Simple Gifts

"What are you going to write about?" Is a common question on most nights in my house. Nearly every night the answer is, "I have no idea. I haven't sat down yet." I'd like to think that somehow I have been formulating ideas and writing paragraphs in my mind in between reading novels and watching PBS, but it just isn't the case. These days I often don't sit down to write until after 11pm. If novel reading ever preceded blog writing, blog writing would never happen, because I would be unconscious somewhere under a blanket buried in a pillow with the novel unceremoniously dumped from lap to floor. Tonight I will admit to watching a little PBS, because it was Thomas Hampson and the New York Philharmonic and Copland and Gershwin and Cole Porter. That in and of itself is an awesome combination, and worth taking a few minutes to sit and watch.

When the entire "Live from Lincoln Center" program repeated at 10 PM, I came in to write, but left the television on in the living room. A friend surfaced online and we chatted for a bit, and when she signed off, I looked at the clock. 11 PM. Must be time to write. But what to write?

When I don't know what to write, sometimes I'll check my email or catch up on my RSS feeds from various blogs. Looking through my Gmail reader, I remembered that TeenTuna told me she had posted on Christmas Eve and I still hadn't read it. So, late though it was, I thought I should, and I did.

So, with the New York Philharmonic blasting "Simple Gifts" (from Appalachian Spring) by Copland I clicked through to the last entry written by my fifteen year old daughter.  Here, in part, is what she wrote:

I didn't ask for much this Christmas, but found myself for the first year buying presents with my own money. Last night I had four of my closest friends come over for a Christmas bash where we watched movies for hours, exchanged gifts, and cuddled on the couch. That party, reminded me that I have the greatest friends anyone could ever ask for and that they mean the world to me.

2009 has had its fill of ups and downs but all those things have made me into a different and better person. When I look back on the year this is what I think of:

First, comes family. Family will always be important to me no matter what. Through 2009 my family has done so much to support me and I can't thank them enough for all that they do. I can always turn to family, when I can't go to friends. They are always there for me....

 Second, are the opportunities. This year I have participated in so many things that I enjoy doing....All of these things wouldn't be possibly without the support of my family and friends.

 Finally, are my friends....My closest friends have meant more to me this year than any other. I've known them for about two years and I feel like I've known them all my life. Its times like these when I think back to Elementary school and remember how much I wanted friends, and that they were only half an hour away.  They mean the world to me and I don't know what I would do without them.

This Christmas, I don't wish for anything big.....All I wish for and want for the new year is to be loved by my friends and family and to remind them that I am always here for them just like they are for me.

Leave it to the profoundly simple harmonies of Aaron Copland, the dance tune of the Shakers, the world of Elder Joseph Brackett and the wisdom of my teenage daughter to sum up those things that really matter in this world.  I'm humbled and grateful to be reminded that there is no better gift than to find ourselves in "the place just right."

'Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,

'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,

And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

'Twill be in the valley of love and delight.

The Worst of Times, The Worst of Times

Tonight as I was driving home I heard a commentary on NPR stating that this decade that is about twenty-four hours from being over and done with, was, in a nutshell, the worst decade ever. It went on to list horrible thing after horrible thing, and to be honest...they were all horrible. Each and every one of them. And yet, despite the seemingly never ending laundry list of financial, political and social debacles on both a national and world-wide front, I was unconvinced.

Maybe it is my pig-headed resistance to label ANYTHING in the superlative. If you ask me, nothing is best. Nothing is worst. Nothing is favorite. The same goes for pretty, ugly, funny, disgusting, happy or sad. As far as I'm concerned there are plenty of candidates to go around in any category you could name, and to pick just one at the exclusion of all the other possibilities seems unfair.

No matter how lousy the last ten years were, I just can't seem to look at it as THE WORST ever.  Even as we pull away from the first decade of the 21st century and look in the rear-view mirror, it wasn't ALL bad. But sometimes it seems to take a little more time and a lot more work to remember the good stuff, because we get the bad stuff in multiple doses, all day, every day.  I'm not saying we should forget the hard times, the mistakes we have made and the losses we have suffered individually, as a country or throughout the world. I know there have been plenty, and probably more than one decade should bear.  But still in all, I'm not one for sackcloth and ashes, and I, for one, would rather learn and LIVE, than rage at the moon or hang my head in eternal shame.

Tomorrow night, when some will be bidding good riddance to bad rubbish, I am going to take a moment to gather together in my mind all those people that are important to me. Some are near. Some are far. Some are no longer here in body. But each and every one of them were and are and continue to be a real part of my life and my journey. So while others are anxiously kicking the decade to the curb, I'm going to gather my forces and with gratitude and remembrance for what came before, and love and hope for what is to come, walk with as much confidence and determination as I can possibly muster into the next decade.

Happy 2010.
I'm glad we're all here.

Last Dance

When I was in High School a million years ago, there was one song that was always played as the "last dance" song. That song was "Stairway to Heaven" by Led Zeppelin. As soon as the solo guitar intro started, you knew you had better grab your best bet for the end of the dance, and it better be someone you liked, because at a whopping seven minutes, fifty eight seconds, it was a pretty serious commitment of time in close proximity. On the other hand, if you didn't have anyone to dance with on the downbeat, you could spend an extra 30-60 seconds finding an acceptable dance partner and still have plenty of cling time.

But as perfect as a last-song slow-dance-song that it was, there was always this one section where nobody ever quite knew what to do. About three-quarters of the way through the song, it gets loud and bangy and upbeat until the very end, when it slows down one last time. Thus the dilemma: was it a slow dance song or a fast dance song?  What was a teenager to do?

If you really liked your dance partner, you ignored the musical demands to break away and "fast dance" and instead you would cling like expensive Saran wrap until the bitter end. If you didn't like them as much, you might fast dance a bit, or laugh and act moronic (which we all did most of the time anyway) until it slowed down again. It offered a moment of levity, which was handy when necessary.

I don't know if there is a "last dance" song these days like there were in the days of yore. I don't even know if there is any hit song today that could come close to the length and slow dance tempo of "Stairway to Heaven." Even "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" pales at a measly six minutes, fourteen seconds. And who wants to dance to a song about a shipwreck (NOTE: Celine Dion's messy "My Heart Will Go On" does NOT count as a shipwreck song).

Despite its off-kilter moments of tempo and gusto, I always remember "Stairway to Heaven" as a sure thing in the unsure world of a teenager. And although my high school days are long gone, I just may find myself a copy of Stairway to Heaven and play it at about 11:52pm on New Year's Eve. It seems an appropriate ending to another year. Something long, slow and familiar to cling to, with a little bit of a kick thrown in towards the end to shake things up a bit. After all, life is never the same tempo. Last songs shouldn't be either.

Snowku

Raging, bitter winds

threaten the tranquility

of deep winter snow.

Single sapling branch

so strong in icy armor

cannot bend, and breaks.

See winter's beauty.

Look into the windswept drifts

snow angels dance there.

In the deepest cold

warmth and love can be found in

mugs of hot chocolate.

Lego Master

Today I was schooled in the art, construction and design of the world of Legos.
The master?
A FOUR YEAR OLD.

(No, he didn't build these)

So now, evidently, Legos are it and a bag of chips. Fabulous. I have built a house or two in my day. You know the kind: SQUARE. No, nothing more. Just square. Using square blocks. The bigger the better because they are easier to maneuver, and then you finish faster and you can do something else, like play a rousing game of Ker-PLUNK!

Today the Lego Master built oh, four or five vehicles. Not cars, not toys. VEHICLES. They all have specific names, unless he built them without any directions whatsoever, at which point they are "imagination cars." Yesterday he spent much of the day building this enormous Fire Station complex, complete with three attached garages (with garage doors that functioned), a radar system on the roof, a fire truck with a 3-part telescoping ladder, a fire chief truck, a tree, a cat (in the tree) and a LEGO COFFEE MAKER (for inside the fire station). There were three enormous instruction books, which are more helpful than having no instruction books, but really don't explain anything. There are pictures with each step, but you have to figure out which pieces they added in each subsequent step. They don't tell you, and there is no master list. Unsurprisingly, the age-range on this toy is 8-14 years old.

Did I mention that the Lego Master is FOUR?

Suddenly my whole "build a square structure" looks pretty lame. There are Lego pieces the size of a kernel of corn. Most are in varying shades of grey, but depending on the project, you might luck out and get a white, red, blue or green. And when these masterpieces are finished? The are unbelievable. How someone sits there and figures out how one might construct a Lego-Whatever is beyond me. I understand (kind of, in theory) how it looks on the outside. But it's the guts of the matter that is particularly confounding to me.

I'm not sure if this Rainman-like ability to whip up a Lego masterpiece with little to no help will continue to grow and thrive. We could be looking at the next Frank Lloyd Wright, award-winning architect or mechanical engineer. In the meantime, I'll stick to my Kindergarten-level Lego building skillz, because frankly, that's all I've got. Hopefully my ability to make my nephew laugh("You CWACK ME OUT!!) Will carry me through until he learns some other new skill which once again bypasses my own.


I'm pretty lousy at an Etch-a-Sketch as well.

 

A Holiday Thank You

Dear Pennsylvania,

You and I have had a rocky relationship in the past. Every time I think things are going smoothly, I arrive at your doorstep only to find otherwise. You used to be the cranky state, full of pointing fingers and dire warnings about driving ONE MILE over the speed limit. It was a little over the top, Pennsylvania, for you to be shaking your finger at me not 30 seconds after I knocked on your front door.

Your terrain has always been a bit challenging. It's not horrible, but after driving Ohio (Whose state mottos include: "We invented the COMA" and, "Flat enough for you?"), your state seems downright dangerous. You have mountains and tunnels and lots of twisty turny roads. Personally, I love them, As LONG AS.......

......the weather. OH THE WEATHER. Pennsylvania, can I just tell you openly and honestly, like a friend, that your weather absolutely BLOWS. I've endured fog, blinding snowstorms, driving rain, black ice, trucks trucks TRUCKS, and violent thunderstorms, to name a few. Add that to the twisty, turny, mountainous roads (see above) and you have the recipe for disaster. All that you need to make your toxic cocktail complete is a little....

....CONSTRUCTION. Holy cats, Pennsylvania. I get it that your roads are old. REALLY old. And I get it that construction in twisty turny mountain land is a challenge at best. But today your shoulders were so narrow they were non-existant. Heck, I think you may have lopped off an arm or two for good measure.

But today, Pennsylvania, it was as if you had had a personality transplant. You were supposed to be a rainy mess, and you were sunny blue skies. It was the end of December, and the roads were clear and dry. And tonight, as the sun was setting, you were just spectacular. You were blue and pink and orange with little whispy clouds settling into the valleys between the mountain ranges. It was downright beautiful and made for an absolutely lovely day of driving. You've managed to make up for a lot of your previous highway and byway sins. Please don't be a fickle friend. Show me that you can have two good dates back-to back. I'll swing by your house again in a few days.

Until then, fondly yours,

Guest Stars

After a long Christmas Day, not to mention Christmas Eve, not to mention month of December, not to mention Autumn, not to mention year, I'm going to let someone else do the entertaining today.









Merry Christmas to all,
and to all a good night.

Wrapping it Up. Part One.

In the past I've been known to give "unusual" presents. From my brother's birthday "Big Bucket o' Testosterone" (A huge Home Depot Bucket filled with utter randomness -- batteries, toilet balls, paint brush, NAILS, duct tape and finally a gift card), to the infamous family "Brown Bag" Christmas I'm just never terribly thrilled with the ordinary.  There's nothing wrong with it.  It's just the on occasion, with a little bit of inspiration and random wackiness, I think I can do better.

I discovered today I was a little low on the small "stocking" presents we give everybody, so I dashed to the store for one last go-round.  I found things for my niece pretty quickly and was pleased with my choices.  But then I needed something for my nephew, and surprisingly I was stumped.  Nothing sounded quite "right" and I walked around the store for a bit, going over lists in my head and muttering in that kind of holiday Rainman kind of way.  I kept on trying to come up with something fun, maybe funny and definitely different.  As I stood in the aisle pondering, it suddenly hit me.  The perfect present.

I'm not going to tell you and I'm not even going to show you.  You'll have to come back tomorrow after the presents are opened to hear the rest of the story.  I think it will be fun, maybe funny and definitely different.

Like me. 

Party Like It's 1999 + 10

Tonight was THE BIG NIGHT.

Tonight was the teenager movie marathon at Casa de Tuna. It might not sound like a big deal to you, but then again you're probably 1) not 15 years old 2) not 15 years old with friends who have already had movie marathons at their houses 3) not 15 years old with friends who have already had movie marathons at their houses and have presents for you because it's two days before Christmas.

Oh, and we've never had a gathering over here. Ever.

The house just wasn't particularly conducive for gatherings. But with the "redo" we endured last summer, the colors on the wall and ceiling are now fresh and crisp and not hideous. The nasty carpet? Gone. And in a tie for "best of all" category, there is a new sectional couch (perfect for several lounging teenagers) and a plasma television. We are now equipped and ready to go.

And I'm here to report that these were some extremely well-behaved teenagers.  I had plenty of other things to do, so I wasn't sitting in the room with them like some sort of detention room monitor.  But every now and again, I'd mosey by, just so they would know there was a grownup somewhere in the vicinity.  I appeared to have fulfilled my duties well:  I ordered pizza and paid for it.  That was it.

The PARTAYers seemed to have a very good time, TeenTuna is now breathing again (actually she has already crawled into bed and has crashed), and after her guests left (PROMPTLY!) she very wisely helped me clean up and thanked me several times.  I guess it was OK.  I guess it was even a hit.  The Christmas present exchange went very well and the kids left here tired, happy and full of pizza, cookies, chips and salsa, and giggles.  I was pleased that the living room wasn't a total disaster area, and I told her that her friends were welcome anytime.

And maybe a little bit surprising to me...I meant it.

The Sound of One Hand Clapping

Having spent many hours entombed in a practice room, I am all too familiar with the concept of working in solitary confinement. In music, you do all the tough stuff alone. Sure, you have lessons weekly, but the other six days and twenty-three hours you slog away at it, hopefully (and sometimes miraculously) productively, but for better or for worse...alone.

Practicing alone means you must become the surrogate teacher, which means you must practice with critical eyes and ears, and correct yourself when things go wrong. You have to have the will to make yourself go over a passage again and again and again -- not until you get it right, but until you know you'll never get it wrong. Being both teacher and student is difficult enough, but having to alternate personalities in the blink of an eye (or the clunk of a note) is one of the biggest challenges musicians face. 

Interestingly, I'm entirely OK with that entire scenario.  Practice is our hard work, and despite the criticism we must both inflict and endure, any professional musician knows it is absolutely necessary.

For better or for worse, in most facets of life, I suspect the majority of people have the self-criticism drill down cold.  Praise, however, is a different matter entirely.  Self-praise doesn't fix problems, solidify technique or make you a better person just because you say so.  The only reward for nonstop personal back-patting is sore arms.  So I tend not to do it all that often.  Whether it be music or work or parenting or what have you, I prefer to let my actions do the talking, and, it's my full expectation that if all goes well, I'll hear about it.

The problem is, not everybody plays according to my rule book, and there are times when the atta-boys are nowhere to be found.  I'm always open to a hearty handshake, a "good job" or a virtual high-five, but sometimes they aren't to be had.  And then what?  The answer to that isn't so easy.  It doesn't matter if you are a professional musician, a diligent worker bee, a student, an employee or a parent.  The fact is, in this world, there are many times when you have to be your own marching band, pep rally and cheerleader rolled into one.  Nobody is ever going to do for you all that you need precisely when you need it.  You must do for yourself, and as long as you can keep it in perspective, it's just fine.  But there is always that other side: the side that thrives on pleasing others, the side that wants to make a difference in this world, be it through work, or education or parenting.  That side waits like a dog in front of an empty food dish for any sort of scrap of encouragement.  You can be the strongest, most self-assured person on the planet, but there is nothing harder, frustrating and demoralizing than spinning 25 plates in the air and looking up to discover half the people have left to get popcorn, and the other half are asking why you aren't doing 26.

As a teacher I know there is more than enough time to criticize and correct.  After all, it's how we all learn.  But as a person I know there should always be time to praise.  Even with the most inexperienced student, there is always something good to say.  Remembering to take the time to say "good job" in a personal, sincere manner is just as important and twice as valuable as being another body in the crowd of a standing ovation.  It might not seem like much, but just a few kind words makes all those lonely hours totally worth it.

The Backwards Frontwards House

Today after work I went to visit a friend. That in and of itself is not particularly remarkable, but what made it a little unusual is that she was at the family homestead, where she and her siblings grew up.  When I was little I made many, many, many treks to that house to play; usually on a Sunday afternoon after church.  I knew that house very, very well, as well as all the people who called it home.

One of the things I thought was SO COOL about this house was that it was MY house.  Their house was a two story white bleeding brick.  My house was a two story white bleeding brick.  In fact, the entire floor plan was identical, except backwards.  In my house, you walked in the front door, and the staircase was on the left.  In her house, you walked in the front door and the staircase was on the right.  I realize to any slightly busy grownup, these factoids aren't all that exciting.  But when you're eight, and your friend's house is YOUR house (only backwards) it's cool in a million inexplicable ways.

Driving out there tonight, it occurred to me that the last time I visited my backwards friend's house (OK, more correctly my friend's backwards house.  But I like the other one as well) was probably thirty or thirty five years ago.  I had to look up the address, and remind myself how to get there.  But as I pulled into the neighborhood I started nodding and saying, "Oh yeah.  I remember this...And take the curve...Somewhere on the right.  THERE'S MY HOUSE!"  What a wonderful flood of memories.

So we visited in the backwards house of my friend, except now we were grownups.  We weren't confined to bedrooms or basements (perfectly acceptable back in the day, I might add).  We visited in the front room like real live adult type people.  It was funny.  It was fun.  I still felt like I was eight and sitting there was just a little forbidden.  And it was cool.

We all put such an attachment on places -- physical structures -- that hold importance to our lives.  Although my family moved out of the frontwards house some twenty-five years ago, every now and again I'll drive past it, just to remember.  It's still a white bleeding brick house, and when I look at it, I see my bedroom on the second floor, the front yard where we played with floppy-eared not-quite-purebred Scottie puppies, and the driveway where many a game of "Horse" took place, and where a thousand tennis balls were hit against the garage door.  My frontwards house was also the place where on many a Sunday afternoon, my friend came over after church, and we played in the basement or the bedroom.  And it was cool.

Surprisingly, I don't miss the frontwards backwards house.  It functions as the backdrop to my memories and sets the stage for the countless stories I have about my adventures growing up.  It's nice to drive by it on occasion and see it again, albeit at 25mph.  It was especially nice today, after such a long time, to go once again inside the backwards frontwards house and spend time with the people who were a part of my adventures then (some might say partner in crime... I might plead the fifth) and who are still a part of my life now.  It's not the house that's important.  It's the people inside it who welcome you in, who invite you to sit down, and who share your memories and help you make new ones.

In this season of hustle and bustle and holiday travel, having that special frontwards backwards family home isn't a requirement; after all, it's just a house.  The special part is the people inside that share your stories.  Even if none of them live in the backwards frontwards house anymore, when you do see them (and hopefully recognize them), you understand they're still the same family you've always known and loved.  And it doesn't matter if you're eight or much, much older than eight...it's still very, very cool.

Unconscious Mutterings

I say ... And You Think:

1.  Interest :: Free
2.  Chase :: Morgan
3.  Itch :: Scratch
4. Soothe :: Balm
5. Lamp :: Light
6. Tutor :: Teach
7. Nichole :: Ritchie
8. Sloth :: Slow
9. Burn :: Fire
10. Bug :: Bother

It's been a ridiculously long time since I did a Sunday muttering.  I will own up for going the easy route tonight.  It's late (like every night when I sit down to write), I'm tired (ditto), and it's late and I'm tired (in case you missed it  before). Based on the beginning of the list, I was afraid this was going to be a banking-themed affair.  Luckily (or unfortunately) thanks to Nicole Ritchie and slow burning soothing embalmers, my problem was solved.

And on that somewhat random note, and considering I'm falling asleep at my desk, I gladly
POST...

More tomorrow, I promise.

Hot Topics

It was well after 10:00pm when we got home from the Saturday Monster Marathon of the usual and slightly unusual holiday stuff to do. I finally sat down and GramTuna wondered if I was done and heading for bed. I told her that I was, eventually. "Ahh," she said, remembering. "What are you writing about tonight?" "No clue," I answered. "I haven't sat down yet to consider..."

And it's true. I'm sitting here again, and it's late at night. I don't particularly have a topic at hand, and I'm really too tired to develop any sort of in-depth analysis of the holiday traffic or what I ate for lunch. AKA Grade-A 100% Blogging Material.

Running through my day as if they were miniature flash cards, my choices would be:

Breakfast of Champions
Why I love bacon, and TeenTuna will order ANYTHING breakfasty ... as long as she can include the words "no egg" in the order. Today she had the Mexican Breakfast Burrito. Minus the breakfast. Making it ... a burrito. She was thrilled.

Messy Weather
An inch here...an inch there. Nothing terribly exciting, and thankfully people were driving carefully.

Irony Popsicle. 
Speaking of the weather and diabolical activities... HOW FUNNY IS IT that Maryland and Virginia have well over 12 inches of snow, and here in the much MUCH farther north and frozen arctic tundra according to certain relatives, today we might have had maybe 2 inches at best.

Grocery Shopping.
Why the grocery store is the closest thing you'll find to Satan's playground, and HooBOY did that guy in front of me just buy EIGHT prepackaged gift boxes filled with AXE products.

THE TEENAGER'S HAIRCUT
Yes, TeenTuna's hair is cute.  Really cute.  Really really cute.   Really unbelievably cute.  Yes it's cute. Cute.  Oh so cute.  Head light as a feather.  SO CUTE.  It's cute.  Maybe if she asks me a 49th time if it's cute, I'll have a different response. 


The Other, Much Less Important Haircut
Seriously.  It's hair.  Who needs hair drama.  Mine is the same but shorter.  *Yawn*  The best thing I can give you is my pronouncement that "I shall keep the swoop of side-bangs" in my heart, because it sure isn't working any other way.

Comcast, Digital Cable and HD-TV
Otherwise known as three words that will strike fear and trembling into your heart.  No, I wasn't able to get it connected.  There WILL be phone calls tomorrow, and I'm thinking that Jesus might be coming along for the conversation. Grrrrrrr....

Christmas Shopping
Subtitled:  Thank Goodness for Bookstores.  What did the Wisemen do without them?

The Saga of the Digital Camera
Behold!  See the beautiful cameras on display.  Behold!   See the beautiful cameras on display that the store actually DOESN'T SELL IN THE STORE.  Behold!  See me take my money and leave.


The Answer my Friend, Is Horking in the Wind
Sadly, the question is, how many (more) hairballs is my cat going to have tonight?  I think she is eating the tree while we're gone during the day.  And there isn't even any tinsel on there yet.  Heck, there isn't even any anything on there yet, which leads me to my final offering:

Baby Jesus was Naked and So is my Tree
What more can I say?  Tomorrow is another day.

And, it's now it's  11:46 pm.  I've made it under the wire, yet again.

And.....
POST!

Deep Cleansing Breath

I can still remember when, years ago, I turned into my mother. It happened in the midst of dealing with a headstrong, probably twelve years (or more) younger version of today's lovely TeenTuna. After making no progress in the land of reason, and out of much frustration I blurted out: BECAUSE I SAID SO!

I think I may have clamped by hand over my mouth while simultaneously letting out a horrified gasp.

"Because I said so" was the dreaded saying of my youth, and it signified the irreversible end to the conversation. If you hadn't made your point or gotten your way before the "because I said so" gauntlet was thrown, you were sunk, period. Buster.

"Because I said so" spoke volumes in four succinct words. It meant, "As you can tell, I'm not changing my mind, but I'm tired of your a) begging -- b) whining -- c) poking -- d) prodding -- e) nudging -- f) alternate universe of reality." It also meant, "I'm older than you are, I know what I'm talking about and I make the decisions." As annoying as it was to hear the dreaded "because I said so" when you were on the losing end of the conversation, at least it ended things and you knew where you stood. You might not like it, but it allowed you to move on to some other great injustice of youth.

As an adult dealing with adults, there are times when I wish "because I said so" was a socially acceptable phrase. Of course, it's not, because as adults we are allowed to live, breathe and force our opinions and our personally preferred universe of reality on everybody else. In the adult world, "Because I said so" is swapped out with the ever-popular idea of "like it or lump it," or, "you're not the boss of me."  How pleasant.

If we, as adults, all stopped living by the motto of "my way or the highway" perhaps we could take a half-step back from any situation and see it from the other side. How refreshing would it be to check out what's on the other side of the coin? Who knows? It might be interesting. It might be better. At the very least it would be different. But for some (dare I say many?) adults, when it comes to considering an alternative ANYTHING, be it reasoning, viewpoint, philosophy, methodology, religion, or breakfast cereal, it's a Flat Stanley kind of world. There's only one picture, only one way, and there is no such thing as another side.

Here in the great state of the Mitten, we finally, and I mean FINALLY as in SERIOUSLY WHY DID IT TAKE SO RIDICULOUSLY LONG passed a non-smoking workplace law. This means in particular (with a few exceptions for casinos and racetracks) that restaurants and bars will be smoke free. This means I can go have a drink and not come out with burning eyes, sore lungs and stinky clothes. This means I can have dinner in a restaurant and sit anywhere and not worry that I'll be seated at that non-smoking table next to the smoking section that theoretically has a magical invisible barrier that filters out the second-hand smoke. If only that magical invisible barrier worked. Funny, it never does.

Predictably, some are upset about the smoking ban (see: "like it or lump it", and/or "my way or the highway" above). Their argument is the rights of those who inhale carcinogens and force the rest of us to inhale them as well are being impeded. Call me crazy, but I'm really not seeing that as a viable argument. There is also the worry that businesses will suffer because of the smoking ban. Au contraire, I say to that argument as well. In the past I have been much more apt to spend my time and my money in places where I can breathe. I'm betting business with improve, not falter.

In the endless debate of whose rights are more important, I think any reasonable adult would think that the health of the general population is more important than the needs of the individual to pollute the air that all of us breathe. Certainly some will continue to disagree, and that's why we finally have a law. It's the grownup, legal version of "because I said so." It forces some to adopt some manners and change their behavior out of respect and consideration for all.

Mom was pretty darn smart. Sometimes it's the best answer. Sometimes it's the only answer. It's time to move along.

Because I said so.

Marking Time

When I teach I make it a point to be sure that my students know what every single direction means within a song.  Printed instructions in other languages are quite common, and students quickly learn terms like Da Capo (Musically speaking "from the beginning") and Fine (musically speaking, "the end").  Other instructions include musical notation.  One of the first a student might run across often looks something like this:

When asked what it is and what it means, I get about 50% correct answers.  Sometimes they'll know the answer but not know the exact words, and then I get the equivalent of a collegiate interpretive dance as they explain it to me using every word in their vocabulary, except the five most critical.  What it is, is a metronomic marking, which leads me to the next question.  What is a metronome?

A traditional metronome is wooden with a long weighted stick.  You move the weight up and down the so it matches the number on the page, and it will give you the beat.  Nowadays, metronomes come in every conceivable shape and size . Many are electronic and there are even webpages that contain a virtual metronome.  This is particularly handy when your traditional metronome (read: OLD) sounds more like the uneven gait of an old horse (CLOP ....clipCLOP .... clipCLOP) than an even click-click-click.

For those that are familiar with what a metronome looks like, we move on to question #3: what does it do?  Here is where students tend to stumble.  They know what it does, or at least how to correctly operate one . But ask them precisely what a metronome does and it's not uncommon for them to stumble.

What it does (for those of you who want to answer correctly should some deranged music teacher stop you in the street and start to quiz you on random bits of musical knowledge) is keep time.  A metronome is in fact, a kind of clock, but it only shows the continual passage of time without a start or a finish.  It doesn't divide time into repeated segments, like minutes or hours or days.  It's like having a second hand of a watch, that you can adjust.  Set a metronome to 60, and you have exactly that -- a second hand.  Set it to a higher number, and well, you'd always be early to supper.

This is the time of year that pundits and bloggers and essayists and all sorts of social-literary-scientific-and so on-measurers like to talk about time.  I'm already knee-deep in "best of" and "worst of" lists for 2009.  What surprised me, though was reading the same sort of lists that encompassed the decade.    To talk about time flying is ridiculously cliché, but the more I think about it, the more I don't know how to describe it.

Ten years doesn't sound like that much when you say it, but when you start laying things out, it becomes unreal.  The country saw and survived eight years of George W. Bush, a heavily contested Presidential election, the election of the First African-American President and the appointment of a female Latina to the United States Supreme Court.  Rights have been bestowed and then yanked away like a tablecloth under a completely set table.  We suffered attacks on 9/11, were scared to near panic by the DC Sniper and mourned the loss of life in the Virginia Tech Massacre, the Amish School Shooting Spree and so many other tragedies.  Every single season of American Idol happened during this past decade, as has Amazing Race, Big Brother, Iron Chef American and Lost.

There are countless ways to measure the last ten years, and I have found myself (several times) feeling both amazed and stunned that something-or-other happened when it seems like it happened either last week, or forever ago.  There is no in-between.


For me, though, the easiest way to measure and the most astonishing of them all is to recognize that in the past decade TeenTuna went from first grade to tenth grade.  That fact alone puts everything into focus, and then the list of events, accomplishments, disappointments and losses becomes colossal and yet understandable.  If I saw a list of everything that happened in my life and in the life of my family and friends over the past ten years, there would be a lot of head shaking and general disbelief.  But I think there would also be waves of contentment, wistfulness, sadness, giggles, joy and pride.

But despite the length of any given decade-long remembrance, I can say that, regardless of content, my overwhelming feeling would be one of thanks.  Thanks for all the joy.  Thanks for all the stories and pictures and smiles and laughter and tears.  Thanks for the opportunities and triumphs.  Thanks even for the failures, because I can look back over the last ten years and say because of the all the good stuff and regardless of all the bad stuff, I'm still here.  Some are no longer here, but I like to think that I carry their stories with me, and those experiences make my journey so much better.  As for the rest of us who continue to mark time, whether it's good, bad, or in-between, it's time to wind up that metronome once again.

Let's not waste any time.
Da Capo

All in a Day's Work

Here's to the parents

Who drive
Who fund
Who support
Who encourage
Who cheer
Who console
Who listen
Who suggest
Who critique
Who assist
Who forgive
Who question
Who confront
Who tend
Who allow
Who refuse
Who educate
Who exemplify
Who edit
Who correct
Who inspire
Who cook
Who clean
Who brag
Who cringe
Who rejoice
Who grieve
Who worry
Who pray
Who lead
Who follow
Who love unconditionally, every single day.

1 hour, 20 minutes until we start all over again.

Swing and a Miss

Today I think I'm missing things.

To be truthful, I'm missing things all the time. And I miss things all the time too. And I MISS things too. It's a funny word that has very different meanings.

I'm missing my winter things. My very cold hands are telling me just how much I'm missing my mittens. I know they are somewhere. Where somewhere, I don't know. I'm pretty sure I can narrow it down to the basement, which means, it might as well be in the Gobi desert...I'll have an equal chance of stumbling across it.

I'm missing socks. I'm even missing SHOES, and sadly for me, in this case I don't mean I'm missing two of the same shoe. I have lonely shoes like I have lonely socks. HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN? It's a bit ironic because just today as we were walking to lunch, we saw a lonely mitten half-frozen to the sidewalk. A little ways further, we saw a single shoe half-frozen to the sidewalk. I admit to joking for quite awhile about who on earth were incapable of noticing that they were no longer wearing two shoes. If you took inventory of my closet, I'm afraid the answer must be me, because I have a couple of single shoes on my shoe rack. Where did they go??

I miss things too. In this case I mean miss as in don't pay attention to, don't notice in the appointed hour; that sort of things. I think I miss things because I'm constantly tuning out. I'm gut-wrenchingly terrible at remembering names. It seems my brain either never registers bits of information like this or instantly discards it in favor of something else. Sometimes I think it's quite beneficial to relegate tidbits to the circular file of my brain, but by the same token, if I'm asked about something later, all the empty nods I use as a decoy while I try to fill the void with something that makes sense isn't really going to help. In the end it's part balancing act and part extreme filtering all in the name of self-preservation.

And then I miss things. But "things" isn't a very good word, because all these things are important to me in one way or another. I miss people.   I miss places. I miss events that only live in my memory. Right now I miss green grass, and warm sunshine and a vanilla chocolate twist on a Saturday night. I miss clams in June, the beach and the ocean, and detailed discussions about Transformers. I miss my students, although I'm entirely OK with continuing to miss them for the next few weeks. I miss things that were only ever meant to exist in the moment: a beautiful concert, a work of art, an impish grin or a warm touch. A note, chord or musical passage that lived in its moment of resonance, only to fade away, leaving its existence to the custody of my memory.

As much as I am missing things, or miss things or MISS things, I'm not actively seeking to overhaul my behavior.  Sure, it would be convenient if I had complete sets of socks  or shoes that matched and it would be very nice to remember people's names and what they did for a living.  But I'll continue to do the best I can with my present tense sieve-like brain, while trying hard to nurture the memories of all those things that are so important to me.  And don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the ability to remember.


But still in all, how I wish I didn't have to miss them.

Begets

The "begets" in the bible are those pages we skip somewhere in the old Testament that lists verse after verse, chapter after chapter and page after page who was the father of whom on and on and on and on as if it were a 9000 verse version of "The Circle of Life."

We often talk about events happening in a circular way, and usually it isn't particularly good news. "What goes around, comes around" is tossed around a lot, as are several sayings referring to Karma not playing nice with others. The idea of "just desserts" or something "coming back to haunt you" can be a pretty satisfying thought, as long as you aren't on the receiving end. Who knows? Maybe it hearkens back to childhood with the old idea that "he knows when you've been bad or good, so be good, for goodness' sake!" It keeps us in line, keeps the balance in check, rewards the good and punishes the bad, in a very tidy scales of justice Even-Steven sort of way.

But increasingly I've learned that rewarding the good and punishing the bad doesn't always happen as neatly as we fool ourselves into thinking it does. Shit happens, sometimes the bad get away with being bad, the good are left holding the bag, and our friend Karma is doing the bump and grind on our sense of balance and fairness.

The good news -- and believe me, this is very good news -- is that "going around and coming around" doesn't always refer to good versus bad. In fact, whether we recognize it or not, "what goes around, comes around" is as true for goodness that begets goodness, kindness that follows kindness, and love that grows into even more love. True enough, punishment may follow misdeed, and revenge may indeed be a delicious dish when served cold. But as satisfying as that can be (and let's be honest here, sometimes it is VERY SATISFYING, Thank You) how much better would it be if we focused on forgiveness, reconciliation and our own healing instead of settling the score and getting revenge. There's more than enough bad in the world right now.  We don't need to add to its score.

If we start responding to all our victories and battles with goodness, kindness and love, we may start a chain reaction and beget even more of the same.  We may not see justice the way we'd like to, and fairness might be out of the question.  But through the actions we choose to take, we will be stronger. And who knows? Maybe someday "just desserts" will be something with chocolate sauce, whipped cream and a cherry. Enough for everybody to share.

A Present for a Friend

Aurora Vocalis

Tonight after nearly ten hours of nearly straight singing, I'm done for the day. I'm afraid any offerings on this page will amount to little more than literary drooling. So today I leave you with one of the many pieces I sang today. It reminds me of a vocal depiction of the Northern Lights -- one part traditional four-part chorale with ancient texts, one part sonorous and shimmery with shifting tonalities that occasionally meet with the first part to form a perfectly traditional chord, only to shift and shimmer away once more.