Genius Bar

Yesterday I helped host the celebration of my colleague James Harding’s 20^th year of teaching at our school. In fact, we have a shared a life for 25 years, but through a complicated story and three years where he worked at another school, we celebrated his 20^th now. It was a beautiful event and if you had come to it having never met James, you would have left feeling like you knew him. And intrigued to know more.

Would that all of us have such public moments of recognition. Not the gold watch and clichéd speeches or mean roasting stories, but the kind that gets to the heart of the matter and reveals that you have been deeply known and seen and appreciated for the unique force of your character. And would that it happen before our memorial service!

The event opened with James’ parents and beloved colleague Sofía playing recorder with a nostalgic slide show behind them. Opening words from the head of school and then James’ lovely original song sung by elementary school kids spiraling around him and ending in a hug:

“Round the oak tree, ‘round the oak tree, walk with me.

 In every acorn, every little acorn, there’s a tree.

Something great is inside of me.”

On to a slide presentation of his newly-published book, “From Wibbleton to Wobbleton” and then a showing of various short films he has made with the kids over the years. (I believe a James Harding short film festival is in order— they’re delightful!) Speeches from an alum, two school colleagues, a song about him to the tune of “My Favorite Things,” more accolades from Sofía and I, his partners in crime. Mine began like this:

“James is a genius," is the prevailing wisdom. Most of us think about Einstein or Mozart when we say that, associating genius with extraordinary intelligence or talent. And there is that in James for sure. But the older definition of genius comes from the Roman concept of the “attendant spirit of a person or place.” In this sense, none of us are a genius, but all of us have a particular genius within, that something-great-acorn inside of us that carries the blueprint for the splendid oak we’re each meant to be. That genius is our own way of seeing the world, our particular way of speaking and expressing ourselves and making our way through this complex vale of joy and sorrow. Our job is to search for that particular genius that entered the world with us, to be able to recognize its voice, to open a conversation with that genius and keep that conversation alive and vibrant amidst all the noise in the world trying to drown it out. And to follow it no matter what the cost.

Sounds easy, but perhaps is the most difficult thing we have to do in this life. Not only because the world is trying to make us into everyone else, seeks to flatten us or brainwash us so that we will be lifelong consumers or obedient citizens whose consent can be manufactured in the factories of compliance. But also because the genius is so demanding and uncompromising and requires so much from us. Make no mistake, our life will no longer be our own once we commit to its demands. We will have to work hard beyond all reasonable levels, often without compensation or recognition and never with complete assurance that the ladder we are climbing is up against the right wall.

And that’s what James has done. He is among the five most hard-working people I know, doing “whatever it takes,” even if it means making a movie to show at the Spring Concert 30 minutes before the concert! His genius leads him into the complex pathways of the imagination in all its myriad manifestations. Whether creating a film, writing a song, creating a dance, arranging a piece for Orff instruments, inventing game after game after game which will delight and challenge and inspire both the children and adults he teaches, James is in constant conversation with the imagination and submits to its demands. Like I said, making a film to show at the Spring concert 30 minutes before the concert, even if it means not meeting with me to talk about the program notes!

So what we admire, what we all admire, is the imagination at play and James’ unwavering commitment to keep the conversation with his genius alive. He reminds us how to see the miraculous in the simple, to see the immense possibilities in a cardboard box and the world is refreshed by his efforts.

And so Genius Bar. Not the place with hip young people hovering with their i-Pads helping you figure out something on a machine. I’m talking about the bar our genius sets for us and daily invites us to leap over. After celebrating James particular genius, I went on to pay attention to my own, performing a jazz concert with my fellow Pentatonics. Some exhilarating moments soaring over the bar, some moments knocking it off, but the Genuis actually doesn’t care that much about winning the track meet. It only cares that you show up for the event.

A three-day weekend begins and that inner voice is suggesting that I do all the boring work necessary— arranging flights, filling our Visa forms for Interns, making liner notes for a CD, etc.—to prepare the sacred ground of the genius at work and play. And I will. 

Over the Rainbow

It was an ambitious plan. Fifteen 8^th graders who had just come home that morning from Nicaragua at 1 a.m. were signed up with select parents to go to Yoshi’s Jazz Club with me to hear Jane Monheit sing selections from the Judy Garland songbook. Whether the kids were jet-lagged or genuinely mesmerized by her voice and warm stage presence (probably a combination of both), they were beautifully attentive and I felt so proud of them. Loved how they almost jumped out of their seat when Jane started singing “the Sunnyside of the Street,” which they had recently performed. A “Hey, that’s our song! “ moment. And again when they recognized “I Got Rhythm.” The pleasure we all feel when we know something and recognize what the folks in the limelight deem worthy of recognition. A good reminder of what education is—passing on that which is worthy of remembrance and recognition.

Ms. Monheit brought the house to a pindrop silence with her “Embraceable You” duet and again with— of course— “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” two songs I had recently included in my Mom’s Memorial Service. Gave them both another layer of meaning and along with recognition comes that sense of meaning that a song or a story or a piece of art has for us. A meaning that grows or diminishes in time, that changes as we grow and change. And this time around, a special meaning for me when she reached the lines “and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.”

This Friday, a dream I’ve long held will have another moment of coming true as I play with my Pentatonics quintet (plus one). I’ve somehow managed to give a concert once a year or so in a charming little hall in the place I got my first job in San Francisco—the Community Music Center. For years, I hired a bass player and a drummer, rehearsed once before the concert and off we went. Afterwards, I usually felt good about some moments and knew how much more time I needed to play in a trio as opposed to the solo practice I do in my living room. And I wondered what it would be like to play with a group for an extended period of time and perform often.

One important word in that “Over the Rainbow” lyric— dare. Anybody can dream, but to have a worthy dream that’s deeply tied up with your destiny takes a great deal of daring. Why? Because of the vulnerability of failure. What if I played with a group every day and I didn’t get much better? Easier to say, “Well, if I wasn’t so busy teaching kids, just imagine how good I could be in a jazz band!” But to really commit to it takes daring and risk.

Not that I’ve quit my day job. Nor are the Pentatonics rehearsing more than once every few months or so. But after two years of it, it’s starting to kick in for me and our last two rehearsals were thrilling. And so tiptoeing up to 63 years old, it looks like my joke about being a “jazz pianist” when I grow up is starting to get a little serious.

Again, thousands of more hours that I probably don’t have to really do it justice, but that’s only on the “compare myself to other accomplished pianist’s” yardstick. The more important thing is that this instrument, this musical style, this particular group of people, is starting to speak the syntax of my way of living and loving the world.

Those who live nearby, come hear for yourself this Friday night. If you don’t like it, I will continue. If you like it, I will continue. Of course, it matters to me that it communicates, but the deepest communication is not whether you like a particular combination of sounds, but whether you recognize both the daring and the discipline. From my end, all that matters is that I inch closer to the dream I’m meant to dream and dare to dream it closer to the far end of the rainbow. That’s where the pot of gold lies—in the risk, in the effort, in the perseverance in the face of every reason to stop and lower the bar. Come bear witness on Friday— I think you’ll be glad you did.

The Wheels on the Bus

“Oh the wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round…”

This the opening song in my first music class with granddaughter Zadie, guest student at The San Francisco School. How much did it mean to me to see her sing it with the 3-year olds (with my 33-year old daughter also in the class, who also once sang it with me when she was 3 in the same place)? Well, to quote another song; “How deep is the ocean, how high is the sky?” There is no language that can capture the sensation of beginning a life all over again and boarding that bus with such joy and delight.

My daughter and granddaughter freshly dropped off at the airport to return to Portland, it has been a glorious four days. And a constant theme for me doing the things with Zadie that I once did with her Mom a lifetime ago. To see Zadie sleeping in the bed where her Mom slept, to have her sit next to me for a moment in my morning meditation in the half-lotus posture, to make her the old favorite meals, to watch Fantasia on video. We went on the steam train in Tilden Park, the Caroussel in Children’s Playground by my house, slid down the concrete long slide on cardboard (me once, Zadie 18 times), read the old books on the couch at night, improvised music on the piano and xylophone, kicked a small soccer ball down the hall. It’s all happening again.

And if the Fates be kind, will continue on to the first movie at the Castro Theater, the old Hitchcock films on video, the long nights of Little House on the Prairie read-a louds, the camping trips, the swims in Lake Michigan and canoe rides on the back lake and so on and so on. The doors of the bus will open and shut, the wipers on the bus will go swish-swish-swish and off we’ll go down the road where I have traveled before, but with a new little being at my side, a different face in the mirror and a different spring in my step. How it goes on.

Little Bobbie Dylan

I often tell stories in my music workshops about prospective preschool parents who corner me at a meeting and whisper in hushed confidential tones, “You’re going to love my little Susie. She just loves music!” And go on to tell about how I resist the impulse to whisper back, “So does every child ever born on this planet!” Because they’re trained to think of music as an unusual talent reserved for the special, these parents see their child’s proclivity to sing and dance all day long as something special. Of course, I don’t burst their bubble, but just nod my head and smile.

Well, I’ve become one of those parents!!! Grandparents, to be exact. I am simply amazed by my granddaughter Zadie. At two and a half, not only does she know the words to some 10 songs and sings them somewhat in tune, but she scat sings her own compositions while playing xylophone, while painting, while dancing. (Some of this posted on Facebook for anyone curious to see and hear for themselves).

Here on her visit to my house, she grabs me by the hand and leads me to the piano so we can have a duet session together. Then goes to my small percussion basket and works on her shaker, scraper, kazoo, slide whistle and recorder skills. Some of which are piercing, some occasionally astounding (some amazing rhythm she stumbled into on the shakers) and all of which are unabashedly expressive in the integrated style of the young toddler before the culture of specialization gets its hands on her.

Today, she added harmonica to the repertoire and immediately got both the inhale and the exhale. Then started singing in-between harmonica solos and Bob Dylan, move over! Of course, comparisons are odious and I have no aspirations for her to be a professional musician. I haven’t booked a spot on American Idol or So You Think You Can Dance. I just love to hang at with her as a model of the way humans are supposed to be. Not only musically, but in so many other ways. Her expressive face, her inquisitive mind, her hilarious comments, her genuine sense of humor, her loving hugs. Yeah, she’s “naughty” too and has a few things to learn about social integration, but I’d choose to hang out with her over most adults.

Remember my last entry? I’m close to saying to Zadie what my Mom said to me:

“I love it. I love everything about you. Everything.”

Now let’s go play some harmonica, baby!