yes

My phone rang this morning.
And I didn't want to answer it.

I was 1.5 hours into a 7-hour practice day. I have several binders of music to learn. And with 10 practice days left before it all has to be performable, things are just a wee bit stressful.

But, then again, I survived 75 voice finals last week...without the aid of coffee, wine, or really, any amount of practicing...and with the help of 2 bottles of cough syrup, 2 cartons of grapefruit juice and and far too many cough drops.   So, anything is possible, right?

Still, I didn't want to answer the phone.

Somebody probably needs an accompanist, and I don't want it to be me.  I was up late last night, and I've been playing a lot lately, and I'm still trying to get healthy, and I'm attempting to be ready to move out of my apartment next week, and I have to bake a birthday cake for a friend, and I would just like to be home for an evening....and.....a million other things...

So, obviously, I answered the phone.

It was a voice teacher friend of mine. Her student had won a special award at the music festival that took place here this week (Thomas Hampson established the award in honor of his former teacher). And, he had been selected to perform at the honors concert.  Tonight.  And, his accompanist was unavailable.

Usually, I say no to these things.
I don't like doing things last minute.
I have enough music on my plate right now.

But it was a piece I knew and could probably play in my sleep.
And I live five minutes from the theater.
And I do happen to be free this evening.
And, most of all, this kid deserves to sing.  He deserves the chance to tell his story.  He deserves to be celebrated.  He deserves the chance to share his gift.

So, obviously, I said yes.
And, obviously, I'm glad I did.

Because I got to empower someone tonight.  I got to give him the gift of possibility.  And he took it and ran with it.

Sure, if I hadn't said yes, someone else might have played.  So maybe he still would have gotten a chance to sing and tell his story and share his gift and be celebrated.

But I got to be a part of the story-telling.
I got to be a part of the celebration.
I got to enable him to shine.
I got to help him share his gift.
I got to receive some of the blessing.


My phone rang this morning.
And I'm glad it did.

letting go

I want my students to succeed.

In my ideal world, "succeed" means they get their homework in on time, enjoy learning, experience wonderful "aha" moments of discovery, feel confident as they complete various assignments and exams, and then get straight A's on all of said assignments because they understand every concept perfectly and are putting their all into their work for this class.

I also want my students to grow.

This means they learn how to manage their time, how hard they must work to meet the standards, how much they are capable of (which is, no doubt, more than they think is possible), how to persevere after failure, how to ask for help.

The reality is: I don't have control over either one - their growth, or their success.

As their teacher, I have many responsibilities: present the material as clearly as possible, outline my expectations, hold the standard high, give feedback as frequently as possible, make myself available to answer questions, believe in and affirm their capability, get to know them and their individual stories, work to be fair, and offer grace when necessary.

I wish I could offer them grace all the time.
But I wouldn't be doing them any favors.
Truth and grace must always go hand in hand.

I hope they will learn about music theory in my class. I hope they will learn to understand and appreciate music on a deeper level, and I hope it will inform their performance.
More than that, I hope they will learn about being a college student, about becoming an adult, about hard work, about high standards, about grace - about themselves.

These thoughts were percolating as I dropped spoonfuls of dough onto a cookie sheet on Thursday night.  When I was a TA for this class, more than a few years ago, I made it a habit to bring cookies to my students every time they had an exam. That way, there was a happy end to an hour of mental gymnastics. And also, if they didn't do well, at least there were cookies, right?

I suppose making cookies is one of my ways of coping with my lack of control.  I cannot control their study habits or their success.  I will ultimately have to give them the grade they earn.  But I CAN feed them some sugar (and hopefully make them smile) along the way.

This morning, I spent 3 hours grading exams.  And, as expected, I had to <reluctantly> enter several low grades in my grade book.  In need of some kind of release, I threw on my running shoes and hit the trail.  My body began to relax, as I every-so-slowly unclenched my fists, loosened my grip.

This semester will not be easy for me.  I will learn how to let go in a whole new way...and I will have to learn to do it again and again.

It's all part of the process.  It's all part of the journey.  It's all part of living life with open hands.

But, let's be honest.....at the end of the day, at least there are still cookies.

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

open the door

“…I know I am really free

to share bread and intimacy,

to laugh and exchange mercy.”

                            ~Ted Loder

It was my mother who taught me to set a proper table. And for years, I watched her host family holiday gatherings, serve the famous Trotter pizza to medical students and residents, whip up another overnight coffee cake for friends whose jet lag had awoken them at 4:30AM. How many conversations have been shared, with her in the kitchen, and a guest seated on a barstool at the counter? And how many times had I heard her repeat her mantra? Specialness is worth it.

My own cooking ventures began at a young age, with the creation of “turtle bread.” It was, as it sounds, bread – in the shape of a turtle. And over the years, I have had various successes and failures in the kitchen. Who could forget the time I forgot the baking soda in my muffins? (Not to be confused with the time my mother put black pepper in hers.)

The seeds of hospitality that had been planted in my youth took root in my own life when I set up my own home for the first time, my junior year of college. That was the year that 4 of us had the crazy idea to leave the door to our home open – and host community dinners 3 nights a week. I know that more than a few people thought we were nuts – what if no one came? What if too many or the wrong people came? No matter. We set off on our adventure, unsure of where it would lead us.

But on any given day, if you had walked into our house, you might have discovered a few freshmen doing homework in front of the fire place, or an RA and her entire hall making cookies in our kitchen, or a bunch of chemistry majors enjoying dinner around our table, or 45 people eating eggs and bacon in tuxedos and choir dresses.

It was all an experiment, really; we learned by doing. We learned how to make a meal stretch when 5 (or 15) more people showed up (for the record: baked potatoes are a magical and wonderful and...filling food). We learned that anything will taste good if you put avocado on it.  We learned that BBQ-ed bread is an…interesting delicacy. We learned what made people feel safe and loved. We learned what unique skills and gifts we had to offer as individuals…and we learned even more as we watched each other. We learned what community looks like, how to foster it, how to be intentional in relationships. We learned how to confess our failures and shortcomings, and how to receive grace and forgiveness. We learned how to love each other, as opposite and “other” as we are, and how to walk with each other. We learned what we had fervently believed all along: if you open your door, people will come.  People will come because they crave safety and intimacy and community…and yes, home-cooked food.

That first year in the Open Door was a special one – one that I know I am still reaping the benefits of. Those women, some of whom I barely knew at the outset, have become my soul sisters, my tribe. They continue to be the ones that know and love me the best, though we are now separated by mountains and oceans. We have known each other through triumphs and tragedies, and have fought to stay connected through all the changes and new seasons life has brought us.

And we all, at different times, have expressed longing to be back in that house again. I think we would all agree that while we have experienced moments of sweet community since then, nothing has come close to matching what we shared in those few months we spent together. But instead of feeling despair at what we have lost, we each have come, in our own way, to realize that our time at 10420 Whitworth Dr. was a time to fan the flames. We know what intentional community can look like, and we consider it our calling to foster that in whatever circles we find ourselves in. We each took a candle with us when we left, and we’ve lit our own little corners of the world in our own special ways.

My own candle has traveled far and wide. And it has looked different in every home I’ve resided in since the Open Door. I will never forget the few days my mom and I spent looking for an apartment in Baltimore. On our final day of searching, we hit a wall. The deadline to decide on a place was fast approaching: it was mid-afternoon and we needed to be on the light rail by early evening in order to make our flight back to Seattle. In typical Baltimore fashion, it was hot and humid, and I happened to be experiencing one of the worst allergy attacks I’d ever had. With both of us on the verge of tears, my mom had the wherewithal to tell me it was time to make a phone call to Spokane, to one of my Open Door soul sisters.

So there I sat. On the bench outside the St. Paul Laundromat, dripping with sweat, tears and snot. Thankfully she answered, and even though she hadn’t laid eyes on any of the apartments we’d seen over the past few days, she told me what I needed to hear:

“You love hospitality. You need to have a space where you can be free to welcome others.”

And she was right.  I hung up the phone. Signed a lease.  Hopped on the light rail, sweaty, teary and snotty…but at peace.

I didn’t know what that candle would look like in Baltimore. I couldn’t leave my door open all the time. I didn’t have the money or the time to host community dinners every week. I didn’t have a team of sisters to share the load with me.

But the truth remained: if you open it, they will come.

And so they came. One at a time, for breakfast-for-dinner. In large groups, for bean cake, mulled wine and mandatory fun. Armed with side dishes and salads and dining room tables and chairs for the Easter dinner that fed 17, all crammed in and cozy in my tiny living room.

I’ve been reading Shauna Niequist’s new book – which is, in part, about cooking – but mostly about sharing life around the table. As I read this morning the following quote jumped off the page at me:

“What people are craving isn’t perfection. People aren’t longing to be impressed; they’re longing to feel like they’re home. If you create a space full of love and character and creativity and soul, they’ll take off their shoes and curl up with gratitude and rest, no matter how small, no matter how undone, no matter how odd.”

And as I opened the book just now to copy that quote down, I glanced at the name of the chapter it is found in: Open the Door.

So here I am again, in a new space, with a new place to call home. As it is with all of us who shared that time in the Open Door, I packed my candle at the top of one of the boxes. It’s the last thing to go in, and the first one to come out. Why wait until “everything’s settled” to open the door? How easy it is to forget that the presence of people is what makes everything feel settled.

So the candle is lit, once more. I don’t know how many will find their way to its flame, nor what their stories will be. I can only pray that they find safety around my table – a place to be seen and heard and loved. A place to laugh and exchange mercy. A place to share bread and intimacy.

The candle is lit. The table is set. The door is open.

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

the gift of presence

"Then I sit quietly for a while, appreciating the beauty of the place, looking at or handling sacred objects on my table. Mostly what I keep are small gifts from people, things that remind me that my presence has mattered, that I have touched people, that I am connected, that I am so incredibly blessed."

 - Sabbath, Wayne Muller

Over the last 10 years, I have been diligent to keep the Sabbath. That is to say, I set aside 24 hours each week to rest - no practicing, no homework, no to-do-lists, no technology.  I am quite convinced that this practice has kept me alive, healthy, sane. 

And in the last few weeks, I have been learning the importance of Sabbath seasons.  I haven't had one in at least 4 years, maybe longer.  I was talking with a friend this week, a member of my former small group - the same group that walked with me as I attempted to work full time AND apply to graduate school simultaneously (this involved starting my practice time at 6AM every day).  "You haven't rested in a long time" - and she should know...she watched me struggle to keep my eyes open each week during small group.

I picked up a new book on the Sabbath last month, and I have enjoyed exploring different perspectives and Sabbath traditions. This morning's nugget seemed to leap off the page.  The author was describing the Sabbath practices of a friend of his (named Mary, no less). The above quote describes a portion of her Sabbath morning ritual.

One phrase resonated deeply with me: things that remind me that my presence has mattered.

I find it interesting that she says her "presence."  Not what she's done.  Not what she's given.  Not even what she's spoken.  Just simply her existence. The fact that she showed up. The fact that she shared a space with others, breathed the same air.

Isn't this what we all want to know?  Not even that we are wonderful or amazing, but simply that we matter. That something is lost if we are not present.  That there is intrinsic value in us that is involuntary, independent of our actions.  That our presence has had an effect, whether we intended it or not. That we are connected, in ways that cannot be put into words.  We are each made in the image of God, and when we rub shoulders, we cannot help but pass on a little bit of the divine.

As I have sorted through my belongings during my moving process, I have come across boxes of letters, cards, messages scrawled on scratch paper.  The written word has always been the most powerful love language in my life - and this collection of notes speaks of my need to know that my presence is needed - necessary.  So I hold tightly to them, to remind myself that I have mattered - and to fuel my hope that I can matter again.

And as I reflect on those who have affirmed my value, I am suddenly aware of the power we hold over others.  It doesn't take much to affirm someone's value.  A squeeze of the hand.  An arm around the shoulders.  A held gaze.  A simple sentence:   "I'm glad you're here."  "I've missed you."

It doesn't take much.  But the effects are far-reaching.

And it's made me think about the souls that will be present in my classroom this fall.  I was a bit overwhelmed to learn this week that there could be as many as 50 of them.  I will be studying my picture roster every night, attempting to learn names.  They will come and they will go - and I may not know all their stories by the end of the semester.  But I hope and pray that in some small way, I can communicate to them that they matter - not just their work or their opinions or their contribution to class discussion or their grades. Just their presence.