The art of listening

As I practiced yesterday, I was struck by how much of what I call 'practice' is really just figuring out what to listen for. The inner voices, the way one chord leans into the resolution of another. It's easy to just get drawn in by soprano line - the melody. Our ears have been trained to do so, through years of conditioning.

But what about the counter-melodies? What about the harmony? What about the bass line - that foundation upon which everything else rests and resonates?

There are very few instruments that can play multiple lines of music at once. Mine is one of them. And of course, with that immense gift comes the enormous responsibility of caring for each individual line. It is, indeed a blessing and a curse to be given both melody and harmony. Managing both simultaneously is a tall order for a mere ten fingers. Indeed, it takes years of practice to develop the ability to bring out different lines at different times - to find the balance between them.

We have a term for that attempt at balance: voicing.
My last teacher was determined that I would never, ever play a chord that was not properly voiced. And I still hear her voice in my head as I sit in the practice room each morning.

But voicing is the end result. The goal.

The first step is listening.
Finding each individual line. Studying its contour.
Singing it, internalizing it, letting it become a part of me.
Appreciating how it relates to and interacts with the lines around it.

I have to know each line independent of the others in order to understand how they relate to each other.
And there are no shortcuts for that.
Listening takes time. It takes intentionality. It takes openness.

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I am taking a history class right now - a historical research class, to be precise. And this week, we have begun our exploration of different 'subfields' of history - which are essentially different filters through which we interpret or even begin to form our narrative of past events.

We have been taught to use these subfields as a means of finding other voices. Of telling stories that have been ignored. Of questioning our preconceived ideas about 'facts.' Not in an attempt to deny the existence of the truth, but rather, in an attempt to find the whole truth.

What if the story you have been told is only part of a bigger story?

Or, to put it in musical terms: what if the part of the song you know is only the alto part?
Is the alto part a true, integral part of the whole? Of course it is. But have you listened to the tenor line? What does your alto line sound like in the context of the whole? Do you realize that there's a whole orchestra behind you? Could it be that the song is actually completely different than what you assumed it to be?

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And so it is with people.

The daily interactions I have with students, colleagues, strangers, do not even begin to tell me the whole story. I hear one line, one phrase - and I am quick to jump to conclusions. I make assumptions about who these people are, about what they are thinking, about what their motivations are. But these little snippets of melodies cannot express the whole of the person.

So, I become a student of the score. I sing these individual lines in my head, let them resonate in me. I seek out other lines, and I find them in body language, in the breath, in the syntax of the sentence, in the gleam of the eyes. I listen for the unspoken message, the one that lies between the lines. I listen for the person. I listen for the Divine.

The Place I Want to Get Back To

is where

     in the pinewoods

          in the moments between 

               the darkness

and first light

     two deer

          came walking down the hill

               and when they saw me

they said to each other, okay,

     this one is okay,

          let's see who she is

               and why she is sitting

on the ground, like that,

     so quiet, as if

          asleep, or in a dream,

               but, anyway, harmless;

and so they came

     on their slender legs

          and gazed upon me

               not unlike the way

I go out to the dunes and look

     and look and look

          into the faces of the flowers;

               and then one of them leaned forward

and nuzzled my hand, and what can my life

     bring to me that could exceed

          that brief moment?

               For twenty years

I have gone every day to the same woods,

     not waiting, exactly, just lingering.

          Such gifts, bestowed,

               can't be repeated.

If you want to talk about this

     come to visit. I live in the house

          near the corner, which I have named

               Gratitude.

-Mary Oliver

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.

willing to wander

"Walking with someone through grief,

or through the process of reconciliation,

requires patience, presence,and 

a willingness to wander..."

-Rachel Held Evans
  
 "Thus when you wake up in the morning, called by God to be a self again, 

if you want to know who you are, watch your feet. 

Because where your feet take you, that is who you are."

 - Frederick Buechner

I was reading some Rachel Held Evans this week, as I reflected on the passing year. This phrase seemed to jump off the page at me: willingness to wander. She spoke of it in the context of helping someone seek healing. We are quick to attempt to fix, find a cure, solve the problem. But healing doesn't work this way. It isn't linear. It isn't predictable. There is no formula.  To walk with someone on the path of healing is to walk without a map, without a plan, without an agenda.

But I think this principle of wandering extends beyond the path for healing.  Because to be in relationship with people is to be willing to wander.

Am I willing to wander with my students?
It may be that I have played a song 100 times, coached it with master teachers, soaked in the poetry....but will I be open to a different interpretation? Will I be ready to play it the way that they need to sing it?
Am I willing to hear their questions and resist the urge to give them a ready-made, pre-cut answer? Am I willing to take their challenges to heart? Am I willing to change my mind?
Am I willing to learn from them?

Am I willing to wander with others I hold dear?
Am I willing to watch them go down a path that by all my estimations is wrong...dangerous...not what I would have chosen? Am I willing to stay with them in it...simply to be with them?

Am I willing to wander with myself?
Am I willing to let the journey take me where it will? Am I willing to walk down a path, and resist the desire to apologize for it or seek to explain it to anyone else...or even to myself?
Am I willing to listen, really listen to the voice of my soul?
Am I willing to move in a non-linear pattern....even if it means moving in a circle?
Am I willing to wander into places I do not expect anything Divine to dwell?
Am I willing to seek the light, wherever it may be found?

One of the rules of my weekly Sabbath is the practice of spontaneity. There are of course, restrictions about what I avoid on that day - things related to schedules and work and technology being at the top of the list. But the main purpose of the day is to listen to my soul, to do the things that will bring me life in that moment. And most often, this involves listening to my feet. Often I find myself setting out on a walk, with no agenda, no destination, no ETA. And I quickly find that creating space for spontaneity - for wandering - can lead to space for surprises too. And where there is room for surprise, there is room for wonder. "Attention," says Mary Oliver, "is the beginning of devotion."

In reflecting on this idea of wandering, I am reminded of the famous words of Tolkein, Not all who wander are lost. And, while I appreciate the sentiment, I might be so bold as to add: Some are, but there's nothing wrong with that. Sometimes 'living the questions', to borrow a phrase from Rilke, means wandering for awhile.

"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything.  Live the questions now.  Perhaps then, someday far in the future,  you will gradually, without noticing it, live your way into the answer."

 - Rainier Maria Rilke

praying

It doesn't have to be 

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

-Mary Oliver

Artists don't compartmentalize.

I've been mulling on this thought for a few months now, ever since a colleague of mine said it in rehearsal. It came in the context of the students having to do multiple things at once....sing accurate pitches and rhythms, adhere to expression markings, blend with their section, be mindful of their breath, tell the story, etc., etc., etc. Making music in ensemble is an extreme form of multi-tasking.

Artists don't compartmentalize.

As he spoke these words, I felt my eyes well with tears. Yes, he was speaking about that particular moment in rehearsal; he was acknowledging the seeming-impossibility of his request for them to do all these things at once. But, as usual, there was a deeper meaning behind his words.

When I walk on the stage, as much as I would love to leave behind the fears, anxieties, burdens, hurts, stresses of my day, week, month, year, lifetime, the truth is, they follow me on.  So when I am feeling tense, my playing is tense. When I am feeling anxious, my playing is anxious.  When I am feeling broken, my playing is broken.

But I have long held the belief that audiences don't want perfection.  What moves us most is not a masterfully-sculpted phrase or a perfectly-tuned chord.  What moves us most is Truth.  Honesty. Humanity.   And yes, if the phrase is bumpy or the chord is out of tune, we might be a bit distracted from the truth.  But also, I think we forgive the musical shortcomings if the expression is honest.

Artists don't compartmentalize.
And I don't think humans should either.

I love these words of Mary Oliver.  They serve as a reminder to me that I don't need to assume a specific posture to touch the Divine.  There aren't magic words to be said.

The invitation is to come as we are.
Weeds, irises, stones, anxiety, brokenness, humanity....it's all welcome.
The promise is that He will inhabit it all.  Emmanuel.   God with us.

here we are

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know you.

I mean, of course, I can.

I lived 20 years before I met you.   20 full years.

But somehow in your quest to know my story - the days, hours, years - the seasons - I lived before our hearts began their journey together – you have, in fact, in some mysterious way, become part of my whole story – even the parts you weren’t actually present for.

Sometimes I forget how much life we’ve actually lived together.

Sometimes I forget how much you’ve seen me through.

Sometimes I forget how much of me you’ve seen.

It’s true: you have seen me.  

You have seen past my attempts to hide, 
                right straight through my half-answers and avoidance tactics.  
You have seen me through the veil of your tears - you have seen me sitting in a pool of my own - week after week, month after month.
You have seen the passions and longings of my heart,
     and you have echoed them back to me in my seasons of forgetfulness.

You have seen me at my best,
                                            on the mountain top, doing my victory dance.  

You have seen me in the depths,
                                                                in the darkness, in the muck.

And never have you demanded an apology for what you see.

Never have you asked me to be anything I am not.

Not once have you been scared away by my honesty. In fact, you crave it. 
                   I’m pretty sure you have a full-on addiction to truth.

You see fully, and still you ask to know more.

Oh, how you ask.

Oh, how I love how you ask.

The inquisitive kind of questions, born of an insatiable curiousity.

The thumb-tack-on-your-chair kinds of questions.

 Why settle for "how are you" when you can ask "who are you"?

 Why settle for "what do you do" when you can ask "what brings you life"?

The questions that come out of frustration. Why? How long?

How long? 

How long, indeed.

You have taught me to embrace the season,
                                           even if it feels like it will never end.

You have taught me to be present where I am.

You celebrate when it is time to celebrate.

You grieve when it is time to grieve.

And when you have no idea what it is time for, you just keep digging.

It can’t hurt to till the soil, right?

And so we keep on tilling.

We dig our knees into the dirt once more, and with the sun beating down on our backs, we plunge our hands into the soil, and continue the seemingly endless task of sorting out the rocks, breaking up the clumps, one by one.

Sometimes we work in silence.

Sometimes we chatter away.

Sometimes we laugh so hard that we cry.

Sometimes we cry so hard that we laugh.

Sometimes we wonder if it will ever be more than just dirt.
Sometimes it seems impossible to believe that there will be anything
but acres, upon acres of brown.

But, here's to the brown.   Here's to the mud. 
Here's to the hope of green.
Here's to the seeds that will hopefully be planted at some point, and to the sprouts that will maybe, somehow, by some miracle, find their way to the light of day.
Here's to the laughter and the tears.
Here's to the truth that we hold to.     Here's to the truth that holds us.
Here's to living the questions. 
Here's to being seen and known and understood.
Here's to choosing gratitude.
Here's to being together, in all our brokenness.

Here's to being here.               Wherever here is.

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 

let evening come

It's my favorite time of day.  Or, my new favorite, I should say.  I will never abandon my undying love for early mornings, but living in a westward-facing home has brought with it a new appreciation for the dusky, twilit world.

The work is done...or at least laid aside until tomorrow.  The dishes are dripping their way to being dry.  The sun is bidding his final farewell as he peeks out from behind the ridge. My wineglass grows more illumined by the second as the candlelit lantern sends its flickers across the table.  My feet are up.  My hands are overflowing with fresh grapes from my garden. And Puzzle, the cross-eyed cat (yes, it's true), has come to say 'good evening'.

I spent yesterday evening in this same spot, catching up with a friend by lantern light after a 6-year hiatus (actually, probably really more like 10) from each others' lives. We reflected our individual journeys, as we recounted what has brought us to this point in time.  And here we are.  In the same city.  In similar seasons of life.

She commented on the way I didn't hide the messiness or the tension as I recounted my story of the last few years.  "That's life," she said, "We want it to fit nicely in boxes, but it doesn't."  We want there to be airtight solutions to the problems and easy answers to our nagging questions.  And it would be nice if it was all wrapped up with a beautiful bow on top.  but that's not life.


And maybe this is why I am coming to love evenings.


The mornings are full of pent-up potential.  There is room for hope, possibility, fresh starts.  I love the unknown.  The anticipation.  The energy of the stillness.  When I look at the day through my morning eyes, I am filled with gratitude.

I've never really liked evenings.  I have always associated them with weariness, heaviness, the weight of the day's work and failures.  The unknown is now known.  The morning's stillness has been replaced by a cacophony of voices. The din has undone me.  When I look at the day through my evening eyes, I am quick to see the negative - it is all-to-easy to latch on to the faults and failures.

But, the longer I sit, the more I force myself to pause and remember, the more I start see the beauty of the day.  A word of affirmation.  A shared moment of laughter.  A surprising turn of events.  An unexpected gift.


Over the years, as I have explored the idea of "Sabbath" - I have come to love the idea of the Sabbath beginning at sundown.  I love that it begins with rest. I love that it begins with what is, by American standards, the most unproductive thing we can do.  I love that surrender to the darkness and the stillness serves as the link between days.   I love that even in the hours that hold such terror and dread for so many - the moments when we are left defenseless and vulnerable - this - even this - is the time to begin anew.

And so, I say, let evening come.  Let it come and bring with it an awareness of our failures and shortcomings. Let it come and bring with it the weariness and weight of the day.  Let it come and bring with it the recollections of quiet moments of beauty in the chaos.  Let it come, and let us embrace it.  Let it come, and let us yield to the darkness, to the stillness.  Let it come, and let us lean into the grace that holds us.

Let it come, as it will, and don't

be afraid. God does not leave us

comfortless, so let evening come.

 - Jane Kenyon

Photo Credit:  Chinwe Edeani