Seasoned Innovator

There has been a flurry of response to my Facebook Post acknowledging the beginning of my 40^th year at school. I feel a little sheepish hosting my own party, but truth be told, very sweet to get the community affirmation that indeed this is a worthy milestone. Amongst many lovely comments, someone wrote: “Kudos to all you beautifully seasoned innovators…”

I’ve been called many things in my life, but “seasoned innovator” is a new one. I like it!

Fact is that I am truly appreciating the consequences of aging. Well, most of them. But the seasoning part that comes from having lived through so many seasons, both the physical and metaphysical ones (the Winter of Our Discontent, Spring Awakening, The Summer of Love, Autumn Harvest), is indeed worthy of gratitude. There are less surprises, life’s betrayals and disappointments carry a bit less punch, its surprises and pleasures more appreciation. You know some things. And some things you really know, I mean, down to the marrow of your bones. No speculation, no guesswork, no wishful thinking, you’ve been there, done that, lived it many times over, thought about it, talked about it, read about it, written about it, it’s indelibly a part of you and you’re happy to share it with others. Whether they want it or not!  J

But I particularly like the juxtaposition of “innovator” next to “seasoned.” Knowing something can lead to complacency and being content with answers, whereas innovation thrives on the questions and demands constant attention and intention and alertness. The innovation is the part that has kept me so excited about returning to school today, the seasoning is the part that gave me permission to be relaxed. Yeah, I still have to plan classes, but more and more, it’s about just showing up and sharing myself as a means for kids to get to know themselves. That’s the reason to become yourself— not only for your own peace of mind, but to inspire others to become themselves. A remarkable musician from my recent World Music Course in Toronto wrote:

“You seem to have achieved authenticity through your chosen path, just like a good musician who becomes one with their instrument! As a result, additionally to the vastly interesting things you’re bringing, there is a constant hidden message to us: ‘You, too, can become the best you could be!’ “

Well, there it is. And that’s a point of view that has only become available to me in my elder years. The brash young man brimming with self-confidence thinks it’s all about him and his achievement and that’s important at that stage of life. But finally the years have quieted that whiny, needy teenager in me hungry for approval and admiration and I find myself moving into the capacity to affirm and bless others. Not a charge to take lightly and you have to choose the specific moments worthy of blessing, not just give general kudos to folks about how “cool and awesome they are.” In order to do it properly, you have to be a seasoned innovator. 

Guilty Pleasures

Tomorrow is the first day of school. For all practical purposes, summer is gone. No longer the option of sleeping late, playing five games of morning solitaire, napping, beaching. Back to the workaday world with 275 energetic, enthusiastic, needy, whiny, adorable, naughty, surprising, quirky, loud, unpredictable, too-predictable kids from three years old to 14, all of whom want your attention and need something from you that they often don’t know how to put into words. Each age with their pet problems and you have to navigate down the expert ski slope of each without crashing into trees. Not to mention their parents who expect you to solve all the issues they can’t— or worse yet, the issues they helped create. Or the parents who want you to adore their child as much as they do. And yes, they are worthy of it, but don’t forget, there are 274 others.

As the music teacher, you have to deal with releasing energy that is not yet under the child’s full control, get them to express themselves when they’re too shy or timid or stop expressing themselves when they’re over the top with self-love. You have to exhibit the patience of a saint when they insist their recorder is broken when it’s their playing at fault or they can’t remember the line you’ve rehearsed some, oh, 400 times, and by the way, the play is tomorrow. When they break the mallet or guitar string, guess who’s taking the field trip to replace it?

May I mention that the pay is on the medium to low side, the dignity in the culture is on the low to below low side, the appreciation for taking on the charge of shaping the future of the human experiment is dubious, though occasionally breathtaking from the child or the alum or the parent who understands that the six hours you spent sewing their costume the night before or planning a joyful lesson was to give them a bit of happiness in a world often in short supply.

And to top it off, tomorrow is the beginning of my 40^th year doing this in the same school. The time when any reasonable human being would be burnt out, often to a charred nub, and be counting the days to retirement and golf.

And yet. I’m as giddy as a teenager in love, happy in anticipation of our always stirring opening ceremony and the Singing Time when all the teachers dance in front of the kids and my first class with 4^th grade. Looking forward to that first 8^th grade jazz class and playing games around the world with 6^th graders and joy of joys, the weekly Preschool Singing Time. Should I feel guilty that all of this gives me so much pleasure? That I can almost imagine another 40 years of this? (Yeah, I know the numbers don’t quite add up, but they did for my Zen teacher who taught until he was 103.)

I’m not trying to gloat here, as I’m well aware that most work doesn’t bring so much constant pleasure for such a long period of time. But I hope that’s not true. I’d like to think much of it does for the people it chose and even if the work was okay instead of extraordinary, perhaps the paycheck helped compensate and the weekend hobbies picked up the slack.

Meanwhile, let the record stand. I’m going back to school tomorrow to begin my 40^th year and I can’t think of a happier thing to do. 

Broken Drone

The centerpiece of Orff’s elemental orchestration is something called the drone. It can be described as Do and Sol or 1 and 5 or C and G (for starters) and provides the solid ground on which the rhythms walk and over which the melody flies. It is generally played in the basses and can be played in many variations— C and G alternating or played together or played low and then high in steady beats or patterned rhythms. Just as the floor of the house is generally not overly decorated (except St. Marks Cathedral in Venice), the drone is mostly utilitarian, saving the flights of fancy and leaps of the imagination for the melodies, ostinato and other textural elements in music. It is the reliable foundation of the musical edifice. I always warn the teachers I train: “Be careful who you put on the bass part. If that is not rock solid, the whole thing is coming down.”

These were my thoughts after leaping out of bed in the middle of the night with my house shaking. My wife and I ran to the back of the house, sat there for about five minutes and then went back to sleep. The next morning we read about the 6.0 earthquake, the largest since the 6.9 we experienced back in 1989. Described as a “rolling earthquake,” this one seems to have been mercifully benign, with no damage or injuries reported. But the whole thing called up my deep psychological response to the 1989 one, the sense of being betrayed by the illusion that the ground I walked on is always solid and dependable. What felt my whole life like a non-negotiable given turns out to be a tentative arrangement of plates that can slip and slide and literally take away the ground beneath our feet. That’s disturbing. Same feeling as an unstable drone in music, but with potentially much more disastrous consequences.

I have a theory that a series of little earthquakes helps relieve the accumulating tension and forestalls “the big one.” Don’t know if there’s any science behind it, but part of me doesn’t want to find out— it’s at least a mildly comforting thought. Appropriate that the psychological description of one’s emotion—“this really shook me up”— is the same as the physical description. In all sorts of ways, we live our lives built on shaky foundations and though we need the illusion of solidity to help us bear the terror of life and death, it indeed is an illusion. The Buddhist have been telling us that for well over 2,000 years.

So we’ll all huddle around the water cooler at school and talk about it a bit and then dive back into the comfort of preparing our classes for the kids, retreat into routine and hope that the gods are giving that drone in the basses to a solid, reliable player so we can keep the music rolling.

May it be so!

It Runneth Over

A few years back, I went to the home of a remarkable musician in Edinburgh who was extremely knowledgeable and accomplished in the Amadinda xylophone tradition of Uganda. I asked him if he was teaching or performing it in Edinburgh and he said, mostly not— not a lot of interest locally. And so he was doing work in some other field. He seemed happy enough, but I couldn’t help but think of the disconnect between what he had to offer to the world and what the world wanted from him. It felt a shame.

Those who know me have heard me complain about the same, my sense that I have something to offer that the world is not as interested in as I think it should be. And yet, I am out of my mind to complain. This summer, I got to help teach a remarkable course in Ghana, another satisfying one in Verona, Italy and offer my thoughts and perspective at a meeting in Salzburg of Orff teachers worldwide. I got to teach my annual Jazz Class, helped direct and teach Level III in the summer Orff Level Trainings and then cap off the summer with a World Music Course. (And even managed a lovely two weeks as a 100% tourist with my wife on the West Coast of Italy and another great week with the family —and Zadie!!— in Michigan.)

In short, the things that I’ve spent my lifetime loving and pursuing— Jazz, World Music, Orff Schulwerk, interest in West African music— all found a form for expression and lots of eager people ready and ripe to receive it. It got me traveling (for free) to Ghana, Italy, Austria, Carmel Valley, Toronto and paid me more than enough money to get through the summer. It introduced me to vibrant musicians, fun people, thoughtful teachers and let me reunite with the same growing tribe of friends and colleagues. It gave me a platform to articulate my vision of healthy community, music’s healing power, the glory and promise of children, the potential of schools. Copious tears of joy and appreciation were shed at each and every event, testimonies of lives uplifted and transformed and bettered, promises to share the treasures with the kids in this Fall’s classes— and I mean thousands and thousand of kids.

Why would I ever complain that Oprah and Terry Gross aren’t calling? Why would I be disappointed that no one has asked me to teach Orff classes for the Middle East peace talks? Why should I worry that only 12,000 people have seen my TEDx talk and 1 billion watched whatever Justin Bieber did yesterday? Well, partly because I think it all is worthy of a larger audience. But mostly, because I’m an idiot.

So thank you to all who took the trouble to come to this summer’s courses, to all who helped organize them, to all the unseen hands that keep moving me forward aligned with a vision that has served me my whole life and continues to bring joy and satisfaction beyond the norm. My cup indeed runneth over and I am one grateful teacher.

Now to school tomorrow to prepare my own re-invigorated plans for a Fall with the children. Farewell, summer!

First Short Story

He was in love. And determined to prove it. So he went to a tattoo artist and got an estimate. Decided on wearing her phone number on his forehead and put down a down payment for the area code. Saved his money and walked out one day with three digits.

Worked diligently the whole year and got the dash and three more added. His love grew, made manifest in the sacrifices he made to cut back and save and scrounge. Many months later, he got three more added. He was one digit away from a full-blown public declaration of undying love.

And one day he walked proudly out of the tattoo parlor with the final digit in place. His first act as a fully embossed lover was to call her.

A voice mail declared:

“I’m sorry. The number you have reached has been changed. The new number is…”