Ludwig and Jalaluddin—The Spirit of the Music and the Music of the Spirit

 

Today is December 17^th. It is Beethoven’s birthday and Rumi’s Death-day. Beethoven is being celebrated on classical music radio stations, commemorating the 250 years since his birth. Rumi is being celebrated by Muslim Sufi’s in a ceremony called his “Wedding Night” that includes the whirling dervish dance he helped create over 750 years ago.

 

For those who don’t know, Jalaluddin Rumi was a mystic poet born in 1207 in what is now Afghanistan. He later moved (fleeing from Genghis Kahn) to Konya, Turkey. Because Afghanistan then was part of the Persian Empire, people in both Iran and Turkey equally claim him as their own. Thanks to some superb contemporary translations by Coleman Barks, Rumi has been a best-selling poet in the U.S. the last thirty years or so. 

 

In one collection of his poems titled These Branching Moments, Barks writes:

 

Rumi’s era was, like ours, a time of violent sectarian conflict, with many religions jostling for power and spheres of influence. It was dangerous to be known as a mystic, but Rumi somehow became a haven on inclusiveness.

 

Rumi died at sunset on December 17, 1273. It is said that everybody came to his funeral—Christians, Hindus and Buddhists. His presence was larger than any doctrine or church…There is today a Christian church in Shiraz, Iran that has lines from Rumi carved in stone around the door:

 

    “Where Jesus lives, the great-hearted gather.

     We are a door that is never locked.

 

    If you are suffering any kind of pain,

    Stay near this door. Open it.”

 

Some eight centuries later, we still need to remind ourselves of this, as “Christians” refuse immigrant refugees and lock both the doors of their country-club church and the doors of their small hearts. 

 

As a mystic poet, Rumi was tuned to the music of the Spirit and literally used music and dance (the whirling dervish tradition) as an inroad to God. He spoke often of  music as a practice truer than mere words.

 

Today like every other day, we wake up empty and frightened.

Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading. Take down

a musical instrument. 

 

Let the beauty we love be what we do. 

There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

 

And then there’s Beethoven. His way to kneel and kiss the ground was through music and he knew that this is precisely what he was born for. He said: 

 

• Music comes to me more readily than words.

 

• Tones sound, and roar and storm about me until I have sent them down in notes. 

 

• Beethoven can write music, thank God, but he can do nothing else on earth. 

 

Like Rumi, he felt musical tones brought one closer to the life of the Spirit than mere words: 

 

• Music is the mediator between the spiritual and the sensual life.

 

• Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy. 

 

• Music is the one incorporeal entrance into the higher world of knowledge which comprehends mankind but which mankind cannot comprehend.

 

• Music is the wine which inspires one to new generative processes, and I am Bacchus who presses out this glorious wine for mankind and makes them spiritually drunken.

 

So the many connections between Beethoven, the musician, the one who felt the Spirit through the music and Rumi, the poet, the one who heard the music of the Spirit. One was born on this day, one died on this day and both still have something to say and sing to us these many centuries later. If there is a Heaven where all the cloaks of different religions, races, genders, beliefs finally drop, I can see Rumi dancing to Beethoven’s Ode to Joy and Beethoven setting down a new Symphony from Rumi’s poetry. 

 

Follow Rumi’s advice and take down a musical instrument today. If you can, play a little Beethoven. Then off to the study for a book of Rumi’s poetry. A good way to start the day on December 17^th. 

No Jim Crow in Heaven

I have a question that Google can’t answer: 

 

Is there Jim Crow in Heaven? Is there one cloud for blacks and another for whites? Is there one heavenly choir singing slow hymns from books and another dancing and clapping Gospel-style? 

 

One curious feature of European colonialism was their insistence on “converting the natives.” Be it Native Americans in California missions, enslaved West Africans in the American South, diverse ethnic groups throughout the entire continent of Africa, Aboriginals in Australia or “infidels” in the Middle East, the priests always accompanied the soldiers to make sure that each colonized heathen was a firm believer in the Lord who sanctioned their oppression. 

 

But if a “heathen-forcibly-turned-Christian’ asked, “Do I get to go to Heaven?,” what would the conqueror/ slave-master answer? That some get to go to 3/5ths Heavens? Others would be sent to Reservation Heaven on the clouds where no one else wanted to live? That they must firmly accept and believe the Gospel of Jesus, but they could skip the part about Heaven? 

 

And if the answer was, “In heaven, we don’t have our earthly bodies so there is no color discrimination,” wouldn’t the next logical question be, “Well, hey, if we’ll be sharing a cloud for all eternity, does it really make sense to treat me so badly down here?”

 

I am 100% serious. This is a conversation I’d like to have with today’s Christian White Supremacist. Can someone arrange this? 

 

Meanwhile, before assuming Google couldn’t answer this, I of course looked it up. And I found one thing—the Capital City Quartette singing the title I made up for this inquiry! So I guess someone was thinking about it. But certainly not the people in power, who would have had to look deeper into what they were—and are—doing. Check out the song.

 

https://youtu.be/Yc35KWqFTFs 

Mixed Tocopherols

From my childhood Christmas tree ornament to mochi, crumpets and milk and molasses, from the winter rains of San Francisco to listening to the vinyl record of Czech Christmas carols, these December blogposts seem to be yearning for signs of continuity, unbroken lines with the past that enlarge the present and point to the future. And today’s breakfast unveiled another one: Shredded Wheat. 

 

Given the hyper pace of change, it’s rather remarkable that the Shredded Wheat I ate as a child is the same as that which I ate this morning, with the same ingredient: Wheat. Simple. Tasty. Nutritious. Entirely itself without having to be dressed up. Nothing to be improved in some weird notion of progress. No compulsion to take it off the shelves just because it has been there for so long. One point for my favorite team: “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

 

Of course, it’s not completely au natural. Next to the ingredient “wheat” it says: “with some mixed tocopherols to preserve freshness.” Hmm. Wondering if my childhood shredded wheat also contained those mixed tocopherols. Perhaps that is a sign of progress— nothing feels wholly right in food without some mixed tocopherols to round it out. Ha ha! 

 

So I’ll save you the trip to Wikipedia and give you your trivia fact of the day:

 

“Alpha-tocopherol in dietary supplements and fortified foods is often esterified to prolong its shelf life while protecting its antioxidant properties. The body hydrolyzes and absorbs these esters (alpha-tocopheryl acetate and succinate) as efficiently as alpha-tocopherol On the basis of the comprehensive experimental and clinical data available on alpha-tocopherol, the chemical and biological similarity of the alpha-, beta-, gamma- and delta-tocopherols and the information available on the levels of tocopherols used as food antioxidants, it is concluded that tocopherols are safe food ...”

 

Memorize that paragraph and recite it at your next social gathering. People will either quickly retreat to the other side of the room or give you an honorary doctorate. But at least if you find yourself eating breakfast alone the next morning, you can look forward to the comfort food of Shredded Wheat and thank the scientists that it feels so remarkably fresh, thanks to — well, now you know—mixed tocopherols. 

The Four Essentials

Amidst all the long list of things one misses during this sheltering time, here’s a surprising one: I miss telling jokes. Well, I suppose I could tell some over Zoom, but mostly the occasion for joke-telling comes up for me during dinners with groups of people. I have a healthy repertoire of both the acceptable and the naughty ones (Santa, hope you’re not reading this!) and once I get going, one joke suggests another. Or better yet, someone else comes back with their joke and the ping-pong game is on!

 

I’ve long been a fan of independent learning, the kind that insists that all needed information is stored in your own body and mind, ready to pull out at a moment’s notice without having to thumb through pages or scroll through your phone’s screen. To that end, I’ve learned some 25 myths and fairy tales that are ready for the next campfire I find myself in, or more commonly, that are in my back pocket during long walks with kids who start whining about how tired they are with 3 more miles of our little “adventure” (i.e., hike) left. The story serves as a welcome piggyback ride that carries them through to the end. 

 

Then there’s 25 or so poems that are handy when you want to say what you really mean and bring the room to a hushed silence. There’s the 200 plus folk songs with guitar accompaniment that can gather a group together instantly and the 300 plus jazz standard songs with piano accompaniment that bring such comfort when visiting Homes for the Aged. 

 

I think of stories, songs, poems, jokes as the four essentials of enlivening any social situation. I’ve spent my life learning and memorizing these kinds of things and the payoff is exponential. In the past few months, the jazz standard repertoire at my fingertips has been wonderfully useful in my recent Jazz History class, the folk songs with guitars just perfect for both the neighborhood sing and the Zoom music class with my granddaughter’s 3^rdgrade, the poems coming up occasionally in my online Orff workshops and the stories were perfect for the four weeks this summer with the grandchildren.

 

But it’s been a long time since I’ve told jokes. 

 

I’m not exactly a virtuoso joke teller—for one thing, I’m horrible at accents, which often comes in handy for certain kinds of jokes (not talking about the insulting ethnic stereotypes here, just the kind where it gives a little flavor and color). But I do have a feel for the musical side of the story, paying attention to rhythm and phrasing and accent and the artistic use of silence, the just-right pause before the punchline. And so jokes, like poetry and stories and music, can be written down and still funny, but it is the live three-dimensional performance in which they truly live. 

 

And so I stumbled upon a Youtube of Buddy Hackett telling a few jokes on the Johnny Carson show and that is what made me realize how I miss telling jokes. So I’ll re-tell one of his here, but without the physicality, it won’t carry as much punch. Here goes:

 

The city man goes hunting out in the country and shoots a duck. The duck falls from the sky, hits a barn roof and falls to the ground. The man comes to retrieve the duck and a farmer walks out of the barn. 

 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

 

“I’m just going to get the duck I shot.”

 

“Not your duck. It hit my roof and fell on my property, so it’s my duck now.”

 

“But I shot it!” the hunter protests.

 

“Doesn’t matter, Mr. City Man. Out here in the country we respect private property. If the duck is on my property, then it’s mine.”

 

“But like I said, I’m the one who shot it. It doesn’t matter where the duck falls.”

 

“Well, I’ll tell you what. Let’s settle the matter the way we do out here in the country. I’m going to kick you in the groin as hard as I can, then you get to kick me in the groin as hard as you can. We keep taking turns like that and the last man standing gets the duck.”

 

“Well, that’s a pretty strange way to settle a dispute. But okay, let’s do it.”

 

“Good,” said the farmer, “I’ll go first.” And he kicks the man and the man doubles over with pain and writhes around on the ground groaning and moaning for a full ten minutes. Finally, he slowly gets up and says, “Okay, my turn.”

 

The farmer replies, “That’s okay. You can have the duck.”

 

Like I said, you just have to be there. 

Vaccines, Vegetables and Victory

(The following is an excerpt—minus the personal news—of my annual Holiday newsletter sent to friends far and near. )

Yesterday I woke up to the sound of rain and took comfort that there is still some semblance of order in the natural cycles that sustain our life. In a time of fires and floods, pandemic worldwide and pandemonium in the White House, how we need some sign that some things might still be dependable. Like Winter rains. Like Happy Holiday cards still coming through the mail slot.  

 

2020 was supposed to be the year of perfect 20/20 vision and though the blind leading the blind took all the headline space, in some ways perhaps it was. If not perfect vision, at least renewed vision from some of us, forced to look inward in our sheltering and then outward with new eyes. More time in solitude, away from the hyper-speed hustle and bustle, brought some in-sight which in turn moved out into the world. The enormous support for Black Lives Matter one of many cases in point, using the time and space granted to begin to face and grieve for our 400 years of systemic racism and finally take some first steps toward healing. And despite the bafflement of the 70 million willing to excuse, support and try to continue 4 years of hate speech, lies, incompetency at the highest levels of government, we in the ended voted to keep democracy alive, to give CPR to its injured self and begin to turn back to a hope with some muscle and backbone. Nothing was more important than this vote for renewed life and restoration of vision. Not the end-all solution, but the necessary start of the next needed step. 

 

One can never be casual about the unimaginable numbers in Covid deaths, the unseen suffering of folks dying without loved ones at the bedside, the devastation of the fires and the near death-rattle of democracy. But partially redeemed by November’s election, some people’s awakening and the sense that the return to business-as-usual might mean greater awareness of life’s fragility, the blessings of sincere hugs, the startling idea that we can be happier consuming less and endlessly distracting ourselves from the important things, I don’t agree that 2020 was a disastrous year. I think it was a needed year, Nature sending us to our room for a time-out and soon (I hope) us returning to the dinner table repentant and determined to be kinder, more awake and alert and ready and willing to help wash the dishes and clean up after ourselves. 

May 2021 bring us vaccines, virtue, voices that both sing and speak truth, more vegetables, less vanity and villainy and of course, the vote for Senate victory. May it be so! 

W

A few months back, some keys on my keyboard stopped working. Necessary letters like “a,” “s” and “d.” I was told that by the rules of planned obsolescence, I would need to buy a new computer. But a miraculous worker at the Apple Store dug around in the keys and  actually managed to solve the problem and I happily typed on for the next few months.

 

And then today, the “w” started acting up. Meaning I pressed it down and nothing appeared on the screen.  Who would I be without “W”? (used it 4 times in that sentence alone). Think of all the wondrous words beginning with w: 

 

Who, where, when, why, wherefore, whether, which, would, we, well, will, wonder, wish, wound, winter, wild, water, wind, weather, web, way, word, worth, work, whine, wine, was, watch, wear, wore, wow, win, window, wand, wander, wonder, wonderful, wacky, weird, wow.

 

Not to mention words with “w” somewhere in the middle— blown, clown, down, frown—or at the end—jaw, law, paw, raw, saw, dew, few, new, sew, view, allow, bow, cow, how, low, mow, now, tow and so on. 

 

I wonder if that wonderful worker is still working at the Apple store? I will wander down that way if the weather allows whenever the “w” wears down, but for now, its seems to be working and isn’t that wonderful?

  

Milk and Molasses

In the bread aisle of Trader Joe’s, I saw something I hadn’t thought of for years—crumpets! There used to be a dedicated crumpet shop on Irving Street, my neighborhood shopping district and it was our family custom to shop there and get some lemon curd to go along with the crumpets for either breakfast or lunch. Yummy! It closed long ago and I forgot all about it until yesterday. Naturally, I bought the crumpets and thought that Cost Plus would certainly have the lemon curd but …aww, as mentioned in an earlier post, Cost Plus closed. Still good though with a topping of butter and maple syrup or cream cheese and jam or even peanut butter and honey. 

 

A few weeks ago, I felt another urge for another old San Francisco comfort food and went in search of mochi, those squares that you cut and put in the toaster oven and watch them expand and puff up. Then take them out and cut open and fill its sticky interior with some of the above crumpet toppings or cheese or just eat plain. But hadn’t seem them for sale anywhere until I discovered them at Rainbow Grocery—different brand and four times their old price. Still I bought them and they held up.

 

Comfort food is a real thing and this got me thinking about certain unique combinations I used to eat as a kid, some of which I still do and many of which I’d forgotten about. Almonds and raisins. Sour cream and banana. Apple and cream cheese with poppy seeds on top. Celery and peanut butter. Buckwheat groats and raisins. Milk and molasses. 

 

This last perhaps my compensation for not being able to drink chocolate milk as a kid. (My Mom’s idea.) Hadn’t tried it in decades, but this morning, I gave it another shot. Not bad. I even tried a version with oat milk and molasses. Perhaps even a little better. 

 

Crumpets, mochi, milk and molasses—I’m on a roll. Thinking about the apple/cream cheese/ poppy seed for lunch. Care to join me?