Splendor in the Grass

There was a time when meadow, grove and stream,

The earth and every common sight

To me did seem

Apparalled in celestial light

The glory and freshness of a dream.

It is not now as it hath been of yore

Turn wheresoever I may

By night or day

The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

This is Wordsworth in his epic poem, Intimations of Immortality. By my standards, he was young when he wrote that— 34. Perhaps too young to already feel the loss of his sense of wonder, to be jaded by “been there and done that” so many times, it had lost its freshness. And yet I remember 34—up to your ears in bills and responsibility and not as much time to “wander lonely as a cloud” as when you were a kid or the post-college student traveling around the world.

Well, we all know what that feels like and while I looked forward to being in the romantic city of Savannah, I wasn’t wholly feeling it. Maybe because I was teaching four or five workshops a day and then rushing to deal with e-mail in my hotel room in-between sessions. Not the best choice. But then again, two days ago was an ice storm and it was freezing outside!

But today, after I finished my last workshop, I stepped out of the Conference Center and lo and behold! there was the Savannah of my dreams, “apparelled in celestial light.” After two cold clouded days, the sun emerged, the temperature rose and all was reborn. So I went on the quaint water taxi to do what I love to do in strange cities— stroll about aimlessly along the riverfront, amble through a succession of seductive scenic squares, sit for a spell to soak in the sight of the splashing fountains, wander with Wordsworth’s poem on my tongue. Well, the penultimate stanza for starters, with the lines of “though nothing can bring back the hour, of splendor in the grass and glory in the flower” (from which came the Warren Beatty/ Natalie Wood classic film Splendor in the Grass) and its subsequent line: “in the primal sympathy which having been must ever be.”

Yes, William, that indeed is correct. When I managed to resist looking in the store window reflection to see my actual face, I remember that post-college kid and touched again that feeling of walking ageless and nameless through the town. The same spring in my step and lightness in my heart as that younger man who walked through so many towns in this wide wonderful world. Free. Unburdened. Left alone to think my own quirky thoughts, to keep dreaming ahead to what yet may be, to look longingly at the lovely women as if they too wouldn’t notice my old face, to gaze out at the still heron on the river’s edge, the hovering gulls, the sun setting behind the sprawling bridge.

In the windowless forced air over-carpeted room in the Conference Center, I spent many hours helping to release the neglected inner children of responsible adult music teachers, giving them permission to play their way into stirring music and dance, to charge the air with their laughter and good fellow-feeling, effortlessly (with 39 years of practice) stitching all the little games and exercises together to create a coherent confluence of harmonious sound and movement that sent them humming out the door. Hooray for that! No longer feeling the need to convert them to the Orff way, to try to dazzle or impress them, to convince them buy my books— just play together and enjoy!

And so today, I earned this blog’s title. Earned anew my stripes as a music teacher with activities, good music, ideas and a touch of inspiration, that somebody in particular sharing from my little corner of creation. And then the anonymous traveler,  that nameless nobody-special just moving along with the fellow tourists, drifting like the logs on the river, standing still like the heron at river’s edge partaking in the glory of creation. Keeping alive the sense of splendor in the grass, even with its frosted edge on this last day of January.

Whether the Weather

Whether the weather be cold

Or whether the weather be hot

We’ll weather the weather whatever the weather

Whether we like it or not.

The perfect poem for my flight to Savannah yesterday! I was walking out the door to drive to the airport when the phone rang. It was the warm, concerned voice of the automated United robot telling me my flight to Savannah from Washington DC had been cancelled. I called immediately to get that obnoxious jovial recording and decided to just get to the airport and take my chances.

The first person I talked to was not encouraging. “Yes, the flight to Savannah is cancelled and in fact, all our flights to Savannah are cancelled because of an ice storm.” “That’s fine, but lets talk about how you’re going to get me there.” I was picturing flights to nearby places with all-night bus trips. After all, I had six workshops to give at a major state convention plus a talk. “Neither rain nor sleet nor snow nor ice storms shall stop the Orff teacher from fulfilling his appointed rounds” my professional credo. Many back and forths later, they got me on a flight on American Airlines. Apparently, the Savannah airport is closed to United, but not to American. Huh? It would get me in 3 hours later that my original flight and of course, there’s a chance that I’d be stranded in Dallas. Or at the Savannah Airport, as apparently the bridges were closed to get into Savannah.

So it was a somewhat tense exciting time for me, a very boring travel story for you. I did make all connections, got a cab to the hotel and 12 hours later, arrived at my hotel room to prepare for a day of workshops. The three most interesting parts of the trip so far?

1. Somehow I got a pre-board status on American and didn’t have to take off my shoes or jacket to go through security. Just walked through. How exactly does that work?

2. I saw the movie The Runner on the plane, which after American Hustle and The Wolf of Wall Street drives home the point that all young men want to do is make heaps of money, be surrounded by sexy girls and eventually get caught by the law. Who are these people? Not the crowd I ever hung out with.

3. After my workshop tonight, a security guard who had been peeking in the door came up to me and said, “I don’t understand anything about music, but if you had been my teacher, I would.”  I invited him to take part in the workshop tomorrow if he had time off. He shook my hand, visibly moved.

And so was I. For a moment like that, I would weather any weather and fly 12-hours without a moment’s hesitation.

Swingin' in Fresno

Sometimes a dream comes true. Sometimes your hard work pays off. Sometimes everything you’ve cared about and paid attention to and worked to master finds a place that welcomes it, that needs it, that appreciates it. Sometimes you’re in the right place at the right time with the right people and the door opens to the right opportunity.  And that’s how I got to Fresno with my first jazz-band ever (now almost two years together), The Pentatonics.

Early Saturday morning, four of my now-favorite people on the planet and I loaded ourselves and our instruments in a mini-van and began the three-hour road trip to Fresno. Great conversation, good humor, good snacks. Quick check-in at the Fresno hotel and drive on to neighboring Sanger for an afternoon of workshops. We began by transforming 15 shy and timid Middle Schoolers in a jazz band into smiling, energetic and confident performers, then worked the same magic with the High School band. Both groups put away the chairs, the music stands, the jazz charts and at the beginning, their instruments and came to the circle to express everything they knew (and much they didn’t know they knew) in their bodies, voices, ears and imagination. Jazz as conversation, jazz as storytelling, jazz as the energies of the body given a voice. Then they brought out their instruments and guided by the expertise of each Pentatonic member, transferred all they had done to their particular instrument and put it together with movement choreography and a form that developed organically from our explorations. By the end, the Middle School was playing a swingin’ version of Count Basies “Jumpin’ at the Woodside” and the High School a crazy New York City traffic jam choreographed version of Thelonious Monk’s “Little Rootie Tootie,” both without a single note of written music. I had never done the latter with a group before and as one student noted in a reflection period, “At the beginning, it seemed like a random group of activities, but then everything came together into one coherent whole.” Nice observation!

That evening, we performed a short history of jazz complete with an African xylophone piece, an African-American body percussion piece, a spiritual updated, an ragtime novelty tune with a live “silent movie” mime shtick, a medium tempo “happy song” from the 30’s, a time-stopping ballad, a burning jazz tune ending with a poignant modern hymn. The music spoke for itself, but why not also give a little historical background and put it into context? And I did. In the middle, the two bands performed what we practice and at the end, we called them up again for a wild ride through the C-Jam Blues, with every one of the 30 plus kids and their teachers soloing!

Their have been many memorable moments in my career when I’ve stopped and thought, “This is the culmination of my life’s work.” That’s what I felt again here— all those hours spent alone in the living room working on jazz piano without knowing why, all the work with kids and adults exploring every corner of the Orff approach, all the determination I’ve had to put feet on my winged dreams, all the gratitude I’ve felt for the help of seen and unseen hands, the grace and the just plain good luck to meet these remarkable musicians, caring teachers and superb human beings (that’s you guys— Joshi, Marty, Sam and Micah!). My cup runneth over. And to end as I have before:

Happy. Thank you. More please.

Holding the Thread: A Letter to Pete Seeger

In 1955, a folksinger named Pete Seeger was summoned to the Halls of Power in Washington, DC, where he was denounced by the fascist Senator Joe McCarthy to be blacklisted as a Communist. He was charged with contempt of Court (a contempt wholly deserved) and sentenced to 10 years in prison, though the charge was appealed and revoked before he ever was incarcerated. The U.S. Government wanted to shut him up and deny him access to public venues that would carry the message of justice and freedom to the American people.

In 2009, he was invited back to Washington DC to celebrate the inaugaration of America’s first black president, Barack Obama. Now the government was asking him to sing his message loud and clear to millions of television viewers worldwide, those hardy and now beloved songs about justice, freedom and love. The world had changed a lot in those intervening 54 years. And it was due in no small part to the unrelenting work of this remarkable and humble man.

Pete, I never met you, but I have much to ask you and much to praise. I wonder how you felt as a 90-year old man singing on that occasion. Was there a moment when you paused and thought, “Well, will you look at this? Who could have imagined it?” as you played your banjo with the inscription, “This machine surrounds hate— and forces it to surrender.” Perhaps you had a moment of naughty pleasure thinking “In your face, Joe McCarthy!”, a moment of sweet remembrance for all the fallen comrades you had shared the vision with, a moment of astonishment that this had come to pass in your lifetime. But I suspect that soon after such sweet reflections, you thought, “There sure is a lot more to do! Back to work!” Indeed, two years later, you appeared in an Occupy Wall Street rally, still feisty after all these years. How I admire that!

And what a work it was. Your concerns ranged widely, from fair labor practice to civil rights to environmental issues to anti-war work and beyond. You worked with the hammer of justice and the bell of freedom, but mostly you worked with the song of love and your love of song, using music as the vehicle to not only protest what’s wrong, but to create what’s right, to take on the big issues with songs like We Shall Overcome and delight the children with your song/story, The Foolish Frog, to approach a life of moral uprightedness with the seriousness it deserved but also with the play and enjoyment and fun all serious work needs. Gandhi spoke with his fasting body, Martin Luther King with his booming oration, and you, Pete Seeger, with the twang of your banjo.

Reading your short biography only, it’s stunning how much you influenced my life without me knowing it. Not only writing the songs that I sing with the kids that frame some of our ceremonies, not only bringing the banjo more front and center, not only the mix of music and community, music and social justice, music and children, but some surprising further connections. Like helping bring steel drums and South African songs to America long before Harry Belafonte and Paul Simon, like your work with Alan Lomax and performances with Josh White and Leadbelly and Woody Guthrie and (surprise!) your singing with Bess Lomax Hawes, the woman who co-wrote the book “Step It Down” with Bessie Jones, bringing the work of the Georgia Sea Island Singers into American music education and informing so much of my own work. Not to mention your influence with the folk musicians I listened to in my formative years— Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul and Mary, Kingston Trio and beyond— and those memorable songs like Turn, Turn, Turn and Where Have All the Flowers Gone.

But most impressive was your longevity, not just in years but in your unbroken sustaining vision. William Stafford has a beautiful poem about holding the thread that keeps us true to ourselves (see below). He says, “While you hold it you can’t get lost…You don’t ever let go of the thread.” And you didn’t. Your moral compass never seemed to flag and you defied the stereotype of the young rebel who sells out when faced with a mortgage, fame or the natural conservative bent of aging. You kept your true north to your dying day, spoke out clearly and strongly about injustice in all its many faces —and seemed to have a good time doing it.

My voice is small, my Earth Day Rap low on the hit parade, my public venue limited to Facebook, my blog and workshops, my bravery in speaking out small peanuts compared to staring down Congress. But though the size is different, the intent is the same— transformation of self and world through music with people of all sizes and shapes and races and creeds. And not only with the banjo, but with bagpipe and accordion as well!

I guess I didn’t know it until too late to tell you, but Pete, you are my hero! Thank you for these gifts beyond measure. Your work is done and the next chapter is in our hands. Be assured that we will keep weaving the cloth of justice and good living with the thread you bequeathed us. And now, my good man, enjoy a well-deserved rest.

THE WAY IT IS

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among

Things that change. But it doesn’t change.

People wonder about what you are pursuing.

You have to explain about the thread.

But it is hard for others to see.

While you hold it you can’t get lost.

Tragedies happen; people get hurt

Or die. And you suffer and get old.

Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.

You don’t ever let go of the thread.

-William Stafford

Happy Anniversary to TED

It was exactly one year ago today that my long-dreamed of date with TED (well, technically, TEDx) happened. It didn’t make me rich or famous. It didn’t inspire viewers to rush to find out where they could buy my books. It didn’t fill my calendar with more speaking engagements. It didn’t catch the attention of the TED minus the x Channel and inspire them to give me another talk with five extra minutes. It didn’t mark the turning point of a re-commitment to inspired music education throughout the United States and beyond. We follow our passion and look for opportunity to share it and imagine that what we care about will make a significant dent in the world. It doesn’t appear that my talk even made a hint of a wrinkle.

But like all things worth doing, it was good for me to prepare, helped hone my thinking about what’s important and helped me think about how to communicate it to strangers. It has been nice to have another medium beyond my books and this blog to go further than my body can travel. And for a subject—why music education in schools?— that gets very little airplay in our nations’ public discourse and let’s face it, is way low on people’s list of what they’re thinking about when they wake up in the morning, I think it did pretty well: 8,604 page views,  106 people who took time to say they liked it, 0 who gave it at thumbs-down. And 15 who took time to write comments that ranged to the over-inflated: “You are so Great, Sir!” “I am so honored to have studied with this amazing man.” “Legend?” to the appreciative “Wonderful!” Super! “Thank you.”to the “Huh?”— “Conejo means rabbit in Spanish.”

And while I’m in this anniversary mode, this day was also when I flew to Korea three years ago and initiated the theme of this blog (the actual first entry was 1/11/11, an auspicious date!). And in my numbers-nerd mode, may I report that over the three years there have been 707 pieces I’ve written and posted, 115 followers, 71, 359 page views . Okay, I know Justin Beiber gets that much attention every three hours, but still, I’m gratified that I not only get to share my experiences and thoughts in a public venue, but that some people actually read it and occasionally find it affirming or thought-provoking or entertaining or evocative. That’s enough for me.

So on the occasion of these multiple anniversaries, my gratitude to all the readers and viewers and my hopes that I continue to be worthy of the mild attention I’m getting. And TED, feel free to call me for a second date.

A Shocking Confession

I bet I got your attention with that title! I wonder what you’re imagining. I took a quarter away from a kid who was playing with it in class and didn’t give it back? I taught a lesson without any differentiated instruction? I didn’t step up and step down at a staff meeting? No, the real truth is much harder to imagine, more scandalous, more apt to get me excommunicated from the initimate circle of teachers. Okay, brace yourself. Here it is:

I wrote report cards tonight— and enjoyed it!!!!

If there’s one thing that unites us teachers, it’s our mutual dread of report card writing. But tonight, I set up at my newly cleaned desk by the window, put on a Keith Jarrett Trio CD, piled the newly minted tests with much of the vital information I needed at my fingertips and proceeded to write a love letter of appreciation to each 8^th grader— of course, with a few hints about what to work on next. Okay, I confess that after 22 in one long stretch, I needed to stretch, play along with Keith on the piano, step outside for some fresh air and clear my head of kids for the moment. But then back I went— and I was still enjoying it!

As any teacher knows, the hardest part about grading is hitting that wall when the report card asks how so and so is doing in such and such and you’re struck with that dreaded feeling— “I have no idea!” Or you’re searching for the necessary positive comments and you realize that it’s hard for you to find them in this particular child that goodness knows, you’ve tried hard to love, but let’s face it, they haven’t made it easy! Or you look over the grades and realize that all your students are in a Lake Wobegon parallel universe where every child is below average— and it occurs to you that it just might be your fault. Or you’re a specialist teaching some 500 children and are supposed to pretend that you know them. The reasons to hate filling out report cards are many and varied. 

So why did I enjoy it so much? First of all, music is pretty low pressure on the parent or high school transcript Richter scale. In 39 years of teaching, no parent has ever come up to me on the verge of a nervous breakdown because their kid couldn’t correctly identify the Mixolydian scale or because I caught them playing the xylophone without alternating mallets. Secondly, I designed the report cards to be simple and touch on the things that I cared most about— participation, effort, enthusiasm, progress, insight— and spared myself the micro-managed details: “Can swing in 3/4 time.” “Can swing in 2/4 and 4/4 time at various tempos.” Can swing in 7/8 time using the minor pentatonic scale with smears and glides over a transposed 12-bar blues with altered chords.” Thirdly, because I had the tests that not only showed what my 8th graders now knew about jazz, but also what it meant to them. And what a pleasure it was to receive their thanks for opening their ears to music they were growing to love and understand that they might never have encountered on their own.

But mostly I enjoyed it because I love these thirty-two 8^th graders. All of them. I love sharing music I love in a style of teaching I love with particular pieces I love. I love watching how each responds to the challenges thrown at them and each finds their way to a breakthrough moment and I love noticing that moment and naming it in the report card. I love thinking about the next challenge that lies ahead— “Don’t be afraid to honk that saxophone, give it more oomph and soul! You’re playing the blues!” “Consider developing an interpretive dance to that poem you recited.” “Let’s work a bit on the intonation of that bass.”

And yes, I also love the moment when……I’m done!!

Detached Outrage

Let’s face it— I’ve lived in La La Land most of my life. The San Francisco I’ve known is more likely to be guided by Dr. King’s “the arc of the moral universe is long , but it bends towards justice” than “screw the other guy before he screws you.” The school I’ve worked at has been committed to treating children— and each other—kindly with a deep faith in their “imaginative, intellectual and humanitarian promise” (our mission statement).  The field of Orff Schulwerk is strewn with colorful wildflowers inviting all who participate to skip gaily around holding hands. It has made for a mostly lovely life and the rare opportunity to attempt to co-create with others Gandhi’s “change we want to see in the world.”

But it has its downside. When your ideal expectations are thwarted, you feel outraged, betrayed, shocked. When you expect things to work, you’re indignant when they don’t. When you assume good intentions, you’re confused when people treat you badly. When poor decisions are made, your youthful idealism becomes a laughable naiveté. How to navigate the treacherous waters when vision meets the “real world?” How to keep the sweet from turning bitter, how to avoid being eaten away by your own outrage?

Mr. Mose Allison, that wise and clever bluesman who’s been around the block a few times, has a great suggestion in the form of a 12-bar blues:

If life is driving you to drink, you’re sittin’ around wonderin’ just what to think,

Well, I got some consolation, I’ll give it to you if I might.

I don’t worry about a thing ‘cause I know nothin’s gonna be alright.

This world is just one big trouble spot, some have plenty, some have not,

I used to be trouble, but I finally saw the light.

Now I don’t worry about a thing ‘cause I know nothin’s gonna be alright.

Don’t waste your time tryin’ to be a go-getter,

Things will get worse before they get any better

You know there’s always someone playin’ around with dynamite.

But I don’t worry about a thing ‘cause I know nothin’s gonna be alright.

Amen, brother! Yes, incompetent people will rise to the top. Yes, power will cloud vision. Yes, good-hearted people will be silent when they should speak up. Yes, decisions are apt to be made that lean more toward comfort than courage, personal gain than service, protecting privilege than including the dispossessed, sheer stupidity than deep thinking. Yes, the American Hustlers and Wolves of Wall Street are all around us, preying on our naiveté and our innocent assumptions of good intentions.

So without turning cynical, giving up on hope, losing your capacity for outrage, without taking your eyes off the prize, lower your expectations. Sleep on the floor so you won’t be so battered when pushed off the bed. Keep a sense of humor. Don’t be surprised by the next incomprehensible decision from above. Greet it with a wink, “Ah, here you are. I’ve been expecting you. What is it this time?” Give your whiny little child five minutes and then shake him or her awake and get back to the world of pro-action over re-action. Practice detached outrage.