Worry Wart

What if life were linear? What if you lived one day at a time, each one a logical progression from the last? What if a lesson learned once stayed learned?

My apologies to those of you who have been waiting for word from me; yes, I'm busy all the time. But there's been more to it than that. At least once a season, my health catches up with me, my wrist begins to ache, and I begin to feel a sense of impending failure. Much worse than doom, in my book. My brain becomes overwhelmed, and the idea of meaningful communication is just one more thing. Sometimes I'll write long, philosophical blogs at this point; this time, I took advantage of the fact that my life seems to cycle through this stage every year, and I read some of my blogs from years past.

Last year at this time, I sought solace in the same beloved books I just finished reading this morning. My outlook varied, then as now, as drastically as the weather -- the brilliant clear blue of a Football Day alternating with the stormy desolation that makes one wish for a fireplace and wooly slippers. There seems to be little in-between, though of course there is a happy medium -- that's the functional me, the responsible and professional administrative assistant, teacher, therapist, student, housekeeper. Without the stability of this me, I'm afraid I would really become an Artist, requiring placating and looking after. I think the aid to sanity is probably worth the pain of administrative minutia. I'm a good worker, a satisfied worker. I'm most content when I have that balance between Life and Art. If I'm ever tempted to retreat too far into my ivory tower, please shoot me before I go nuts!

It's nice to recall and reflect upon the thoughts that brought me through previous years. Perhaps life is both cyclical and linear, forming a series of curliques along the way to a destination. I do think I might be getting better at this stage, anyway!

Meet Me in St. Louis, or: How did they pay the RENT on this place?

Some time when you have felt deeply philosophical, perhaps you have pondered whether or not it is possible to fit a full, restful vacation into a space of thirty hours or less. Perhaps you have thought such a thing to be impossible without some sort of time warp. If so, my friend, you would be wrong.

I believe in the restorative powers of the solo road trip. I spent about ten hours this weekend on I-64, sun shining, sky blue, fall leaves raining down upon me. Even had I no destination, this was a blissful time alone. Just me. Time to breathe! The days and weeks of work, people, events and activities crowding one upon the other -- it all melts away with that sense of freedom a blue sky and an open road brings.

However, I had a destination, and glorious one! It was only the thought of that meeting that prevented my pulling over to hike. I have never had throngs of friends, but the friends I have are exceedingly dear to me. Normally, I see J., with whom I went to school from seventh grade through graduation, a couple times a year for several days. We only had about two hours together this summer, a work-day lunch to catch up on the events of a year, and I had missed her desperately. J. and her roommate B., who would be a great friend if we only lived in the same state, would meet me in St. Louis. We had tickets to "Rent" at the Fox Theatre!

This was my first Broadway show, albeit a touring company. Considering I was raised on Broadway musicals and still hold singalongs around the piano that last well into the night, I'm surprised it took me this long! I don't count highschool productions, of course. If you're looking for a place to attend your first show, the Fox is the place to do it. The lobby areas are reminiscent of the stately turn-of-the-century (the other century) opera houses that I've been to -- gently curved staircases, glittering chandeliers, sconces and intricate details. The interior is rather bizarre. It was built in January 1929, at a time when Orientalism and exoticism were incredibly popular. There are sculpted elephant heads, pseudo-Hindu goddesses with Westernized faces, monkeys, Asiatic lions... every niche had a new melding of traditions. Altogether dazzling, if a bit odd.

Rent itself was great fun. I've known the show for years, of course, but I didn't entirely know what to expect. Several of the actors and singers were exceptional, though not without fault. Some of them were very young and inexperienced, which was mostly evident in their interplay with others. I learned young that "Reacting is the most important part of Acting." That, I think, is the most common fault of the young and otherwise talented. I've always thought that, had Jonathan Larson lived, he would have continued to do a lot of tweaking to the show; it rather needs it, I'm afraid. I love it, but that doesn't prevent my seeing a few flaws. Some things just don't work as well as they could, and many of those problems could be easily fixed. Of course, nobody's going to do that at this point, so I'll just enjoy the show as is.

We went to dinner after the show and picked apart the performances, the script, the details of life. What fun it is to be with other people who don't mind if you analyze things, who know you are having a wonderful time despite or because of the imperfections that you acknowledge! B. spent the night with her parents, while J. and I stayed up until the wee hours, talking with great gulps of conversation. I don't remember anymore what it was like to have enough time with her, to not need to spend every minute intensely because the minutes are so few. We even woke early, by went-to-bed-at-three standards, and had some time together with B. before we needed to hit the road.

Of course, a review of my trip would not be complete without a brief mention of the tourist attraction of Collinsville, IL. B. had grown up there, and it was a must-see for a first time visitor. I must admit, I laughed aloud when I beheld the World's Largest Catsup Bottle with my own eyes. It's the strangest looking water-tower I've ever seen. I gather that a ketchup (or catsup, if you prefer) manufacturer was responsible for most commerce in Collinsville for about fifty years. The Bottle has outlasted the manufacturer; makes one think ecologically, doesn't it?

A happy way to say good-bye to friends. After another gorgeous drive, I was home in time to practice and do my German, much like any other Sunday. Despite the fact that I didn't miss any practicing or studying and did only minimal lesson-rescheduling (I even gave blood and ran errands!), this weekend away has left me happily refreshed and satisfied. This may become my new fall therapy!

Children are not Adults

I was sucked into watching 20/20 last night when I should have been going to bed, and they were addressing the question "How young is too young?" by looking at the lives of pre-pubescent bull-fighters, pilots, race-car drivers, preachers, and professional fighters. They also had a segment on toddlers who know the presidents and that sort of thing, but it was mostly for the cute factor, I think. Meanwhile, PBS was examining the movement in Niger, Guatemala, and India to stop the practice of child marriage. Convenient juxtaposition.

Whether or not I think seven-year-olds should fly planes is not the point of my blog today. (The short answer there would be no.) I have been thinking about what the actual difference is between an adult and a child. There are the obvious physical differences, of course. There is a lack of life experience on the part of the child that can only be resolved by living for a number of years. There is the continuing development of the frontal lobe of the brain up through age twenty or so, which is apparently the source of decision-making skills and abstract reasoning. There is the fabled innocence of youth, the faith of a child, the sensitivity and purity that we associate with the young.

From a sermon by the Presbyterian minister Edward Griffin (1770 - 1837):

"When I was a child I spoke as a child I understood as a child I thought as a child; but when I became a man I put away childish things." I Cor. 13:11

In childhood the mind, pleased with every trifle and void of care, vacantly pursues its little pleasures, and, blessed with ignorance of the ills and disappointments of life, looks forward with sanguine hopes to fairy scenes of happiness; while the bright and tearless eye, resting on the outside of things, sees a paradise in every lawn and grove. A recollection of these childish delights is often cherished with rapture in future years, while the man, forgetful of the frettings and whining of childhood, indulgently inquires, Why were the former days better than these? But he does not ask wisely concerning this. A virtuous manhood is much more to be desired than the state of children. It is capable of far nobler pursuits, of knowledge, enjoyment, and action more congenial with the ends of our being. The child has no high and manly aim, no cares for great and dignified things, little thought for his future well being either in this life or the life to come. His understanding is feeble, his knowledge is small, his pursuits and pleasures are useless to the world, his years are trifled away in pursuing airy visions, and he is a stranger to elevated and substantial happiness. He speaks as a child, prattling unconnectedly of his little concerns; he understands as a child, superficially and contractedly; he thinks as a child, incorrectly and inconsistently; but when he becomes a man he puts away childish things. His taste relishes nobler objects; his conversation is more dignified; his conduct and pursuits are manly; his views and knowledge are enlarged. Spurning the shackles and toys of babyhood, he becomes perhaps a philosopher, and explores with astonished gaze the works of his Creator. His unrestricted fancy, not confined to the policies and interests of kingdoms, wanders among the stars, and delights itself with the numberless worlds which revolve above his head, while his faith and knowledge are employed on the great affairs of the kingdom of God.

Perhaps it is those changes, that development of mind, body, and spirit, that allows the man to have greater power than the child. The man is capable both of greater good and greater evil because he has a depth of understanding and life within him that the child is physically impossible of obtaining. With that increased power and ability, something is lost: the freedom and innocence of the concrete. The child knows that things are as he sees them; the man is well-acquainted with doubts, insecurities, questions. These questions may lead to crisis; crises may lead to truth. The man can go further than the child ever can.

So, is it better to be child or adult? I think it's like asking if it is better to be man or woman. Equal and alike are not the same thing, as Meg Wallace reminded us years ago ("A Wrinkle in Time," Madeleine L'Engle). But I don't think it's wise to forget that child is child and man is man. We have a responsibility one to the other. Would I rather be a child? Often, I wish I could! Simplicity and innocence have a lot of appeal, sometimes. But that doesn't matter. I am an adult; I cannot shirk the rights, privileges, and responsibilities appertaining thereunto.

Yup, next time I'm whining and wanting to retreat into my childhood, I'll have to come back and read all these inspiring words. Won't look nearly as good then, I know -- but it might be good for me.

Tedium

Let's face it; a lot of a musician's work consists of tedious repetition. Recently, I've been hammering away at a few sections that simply won't stay learned. The notes won't stay in my brain or my fingers from one day to the next, and it's impossible to increase tempo or move forward when that's the case. My last-ditch effort is the ten-times-a-day salt-mines technique. I isolate a page or three and play it ten times in a row. Every day. For a week. The only change I can make is to increase the tempo with a metronome; otherwise, it must be absolutely consistent.

I call this the salt-mines because it is probably the most painful drudgery I incorporate into my practice. However, with a little creativity, it becomes more fun! I needed some way to keep track of my repetitions, since I'm usually concentrating too hard to count. Someone suggested that I move paperclips from one side of the piano to the other as I go; I found a better way. When you practice in the room with the Lego table, inspiration may strike! If I use ten assorted Legos instead of boring old paperclips, I can build something as I go along! When I finish my ten repetitions, I will have finished my dragon or car or castle or whatever.

The only down-side to this method is that sometimes I like my sculpture too much. I built a little dragon Saturday that I couldn't bear to take apart for my next set of repetitions; happily, there are more Legos where those came from!