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.

Father and Lord,
         most near and most far,

    Listen to our silence before Thee,
              as well as to our prayers,
                             because often it is the silence that speaks better of our need.

Speak Thy joy into our silence.
Breathe Thy life into our less-than-life,
          not for our own sakes only,
                   but for the sake of those to whom, with Thy life in us,
                                                                            we may, ourselves, bring life.

Much as we wish,
           not one of us can bring back yesterday
                                                   or shape tomorrow.
                              ONLY TODAY IS OURS
                                                                        and it will not be ours for long.
     And once it is gone,
                       it will never,     in all time,
                                                               be ours again.

Thou only knowest what it holds in store for us.
Yet even we know something of what it will hold:
            a chance to speak truth,
                to show mercy,
                to ease another's burden
             the chance to resist evil,
                to remember all the good times and good people of our past.
                to be brave
                      to be strong
                               to be glad.

We know that today, as every day,
                 our lives will be touched by Thee.
     and that one way or another,
                                            Thou wilt speak to us before we sleep,
         for the very moments themselves of our lives           are Thy words to us.

Give us ears to hear Thee speak.
                Give us hearts to quicken
                                                       as Thou drawest near.

-Frederick Buechner

thin places

"...music is about as physical as it gets:

your essential rhythm is your heartbeat; your essential sound, the breath.

We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix,

it somehow lets us meet in places we couldn't get to any other way."

- Anne Lamott

I make music. For a living.
Sometimes I forget how great that is.

Because, truth be told, there's a lot that's not so great about it.

There are moments, days, weeks...seasons....when I question what I do. Why don't I just go get an office job that wouldn't demand so much of me...that I wouldn't care so much about...that would actually give me a decent salary, and dare-I-say-it....benefits?

My hours are long...and irregular. It's not uncommon for me to work 12-15 hours a day, 6 days a week. I often wonder what it would be like to work 8-5 and actually leave my work at work and have...a weekend. When I don't have a gig, I have rehearsal for a gig...or I should probably be practicing for said gig.

My work is never done. At this moment in time, I am responsible for roughly 400 pages of music. So really, when I say I make music for a living, what I mean is, I juggle music for a living. I live from one performance to another. I've barely got time to celebrate one recital, before I'm prepping for the next one.

I am constantly being critiqued...by my colleagues, employers...and myself. I struggle to remind myself that while my daily performance is important - and while I should absolutely strive to bring my best to everything I do...my worth is not found in how many right notes I play, or how dazzling my technique is. I struggle to remember that I am more than a musician.

It is not easy to be a musician in today's world. Musicians (and artists of all kinds) are forced to burn the candle at both ends. We juggle full schedules of rehearsals, lessons, performances. And when we're not practicing, rehearsing, performing or teaching - we become advocates...trying to convince our society - and sometimes even ourselves - that what we do matters...that it is necessary.

I make music. For a living.

Sometimes I forget how great that is.

Even as I sit here, I have begun and erased at least 2 dozen sentences, as I attempt to express my wonder, my joy - my sheer delight in the fact that someone actually pays me to do what I love. I honestly don't even know where to start.

I get paid to interact with poetry and melody. 

     To absorb it - let it affect me, change me, become part of me.
I get paid to create. 

     To paint with colors of sound.
I get paid to collaborate. 

     To journey with another - and cultivate something new together
I get paid to tell stories. 

     To give voice to another's, to reveal my own.
I get paid to express. 

     To speak hope, joy, freedom, comfort, truth.

The Celtic mystics use the term "thin place" to refer to a sacred space - one where the veil between the material world and the eternal world is thin. 

Poet Sharlande Sledge describes them this way:

"Thin places," the Celts call this space,

Both seen and unseen,

Where the door between the world 

And the next is cracked open for a moment

And the light is not all on the other side.

God shaped space. Holy.

I think I am beginning to realize that my work is one giant "thin place."

I spend my days on the edge of the divine. Of course, we're always on the edge; the divine is always present - all around us, within us.

But somehow, when there is poetry, when there is music - when they swirl and resonate together - when we add the tenderness of our hearts to the mix - the veil becomes so thin, you forget it's even there.

and the light spills out from the other side. 

I make music.  For a living.

Sometimes I forget how great that is.

bertha, wilfred, and a cup of strong black coffee

7:00 AM.  I roll into the music building parking lot (lucky for me, there is no competition for parking spots at this early hour).  I unload my three bags (one for my lunch, one for my teaching materials, and one for my 6 binders of music) and trudge into the building.  There is a bit of fumbling and muttering as I attempt...for the 40th time...to remember which of the 9 keys on my ring opens the recital hall door.  Lights on.  Piano cover off. Lid up.  Good morning to Big Bertha (our 9-ft concert grand).  Bench adjusted.  Metronome and pencil ready.  Binders unloaded.   Coffee cup within an arm's reach.

Ready.

Set.

Play.

I begin with choir music.  I am playing for 2 choirs this year, at two different universities.  Most of their music will be sung a cappella - but there are a couple of pieces with some hefty piano solos.  I work them slowly, at first, saying fingerings aloud to myself, isolating one hand at a time, listening and repeating until the voicing is just right.  I make the same mistake three times in a row.  The coffee must not be kicking in yet.  I pause to take another swig.

By 8 AM, I have moved on to my four (soon-to-be five) binders of solo music for my 75 singers. I start with the music I will be playing in lessons tomorrow and flip through the binder, making a mental note of which ones I need to look at more in depth.  Played that one.  Sightreadable. Sightreadable.  Played that one.  Played that one in a different key - probably should go through it once.   Sightreadable.  Played that one.  Oh, new one.

Out comes the metronome (Wilfred Jr.).  I find a ridiculously slow speed and have a go at it, pausing every now and then to mark fingerings or add accidentals.  I trod along, attempting to sing the vocal line as I work through my own part.  It's slow going, but I'm in no rush.  

This is my time.

This is my home.

This is my sanctuary.

The first few weeks of school were crazy.  I stayed afloat, and managed to arrive at each class, lesson and rehearsal at least mostly-prepared.   But I knew I was floating.  I knew I wasn't fully present, fully grounded. And it took me a few weeks to discern what the real root of my unsettledness was:

I have not worked hard enough to guard this time, this sacred space.  

A few more minutes in my bed...and 7:00 becomes 7:30, and 7:30, 8:00. Lesson planning and photocopying that should have been done the day before is put off until the hour before my first class....and 10:00 becomes 9:30, and 9:30, 9:00. Before I know it, 3 hours has become 1 hour...or has even disappeared completely.

But this time is precious, necessary.  My body relaxes as my fingers find their way across the familiar black and white terrain.  My mind is drawn into focus as I tune out the to-do list for the remainder of the day - and I work to concentrate all my energy on this moment, this song, this chord. My soul sighs as I soak in the energy of the empty hall, inhaling the quiet, exhaling each phrase.

10:00 AM.  Binders, pencil and metronome returned to their homes.  Lid down.  Piano cover on.  Lights off.  I emerge from my solitude and head upstairs to prep for my 10:25 class.  I haven't even made it to the office, before I am stopped by a student with a question on the homework assignment.  Reality sets in, the chaos ensues, and I begin my day of multi-tasking.

But my center is lower than it was when I first fumbled for my keys this morning.  I can feel my feet on the ground.  I'm breathing a little more slowly and deeply, and my shoulders are a bit more relaxed.  I memorize the sensation, in an attempt to prolong it and perhaps even make it permanent.

Wishful thinking?  Probably.  I know the tension will creep back in.  I know my center will begin to rise, as the day progresses.  And at some point, I will most likely realize that my feet are no longer touching the ground.

But tomorrow at 7:00 AM, I will start afresh.  And after I have tried, for the 41st time, to remember which key opens the door, I will step, once more, into that sacred space.

For three hours, I will have the luxury of focusing on just one thing.

For three hours, I will breathe, lower my center, release the tension in my shoulders and the song in my heart.

For three hours, it will be me and Bertha and Wilfred and my coffee mug.

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

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