Goals

First, let me say that I'm learning a tremendous amount with my new piano teacher, progressing quickly, and generally pleased. However, our philosophies of life are very different. There's this book we're all reading for our studio class: "Seven Simple Steps to Personal Freedom" by Gerry Spence. It's the sort of title that is a warning in itself -- rather like "How Can I Help?" by Ram Dass. The man has displayed no understanding of the definition of freedom, slavery, duty, or moral responsibility, despite his apparently firm convictions regarding those issues. His personal story is not one that inspires me -- his history of discontent, thwarted expectations and resultant depression, irresponsibility, and simple selfishness does not lead me to wish to follow in his footsteps. If his life demonstrates "personal freedom," I don't want it!

Anyway, this isn't really about Gerry Spence. Maybe I'll rant on him after I finish the book (which is a lot more fun read aloud in the fine arts department hallway...). Dr. V. asked me Monday during my lesson why I was trying to be perfect. I couldn't articulate a sensible answer at the time, and she directed me to change my goal to "feeling good." This struck me all wrong, but I wasn't sure if that was because it was an actual error or just my perfectionistic side getting pinched. Now that I'm not "on the spot," it's a clear as day -- perfection is a calling, not an option.

Some things that Dr. V. says require prayer and research to discern the truth. This is not one of them. It's not a question like, "Should I go to Prague this summer?" There is only one possible answer for any believer. We are called to strive for perfection. The end. It's throughout the Bible -- "Be ye perfect." "Be imitators of Christ (who was perfect)." "I only do what I see the Father doing and I only say what I hear the Father saying (says the One we're supposed to imitate)." There is no possible higher standard. Is this perfectionism? I wouldn't say so -- I think perfectionism has more to do with selfishness and a tendency to worship our own efforts. This is about becoming more like Christ, and maintaining a perspective in which He is the center. I'm really not a perfectionist -- I simply have high goals. And I don't have high goals because I'm particularly driven (I'm actually innately lazy!), but because I'm not the One who sets them.

How is this different from "feeling good?" The problem is one of relativity; perfection is always measurable. In perfection, there is no error. If there is error, it ain't perfect! What "feels good" or doesn't may change within a thirty second span. Sometimes, perfection "feels good." Sometimes, sin "feels good." The Arensky "felt good" when I played it at the Gallery Hop; it was so far from perfect that I was embarrassed. I can't afford to allow my feelings to be the primary measurement of any aspect of my life, or the standard that God placed before me becomes utterly ignored. And thus, I grow farther from Him.

I doubt I'll tell this to Dr. V.; we'll see if she asks. But I'm resolved to aim for perfection.

A Book Report (II)

I've been re-reading, again. Because Dr. H. surely doesn't give me enough to read! Actually, it's a clever means of escape from unending pages of Edward Said, Gerry Spence, and friends. Really, not a big fan of Mr. Said. More on him later -- this is supposed to be about my fun book.

What is it about first novels that can be so brilliant? Perhaps the author hones his skills considerably later in life, but something seems to change about their perspective and personality as an artist. Maybe they grow and mature and become less naive or idealistic. I think that's what it is. I love the perspective of naivete and idealism that an author has when he is young. Maybe it's because I'm pretty thoroughly naive and idealistic, myself, and I love to see things through wide eyes. When Andrew Lloyd Webber and co. were casting Cats for the anniversary video, they searched high and low for a cat actress with "wide open eyes." I know just what they were looking for. And if you ever watch the video, you'll see the girl they cast so perfectly. Innocence, naivete, curiousity personified.

Anyway. I've been re-reading "Ender's Game," by Orson Scott Card. This was the first book I read by him (I've since read almost everything he's written!); a student (thanks, Nick!) lent it to me when I was teaching physics. There are certainly flaws in the book. The dialogue is not realistic, Mr. Card's philosophical views are not always on target, and it ends with a resounding whimper about forty pages after it should. All the same, it's a great story. More importantly, it's a personal portrait of the brilliant child soldier Ender. One of the reasons the dialogue is unrealistic is because, I think, it is written as Ender would have written it rather than as he would have spoken. The strongest aspects of the book are all inside Ender -- his feelings, his thoughts, his growth, his drive, his terrors and victories. He's a talented guy, thrust into a world that is beyond his control and called upon to exercise his talents to save that world.

I'm not assigned to save the world, but I am called upon to make the most of my talents. I'm called upon to push and learn and work and overcome, to become what only I can become. I'm called upon to grow stronger and wiser, to be hurt and recover, to complete the task set before me, regardless of my feelings or opinions. There are times to "follow my feelings" and do what I want, but that is not my ultimate calling. I can do what I must do, even if I think it will break me. Ender is a great reminder of that.

If there were no more to life than my Self, I'd give it up now. But there is -- there is a reason I am who I am, and there's a purpose in who I shall become.

So take that, Gerry Spence!

Looking for a Hero

Why is there never a Superhero around when you need one?

I spent Friday in a down-town church providing "something musical" for the annual Gallery Hop. Of course, I left home without my "something musical" repertoire books, so I ended up with a mish-mash of things from the library. I brought the music I'm working on currently, too, but none of it is really performance ready. Honestly, one can only fake it for so many hours on end without respite. A cellist came and helped out for a bit -- we had some fun sightreading (well, I was sightreading, anyway), and she did some unaccompanied Bach. Otherwise, it was just me. For hours. At the end of a long day. At the end of a long week. My personal low came when I was asked to play the Arensky -- my concerto, which is not melodic, not background music, and not ready for prime-time. I distinctly heard poor Mr. Arensky flip-flopping in his grave as I mutilated his work. I had to get the melody in somehow, I left out anything I couldn't play well, and I ended up turning the whole thing into a fairly flashy folk-song. Happily, everyone was thrilled with what I did. Except for me, butI don't count.

No question about it, this was a task for a Superhero. This was a job for The Man From Kalamazoo! Too bad he doesn't have the ability to teleport...

Surreality

One of the most surreal things I've ever experienced -- walking across a deserted campus in the pre-dawn with a dense fog blanketing the whole place. It was like I was the only person on earth! If I hadn't had an exceptionally perky Rossini tune frolicking through my head, I would have scared myself pretty badly. A snippet of my internal monologues:
Wow, this is Jack the Ripper weather! He could be lurking around any corner, or straight ahead of me... (cantiam, cantiam, cantiam, cantiam!)
It's as though everyone else on earth disappeared over night. I could be the only one left... (In si ridente, ridente suol...)
That light makes the fog look even thicker, like I could touch it, as though if I try to walk through it I'll suffocate... (cantiam, cantiam, cantiam, cantiam!)
I can feel it like a blanket inside my chest. I can feel it clogging my lungs, squeezing my heart... (In si ridente, ridente suol...)
That vague shape moving over there, what is it? It could be anything from this distance, animal, monster, or man... (Si, cantiam, cantiam!)

Sometimes an overactive imagination is simply too much fun!

An Ode to an Unknown Man

One day, he awoke with a cold in his head,
And he thought it best that he should stay in bed.
He pondered hard as he swabbed at his nose,
Wond'ring from what source this illness arose.
He remembered the night before.

The night was so dark and his vision so grainy,
The weather he walked in was so cold and rainy,
He ne'er caught a glimpse of the puddles so deep,
But the cold water into his shoes has seeped,
Long ere he reached his door.

Tossing and turning, his head on his pillow,
Grieved that this splashing had brought him so low,
Until, at long last, he shouted, "Forsooth!
I think that I shall make my shoes waterproof!"
And so he invented galoshes.

Older and Wiser?

It's almost a week since my birthday, and I should report that I'm acting my age. I do my homework (mostly). I make my bed. I do the dishes. I eat my vegetables. Aren't I a good girl? :)

All those things are perfectly true, of course. However, for a more accurate picture: the research paper gets started the night before it's due -- at eleven pm. I swore the following day that I would be good from here on in; I began my reading for my doctoral level class last night at 10:45! Both days, of course, I'm in class non-stop with analyses due (and Brahms ain't basic!). The good news? My prof told me (quietly, outside of class) that my paper was a model of what it should be! I have a recording of Brahms, and assimilated it rather well, if I do say so. I participated in discussion and mostly made sense. And I learned a new phrase in Italian yesterday: "la rugiada della montagno." A fine beverage that has thus far aided me incredibly in my pursuit of knowledge. Ah, the good ol' rugiada della montagno! :)

I've been saving up!

Sorry I haven't blogged in so long... Somehow, I've simply never gotten the chance. Anyway, I keep thinking of all these great posts while I'm walking or driving or trying to sleep, and then I promptly forget them when I'm at the computer. Since I'm tired and hungry and need to go home and do homework, I'll leave you only with the following frivolous thoughts:

Why do institutes of higher learning insist on going by their initials, even when they come out silly? MSU is fine; U of M is certainly better than UM (which a good elocution coach will abhore!); USC has nothing to complain about. But my own alma mater, RU? Try chanting it at a basketball game, and I give you ten seconds before someone begins to respond: "RU!" "Am I what?" I've seen this phenomenon in action. I've needed to explain my basketball t-shirts, because "RU" simply doesn't make sense in some sentences. And now, of course, I'm attending the fine University of Kentucky. One sees emblazoned everywhere the bold letters UK. UK, as surely everyone knows, becomes an unflattering adjective, as in: "Isn't this an uky (rhymes with ducky) day?" "Boy, this drizzle is uky!" Why, for the sake of convenience, do we invite this sort of derogatory use of our name?

The answer: Many, many people in our institutes of higher learning have simply forgotten how to think. Sad, isn't it?