Natural Habitat

My daughter Kerala’s birthday and my last day to enjoy granddaughter Zadie until Thanksgiving. We expected rain and the morning did not disappoint, but come early afternoon, the sun appeared. We dashed into the car and headed for the zoo. By the time we got there, it was raining again, but no matter— umbrella in hand and stroller top up, off we went.

Things started off on the depressing side— the rain, grey skies, few people and many of the animals either hiding, sleeping or simply gone. But Zadie started to perk up with the sea otter and then a bit more with the orangutan and seemed genuinely delighted to see the elephants and giraffes from her picture books in three-dimensional living color. By now, she was out of her stroller, running up and down the paths, saying hi to the hippo and bye to the flamingos. She got up close to the glass with a monkey on the other side who hissed at her and she roared back. It seemed like an exciting day for her.

But I couldn’t help but notice the sadness in the leopard’s eyes and overall ennui of animals held in captivity. Sure, someone throws them meat and they don’t have to work for a living, but isn’t that what they were made for? To exercise the full lioness of their lion nature out in their natural habitat? Don’t animals feel the same necessity of freedom as deeply as humans? Maybe not dogs and cats with centuries of domestication bred into their genes—though even here, what dog doesn’t prefer to run free in the fields off-leash and what cat doesn’t demand it’s own cat door and non-curfewed hours?

What is the natural habitat for us humans? More complexity there, more choice, more possibility, but freedom to be wholly oneself in the natural habitat that suits us is essential. We were not made for jails, either the iron bar kind nor the cultural bars of racism, sexism, classism, nor the social bars of confining relationships nor the personal bars of our own making. How many parts of ourselves have we tucked away in the cages and visited like exotic animals in zoos?

Zadie didn’t care about any of this and today’s zoos are educational institutions advocating preservation of natural habitat and more. But if given a choice, I’d probably let the leopard run free and simply enjoy reading the book about leopards to Zadie or watching old Wild Kingdom reruns. Meanwhile, it was a marvelous last day together and I'm so happy for the natural habitat her lovely parents have created for her and so grateful that time with grandparents is part of it. Almost two years old, Zadie is 100% Zadie, free to express her nature within the limits of safety and the social contract of playing well with others. May it forever be so!

Running in the Halls

Today was my son-in-law’s birthday (tomorrow my daughter’s) and so we went to one of my favorite places in Portland— The Kennedy School. Built in 1916, it’s the classic elementary school. A simple but aesthetic architecture with wide halls and class photos (next to art work and posters about jazz musicians). It closed as a school in 1975 due to declining enrollment, was slated for demolition and then rescued by the McMenamin Brothers, who bought it and turned it into a hotel. The auditorium is a movie theater, the cafeteria a restaurant, the classrooms hotel rooms with the chalkboards intact. We had a hearty brunch there and while the bill was on its way, I took Zadie out in the halls. She ran gleefully up and down, jumping off steps, galloping up and down rampways, writing on the chalkboard in the hall. She had a good time at the Portland Children’s Museum yesterday, but she had a GREAT time running in the school hallways. I let her enjoy it now, knowing that she won’t be getting that chance again soon!

Later we went to a bicycle shop and she had a pretty good time going up and down stairs, buckling the seat belt in the bike extension, swishing the streamers on the bike handle. In her work at KaBoom!, the non-profit dedicated to building children’s playgrounds in communities, daughter Kerala has done lots of research on children’s play and come to the same conclusions as everyone who has ever looked seriously at the world of children’s play. Playgrounds are great, but so are trees and streams and the boxes that toys come in and a ball or two. For Zadie, the whole world is a playground and everything an opportunity for her curious fingers, her energetic body, her curious mind, her emerging language. No wonder we fall in love with the little ones so easily. They remind us of what we once had that got calcified by facts and figures and too much pre-packaged entertainment as we grew up into that thing called an adult.

One more day to be in her Zen-like presence before returning to work on Tuesday. But what work it is! A lifetime of playing with the children, setting their imaginations free, getting their fingers busy with drums, recorders and xylophones, focusing their exuberantly screaming voices toward powerfully expressive singing voices and reminding them to walk in the halls, but to run in the music room— and freeze at the signal! If I had to grow up to be an adult, not a bad way to go. 

Naming the World

It’s Zadie-time again. Last time I saw my precious granddaughter, she was 17 months old and now she’s 22. When you’re her age, a lot changes in five months! A few new physical milestones, like jumping and increased dexterity with her Legos. But mostly it’s language, language, language. She is in the midst of naming the world. First the important people with their two-syllable alliterations— Mama, Dada, Pop-Pop (grandpa), Mi-ma (grandma), Ti-ta (Aunt Talia), Lo-lo (step-brother Alijah), then her physical needs—Ba-ba (bottle), Bo-bo (pacifier), wa-wa (water). And then, of course, animals (doggie, el’phant), plants (flower, apple), things (car, truck) and so on to the entire noun-spectrum of her tangible world and imaginary world in books and on screens.

It’s a mini-study on the brain and our unique human capacity to not just simply experience the world, but to gather everything we know about each thing we encounter into a tiny explosion of vowels and consonants that is stored in memory. We gain more intimacy with and more power over our surroundings through the act of naming the things we meet. Our whole life long. Zadie’s Dad is studying for his test in organic chemistry and it’s the same deal at another level. He has to learn a whole new language about the structure of cellular make-up. It’s more abstract and complex than “apple,” but it’s the same process at work.

The nouns of language indeed are necessary for control and understanding. My Zen teacher struggled to translate concepts from Japanese that had no equivalent in English. Some of the ground-breaking work in early psychology with Freud and Jung was gathering various complex webs of behavior under nouns that served as tools for understanding—“Oedipus complex, anima and animus, the collective unconscious, etc.” Every musician must eventually come to grips with appoggiaturas, suspensions, polyrhythms, Dorian modes and such to give shape and direction to musical explorations.Indeed, the first step in entering any field of study is to learn the jargon of nouns. As we know, such jargon can be limiting or oversimplified (ADHD) or can mask human greed and power (Manifest Destiny, collateral damage)— the way we use language and the way we understand language reveals much about what we understand, what we value, what we think. But that’s way down the line.

I haven’t read up on this, but I suspect that the next step for Zadie might be the adjectives— hot toast, big truck, mad Mama when the big truck runs over her hot toast. And then things really start to get exciting with the verbs. There’s “cookie” and there’s “me” and one day there’s “me want cookie.” There’s “sad,” there’s “Pop-pop,” there’s “bye-bye,” than there’s “sad Pop-pop goes bye-bye.”

But not yet! Yesterday was a trip to the Children’s Museum in Portland, a fun time in Zadie’s room playing with one toy after another (she can count up to ten as she drops the rings on the upright little pole) and of course, constant singing with the ukelele. She has words and motions down to the Itsy Bitsy Spider, Skinnamarkink, The Wheels on the Bus, ABC, Twinkle Little Star and more of the kid song classics. Her dancing remains inspired and she always can hear the approaching cadence and clap accordingly at the end. (Just like my Mom!) She’s active and fearless and sometimes naughty, in preparation for the “terrible two’s” coming up (ah! There’s a scary noun and adjective!).

Two more days with her with forecasts of 99% chance of rain. But no matter. She’s starting to ask “waz dat?” and this will be our game wherever we are. (I look forward to the existential period of child development—“Why?”) So happy to have her and my daughter (always number two these days) and her husband here on the West Coast, a shorter and cheaper plane flight away. Maybe we’ll even visit sometime on a day when Zadie can learn a new noun rare in Portland— “sun!”

Workin' in the Rain

It was a joyful morning with granddaughter Zadie, but now she was napping and I set off on an adventurous climb up to Mt. Tabor. It was my Portland initiation, complete with steady rain. Truth be told, some of the world’s weight was on my shoulders. Nothing earth-shattering, just some difficult discussions I needed to have that I didn’t particularly want to have. And so the switch flipped on as it always does, me the star lawyer gathering evidence for the courtroom drama, right up to the eloquent summation to the jury.

But somewhere in the process of trying to figure out where the heck I was on the downward return (my inner GPS true to form in its ineptitude), the switch flipped again and I was planning some 5-year old music classes. Came up with three dynamic activities both connected to each other and to previous knowledge and leading to the next step of emerging musicianship— hot stuff! And not surprisingly, that shoulder weight was mysteriously gone and my step was lighter, even as I wandered in circles hopelessly lost and getting wetter by the minute.

When Duke Ellington had his Pulitzer Prize snatched away at the last minute for shameful racist reasons, he was asked how he felt about it. The ever-elegant Mr. Ellington replied, “I pouted just long enough to write my next blues composition.” How wise he was! The difference between my 30-minute class plan for twenty 5-year olds and Duke’s majestic compositions is simply a difference in degree, not kind. We both petitioned the same gods and they both came through to transform us with the power of the creative imagination.

Most folks pray to Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Krishna, Yahweh, the Great Spirit, what have you, for help in times of need and it’s not a bad impulse. But let’s face it, they’re all rather busy with more urgent manners than regulating the emotional temperature of each of Earth’s 7 billion inhabitants. Better to invoke the Muse and get to work creating something— any kind, any size. From a well-planned and executed dinner to a grand Opera, creative work helps and heals. Gene Kelly comes dancing into the mind, splashing through the puddles with grace, finesse and jubilation.

If you’re not too busy, I’d suggest either listening to Ellington’s Diminuendo and Crescendo in Blue or coming next Tuesday to my preschool class. Either way, I think you’ll be uplifted. Even when lost in a drenching Portland rain.

October Song

Came out from under the weather to be wholly in the weather and landed straight into the arms of Fall. I love summer, with its long nights and outdoor beckonings and immersion in the elements of sea, sand and sky, with its invitation to close the doors firmly to school and reawaken ancient impulses to walk freely on this good earth unencumbered by working responsibilities. But truth be told, my favorite season has always been Fall.

What is it about the Fall? As a kid, there was trying to catch the falling leaves spiraling down from the trees in the park, the vibrant leaf colors and satisfying leaf crunchings while walking,  the raking of leaves that was more fun than the shoveling of snow and the mowing of lawns, the jumping in the pile of the raked leaves and their musty smell. In San Francisco, all of that is but a distant memory as the few deciduous trees we pass on 7^th Avenue driving to school don’t really change colors until November (though some have started) and don’t fall until December.

But the constant of Fall, whether in San Francisco, Salzburg or Seoul, is that sense of turning inward. The days shorten (dark by 7:15 now), the chill in the air sends the shorts to the back of the closet and brings out the jeans and sweaters, the world closes into itself and invites reflection, the book read by the fire or the long dinner with the kitchen filled with good smells. It’s the time to throw another blanket on the bed and wrap oneself in deep dreams, to hunker down and cozy in and stay sleeping later on the weekends. There are fresh apples, the harvest of greens, pears instead of peaches and hearty soups with fresh-baked breads. The birds are packing their bags, the blackberries passing their peak on the vine, the ants marching one by one taking over from the mosquitoes. And of course, there is school, the re-gathering of children for the monumental task of carrying forth the culture and building our future.

I think I’m not alone in my love of the Fall. Japanese haiku poetry is organized by season and some of the best all seem to be gathered under Fall. Fall well expresses that poetic Japanese view of this fleeting world, it’s the turn in the path toward mortality, but always with the bittersweet edge of beauty. What better metaphor for dying than the leaf blazing forth in its final bold colors and then drifting to its death. In October Song, one of my favorite anthems to Fall, Robin Williamson of the Incredible String Band sings:

“The fallen leaves, they jewel the ground. They know the art of dying. And leave with joy, their gold-glad hearts, in the scarlet shadows lying.”

I felt the full feeling of Fall at the airport last night on my way to Portland. When we turn inward, we seek the comfort and company of our fellow folks preparing to face the long winter ahead. And so I felt that pleasant buzz of people gathering in the waiting area and the latent love of my neighbors started to rise up.

My Falls have certain milestones, ritual markers that remind me of the depth and breadth of life’s cycles and the invitation to wholly participate in the offering each season and time of year brings. It’s the time I turn to my annual Dickens book, read and re-read my whole adult life, the time getting on a plane to teach a one-day workshop in some U.S. city means a re-commitment and re-connection to my life’s work, the time of school and it’s fresh energy or the time of sitting down to write my next book on a break from school. There is the promise of Halloween to come and the annual Orff Conference that follows, the reminder to revisit my interior selves that have been constant companions, the chance to carry a book of poetry with me and wander aimlessly on my Monday off through a new San Francisco neighborhood.

And now it’s the time for me to begin my relationship with my daughter’s new home in Portland and oh, joy of all joys, be with my granddaughter Zadie. We already sang and danced last night and read books together and she amazed me with her song repertoire and ability to name the pictures in the alphabet book. More on her later, for now, just this homage to Fall and all the beauty it brings.

Under the Weather

My body like the captain in Mary Poppins booming his cannon to announce a shift in the wind. In that case, the magical Mary comes floating in with her umbrella, in mine, the little germs gather and forecast the inevitable Fall sickness. For no other reason than Summer’s graceful exit and Fall declaring its arrival with the slight chill in the air that changes everything.

Bad time to be sick, (well, when is it a good time?) as I’m about to visit my precious granddaughter after a five month too-long gap since our last visit. Made more difficult because the Skype video connection seems to have disappeared and it’s been four weeks since a Skype-sighting. On the phone, I hear her once-babble and single words shaping themselves into little sentences and am desparate to be there to witness and partake. And sing, of course. She already sang the ABC song on the phone and this proud Pop-Pop thinking it’s quite young to master that (22 months) and she sounds pretty tuneful besides. (Note to self: don’t forget to pack the ukelele.)

So I fortified myself with Wellness pills (echinacea and golden seal), tried to rest when I could and so far think I might keep it at bay. Began feeling under the weather and rising to moving along inside the weather. (Looked up that phrase: comes from sailors who were ill being confined to the hold under the deck and thus, not exposed to, under the weather. How I love language’s little histories.)

So dear reader, get ready for the Zadie Chronicles, transposed from the former home of Washington DC to the the new adventure of Portland, Oregon. Closer, same time zone, cheaper flights, other friends and family there and yes, different weather. Apparently, I’m going to make it just in time for the weekend rain. Under the weather with my umbrella in hand. 

Jesus in Preschool

I know Jesus was admired as a great teacher, but I wonder if he ever taught preschool. That’s where his “love your neighbor as yourself” and “turn the other cheek” would be put to the test. I wish I could be a fly on the wall when he told little Matthew:

“Matthew, you shouldn’t be playing with that in your hand during music class. Bring it to me, please.”

Pause.

“Matthew, please bring that over to me.”

No response.

“Matthew, I’ve asked you two times now. I want you bring that to me. Right now.”

Silence.

“Mateo, ven aqui! No, you don’t speak Spanish? I was just wondering, since I’ve asked you three times in your mother tongue of English. Now once more, bring that to me.”

“Matthew?”

“Yoo hoo! I’m over here!”

Matthew!!!!!!!

You get the idea. Later in the class Matthew twirled around on his little carpet square while others were executing the intricate dance figures. Then he got on someone else’s carpet square who pushed him off and Matthew pushed back and I intervened and separated them and then Matthew pushed again and I believe that it was at this moment that I became a lapsed Christian and felt my blood pressure rise as I firmly escorted Matthew out the door.

In my workshops, I always tell teachers that “behavior is the language of children” and our job is to translate. The behavior was clearly saying either “I can’t do what you’re asking” or “ I could do it but I don’t want to” or “It’s much more fun to twirl around by myself and bump into people” or “I am an alien from another planet” or “I’m only five years old! Cut me some slack! I have no idea what’s going on inside my little body and mind!” But indeed it is my job to:

1)    Stop the behavior so the class can proceed harmoniously and the other children can enjoy the experience.

2)    Give clear consequences as to what’s acceptable or not.

3)    Talk it over with the child and another teacher or administrator.

4)    Try to sincerely figure out what’s going on to help that child to participate successfully.

5)    Love that child. But love comes best from understanding and understanding is hard work. Whether a kid is five or fifty-five.

All this is so easy to say and so hard to do. I suspect Jesus would have been a good preschool teacher, but I also bet he would have gotten frustrated and upset a few times. It makes me feel better to think that. On to tomorrow’s class.