Sunday, January 26, 2020
The Borrowed Voice
From the sensuous beauty of the violin:
the flaring hips, the swelling belly,
the flaming patterns in the wood,
the cells of the wood where live
all the sounds, the songs,
the voices, the vibrations,
the hollow place of air
set free through the F holes,
the set feet of the bridge,
the sound post between maple and spruce,
and the strings pulled
by hair of a Siberian pony's tail,
the Brazilian pernambuco bow,
the tension just enough for strength,
the flex just before the breaking point,
Comes a voice
almost human,
more perfect than human.
How can I say goodbye to you?
When you are a human,
when your vocal cords stiffen,
your high notes crack,
your age declares itself.
My mother had to let it go,
her voice, her self;
The hopeful young soprano,
the joyful virtuosity,
mortal.
The brass player's brilliance and bravura,
the woodwind's facility,
the dance and ripple of notes,
the song sparrows and finches of instruments;
will all slow, stumble, be silenced.
Shall I hang on,
stiff and cramped,
pushing through the pain?
But, each day, some note rings clear,
something still pulls out the song,
the old seduction from
before I can remember.
The violin remembers,
remembers all its lives,
all the hands, all the bows,
everyone who has borrowed its body,
everyone who set free its voice.
Saturday, January 4, 2020
Farewell to Ralphie
When the family had all gone, daughters and spouses to Vermont, Bob to play his shows, I went upstairs to the guest bedroom. All the bedding had been neatly stacked, quilts and blankets, pillows, and the airbed was still inflated. All I could think was: what a smorgasbord of delights for Ralph, our cat. Our cat, who had suddenly fallen ill with pancreatitis a few days before Christmas, and had to be euthanized on Christmas morning when complications arose.
I know that the loss of a pet is nothing, compared to a human family member dying, which is on a whole other plane. But there is a purity and simplicity to the love we feel toward these animals who share our everyday lives and are so dependent on us. Ralphie was with Bob and me for twelve and a half years, and we had adopted him as a six-week-old kitten.
I remember that he was so tiny that I was afraid he would get lost in some hole in a closet in our old house. He had huge ears and a very loud voice when he demanded his food. He lived up to his namesake, Ralph Kramden, except he had a very happy temperament. All he wanted was a cozy place to squeeze up to you, and plenty of food. He slept on the camel saddle in Bob's practice room and never moved while Bob played the trombone. Yet he could hear the crinkle of a treat bag two floors away.
For the first few years of his life, I was working in New York much of the time and only saw him and Alice when I came down to Philadelphia. But in 2012 that job ended, and I was much less busy as a freelance musician. He became a companion to me as I sat and read, a warm presence in cold winters in the leaky, old house. Wherever his people were, he wanted to be.
A few years ago he had a couple of nights in an emergency vet hospital with a urinary blockage that would have killed him. I realized how much his company meant to me. I was at a time of major change in my life. My working life was contracting, and, finally, I had to have two shoulder surgeries over three years. I was at home recovering, mostly alone, and with no idea what came next.
There on the couch was Ralphie. He would roll over to have his belly petted, do the upside-down-head flirting, purr hugely. He made a room welcoming, made our house a home.
Now I tear up at the sight of an old couch cushion he used for "mama claws" covered with yellow fur.
When my mother died in 2012, I finally cried when my brother played a recording of her singing a DaFalla Spanish song. The clear, joyful young voice of my mother finally cut through my complicated feelings and allowed pure grief.
When I cry about Ralphie, I am also crying for my lost career as a violinist, for my parents, for loneliness. Who will so easily offer up comfort as this creature?
My daughters, Bob, and I had a ceremony of goodbye to him by video conference call. Bob played, and we sang a little poem I had written a while ago to the familiar tune:
Ralphie's Ode To Joy
Bites of chicken,
Lap to sit in,
Lying on my back in sun,
Unmade beds
with rumpled blankets,
Any cloth left on the floor.
When new people sit in the sofa,
How I love to snuggle up.
All my life is simple pleasure,
food and love and comfy things.
I know that the loss of a pet is nothing, compared to a human family member dying, which is on a whole other plane. But there is a purity and simplicity to the love we feel toward these animals who share our everyday lives and are so dependent on us. Ralphie was with Bob and me for twelve and a half years, and we had adopted him as a six-week-old kitten.
I remember that he was so tiny that I was afraid he would get lost in some hole in a closet in our old house. He had huge ears and a very loud voice when he demanded his food. He lived up to his namesake, Ralph Kramden, except he had a very happy temperament. All he wanted was a cozy place to squeeze up to you, and plenty of food. He slept on the camel saddle in Bob's practice room and never moved while Bob played the trombone. Yet he could hear the crinkle of a treat bag two floors away.
For the first few years of his life, I was working in New York much of the time and only saw him and Alice when I came down to Philadelphia. But in 2012 that job ended, and I was much less busy as a freelance musician. He became a companion to me as I sat and read, a warm presence in cold winters in the leaky, old house. Wherever his people were, he wanted to be.
A few years ago he had a couple of nights in an emergency vet hospital with a urinary blockage that would have killed him. I realized how much his company meant to me. I was at a time of major change in my life. My working life was contracting, and, finally, I had to have two shoulder surgeries over three years. I was at home recovering, mostly alone, and with no idea what came next.
There on the couch was Ralphie. He would roll over to have his belly petted, do the upside-down-head flirting, purr hugely. He made a room welcoming, made our house a home.
Now I tear up at the sight of an old couch cushion he used for "mama claws" covered with yellow fur.
When my mother died in 2012, I finally cried when my brother played a recording of her singing a DaFalla Spanish song. The clear, joyful young voice of my mother finally cut through my complicated feelings and allowed pure grief.
When I cry about Ralphie, I am also crying for my lost career as a violinist, for my parents, for loneliness. Who will so easily offer up comfort as this creature?
My daughters, Bob, and I had a ceremony of goodbye to him by video conference call. Bob played, and we sang a little poem I had written a while ago to the familiar tune:
Ralphie's Ode To Joy
Bites of chicken,
Lap to sit in,
Lying on my back in sun,
Unmade beds
with rumpled blankets,
Any cloth left on the floor.
When new people sit in the sofa,
How I love to snuggle up.
All my life is simple pleasure,
food and love and comfy things.
Saturday, September 7, 2019
Home to September
It is September: real life returns after the suspended time of summer. Summer no longer means freedom to me--freedom from what, when I am no longer working? Summers are too hot, I can't enjoy being outside; by August there is a heaviness, an inertia in the air. The first cool days and nights are such a relief.
Even when autumn meant school and all its pressures, I welcomed the clearness of the days and the undercurrent of melancholy. I have always been a minor mode kind of person, feeling the contrasts, the way a warm, lit house welcomes me when the weather is cold. Life is precious when you know it will end; not in a morbid way, not as a depressed person, but as the poets have always known. Perhaps because I have been fortunate in my life, I seek the balance of a streak of sadness, the knowledge that I am alone, and all this beauty is a temporary gift.
Monday, January 14, 2019
January Walk
Today was bare and grey and foggy. I wandered across the long hills of the former Curtis estate, now all old trees, trees that rared up out of the mist like druids. One tree was twisted as if yearning to pull itself out of the ground and drag away into the fog.
I walked in my own pocket of silence, alone except for one or two distant dog walkers. Then suddenly, a team of Amazonian girl runners crested a hill and tore past, sleek in elegant tights, their long, black ponytails flying behind them. They ran up the longest hill with perfect form and speed, moving sculptures. I was nearly invisible as they passed, young deer goddesses, allowing me to see them for a moment in their human guise.
I was bundled up against the chill, puffing as I squished back up the soggy slope. I admired, even yearned a little for that youthful energy. But my freedom is being my imperfect self, and a January day that is a fresh beginning. The year begins again, the trees are black shapes waiting for far-off spring, the day is grey and white, waiting for color. I have time. No one is looking at me, I have nowhere to go, I can do anything or nothing at all.
I walked in my own pocket of silence, alone except for one or two distant dog walkers. Then suddenly, a team of Amazonian girl runners crested a hill and tore past, sleek in elegant tights, their long, black ponytails flying behind them. They ran up the longest hill with perfect form and speed, moving sculptures. I was nearly invisible as they passed, young deer goddesses, allowing me to see them for a moment in their human guise.
I was bundled up against the chill, puffing as I squished back up the soggy slope. I admired, even yearned a little for that youthful energy. But my freedom is being my imperfect self, and a January day that is a fresh beginning. The year begins again, the trees are black shapes waiting for far-off spring, the day is grey and white, waiting for color. I have time. No one is looking at me, I have nowhere to go, I can do anything or nothing at all.
Wednesday, September 26, 2018
Summer's End
Journal Entry August 28, 2018
Coming to the rag end of summer, a heat wave on the cusp of autumn, the serious time of year. I have been in a mode of waiting to heal, to fix my body, one part at a time. At some point life has to go on.
I went to the Art Museum today to escape the heat and find inspiration. Yes, art does transcend, yet I see a painting by Edwin Dickinson from 1938, a dark impressionistic landscape that the signage says reflects the unease as war approaches. The artist is more timeless than the journalist or the politician, for sure, but they do feel the currents around them,and they often prophesy.
I am most drawn to the lonely landscapes: Homer's "Winter Shore"--rough, bleak, threatening, sliding on snowy rocks to the sea below; Hopper's picture of blowing trees beside an empty road, only the invisible observer present; a strangely claustrophobic Andrew Wyeth: a foreshortened hallway to a room at the end with a few tools in it, all browns and greys, geometric.
On the way home I heard Bernstein's "Age of Anxiety" symphony, with Lukas Foss on the piano, Bernstein conducting the New York Philharmonic. Music cannot stand back like a painting can. It is the soundtrack of our lives. This work is raw emotion, finally; seems intellectual at first, with its long variations, almost Hindemith-like in construction and spareness. Then he breaks out with a scream of anguish. But it isn't the end--off he goes into a dance down Broadway, a fin-de-siecle night on the town, and the next morning a wary acceptance, a weary acceptance.
So what is it for me? Sometimes--often--I think that I don't have that many years left, and I should do something important to help this damaged world. What have I ever given, really?
And yet, how would I use my particular talents? This human mess will go on with or without me, and isn't going to be changed by me. I am bound to be more frustrated and miserable the more I think about all the horrors. I can vote, I can give some money here or there. People who thrive on anger, or energetic young people, or the truly strong and noble can try to change things.
it is ungrateful to not love the day, the nature around me, the murmuration of leaves on the trees outside my window, the moonlit clouds, and the sun still greeting the morning. I can't spend my last years poisoned by a bunch of horrible old men.
Coming to the rag end of summer, a heat wave on the cusp of autumn, the serious time of year. I have been in a mode of waiting to heal, to fix my body, one part at a time. At some point life has to go on.
I went to the Art Museum today to escape the heat and find inspiration. Yes, art does transcend, yet I see a painting by Edwin Dickinson from 1938, a dark impressionistic landscape that the signage says reflects the unease as war approaches. The artist is more timeless than the journalist or the politician, for sure, but they do feel the currents around them,and they often prophesy.
I am most drawn to the lonely landscapes: Homer's "Winter Shore"--rough, bleak, threatening, sliding on snowy rocks to the sea below; Hopper's picture of blowing trees beside an empty road, only the invisible observer present; a strangely claustrophobic Andrew Wyeth: a foreshortened hallway to a room at the end with a few tools in it, all browns and greys, geometric.
On the way home I heard Bernstein's "Age of Anxiety" symphony, with Lukas Foss on the piano, Bernstein conducting the New York Philharmonic. Music cannot stand back like a painting can. It is the soundtrack of our lives. This work is raw emotion, finally; seems intellectual at first, with its long variations, almost Hindemith-like in construction and spareness. Then he breaks out with a scream of anguish. But it isn't the end--off he goes into a dance down Broadway, a fin-de-siecle night on the town, and the next morning a wary acceptance, a weary acceptance.
So what is it for me? Sometimes--often--I think that I don't have that many years left, and I should do something important to help this damaged world. What have I ever given, really?
And yet, how would I use my particular talents? This human mess will go on with or without me, and isn't going to be changed by me. I am bound to be more frustrated and miserable the more I think about all the horrors. I can vote, I can give some money here or there. People who thrive on anger, or energetic young people, or the truly strong and noble can try to change things.
it is ungrateful to not love the day, the nature around me, the murmuration of leaves on the trees outside my window, the moonlit clouds, and the sun still greeting the morning. I can't spend my last years poisoned by a bunch of horrible old men.
Saturday, August 13, 2016
June 12, 2016--Journal Entry in the New House
I love, almost more than anything, the wind in trees. This neighborhood has tall trees, oaks, maples, and in our yard there is a very tall locust, and so many other trees, that at this time of year the back yard is all shady. I sat out there this late day on the light-dappled lawn under a tree with heart-shaped leaves (what is it?) and read.
How often in Brooklyn I hungered, literally yearned in my mouth and throat and being, for the sound of wind in a tall tree, a pine maybe. I would escape to a park or all the way to Bear Mountain, but I couldn't hear the sound from my home. I couldn't hear it from Fishtown, either.
Now I am here in paradise, in Elkins Park. It has been a perfect early summer, not yet hot, plenty of rain for the lawns and gardens. Peaceful people walk their dogs as I stroll around in the cooling evening air. Children's laughter comes from back yards, a boy runs by in stocking feet, holding his sandals. A family holding ice cream cones from Sprinkles around the corner gets ready to load into their car.
It's hard to believe there was a horrible massacre in Orlando today, one man mowing down scores of people. It's impossible to picture the madness and rage in the Middle East and Africa, and in the violent, poverty-stricken areas of Philadelphia only a few miles from here. How did we get so lucky, and why are so many others not lucky at all?
I feel guilty, but I also don't know how to equalize it or if I can. I'm not made of heroic material. I will be open to some possibility, but I also want to fully appreciate this gift, this "reward" after my own struggles. The struggles were nothing, comparatively, but it is also ungrateful to do less than seize the joy of wind in the trees and a catbird singing and mewing in the dogwood tree.
I'm so glad for Dad that he had the farm for so long--so glad for all of us. He worked and fought for teachers' rights, taught those recalcitrant kids for little money, worried about whether he could support us all, and then he really did. What sweet triumph for him to look over his acres, the vegetable garden, the family gathered on the screened porch, the sunset between the barns.
I love, almost more than anything, the wind in trees. This neighborhood has tall trees, oaks, maples, and in our yard there is a very tall locust, and so many other trees, that at this time of year the back yard is all shady. I sat out there this late day on the light-dappled lawn under a tree with heart-shaped leaves (what is it?) and read.
How often in Brooklyn I hungered, literally yearned in my mouth and throat and being, for the sound of wind in a tall tree, a pine maybe. I would escape to a park or all the way to Bear Mountain, but I couldn't hear the sound from my home. I couldn't hear it from Fishtown, either.
Now I am here in paradise, in Elkins Park. It has been a perfect early summer, not yet hot, plenty of rain for the lawns and gardens. Peaceful people walk their dogs as I stroll around in the cooling evening air. Children's laughter comes from back yards, a boy runs by in stocking feet, holding his sandals. A family holding ice cream cones from Sprinkles around the corner gets ready to load into their car.
It's hard to believe there was a horrible massacre in Orlando today, one man mowing down scores of people. It's impossible to picture the madness and rage in the Middle East and Africa, and in the violent, poverty-stricken areas of Philadelphia only a few miles from here. How did we get so lucky, and why are so many others not lucky at all?
I feel guilty, but I also don't know how to equalize it or if I can. I'm not made of heroic material. I will be open to some possibility, but I also want to fully appreciate this gift, this "reward" after my own struggles. The struggles were nothing, comparatively, but it is also ungrateful to do less than seize the joy of wind in the trees and a catbird singing and mewing in the dogwood tree.
I'm so glad for Dad that he had the farm for so long--so glad for all of us. He worked and fought for teachers' rights, taught those recalcitrant kids for little money, worried about whether he could support us all, and then he really did. What sweet triumph for him to look over his acres, the vegetable garden, the family gathered on the screened porch, the sunset between the barns.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
You Would Never Know It
I am a wild thing.
You would never know it to look at me, the most invisible:
a plump, graying white woman in frumpy clothes.
Oh, I don't care!
That is the freedom, as free as
a nose-picking, butt-scratching, tree-climbing six-year-old.
I grew out of dirt, I rolled in dirt and leaves,
I straddled the tree branch, I was the tree.
I flew in the wind,
I screamed.
They tried to keep me down,
but I was molten at the core,
my eyes blazed out,
my power built and built,
and one day I blew
and flamed hot lava all over the world.
I was the most dangerous creature on earth:
a sexual woman,
the maw of my power engulfed all men.
I drew them into me
and fed my energies,
or flung them off like chaff in the wind.
I was the creator of symphonies, of great tragedies.
I was Sarah Bernhardt, who fainted when she was bored.
I could have been Cleopatra.
I chose to live a simpler life,
but I smiled secretly.
I birthed twins, since one was not enough.
I might have been pregnant for years, I was so fertile.
I would have a child of every race,
people the earth with my lovely, lively, mocha, almond,
boundless offspring.
I am always the mother
among all the mothers.
Now I am the goddess of no face,
the wind, the full moon.
I slip among you,
watching,
pitying your ambition,
the weight of your work, your struggle for recognition.
I know everything and nothing.
I fly over it all,
look down on anthills, the log rolled over,
see the ocean still relentless,
the jet stream,
solar storms.
I close my eyes.
Saturday, February 14, 2015
Going Home Again
Going Home Again
A curtain of snow suddenly blew across the road in front of me, as if separating me from what had gone before and what was ahead. I was disoriented, crossing no-man's land, blind.
I travel alone on my twice-yearly trips from Philadelphia to southeastern Michigan, where I grew up. I have not lived there for nearly fifty years, but some root stretched very thin still pulls me back. I don't think I could live there, but I need to visit that part of me, the part that is from there.
I need to drive, not fly, take two days to get there in my nowhere bubble. It takes that long to make the transition from an active in-my-life person to the receptive visitor, and from urban life to the small Midwestern town. I slide along through the mountains, stop for the night in an anywhere motel, begin to feel rootless and timeless, learn about many things on NPR or live in the world of an audiobook as I drive again.
The land flattens, and in eastern Ohio the winter lake-effect snow can suddenly squall. This time I saw it ahead, the black sky and a look of fog over the wide fields. Then I was in it, with nothing to do but slow down and hope.
I was not as frightened as I would have been had I not entered a kind of dream state. My cell phone rang; when I finally got safely to a rest area on the turnpike, I saw that it was my sister, Laura, who often has a sixth sense about travel dangers. When I told her about the snow, she said, "I was afraid of that!" and looked up the weather radar on her computer. She said I appeared to be out of the snow except for one little flare near Findlay. Sure enough, that was true, and soon I was at my brother's and beginning the rituals of re-acquaintance with my family and my home place.
It has been ever-more important to do this since my mother's death two years ago. My parents were always the focus of our reunions: in summer, all five of us siblings with our children gathered at their house in the country. Even when they moved to town because of my father's Parkinson's disease, we made the effort to come from other parts of the country. Dad died, Mother aged, we kept coming, supporting her and each other through her decline.
Now we have to face the changes. Weddings have brought us together in Vermont and Texas, but that is not home. And, really, home is not home. The overlay of memory is more real than the physical places.
I am trying to find my way in a kind of suspended state of almost-retirement. My two youngest siblings, who live in Michigan, are still working. My middle sister. in Alabama, has four grandchildren and a job. My sister in Texas is happily retired with an also-retired husband, and they travel all over in their camper. I play violin jobs once in a while now, but my husband is still a very busy musician. I imagine that my family is wondering what has happened to the accomplished oldest sister they have admired, how she can be so aimless.
One day during this visit, my sister-in-law and I explored the Lenawee County Historical Museum. It is housed in the ornate Carnegie library where I spent so much of my childhood. While I chatted with one young volunteer about my memories of the place, an older man with thick glasses came in. I was talking about my fifth grade teacher, a grand-niece of a famous local woman abolitionist, when, to my surprise, the old man turned out to have been a classmate of mine.
He was a deeply informed docent and walked all around with us, explaining the artifacts of the industrial heyday of the county and the history of its part in the Underground Railroad on the route to Canada. He also knew about our former classmates: his buddy who was a go-between for me in third
grade when I wanted to know if Gary Krouse liked me, and the class clown who was now a bitter Vietnam War vet who had lost a leg. And he also remembered that I wrote "wonderful stories" that our fifth-grade teacher had me read to the whole class.
I have only kept in touch with one old friend from those days, my best friend from second grade on, Mary. She has been the constant, along with my family, through all the crises and joys of our lives. We have an innate compatibility that goes beyond mere history. Over a cozy lunch at her house, we picked up our friendship easily. She has embraced her retirement and has a network of volunteering and social activities. It may come more naturally to her than it has for me because she has lived in the same community for most of her life.
In spite of the welcoming from my family and my friend, and all the warm gatherings in sub-zero weather, I was ready to head back home, to my real life, whatever that is. The return trip had no drama; there were no storms. Only my mind is snow blind, caught at the border between two parts of my life.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Our Mother's Voice- a Eulogy
Our mother's voice was the descant of our days. She rocked us to "Baby's Boat's a Silver Moon" and the Prayer from "Hansel and Gretel". We heard her before we were born and all the time after. She sang in the car, in the yard hanging sheets, in the kitchen, embarrassed us singing in the grocery store, projected her voice far across the back yards to call us in for supper. Once in a while she even had time to sit down at the piano and practice a piece of music. We sang with her as babies, learned rounds, nursery rhymes, folk songs and hymns. As we brought our families back later, we sang together around the piano.
There was always music on the radio or on records. We heard her teaching her voice students. It was assumed we would all play an instrument and sing in the choir, Nate being the only one who dared to pursue singing seriously. I had the privilege of accompanying her on the piano by the time I was ten. I think my career of playing violin for opera and chamber music was molded by her training me in phrasing, allowing for breathing and listening. The violin was the closest sound to her silvery voice that I could find.
We learned to speak clearly, hearing her enunciation in that resonant voice. We also heard what she said, the moral center of her life: kindness to others, respect for each person and trying to understand them, when we disagreed or even disliked them. She listened to our questions and troubles and helped us find our purpose in life.
When she went through the mourning of giving up singing publicly because of an essential tremor condition, her students carried with them some of that voice and, especially, the confidence and understanding she had given them. She expressed herself at the piano she had bought with her teaching money. The piano went with her to Grand Court and to Tecumseh Place where she entertained the other residents. She never lost her musical touch, and as she aged, began to sing along again.
It is the soul voice that we will always hear. She knew us, knew our real selves as no one else will. Even at the last, she said what we needed to hear. I think we will be trying to live up to her faith in us for the rest of our days.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Walking in the Wind
I had to get out into the wind today. I felt trapped in my crooked little row house and headed for the river, the wild weather whirling around me, scouring the air,
storm clouds heavy overhead.
A few kindred souls were at Penn Treaty Park. A special kind of person loves the freeing burst of wind, nature finding its way up the city streets. An Indian couple- not the Lenape with whom William Penn tried to establish good relations- agreed this was "wonderful weather." The man said he grew up by a river, asked about industries that used to be along the Delaware. The wide expanse of water was choppy, a cormorant flew low over the waves. A black man with some missing front teeth came along and began conversing about how it must have been for the early explorers sailing up the river into unknown territory. "I'm a history buff", he said and talked about George Washington and Bartram's Garden and the bravery of early Americans. I spoke of my German ancestors who came to Pennsylvania in the 1700's as tenant farmers. I didn't mention that Penn's sons gave them land in Berks County where they had to fight the Indians to keep their land. I didn't ask, though I wanted to, if he knew anything about his ancestors, where his family had been. There must have been some courage and survival there.
I went striding on in the wind and thought about my father, how he had to "get out" after a week of teaching, the joy he had in the natural world and the strength of his body. I think of him a lot as I age, as I wonder when I may lose this freedom. Of all people to be trapped by Parkinson's, it was especially cruel for him. I am the age he was when he was diagnosed. I am also retired from a longtime job and looking to fulfill neglected parts of my life. It's hard not to be fearful. I take him with me on my walks and hikes and try to remember the joyful look on his face when we took off across a field and into the autumn woods and off the path into somewhere unknown.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Woman and Nature
This is a spontaneous poem I wrote at Noyes Camp before an art class called Women and Nature. The teacher suggested making lists of what connections there might be between nature and our bodies/spirits.
Water flowing under earth,
water through my cells, my blood,
in drops in the humid air,
the gush of birth, the sea, the tides,
ebb and flow, surge and stillness,
trickling down through layers
to a dark place,
the river changing and the same,
my life changing and the same.
woman
from dewy to drying,
the warrior marks on my skin,
the scars on a tree,
the living flesh of beech trees,
the sap,
the bones of me.
The folds of history
in the rock,
in my brain,
the exhalation
and
the wind.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Lilacs
I went to Swarthmore today to smell the lilacs, to go back in time on a scent journey:
There was a white lilac at the top of the ravine beside my childhood home. I'd carry the trash past in the half darkness, the blossoms faintly glowing, sweet. I was afraid of the steep shadowy hill, promised God I'd be a missionary if He protected me from what lurked below. I stayed safe but I didn't keep my promise.
On the way to high school there was a circle of lilacs in the middle of a cul-de-sac, where I stood and inhaled deeply all the cool cruelty of April. The tall bushes leaned in above me as I fell in love and was rejected and reveled in my sad aloneness.
From then on lilacs were part of a pilgrimage to my old unformed self. In Brooklyn taking refuge in the Botanical Garden from the fear and confusion of those days, a whole hillside where I fancied the lighter shades smelled brighter, the darker purples rich and intense. While Emily was at college, I found the Swarthmore lilacs and added the bittersweet memories of the girls' college days, the end of childhood. I've wandered in the Bronx collection or simply stopped anytime a lilac bush is close enough in someone's yard. The primitive pathway of scent goes back to my oldest newest self, the bud just unfolding, my spring self.
There was a white lilac at the top of the ravine beside my childhood home. I'd carry the trash past in the half darkness, the blossoms faintly glowing, sweet. I was afraid of the steep shadowy hill, promised God I'd be a missionary if He protected me from what lurked below. I stayed safe but I didn't keep my promise.
On the way to high school there was a circle of lilacs in the middle of a cul-de-sac, where I stood and inhaled deeply all the cool cruelty of April. The tall bushes leaned in above me as I fell in love and was rejected and reveled in my sad aloneness.
From then on lilacs were part of a pilgrimage to my old unformed self. In Brooklyn taking refuge in the Botanical Garden from the fear and confusion of those days, a whole hillside where I fancied the lighter shades smelled brighter, the darker purples rich and intense. While Emily was at college, I found the Swarthmore lilacs and added the bittersweet memories of the girls' college days, the end of childhood. I've wandered in the Bronx collection or simply stopped anytime a lilac bush is close enough in someone's yard. The primitive pathway of scent goes back to my oldest newest self, the bud just unfolding, my spring self.
Friday, March 30, 2012
The End of the NYCOpera Family
A few months ago a N.Y. music critic wrote regarding NYCity Opera "Move on-NYCO is over" or the like. I wrote a commentary to him that I never sent, and, now that three of the four productions in spring 2012 have taken place in their various venues and I have not been part of any of it,(for the first time in 27 years), it still expresses a mourning I think we all feel:
When the Board of NYCO decided to leave Lincoln Center, we musicians knew it was the end. Had George Steel chosen to keep even a small presence there, for maybe as short a time as four weeks, there would be a home for us, a way to grow and recover.
There may be something that calls itself NYCOpera as it moves around exhibiting Steel's vision. It may be entertaining and it will employ some good freelancers. But what we have lost is not just a job but a family.
When musicians work together as an entity for a long time, the orchestra is more than the sum of its parts: it is an instrument itself, based on the experience of communal expression. How much more even than a symphony orchestra is an opera company-really, it's a village: singers, coaches, pianists,librarians, stage directors, supertitlists, conductors, set and costumes and properties ,conductors, office staff, all housed in one place for many hours day and night. As opera musicians we rehearsed four or five times a week and played sometimes five operas. Between two long operas on a Saturday or a dress rehearsal and an evening performance, we musicians lived together in our lounge, taking turns at napping on the couches or playing poker, going to dinner together. We have come to know each other's lives (maybe especially as more women have joined the orchestra.) We've been through births of children, college applications , sicknesses and deaths of colleagues and parents, marriages and divorces. Our homes were scattered at various distances from Lincoln Center, but much of our social network was there.
I'm sure every component group of this opera company had similar work lives. Most worked well beyond a normal work day, and everyone was essential to the final production.
This is what was lost: a living organism. I think we all would have been happy to do some outreach performances in different venues but to do them from a stable place and with a whole, real company. The arts cannot be outsourced. This family is scattered forever.
When the Board of NYCO decided to leave Lincoln Center, we musicians knew it was the end. Had George Steel chosen to keep even a small presence there, for maybe as short a time as four weeks, there would be a home for us, a way to grow and recover.
There may be something that calls itself NYCOpera as it moves around exhibiting Steel's vision. It may be entertaining and it will employ some good freelancers. But what we have lost is not just a job but a family.
When musicians work together as an entity for a long time, the orchestra is more than the sum of its parts: it is an instrument itself, based on the experience of communal expression. How much more even than a symphony orchestra is an opera company-really, it's a village: singers, coaches, pianists,librarians, stage directors, supertitlists, conductors, set and costumes and properties ,conductors, office staff, all housed in one place for many hours day and night. As opera musicians we rehearsed four or five times a week and played sometimes five operas. Between two long operas on a Saturday or a dress rehearsal and an evening performance, we musicians lived together in our lounge, taking turns at napping on the couches or playing poker, going to dinner together. We have come to know each other's lives (maybe especially as more women have joined the orchestra.) We've been through births of children, college applications , sicknesses and deaths of colleagues and parents, marriages and divorces. Our homes were scattered at various distances from Lincoln Center, but much of our social network was there.
I'm sure every component group of this opera company had similar work lives. Most worked well beyond a normal work day, and everyone was essential to the final production.
This is what was lost: a living organism. I think we all would have been happy to do some outreach performances in different venues but to do them from a stable place and with a whole, real company. The arts cannot be outsourced. This family is scattered forever.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Winter Hike
When the fields are bare and hard with frost and the woods are free of nettles and light is clear through open treetops, it is the best time for hiking. A couple of weeks ago at Valley Forge Park I walked through the first snow of the season, feeling small in a white and black landscape. The wind and cold and the wide spaces whittled down my worries and questions about my changing life.
My sister asked later if there were ghosts, and at first I answered that our father always hikes with me. Then I realized she meant the freezing and dying soldiers of the American Revolution. So many wasted lives in wars, such an inefficient way to solve problems. Yet if they had not fought we wouldn't be here today. These ghosts were mostly trying to survive; I suspect that ideals aren't much comfort in the face of pain and death. It's hard to imagine the fear and chaos that was in this well kept park where people come to run and exercise their dogs.
I like to leave the paths and strike out over the fields. Our father hated trails and hated returning by the same way he had come. We followed him at our peril, ready for branches and thorns to snap back at us, taking pride in keeping pace with him. His most perilous hikes-"swamp hopping" with his teacher buddies-we never got to share. He did his duty his whole life, supporting the family; he needed the times of danger and adventure.
My friend Mary and I did a young girls' version of those hikes, in the woods on her family's farm. In summer the nettles were six feet high, but in winter and fall the woods were ours, creek and fallen trees and swampy cornfields. We couldn't really get lost-you'd come upon a road or neighboring field eventually- but it felt large to us, and we were on our own, dealing with obstacles, getting scratched and happily filthy. It has stood us well to know what we can overcome.
When Dad was finally free of responsibilities, he didn't get much time before the Parkinson's diagnosis.Still and sadly, he always had the urge to move. I appreciate every chance I have to stride out somewhere in the kind of rough terrain that doesn't allow me to think tangled thoughts. I have to pay attention to each footstep, feel the roots and the earth.
My sister asked later if there were ghosts, and at first I answered that our father always hikes with me. Then I realized she meant the freezing and dying soldiers of the American Revolution. So many wasted lives in wars, such an inefficient way to solve problems. Yet if they had not fought we wouldn't be here today. These ghosts were mostly trying to survive; I suspect that ideals aren't much comfort in the face of pain and death. It's hard to imagine the fear and chaos that was in this well kept park where people come to run and exercise their dogs.
I like to leave the paths and strike out over the fields. Our father hated trails and hated returning by the same way he had come. We followed him at our peril, ready for branches and thorns to snap back at us, taking pride in keeping pace with him. His most perilous hikes-"swamp hopping" with his teacher buddies-we never got to share. He did his duty his whole life, supporting the family; he needed the times of danger and adventure.
My friend Mary and I did a young girls' version of those hikes, in the woods on her family's farm. In summer the nettles were six feet high, but in winter and fall the woods were ours, creek and fallen trees and swampy cornfields. We couldn't really get lost-you'd come upon a road or neighboring field eventually- but it felt large to us, and we were on our own, dealing with obstacles, getting scratched and happily filthy. It has stood us well to know what we can overcome.
When Dad was finally free of responsibilities, he didn't get much time before the Parkinson's diagnosis.Still and sadly, he always had the urge to move. I appreciate every chance I have to stride out somewhere in the kind of rough terrain that doesn't allow me to think tangled thoughts. I have to pay attention to each footstep, feel the roots and the earth.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
A Phone Call with Mother
Last night I called Mother. I never know if I will catch her in a clear time or if I will have interrupted a nap and find her especially foggy. This time she started, as she often does, with "Oh, I'm fine- not doing anything." I said, as I often do, "Well, you deserve a rest, after all those years of caring for five children and a husband, and all the cooking and cleaning and teaching...It's like you've saved up vacation days!" She enjoyed that idea.
I told her about the hurricane and all the damage on the east coast and we got on the subject of storms. I always start slowly with the conversations to see if she is really up to complex ideas or if I should go directly to reminiscence, the safe route and always interesting anyway. "Do you remember when we went to see the movie of Carousel and the tail end of a tornado was roaring outside while they were singing 'When You Walk through a Storm" inside?" She didn't remember, but began commenting about all the severe storms we had in Michigan and that she had tried to protect us from the fear the adults were feeling. This led to her mother's many fears, especially of wind, since Grandma had grown up in Kansas.
I have been suffering the last few days from performance anxiety. I am going to finally be playing a concert after two months of unemployment, and the contractor is putting me on the first stand. It's no honor any more. I would rather sit a little further from the conductor and just do my job. There are a couple of little soloish lines to play, my hand hurts and I just want to keep life simple, but this is the reality.
So my 87 year old mother, not knowing all this, but maybe retaining a bit of her old mother's psychic instincts, began to talk about fear. "I learned not to worry. It does no good. I couldn't have stood up to sing in front of hundreds of people if I had let myself be anxious." She said she saw how anxiety had hampered her mother's happiness and determined not to have those attitudes. Of course, she may have happily inherited her father's much more relaxed temperament as well. Still, she also speculated that her marriage to our father had also encouraged her ability to live in the present and to deal with problems only as they arose, as a balance to his tendency to worry. She said his fears may have come from war experiences; I think along with an innately anxiety prone nervous system, that being responsible for supporting five children on a teacher's salary could be cause for worry. Whatever it was, she kept the equilibrium of the family, seeing to it that we had what we needed in musical instruments and lessons, clothes on sale and food on a budget, and found joy wherever she could. She sang as she shopped and scrubbed the floors and drove us around town. She laughed at any opportunity, snuggled babies, enjoyed friends and beautiful days. She gave our father friendship and support and their love was the anchor of our household.
This ability of hers to live serenely even as she has lost her husband, her career,her home, much of her health and much of the clarity of her mind is an inspiration to me. Her essence is the same as always. She is still my mother, still teaching me,still showing me the way.
I told her about the hurricane and all the damage on the east coast and we got on the subject of storms. I always start slowly with the conversations to see if she is really up to complex ideas or if I should go directly to reminiscence, the safe route and always interesting anyway. "Do you remember when we went to see the movie of Carousel and the tail end of a tornado was roaring outside while they were singing 'When You Walk through a Storm" inside?" She didn't remember, but began commenting about all the severe storms we had in Michigan and that she had tried to protect us from the fear the adults were feeling. This led to her mother's many fears, especially of wind, since Grandma had grown up in Kansas.
I have been suffering the last few days from performance anxiety. I am going to finally be playing a concert after two months of unemployment, and the contractor is putting me on the first stand. It's no honor any more. I would rather sit a little further from the conductor and just do my job. There are a couple of little soloish lines to play, my hand hurts and I just want to keep life simple, but this is the reality.
So my 87 year old mother, not knowing all this, but maybe retaining a bit of her old mother's psychic instincts, began to talk about fear. "I learned not to worry. It does no good. I couldn't have stood up to sing in front of hundreds of people if I had let myself be anxious." She said she saw how anxiety had hampered her mother's happiness and determined not to have those attitudes. Of course, she may have happily inherited her father's much more relaxed temperament as well. Still, she also speculated that her marriage to our father had also encouraged her ability to live in the present and to deal with problems only as they arose, as a balance to his tendency to worry. She said his fears may have come from war experiences; I think along with an innately anxiety prone nervous system, that being responsible for supporting five children on a teacher's salary could be cause for worry. Whatever it was, she kept the equilibrium of the family, seeing to it that we had what we needed in musical instruments and lessons, clothes on sale and food on a budget, and found joy wherever she could. She sang as she shopped and scrubbed the floors and drove us around town. She laughed at any opportunity, snuggled babies, enjoyed friends and beautiful days. She gave our father friendship and support and their love was the anchor of our household.
This ability of hers to live serenely even as she has lost her husband, her career,her home, much of her health and much of the clarity of her mind is an inspiration to me. Her essence is the same as always. She is still my mother, still teaching me,still showing me the way.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Before the Storm
Some thoughts today as everyone scurried to prepare for Hurricane Irene:
Most of us are at our best in an immediate crisis. My mother-in-law Dottie always said:" Man is a foul weather beast."
The prospect of a major storm is mostly very exciting and also allows us to put daily life aside to hole up and ride out whatever happens. I can summon all kinds of energy for a rescue- getting my friend to the emergency room in the Bronx a couple of weeks ago, taking care of a husband in his health troubles or Mother or the kids when they were little. Blizzards-driving to Michigan in '96, getting to jobs in NY through floods and snow and ice. And 9/11. The strength we all felt was enormous- we would do anything we could to save our country and our fellow citizens- many people really were heros at that time and we joined together in candlelight vigils and benefit concerts.
Then the real work began of recovering from the blow, of shaping what our new country would look like, and, mostly, the opportunity was lost in confusion and divisions and fear and all the opportunism that engenders. In those ten years we have devolved into a broke and bickering mess. We're the same people, but the crazy, fearful impulses have taken over for now.
I am the most afraid myself of the religious/political movements that are methodically determined to run the country and the world, if possible. They believe that it is a holy war, that it is their mission to rid the world of demons in the shape of homosexuals and women who want to own their bodies and scientists and generally anyone who disagrees with their doctrine. I occasionally play piano for a tiny dying congregation near me (I stumbled in on Easter) and this last Sunday the three of us heard from the pastor the words, "I don't know if you are aware, but there is a holy war in our country for people's souls." My blood ran cold. She also talked about the Second Coming as very soon, with a shining face. She may not be associated with the most extreme groups in the movement that I later heard about, but there was something that scared me.
If it is "end times", it is not because of some preordained supernatural event. It is not God or Jesus. It is human beings in their complicated brains, capable of genius and love and self sacrifice but also greed and power hunger and deep anxiety. Probably the very anxiety that would have saved the lives of many early men is now gone wild in the modern world, seeking ever more complex ways to have control over other human beings in the mistaken belief that it will make the winners safe. It is an ancient response to believe in magic when natural disasters occur or when humans do terrible things to each other. But it is the fear response that can also lead to tyranny. I pray-yes, pray- that the true source of strength and goodness prevails over those who would cause "end times."
Meanwhile, we can enjoy a short term crisis, something tangible, also something beyond the power of man. It is good for our souls to know that Nature is still bigger than we are.
Most of us are at our best in an immediate crisis. My mother-in-law Dottie always said:" Man is a foul weather beast."
The prospect of a major storm is mostly very exciting and also allows us to put daily life aside to hole up and ride out whatever happens. I can summon all kinds of energy for a rescue- getting my friend to the emergency room in the Bronx a couple of weeks ago, taking care of a husband in his health troubles or Mother or the kids when they were little. Blizzards-driving to Michigan in '96, getting to jobs in NY through floods and snow and ice. And 9/11. The strength we all felt was enormous- we would do anything we could to save our country and our fellow citizens- many people really were heros at that time and we joined together in candlelight vigils and benefit concerts.
Then the real work began of recovering from the blow, of shaping what our new country would look like, and, mostly, the opportunity was lost in confusion and divisions and fear and all the opportunism that engenders. In those ten years we have devolved into a broke and bickering mess. We're the same people, but the crazy, fearful impulses have taken over for now.
I am the most afraid myself of the religious/political movements that are methodically determined to run the country and the world, if possible. They believe that it is a holy war, that it is their mission to rid the world of demons in the shape of homosexuals and women who want to own their bodies and scientists and generally anyone who disagrees with their doctrine. I occasionally play piano for a tiny dying congregation near me (I stumbled in on Easter) and this last Sunday the three of us heard from the pastor the words, "I don't know if you are aware, but there is a holy war in our country for people's souls." My blood ran cold. She also talked about the Second Coming as very soon, with a shining face. She may not be associated with the most extreme groups in the movement that I later heard about, but there was something that scared me.
If it is "end times", it is not because of some preordained supernatural event. It is not God or Jesus. It is human beings in their complicated brains, capable of genius and love and self sacrifice but also greed and power hunger and deep anxiety. Probably the very anxiety that would have saved the lives of many early men is now gone wild in the modern world, seeking ever more complex ways to have control over other human beings in the mistaken belief that it will make the winners safe. It is an ancient response to believe in magic when natural disasters occur or when humans do terrible things to each other. But it is the fear response that can also lead to tyranny. I pray-yes, pray- that the true source of strength and goodness prevails over those who would cause "end times."
Meanwhile, we can enjoy a short term crisis, something tangible, also something beyond the power of man. It is good for our souls to know that Nature is still bigger than we are.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Healing at Camp
This week at Noyes Camp in Connecticut was especially important to me. The probable dissolution of my job at NYCOpera is something I have to face. I've been lucky to have worked in orchestras my whole career, with benefits and tenure, but now, at 64 and Bob with health problems and only 55, the company looks ready to collapse. I've made big changes before, but it has been 26 years. Here is some of what I wrote from my tent in the woods:
Remember this dappled breeze, the light lined between the trees, the relief of the air moving, the leaves leaning and rustling, peace. Nothing else matters. The crows clatter, the huge young hawk cryoohs for its mother and father, it may rain later, it may not. In this sanctuary of loving people, long history and the constant variety and changes of nature, any complication that may come my way seems eminently possible to handle.
The art classes have again brought me to myself with a painting of my Erato self. When I smother that, I die. I am ready for what the year brings if I keep reminding myself that this is my deepest soul and has nothing to do with age or any of the competitive places in life.
I think I will try making a daily schedule that includes writing and practice and exercise. The non-working days can become aimless or filled with busywork. Where will I find nature in the city? And stimulating company? That's the challenge.
This, anyway, is the image: my beautiful Emily teaching the movement classes, leading us to other dimensions; all the birds talking away; cool breezes, layers of light and green in the woods as seen through my reading glasses- only light and green and shimmers where the air catches the tops of the trees.
Remember this dappled breeze, the light lined between the trees, the relief of the air moving, the leaves leaning and rustling, peace. Nothing else matters. The crows clatter, the huge young hawk cryoohs for its mother and father, it may rain later, it may not. In this sanctuary of loving people, long history and the constant variety and changes of nature, any complication that may come my way seems eminently possible to handle.
The art classes have again brought me to myself with a painting of my Erato self. When I smother that, I die. I am ready for what the year brings if I keep reminding myself that this is my deepest soul and has nothing to do with age or any of the competitive places in life.
I think I will try making a daily schedule that includes writing and practice and exercise. The non-working days can become aimless or filled with busywork. Where will I find nature in the city? And stimulating company? That's the challenge.
This, anyway, is the image: my beautiful Emily teaching the movement classes, leading us to other dimensions; all the birds talking away; cool breezes, layers of light and green in the woods as seen through my reading glasses- only light and green and shimmers where the air catches the tops of the trees.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Beautiful Girls: a Wedding
When I saw my daughter Emily standing at the front of the tiny chapel in her wedding dress, time stopped. All the complications and conflicting emotions were nothing beside this iconic image: the slim, vulnerable figure in white, a spiderweb thin shawl over her bare shoulders, sunlight from the open door striking her shy and shining face. She thought she was alone, pacing a little, waiting for the next part of her life.
At college graduation time I first imagined my daughter's marriage. I met the parents of her boyfriend of the last couple of years and liked them very much. I thought, I could really enjoy these in-laws! Of course, the relationship didn't last.
My daughters are twins, always closer to each other than to anyone else. Alison lived with a woman for two years after Bryn Mawr, was very active in the LGBT community, then after the breakup, only dated men. I enjoyed meeting the girls' loves, but I learned not to count on anything. They were finding their way.
Their model of marriage was none too strong: their father and I had married at nineteen, lived through the experimental 60's era, and finally divorced when they were eight. He had remarried, re-divorced and finally was alone. I have remarried but have never lived full time in the same city as my husband.
It's a time of marriage transition and re-evaluation, for sure. Since procreation is not its only purpose and women are no longer property or dependent on men, a huge shift has occurred. All the preconceptions are out the window: sexuality is a continuum and the freedoms my generation pioneered but hardly knew how to experience are real for my daughters. They have found their way back to commitment based on love and mutual respect as human beings.
When Emily decided to try Match.com, she registered as seeking both men and women. The person who matched was Colleen, and this is who waited to make formal the bond they had made long ago.
They live in Massachusetts, so their marriage is legal, but many federal benefits are denied them. They are limited in where they can live. And, many Americans hate them without knowing them and think that their innocent and private life together somehow threatens the "institution of marriage."
The ceremony was held outside on that lovely spring day, as it was chilly inside the chapel. The girls were barefoot in the new grass, a mountain stream tumbled over rocks in the background. Friends of theirs, a female couple, officiated. Colleen read "Will You be My Personal Penguin?" Emily read her own vows with only a little shake in her voice. Alison welcomed her new sister and promised she wasn't jealous. I read this to them:
Dearest girls:
May your walk together be
serene as the waters at dawn
sweet as the first bird piping
long as the whole fresh day
strong as the sun at noon
deep as the quiet beneath the noise
of life going about its business
and you being lively and crazy and fussy and busy.
May you walk at your own speed
and sometimes run
and sometimes dance for joy.
We danced in a circle, even their father, who never dances. He said later that this was the most honest wedding ceremony he had ever seen. This is a union of pure love, in every way blessed.
At college graduation time I first imagined my daughter's marriage. I met the parents of her boyfriend of the last couple of years and liked them very much. I thought, I could really enjoy these in-laws! Of course, the relationship didn't last.
My daughters are twins, always closer to each other than to anyone else. Alison lived with a woman for two years after Bryn Mawr, was very active in the LGBT community, then after the breakup, only dated men. I enjoyed meeting the girls' loves, but I learned not to count on anything. They were finding their way.
Their model of marriage was none too strong: their father and I had married at nineteen, lived through the experimental 60's era, and finally divorced when they were eight. He had remarried, re-divorced and finally was alone. I have remarried but have never lived full time in the same city as my husband.
It's a time of marriage transition and re-evaluation, for sure. Since procreation is not its only purpose and women are no longer property or dependent on men, a huge shift has occurred. All the preconceptions are out the window: sexuality is a continuum and the freedoms my generation pioneered but hardly knew how to experience are real for my daughters. They have found their way back to commitment based on love and mutual respect as human beings.
When Emily decided to try Match.com, she registered as seeking both men and women. The person who matched was Colleen, and this is who waited to make formal the bond they had made long ago.
They live in Massachusetts, so their marriage is legal, but many federal benefits are denied them. They are limited in where they can live. And, many Americans hate them without knowing them and think that their innocent and private life together somehow threatens the "institution of marriage."
The ceremony was held outside on that lovely spring day, as it was chilly inside the chapel. The girls were barefoot in the new grass, a mountain stream tumbled over rocks in the background. Friends of theirs, a female couple, officiated. Colleen read "Will You be My Personal Penguin?" Emily read her own vows with only a little shake in her voice. Alison welcomed her new sister and promised she wasn't jealous. I read this to them:
Dearest girls:
May your walk together be
serene as the waters at dawn
sweet as the first bird piping
long as the whole fresh day
strong as the sun at noon
deep as the quiet beneath the noise
of life going about its business
and you being lively and crazy and fussy and busy.
May you walk at your own speed
and sometimes run
and sometimes dance for joy.
We danced in a circle, even their father, who never dances. He said later that this was the most honest wedding ceremony he had ever seen. This is a union of pure love, in every way blessed.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
New York State of Mind
March 7th
I came up yesterday to hear Killian's band from Western Michigan U. play at Jazz at Lincoln Center. I was so energized by being back in the city and then by the terrific concert, hearing and seeing all those talented kids have a peak experience of their lives. They had been there for three days, and there was the band set up in the Allen Room, the backdrop huge windows looking over Columbus Circle and the lights of New York City. The arrangements were tight and intricate and everyone gave their all. An old guy to my right dressed in a pin striped zoot suit with a purple shirt and fez, a former member of Manhattan Transfer, was clapping and shouting out his approval , the audience was rocking.
A recording is not even close to the power of a live performance. I couldn't stop moving with the music and realized afterward that all my neck pain and shoulder aches were gone. When the rhythm is coming up through your feet and the sounds are all around your body, you can't worry- you can't think too much- you want to dance and that's all.
I had a good talk with Killian before he had to get on a bus for a group party to end the visit. It sounded like he'd used every minute of his trip- good eating, going to MOMA, and a great experience at a Small's jazz club in the Village where Wynton Marsalis showed up to sit in with the group they'd gone to hear.
As I walked- almost ran to my parking lot, I got that New York pace back: fast walking with no effort, that thrum around me, all the possibilities, all the aliveness.These beautiful talented young people, all their lives ahead of them, aware but undeterred by the idiocies of previous generations, undeterred also by how hard it might be to make a living doing what they love. They'll find a way, make new opportunities. Thank God for them and their teachers who encourage them. And thank God for this city that sometimes even makes me feel that there's dance in the old dame yet.
I came up yesterday to hear Killian's band from Western Michigan U. play at Jazz at Lincoln Center. I was so energized by being back in the city and then by the terrific concert, hearing and seeing all those talented kids have a peak experience of their lives. They had been there for three days, and there was the band set up in the Allen Room, the backdrop huge windows looking over Columbus Circle and the lights of New York City. The arrangements were tight and intricate and everyone gave their all. An old guy to my right dressed in a pin striped zoot suit with a purple shirt and fez, a former member of Manhattan Transfer, was clapping and shouting out his approval , the audience was rocking.
A recording is not even close to the power of a live performance. I couldn't stop moving with the music and realized afterward that all my neck pain and shoulder aches were gone. When the rhythm is coming up through your feet and the sounds are all around your body, you can't worry- you can't think too much- you want to dance and that's all.
I had a good talk with Killian before he had to get on a bus for a group party to end the visit. It sounded like he'd used every minute of his trip- good eating, going to MOMA, and a great experience at a Small's jazz club in the Village where Wynton Marsalis showed up to sit in with the group they'd gone to hear.
As I walked- almost ran to my parking lot, I got that New York pace back: fast walking with no effort, that thrum around me, all the possibilities, all the aliveness.These beautiful talented young people, all their lives ahead of them, aware but undeterred by the idiocies of previous generations, undeterred also by how hard it might be to make a living doing what they love. They'll find a way, make new opportunities. Thank God for them and their teachers who encourage them. And thank God for this city that sometimes even makes me feel that there's dance in the old dame yet.
Ridley Creek Park PA
March 2, 2011
It's the mud time, the path a murk of wet leaves and dog prints, the last of the snow melt. The woods is exhausted by winter, dead vines draped over broken limbs and bare trunks, like some old woman dressed in layers of capes. I can't really get lost, though I don't know the trails, since I can see the roads through the naked trees.
Nature never fails me, even when it's not the most verdant example or when I am most hungry to "get out." I still had a few minutes of real silence, and that towhee's song and the crunch of pine needles. It's a haven in the middle of development sprawl. Just since I was last there four or five years ago tracts of mushroom houses have multiplied. Mock mansions all alike, horrible toadstool houses poking out of the hillsides- all those people paying top dollar to be nowhere.
Anyway, a day outside is a gift, and I am grateful that I have it and have mobility, both physical and automotive. And I'm glad these acres have been set aside for people like me.
It's the mud time, the path a murk of wet leaves and dog prints, the last of the snow melt. The woods is exhausted by winter, dead vines draped over broken limbs and bare trunks, like some old woman dressed in layers of capes. I can't really get lost, though I don't know the trails, since I can see the roads through the naked trees.
Nature never fails me, even when it's not the most verdant example or when I am most hungry to "get out." I still had a few minutes of real silence, and that towhee's song and the crunch of pine needles. It's a haven in the middle of development sprawl. Just since I was last there four or five years ago tracts of mushroom houses have multiplied. Mock mansions all alike, horrible toadstool houses poking out of the hillsides- all those people paying top dollar to be nowhere.
Anyway, a day outside is a gift, and I am grateful that I have it and have mobility, both physical and automotive. And I'm glad these acres have been set aside for people like me.
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