happen and renew our optimism. Sometimes government comes through, the streetcar arrives just on time, a loved one springs back. Hooray for that!

Now to go eat my cottage cheese and kale for dinner.

PS The universe always seeks balance. So of course, I burned the kale while posting this blog.

World First

I imagine we all have our own way to start the day. A cup of coffee or tea, a morning jog, a yoga or Pilates routine. For some 40 years now, mine has been to sit atop a black round pillow with my legs crossed, make a circle with my arms, thumbs touching lightly and set myself gently into the world with each rise and fall of my breath. This exquisite practice of zazen, honed and crafted over a couple of thousand years, walks me across the bridge from the dream world into the living day. But the window between first opening the eyes and lighting the incense should be small. It’s important to go from Dream to Presence before the mind starts pumping out its lists, its obsessions, its daily chatter, Give it a chance to merge with morning birds and settle into a pure awareness before it starts checking its messages.

All writing is to oneself alone, not so much revelation as reminder and here I’m sending a note to Self: “Don’t open the damn laptop before sitting!” There’s a little feud going on between my need to connect with World through the body and breath and my equal need to feel connected to others through the glittering glamour of e-mails and Facebook posts, those flimsy illusions that we are needed and important and interesting to others. Well, yes, some of that chatter is necessary to keep the engines of our lives running and often pleasurable to hear from a friend or find out their news. But order matters. Sit first. E-mail later.

Today I went down the dark path to the bright screen and my sitting was weaker for it. I remembered an old haiku somewhere on this subject and miraculously, found it in one of my old handwritten journals:

                                                “The messenger

                                                 Offers the branch of plum blossoms,

                                                 Then the letter."

                                                                               -Kikaku

Brilliant! First the plum blossoms, then the letter. And then the blossoms again. The sun is out in San Francisco after three days of wintry rain and I am out the door and running.