here's to the mess we make

Today I marched.

We came armed with instruments: a banjo, a jingle fish, a frog rasp, some spoons, and our voices. And we sang the whole way.

I was reminded of one who went before us. I had the honor of sharing the stage with him once, albeit not in the traditional sense. He shuffled up to the podium in his tweed coat, and glanced back at the sea of graduates behind him on the stage. There was joy in his eyes, as he paused to take us all in, a new generation of musicians, ready to raise our voices. And in that moment, I felt the mantle pass.

His remarks were simple and brief.
"If there is a human race here in a few hundred years, I think one of the few things to save it from its own foolishness will be the arts."

And so we carried his mantle today. We stepped out as artists and did what we do best. For the better part of an hour, we sang the words that he made famous (he did so together with his banjo that "surrounded hate and forced it to surrender").

Finding myself the caller, I started with his verses. We shall overcome. We'll walk hand-in-hand. We are not afraid. We shall live in peace. But as we continued to sing, new words poured from my lips. We shall live in hope. We shall be the light. We shall speak the truth. We shall live in joy. We shall live in love. I will stand with you. We shall overcome.

Others chanted. Some cheered. Many carried signs. And we sang on.

Gathering at the end of the march, we welcomed the crowd with our music. We circled up, and our numbers began to grow, our sound multiplying as more voices joined our ranks.

Truth be told, I did not agree fully with everyone that I marched with. But honestly, that was the beauty of it. I don't have to agree with you to love you, to stand with you...

...or to sing with you.

See, there's something about music, about singing, in particular. It shatters your defenses, and brings unity in a way that few things can. There is something about raising our voices together in song. There is something other-worldly about it. There is something heavenly about it.


This week, I made my annual appearance at a movie theater and saw La La Land. It had been billed to me as one of those "every-artist-needs-to-see-it" kind of films, though I honestly didn't know much about it. I think I was expecting it to be a feel-good-Hollywood-ending kind of experience. What I got was a journey through the war of art.

I found myself tearing up many times throughout the film, the conversations and experiences of the characters resonating so deeply with my own life experience. But what finally sent the tears flowing was the scene in which one of the characters is trying to get the other to come back for one more audition...probably her one-thousandth. The two argue a bit, and he finally says, "Why won't you do it?"

"Because it hurts too much."

In the scene that follows, she sings a song that traces her journey as an artist.

A bit of madness is key to give us new colors to see 

Who knows where it will lead us?
And that's why they need us

So bring on the rebels 

The ripples from pebbles 

The painters, and poets, and plays 

And here's to the fools who dream 

Crazy, as they may seem 

Here's to the hearts that break 

Here's to the mess we make

It is indeed messy in my studio. The floor is littered with wrong notes and failed phrasings and tears. I spent awhile crying with Mozart this week. I may have yelled at Schubert a time or two. I fought some battles in myself, even just getting myself to that bench to begin with...let alone keeping my butt planted on it for any length of time.

But here's to the mess. Because today in that crowd of people, I knew for myself, This is what I can do. This is what I must do. Because Pete was right: we need those crazy artists and the foolish dreamers. Because it's hard to argue with each other when you're singing together.

the possibility of sky

The time is ripe for looking back over the day, the week, the year, and trying to figure out where we have come from and where we are going to, for sifting through the things we have done and the things we have left undone for a clue to who we are and who, for better or worse, we are becoming.

- Frederick Buechner

As I reflect on the passing year, my mind centers on a word that I have been chewing on for quite some time now: gratitude. It has been an intentional practice in my life for a number of years. I keep a gratitude journal and regularly track the blessings, large and small, that fall by the bucketful on my head.

This year, the intensity, intentionality, and even sense of urgency, of my practice deepened, as I began to see the roots of bitterness in the lives of the people around me. I reflected on this, and on the ugly parts of myself that have the potential to harden into bitterness. And I sought an answer to the nagging question: how do I prevent this? How can I remain soft, open, compassionate, joyful towards the people and world around me?  The answer was clear: the best cure, and even preventative measure, for bitterness is gratitude. 

I was sharing this with a friend this fall, and through our conversation, I began to see the patterns in our culture that often feed our bitterness. It is our American practice to ask each other how we are - and unfortunately, it's more of a greeting now, than an intentional question. But we often respond negatively: I'm tired, stressed, overwhelmed, just OK, busy. And as I continued to ponder this, the question arose: how would we change if we replaced this greeting with, what are you thankful for?

So this has become our practice, my friend and I, when we see each other. No meaningless how-are-you's allowed. Only expressions of thankfulness. And over time, our practice has been refined. A few ground rules have been established. The answer must be true, pure - not twinged with sarcasm. How often do we issue a complaint, shrouded in a cloak of thanksgiving? 

But what a beautiful thing it is to fill the well with truth, to dispel the darkness, to starve the bitter roots. How energizing and life-giving it is to be on the lookout for the gifts, to cultivate an awareness for the things that are so often rendered invisible by our preoccupation with productivity. I find myself keeping track of the blessings throughout the day, ready to give an answer when the question comes. I struggle to give just one answer when there is so much to rejoice in!

~~~

A few nights ago, I had a dream.  Well, I'm not sure if you can technically call it a dream. It occurred in the no-man's-land between fully-awake and out-cold. For some inexplicable reason, a memory broke loose from the hidden recesses of my brain and danced its way across my consciousness. And upon further consideration, I now realize that the event it recalled was ten years ago this year.

I was fulfilling my maid of honor duties, attending a bridal shower thrown by the bride's college friends, most of whom I'd never met. One of them, a kind, thoughtful soul, happened to share my name - a rarity for me, especially with someone my own age. Our conversation turned, quite naturally, to the topic of names. She had grown to love exploring their meanings and implications and asked me what I thought of ours. I laughed as I told her about the little name card I'd been given as a child, which identified the meaning as "blessed fragrance." It couldn't be further from the truth. The name is Hebrew in origin, a derivative of the word "mara" - the word for "bitter." Not exactly high on the list of "names you should give your child to bring them health and prosperity." 

She asked if I'd like to hear her take on it, and naturally, I obliged. She began to talk about the most famous Mary, the mother of Jesus. It was a dark time in Jewish history, she said; the people were angry at God, weary of the weight of the Roman oppression, wondering if He would ever break His silence (a silence that lasted 400 years). Why hadn't He sent a savior to them, to lead them to freedom? How long would they have to wait? 

She went on: how beautiful, then, that salvation would come through the womb of a woman named Mary - in the face of their bitterness. So, she smiled, I prefer to think of it, not as 'bitter', but instead as 'conqueror of bitterness.'  Now there's a meaning I can get on board with.

~~~

Who knows what brought that memory to mind as I lay silent in the dark? Who knows what thought or conversation plucked it loose from its place on some forgotten shelf? 

But how beautiful to see the evidence of life, of growth, of hidden streams beneath the frozen surface, of the belief in the possibility of sky, even in the midst of total darkness. Who knew that a seed scattered 10 years ago in a two-minute conversation with a perfect stranger would take root? Who knew that under the dry, crusty, rocky soil, there were forces of life at work? Who knew that this practice of gratitude would sprinkle water and light and nutrients on a long-forgotten seed? Who knew that that seed would wrestle its way to the surface and send a shoot blazing through the cold, hard earth?

~~~

As I write, the snow falls softly outside. I have long been mystified by the fact that we celebrate the new year now, in the middle of winter, when the outside world speaks of nothing but death and cold and darkness. It seems the most illogical time to speak of new life and hope and light. The ground is cold, frozen solid, buried under a foot of snow. Spring seems an impossibility; how could anything survive in this icy darkness? And yet, here we are, turning our faces into the bitter cold, looking forward with expectation, with joy, with gratitude.

it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

I just moved to a new neighborhood.

I don’t love moving, and this one was my third move in four years.

But it feels right.

I spent two years living in a city where I felt like a misfit – a fish out of water. I felt like I was suffocating much of the time – and I never really ever felt completely safe. Sure, I found and cultivated sweet community while I was there, but I always felt like a part of myself was dormant, lost. And, while I do not love the labor it takes to leave somewhere, I do not know that I have ever been more glad to leave somewhere in my life.

I spent a year hiding out. In a little nook, with nothing but wild, untamed nature as my companion.  I think I needed a year of detox.  I needed to look out my window and see trees...just trees...no concrete.  I needed to rediscover myself and remember how to let my soul breathe again.  I needed to learn how to listen to the silences.

And now I’m here.

Yesterday I went for a walk, and at one point, I looked to my left and saw a community garden, each raised bed marked with a hand-painted sign identifying the caretaker responsible for tending it.  I looked to my right and saw a woman asleep on her roof.  And somehow, in that moment, I knew this was the neighborhood for me.

This evening, I wandered to the park which is a mere half block from my house. Every Thursday in the summer, there is a concert. And, around 5:55, right on time, people starting coming out of the woodwork, picnic dinners and lawn chairs in tow.

It was a Klezmer band tonight.

And there may or may not have been people dancing in the grass.

They also may or may not have been more than twice my age.

There are moments, when I’m sitting in my sun porch (yes, I have a sun porch), nibbling on chocolate and freshly-picked cherries, sipping a glass of wine…when a part of me misses my nook. Misses looking out the window and seeing trees and nothing else.  Misses the stillness, the energy of the quiet.

But, then there are also moments, when I'm sitting in my sun porch (yep, still have a sun porch), sipping my glass of wine, and I look across the street to see another woman appear on her balcony with her own glass of wine.
And in a moment, I know it’s going to be OK.

There are still silences to be listened to.  There is still space for soul-breathing.  There are still trees, abundant.

And there are people - there is community - to share them with.

the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom

"At the end of the day, people won't remember what you said or did;

they will remember how you made them feel."

- Maya Angelou

I love the rhythm of the seasons.  I love to watch the transformation of the world around me, as the long days become long nights, and the bare branches sprout blossoms once more.  I love that when everything is still and cold and frozen - this is the time we choose to call the "new year."  Of course, in other parts of the world, the new year is ushered in by sunlight and warmth.  But, no matter.  I love that here, in the dead of winter, when all around us is snowy darkness, we turn our face into the icy wind and look forward with expectation into what is to come.

Sometimes I think about how overwhelming life would be if we didn't keep time - if we didn't count the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years, decades.  I can hardly fathom what it would mean to have the moments stretch on and on, without any sort of definition.

No, we are created for rhythm.  Of this I am sure.  We need structure - we need definition.  We need to be able to categorize and compartmentalize things.  We need to be able to leave things behind: "2013 was a hard one - I'm glad it's done."  We need to be able to look ahead: "2014 will be better, I can already tell."


In the last few years, it has become my New Year's tradition to pause for a few hours and reflect on the year.  Sometimes I read through my journal (provided it was a good year for journaling).  Sometimes I re-trace the journey month-by-month.  Sometimes, I just sit, mesmerized by the tree lights or the flickering candles, savoring the sweet stillness.   And I am always surprised at how powerful it can be to take the time and space to actively remember.

365 days ago, I was preparing to tackle my final semester at Peabody, having no idea that 12-mos. later, I would have completed my first semester as a music theory professor.

I am amazed at how much can be crammed into a single year....at how much has changed...and at how much is exactly the same.  I think back on what has transpired - the milestone events - large and small - the ones that happened on a stage, the ones that happened in a practice room, and the ones that happened in my living room.  

I stumbled upon this Maya Angelou quote, as I was flipping through my journal this evening. From what I can gather (I am not always the most detailed in my journaling), it was Denyce Graves who quoted it, when I was playing for one of her students' lessons one afternoon. She framed it within the context of singing - within the world of theater....which makes total sense. We don't necessarily remember how an actor moved his hands or even with what inflection he delivered the line - but we will remember being moved. We will remember a line or a phrase cutting straight to the heart.

Yes, there are specific moments I remember from the last year.  There are words, phrases that people have spoken to me in the last 12 months - and I will continue to replay them for years to come.  There are things people have done for me - small things, and ginormous things - that will remained ingrained in my memory.  

But Maya's right.  I remember them because of how they made me feel.

So then I got to thinking...as is prone to happen when wine and chocolate and candlelit lanterns are involved:       How do people make us feel?

Uneasy.

Awkward.

Small.

Fearful.
Weak.

Stupid.

Alone.

Worthless.

Safe.

Loved.

Heard.

Understood.

Seen.

Important.

Peaceful.

Forgiven.

Empowered.

Thankful..

Free.

Needed.

Alive.

We are not responsible for the feelings of others.  We feel what we feel - and we really have no control over that, at least to an extent.  But at the same time, we must also never forget that our words and our actions carry great weight and power.  The people we brush shoulders with every day are precious, extraordinary, fragile.

I always find it fascinating to read the list of "most influential people of the year" (by somebody's standards) and peruse the catalog of people who have passed on in the last year.  Many of them, I've never heard of. Most of them have had little or no direct impact on my life.

Because the people that matter most to me are the people whose faces now find themselves plastered to my frig.  And as I allow my eyes to drift over those precious faces, the feelings come surging back.  I see the eyes of one who sees me. I see the smile and, in my head, hear the laugh of one who makes me come alive.

For the most part, I cannot tell you what it is exactly that they did or said.  But the feelings run deep.  And the feelings remain.

And so, as I close the book on yet another year, I do so with gratitude.  I marvel at the mystery of human interaction.  I am awed by the glimpses of the divine that I see all around me.  I give thanks for the fingerprints - so divinely human - that have left their mark on my heart.  

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani  -  www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com 

the white belt

The Sabbath is setting on this, my final Sabbath before the school year begins. The lanterns around my living room are lit, and I am finishing off a glass of wine as I close this day, this season, of rest.

I was on campus briefly this weekend and felt the nervous energy of freshmen and their parents as they moved their life’s possessions into their tiny dorm rooms. I know that energy well; I was one of them, once. I know the intensity of the schedule – the orientation events, the placement exams, the ensemble auditions, the dorm initiation activities. It will be a whirlwind few days, and then on Wednesday, thirty-five students will stumble into my classroom – excited, nervous, terrified, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, hoarse from the yell-off and Mock Rock, loving life more than ever before, wondering if this is really for them.

Truth be told, I am not ready for them. Sure, my syllabus is posted, but I was smart enough to write “SUBJECT TO CHANGE” at the top. How you are supposed to plan the activities and readings and assignments for EVERY SINGLE DAY of class before you have even seen the whites of their eyes is still completely beyond me. So it has been submitted to the powers that be – but there are still lessons to plan, lectures to write, exams to create. 

There are certain things I must cover this semester – concepts they must learn, skills they must acquire, knowledge they will be held accountable for. So I have planned and planned. I have sat and stared at the calendar, wondering how it’s possible to fit so much into a mere 14 weeks. How many days can we afford to spend on seventh chords or non-harmonic tones? I have grown dizzy as I have tried to figure out the best order for introducing various concepts. Lord knows I’m still torn on whether or not to explore minor scales before our discussion of the circle of fifths. I have spent hours wondering how much I will be able to fit into one hour of class time. Will we be able to cover all four triad qualities AND discuss the qualities of triads built on the various scale degrees?

With all this planning and preparation, it would be easy for me to begin this year with the mindset that I am here to teach my students something.

But the truth is: I am here to learn. I am here to learn their names and their faces. I am here to uncover their abilities, their strengths, their weaknesses. I am here to listen to their stories, their dreams, their passions.

As I sip my wine this evening, I turn, as I have often done at important moments in my musical development, to what I have come to refer to as my “musical Bible” - a book called “Zen Guitar” by Philip Toshio Sudo. My copy has been well-loved; its pages are browning, the cover is wrinkled, and there are hundreds of underlined phrases, sentences, paragraphs and notes in the margins.

This particular evening, I find myself flipping to the chapter on wearing the white belt, the color worn by a beginner. As he works and learns, his belt gradually dirties and eventually turns to black – the color worn by a master. But he does not stop there; he continues to work, and as he does, the belt fades and eventually returns to white. It is a never-ending cycle. It is not about “arriving” at a destination – but is instead about being faithful to the process.

My choir director in college used to refer to us as “wearers of the white belt” – those who have, as Sudo describes, chosen to “set aside all knowledge and preconceptions and open [their minds] to learning as though for the first time.”  Wearers of the white belt come with empty cups, ready to learn and receive.

We've all known the people who’ve come in with all the answers. We see them coming, a mile away, and we start heading in the opposite direction. We’ve also been those people. We’ve come in with everything figured out, ready to teach the class or flaunt our vast wisdom and experience. And oh, the things we’ve missed. The lessons we haven’t learned. The nuggets of wisdom we let slip through the cracks.

Sudo says it well: “The moment you think you know everything there is to know, you will have lost the way. The beginner’s mind is the mind of wisdom.”

It’s true – I do have things to teach, wisdom to offer, experiences to share. But I also have much to learn, new perspectives to discover, fresh insights to gain.

On Wednesday, 35 students will stumble into my classroom.

On Wednesday, 35 teachers will stumble into my classroom.

So tonight I don my white belt.

Tonight I empty my cup.

I am ready to learn.

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com

it is what it is

I hate blank walls.

Always have, always will.

So it should come as no surprise that one of the first things I do when I move to a new place, even before all the boxes are unpacked, is start laying out picture collages on the floor.

My father, ever the photo journalist, captured one such humidity-and-exhaustion-soaked moment 2 years ago this week as I settled in Baltimore.

I love this part of the process.  It centers me and settles me, to acquaint myself with my new floor, surrounded by old friends, familiar faces that have followed me on my journey.  After the craziness of moving, my little introvert self is thankful for the chance to absorb the quiet, to reflect, to remember, to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, to make this new place my own.

But as I finally had the "aha" moment and found the perfect place for one little piece of artwork this evening (it has been sitting, homeless, on my desk for weeks), I realize that I have also come to love the change. The paintings and posters and picture frames that call my walls home have found their way to a plethora of different walls over the years - and have hung side-by-side a vast array of different objects.  And though they have remained unchanged over the years, they look different each time I put them up. The light hits them from a new angle. The walls behind them highlight their vibrant colors in a new way. The pieces they are now paired with bring out parts of them I'd never noticed before. 

I love how there is change in the constancy.  I love how you can look at something a million times and not really see it until you look at it that million-and-first time.  I love how everything eventually finds its place - sometimes where we least expect it to.

And isn't this true in life in general?  We bring the same set of strengths and weaknesses to each table we encounter - the same personality quirks - the same set of baggage.   The older I get and the further I travel, the more I am dismayed to find out that I am the same person wherever I wander.  Somehow, even though I attempt to leave it behind, my storage unit full of complexities and idiosyncrasies and selfishness and fears finds its way into each new town I call my home.

But there's hope. There are fresh starts.  There are new circumstances and new relationships and new walls to decorate.  The light falls differently and offers a new perspective.  Weaknesses become strengths.  Fears become motivators.  Shadows are chased away by sunbeams.  They are not bound by their former identities. They have been redefined in the present.  And sure, we cannot change the past or its long-lasting effects on us. And we lean, depend, feed on our hope for the future.  But the fact of the matter remains: we only have this moment.  We only have the present.

In the year before I left for Baltimore, my dear soul sister and I would, at times (OK, often), find ourselves overwhelmed by life.  There were days when we gave up on words and just laughed.  And there were days when we gave up on words and just cried.  And amidst fits of giggles and streams of tears, our mantra became, "It is what it is."  And for us, at the time, I think it meant "I'll take the hand I'm dealt; it's out of my control anyway." "I will accept this reality and trust that it's not forever."

Shortly before I left for graduate school, I found a little wooden sign that said just that: "it is what it is."  So off it went with me to Baltimore. And every morning, as I brushed my teeth, I pondered it.  For two years, I pondered....and also I cried and I laughed (a bit more of the former than the latter).  And for those two years it took on a new meaning: "It is what it is, so I will choose gratitude."

Today that sign has found a new resting place on the shelf beside my dining room table, to the right of my mug collection, just below my produce basket full of Walla Walla sweet onions, to the left of two pictures of my soul sisters.  Today, it reminds me of the tears and the laughter, of the fight to stay grateful.  And today it takes on a new meaning: "it isn't what it was."