Appogiatura

Thinking

2009-07-08T08:51:00.002-04:00

Maelstrom. It conjurs a mental image of chaotic swirls of color in never ceasing motion. a maelstrom of thought. I know that I'm not doing what I should be doing right now. I know that I need to bring my thoughts into focus. Have I become mentally stagnant? Is it possible that this maelstrom is swirling constantly and going nowhere? Have I lost my sharpness, my insight, my words? Have I ever had anything to say or share?

Who am I now? Who I was yesterday doesn't matter anymore. Who am I today? Who will I be tomorrow? Is there any hope that I will be sharper, brighter, stronger tomorrow?

I practice. I write. I run my six miles. I teach. I work. I make breakfast, lunch, dinner. I do laundry and clean house. And the day is over. What have I done to become sharper, brighter, stronger? What am I doing?

When it rains...

2008-06-03T17:26:00.003-04:00

My world seems to always move in fits and starts, somehow. Take, for example, my Petite Pianists class. Last year, when I was pushing hard to fill this class for another teacher, I was lucky to find three kids to make the class work. I enrolled three-year-olds, which is really too young, just to get my numbers up. Two out of three semesters, we canceled the class. This fall, I had a full class, without even pulling many teeth. This spring, I was amazed to have a full beginners class and a full "advanced" class. I didn't have high hopes for summer, because enrollment for a weekly class tends to be really low. How, then, did my beginners class fill before I even mailed brochures? I opened up another class, which filled in less than a week. I also have a full advanced class, and student interest in a "post-advanced" class. When did I get this popular?

Most of this year, my teaching schedule has been full to bursting -- with new students, old students, and "rescues" from other teachers. How do I only have four students for the summer? Why am I fighting the feelings of depression and betrayal that always come when I lose a student? I'm not inept; from eavesdropping at last week's recital, I'm apparently wildly popular with my students and families! So.... where are they?

There are days when I go stir-crazy sitting in this office, waiting for things to do. I always have a few big projects, but I often don't have the time to do them. And then there are days such as the past two, where I spend hours on the phone and e-mail. I become a regular whirlwind, and I actually have energy left over.

I spent the weekend in the sunshine with my G, driving and talking and walking and wandering, playing and working with boundless energy ... and today working from home, with phone and computer in the bed beside me, because it was stormy and grey and I hadn't the oomph to face the office.

Sometimes I think it would be nifty to try a tidy, consistent job and a tidy, consistent lifestyle. And then I realize: (1) such a thing does not seem to be forthcoming; (2) such a thing does not seem to fit my personality; and (3) wouldn't I miss the swirls of energy and excitement? Yeah, I guess I'll stick with my fits and starts. So long as they keep heading in the same direction!

The Lapsed Blogger

2008-04-20T13:41:00.003-04:00

Oh, my -- I used to try to post a blog twice a month or so, and here it's been five weeks! It's not that I've dropped off the face of the earth, that I haven't anything to say, or even that I've been too overwhelmed with life in general to put coherent words together. One of the unexpected side effects of being a fiancee is that I have somebody to share everything with. We talk more often and more deeply than I'm accustomed to in my little hermit life, so I don't have as many thoughts and ideas churning inside, waiting for the outlet of a blog. Instead, I share them during the evening chat, and they stop churning. The result is a deep, close relationship with my intended -- and a sad lack of blogging.

I've also determined that I will not gush in a blog, unless it's absolutely necessary. I don't want to subject the masses to the sort of saccharine goo that I hate to read myself, and I don't want to look back on my blog with disgust five years down the road.

Well, on with the blog. Another school year is racing to its close, and it has been a good one. I've been challenged, but not overwhelmed unduly. I've learned so much, and I feel that I am a better and more complete musician. On the advice of friends, relatives, and professors, I have changed my degree program to musicology, which will be exciting. I won't stop playing -- I'm hoping to finish preparation of my current repertoire for a recital sometime in 2009. My marvelous piano teacher of this year won't have room for me in his schedule next fall, which is rather heart-breaking, but I'll manage. He has done wonderful work with me, and I think I'll be able to continue, with the support of my other half. I'll miss working with him awfully, though.

In the past year, my playing has reflected my life. I suppose that's the way it ought to be, to some extent. Unfortunately, there was a long stretch of time when I was unsure if I would ever be able to play again. It took a lot of work, certainly, and a lot of personal growth, for lack of a better word. I got back on the horse again and again, with devastating results more often than not. It wasn't until I began playing in the midst of love that I had substantial success. Of course, my fiance was part of that, but it was more than him -- it was family and friends and students and coworkers. Playing for my great-uncle's memorial was the first time this year that I felt I could really make music. And I think you would have to know my family to understand. There is a depth of loving and giving that it would be hard to rival, and it was the most natural thing in the world to give of myself at the piano in that situation. And I think that was what had been missing -- I had gone through a season of fear and terror, and I had learned to wall myself off from the music I played. The music couldn't get hurt, but I could. At the service, I was finally able to break down that wall. I'm able to be a musician again.

There's more to tell, of course -- I've just begun a new music therapy program, and I'm planning curricula for a day-camp this summer. I'm also looking at some continuing education options during the summer, and I'm hoping to drop into the world of Renaissance Faire at some point, though it will probably be brief. But for now, I think this is long enough. I'm more than content with my present, and enthusiastic about my future. How different this spring is than the last!

"The strongest and sweetest songs..."

2008-03-16T12:14:00.001-04:00

"...yet remain to be sung." ~Walt Whitman

Why does this quote matter to me today? Because it’s on my ring. The one I’m wearing. On my left hand.

I’m engaged to be married!

I’m waiting for it to seem real... this could take some time. Meanwhile, I’m swept up in this beautiful unreality. I never imagined... or maybe I did, but it was in that "wouldn’t space travel be nice?" sort of imagination.

I’m engaged to be married!

I’m going to get married!

I’m ... speechless.

"Papa, am I odd?"

2008-03-14T08:27:00.001-04:00

Yeah, okay, I know I’m not like "normal" people. I know I’m ... unusual. But it would be nice to be a little more predictable! I suppose my greatest predictability is my lack of predictability, but I find that I sometimes long for greater consistency in my life. Part of me knows that I would hate to live without having each day be a new and changeable adventure, but part of me would really like to try it. Just for a little while!

About a week ago, I succesfully pulled off The Great Studio Renovation of 2008! And let it be known that I am, in fact, A Beast. One of my college buddies used to call me that, because I was always toting sound equipment and whatnot. He should have seen me with this wooden cabinet that I moved into my teaching studio. I felt alternately like a puppy who wouldn’t let go of a stick that is twice its size and Laurel and Hardy waiting for a piano to fall on their heads. I’m sporting some impressive bruises, but my studio is back in business. The gaping holes in the wall are patched, the walls are a pleasant shade of blue, the books are organized, the curtains are up -- it’s a very low-stress place to teach. I needed that. And I have a lovely feeling of success, ’cause I did it myself. Come on, doesn’t everyone have a touch of that toddler independence?

Over the weekend, I read the most inspiring and helpful book on piano practicing. Really great concrete stuff. Can’t wait to use it. Ummm... except that I’ve been dead-dog tired all week, and I can barely drag myself out of bed. Even the past two days, which have been sunny and gorgeous, haven’t brought me springing from the covers. So, getting any work done at all has been a challenge. And incredible challenge. An almost insurmountable challenge!

Are other folks like this? Either all energy or none? Either flashing bright success or buried in a comfy cave? If so, I don’t see how anything gets done in this world! I hate it when I don’t want to do anything -- I feel like a worthless lump. The good thing is, I know a burst of energy is right around the corner. Maybe, now that I’m well-rested...

And, after all, the Ides of March approacheth!

Weddings, Funerals, and What Love Looks Like

2008-02-03T16:41:00.001-05:00

I've had all sorts of inspiring blogs churning around in my head lately, with no time in which to write them. This will be kind of a combination of a lot of things that all relate somehow in my head -- forgive me if they don't relate so well on the page!

My Christmas trip home was filled with rest, friends, and family, just as it ought to be. It was extended a bit by the passing of my great-uncle, and the accompanying familial events. Some of you had the opportunity to meet my great-uncle; I wish those of you who have not could have done so. He was among the world's most loving men. I remember being very young and rather overwhelmed at large family gatherings, and how he would reach out to me, making me feel special and safe. He first began working in the ministry in the early forties, and he performed his last service in 2001. Sixty years of ministry; can you imagine? My mother, aunt, and I spent some time perusing his record book of weddings, baptisms, and funerals; what an amazing life of service he led. His passing was expected and timely, but he will be dearly missed, nonetheless. The last recital I gave was for him and my great-aunt (who became my adopted grandparents through a mistake in publicity); I was glad to be able to offer what I could at the service. My father and I played together; nothing really extraordinary, but it was a gift I knew he and my great-aunt both appreciated.

My best friend's father was re-married last weekend. This is another incredible pastor, who knows how to love with his life as well as his heart. It was difficult to see a new woman in his arms; I dearly loved his late wife, and it was not an easy thing to imagine a new life partner for him. I played for this service, as well, so I was able to sit on the side of the sanctuary, where I could see his face. The poignancy of loss was overwhelmed by his joy. His face captured the thought from a song I've been listening to lately : "What a beautiful face I have found in this place that is circling all round the sun..." In other words, "Look what I've found! Can I keep her? Really? Is she mine?" A love that pure and tangible has something irresistable about it.

Speaking of which, I'm far gone from resisting it, myself. Some of you have seen me since December; for those of you who have not, I'm absolutely swept off my feet. This has never happened to me, honestly. I've liked fellows, I've been liked, I've gone out with them, but I've never been in this impossible, indefinable, incomprehensible state before. They all say, "You'll know it when you feel it"; they all say, "Trust me, you'll find the time somehow." I don't generally put a good deal of credence in what they all say, but this time, they were right. He and I come from two impossibly different universes, and we're so different in so many ways. Some are important, some are not. It doesn't seem to matter, though. The similarities, the differences, the details, all seem so irrelevant. Maybe they should seem more important; maybe they will later. Frankly, I don't really care at this point. I am impossibly happy and complete in a way I couldn't have imagined.

What does love look like? It looks like Friar Jim on his wedding day. It looks like my aunt, treasuring a lifetime of memories without bitterness. It looks like two nutty fools driving hundreds of miles each week just to spend a few hours locked in each other's gaze. Could it be more amazing and beautiful?

Wilberforce, Luther, and "The Art of the Possible"

2008-01-04T17:42:00.001-05:00

Perhaps it's simply part of who I am; I'm never ignited by the issues. It has always seemed that the workings of governmental principalities and powers is a life-span away from me. My mother is a newspaper reader; she knows who is running for what, where they stand on the important things, and by whom they are endorsed. She believes vehemently in some political stands, and speaks out against others with equal fervor. My sister is a public defender, with the mission of fighting for the rights and proper treatment of the proverbial "little guy." She becomes irate about the way the system treats the people under her care.

And I? I am a musician. I'm a teacher and a music therapist. I spend my days pouring everything I have into the people around me, hoping to touch their lives somehow. Am I hoping to have the next Van Cliburn in my piano studio? Or do I want to be the facilitator of an amazing recovery? Not particularly. I just do what I do, and then I see what results there are to see. Sometimes really neat, sometimes crushing, and most often miniscule bits of personal growth. I spend my time watering plants, I suppose.

I've been watching biographical movies lately: St. Paul, Martin Luther, and most recently William Wilberforce. This isn't a movie review; maybe I'll do that later. The thing that strikes me is that each of these men was fighting for something, both personally and politically. They believed so fervently in an issue that they were willing to desert everything, sacrifice anything, to see that the right (as in that which is good and just, not the opposite of left) won out. I admire these men. I would like to make a difference, just as they did. Theirs are inspiring stories, and they inspired me.

But I haven't an issue.

Sure, I see right and wrong. I care about which is which. I won't vote unless I know that I am voting for the right (see above). But these issues, some of them heartbreaking or vitally important, fail to inspire me to incredible action. Is this a personal failing? One of my excuses is that I can't stomach the vile game of politics. I'm sure there are good folk out there; I haven't sifted through the slime to identify them. Is this gutless?

Perhaps I should make the effort to add the cares of the outer world to the cares of my little one. Still, even at my most inspired, I quail from it. Is it right to hold my life separate? Or must I hold my nose and dive into the muck?

The Christmas Blog

2007-12-27T11:29:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting at my mother's computer in the home of my childhood, peeking through the shrubbery at a light dusting of snow, listening to a Little Shop of Horrors, and thinking warm fuzzy thoughts. Does it get much more idyllic? Well, perhaps it does, but I find myself extremely content at the moment. I wish I had company, but that's how it goes.

This has been a strange Christmas. The life of a liturgical musician is busy this time of year; the services on the 23rd, 24th, and 25th were beautiful. At some point, we may add the Friday service that is historically supposed to come before Christmas. If I really put a lot of time into preparing all this music, it could have been a lot of work; as it is, I usually spend about an hour of preparation per service, placing post-it notes appropriately and running through music. So, really, those days were pretty quiet. Peaceful. Lovely. I'll admit, as I arrived at the Christmas Eve service in the dark, I felt incredibly alone. It hit me like a ton of bricks for a moment or two, but I survived. This was my first Christmas Eve alone, and I'm glad to have escaped with only one blue spell. Some church acquaintances invited me for Christmas brunch before the Christmas day service, which was very nice. It helped stave off my impatience; the minute the service was over, I hit the road to Michigan. I was home in time for home-made soup and presents around the tree. It was a quiet evening, with no sister to brighten the mix, but I loved it. Sometimes I forget how blessed I am to have such a great relationship with my folks. My family is very special to me; I wish everybody had that.

Last night was Broadway night, which explains my choice of soundtrack today. We kicked off the evening with "Suddenly Seymour," and the tone for the night was set. For eleven years now, it has been a biannual tradition to get together with as many friends as are available, willing, and in moderately good voice to sing Broadway tunes around the piano. We sing until we're hoarse, I play until the notes swim before my eyes, and we have an amazing time. These things normally last anywhere from four to six hours. Yes, I admit it freely -- I am a music geek. Don't you wish you were, too?

Boy, did I need this respite! Family, friends, good music, sleep... May your week pass as gently and pleasantly as mine is doing!

Yet Another Immortal Song

2007-12-20T12:29:00.000-05:00

Again, an appropriate lyric from my personal mental archives:

I'm gonna buy me a dog,
'Cause I need a friend now.

Before my mother worries, I should mention that this is not an immediate action. More than ever, though, I realize that this is not merely a probability. It's only a matter of how long I can hold out.

After R. and Betsy (today's photo-puppy) visited over Thanksgiving, I knew I really wanted a furry friend and could probably raise one without inviting tragedy. Spending days with my boss' half-trained beagle made me re-think this slightly. I don't have the time to train a dog properly at the moment, and I don't think it's fair to the dog to do the job half-way. So, I'd almost resigned myself to waiting for a slower lifestyle and a house with a yard, when Maggie came to the piano lesson earlier this week. Maggie is J's boxer puppy, snuffly nose and all. After she gave up trying to hide behind J's legs, she learned that I was really a pretty acceptable person. I don't think she's a big fan of piano lessons in general, but she seems to have joined my fan-club.

Honestly, how much longer can I live without a dog of my very own?
It's only a matter of time...

Back in the land of the living!

2007-12-14T10:22:00.000-05:00

My homeschooler hasn't shown up yet, so I'm going to steal a few moments for blogging at long last! It's been a wild ride, so I'll hit on a few highlights:

The AMTA conference was amazingly fantastic! It felt so good to be a music therapist again, and I absorbed an incredible amount of information. I also ran into a lot of old friends, which totally surprised me. I sometimes get the idea that I'm rather alone in the world. I've gotten used to going to new places and seeing no friendly faces, starting from ground level in each new situation. What a thrill to see friends I once knew so well! Folks from Radford and Galveston saw me before I saw them and flagged me down to trade updates. I'll admit, I thought it was hilarious that I was the only one of the Radford bunch that didn't need to give their name even once! Was I that memorable? I hope that's a good thing... I did have to repeat continually that I am not married, no kids, lots of work and no social life. But very happy.

Thanksgiving was more mellow than I had hoped for. Four adults and a half-grown rottweiler mix in a one-bedroom apartment full of books could be a recipe for catastrophe. But we really enjoyed being together, my T-day Feast was a success, and I even made time to practice. Being an early riser has its benefits; I rose before my sister and went to the Institute to work. Saw BB King perform in person -- amazing!!!! On the down-side, I seem to be battling performance anxiety again. I had it pretty well beat, before last Spring... Let the healing continue!

In a similar vein, I'm changing my degree program. If I can't play special music with my dad in church without anxiety, there's no way I can complete a performance program without going insane. Since I never really cared about the degree itself, I'm not broken-hearted. I don't feel like I'm washing out -- I will still be working with my new teacher, and I'm making so much progress! I can finish a musicology or theory masters (or probably both!) in another year, only adding a couple classes to my original plan. It's dangerous to start giving me options -- I'm thinking the music ed. masters with the Orff specialty might be a lot of fun to do, or the sacred music program... Hmm, what shall I do next?

My piano students gave a great recital last night. Someday, when I'm a real teacher, my student recitals will last longer than forty-five minutes! For now, I'm just happy to keep it a very positive, fun, rewarding experience. I want my kids to love recitals, not dread them. Maybe that's why I always bake cookies...

I think that's the basic summary. UK is finished for the semester, Christmas is coming, and I have lost my voice. So now things are a little easier. I'm looking forward to going home on Christmas day, having a good Broadway night, and sleeping for about three days. Sometimes, being a student is so worth it!

Worry Wart

2007-10-31T12:32:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-10-22T12:50:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-13T12:07:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-01T08:42:00.000-04:00

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!

The return of Tool-Girl

2007-09-26T12:11:00.000-04:00

I was a little distressed this weekend to notice a new tendency of the hood of my car to come loose as I drive down the road. I didn't have the time to fuss with it properly until yesterday evening. With my trusty WD-40, a piece of rope, and strong piano fingers, I fixed it! There's a marvelous glow of accomplishment that comes with doing a job yourself -- especially if the result is more effective than simply tying the thing shut.

By the way, a note for all you would-be studs out there, 'cause I know you read my blog (note sarcasm, please...) -- The thing a sweaty, oil-begrimed girl wants to hear as she mucks around under the hood of her car is not "Hey, baby, what's your name?" Not even if you repeat it several times. While it may be somewhat flattering to discover you think there's something appealling buried between the humidity-induced curls, oil-blackened fingers, and paint-covered cut-offs, this is not the time. Trust me, she simply isn't in the mood.

Whew!

2007-09-22T10:22:00.001-04:00

I was crunching numbers last night on my way home, and I was a little appalled. In the space of a fairly compact 14-hour workday, I wore the following hats:
- Music therapist
- Piano teacher
- Publicist
- Administrative Assistant
- Student of German
- Pianist

I don't think my car has room for all those hats in one day! Everything went pretty well; sight-reading in public and flying by the seat of my pants is sort of what I do. But I'm still tired. Sigh, sigh, poor me...

On a side-note, Tim the Oil-Change Guy made a deep observation this morning. "You get a lot of oil-changes. You must drive a lot." Uh, yeah, you think so, Tim? Great deductive powers our Tim has.

And that's a glimpse inside my head for this Saturday morning!

Loss and Legacy

2007-09-12T06:34:00.000-04:00

Last Thursday, September 6, the great Madeleine L'Engle passed on at age 88. Her books figured in my childhood and rather more prominently in my adulthood. Her writing reflected her depth of contemplation and thought, which is what I most enjoyed. The plots were fun enough, some more than others, the characters were usually relatable, sometimes more fully-fleshed than others, but the real reason for reading her works is to enter into her thought processes. Reading the thoughts of someone who is thoughtful helps me to think and dream and contemplate. I'm glad that she left a great legacy that will not be lost.

Another hero of mine passed away this summer. Tommy Makem died on August 1 at age 74. I grew up listening to his music; my first instrument was the penny-whistle, inspired by the combination of his recordings and my parents' provision of the instrument. I had always looked on him as my own personal property in some way. He blended, in my childish mind, with the musicians that my father knew. I considered him a friend of the family, though I never met him; imagine my surprise when I discovered that he was a legend in the realm of Irish folk music! He inspired thousands and revived a dying art-form. That was a life worth living.

When I die, will my legacy be worth my years? I can't plan my days around making a lasting impact on generations to come; that's the wrong motivation. And I doubt that is how either of the folks began. The trick is to find what I must do today and do it; what I have trouble grasping with my finite mind is how I can do it for another fifty years. I have been told that I'm a "marathon runner," persistent, "in for the long haul." Hopefully, this indicates that my recurring desire to quit is buried well beneath my determination to finish the job. I wonder if other people share this battle between winning and running.

Petite Pianists

2007-09-10T19:01:00.000-04:00

One of these days, I'm going to try a pleasant little dull life. I will go to work every morning at nine, complete eight hours of data entry or hedge-trimming or phone solicitation, go home at five, and sleep eight hours a night. I will eat three balanced meals each day, read the newspaper every morning, and conduct my days in a boring, organized manner. I will not work with children. I will not work with musicians. I will avoid visionaries at all costs.

Let's face it, I might last a week.

I thrive on chaos! I'm forever juggling a thousand things at once, spreading myself too thin, doing things myself rather than delegating; I wouldn't keep running my life this way if I didn't enjoy it to some extent. I'm officially retired from classroom teaching. It was not designed with me in mind -- ask if you want the saga. So, how on earth did I end up teaching a class of 4-7 year old beginning pianists? And why do I enjoy it? I tell you, it's a blast! You get them all dancing to the music, listening in rapt attention to the story, exploring the keyboards... It's organized chaos, methodic madness, truly exhausting, and an awful lot of fun.

This is the part of group teaching that I enjoyed. The logistics wore me out; real teaching envigorates me no end. I'm pretty blessed to do what I love in a setting that I control. I imagine there are not too many people who can say the same.

There is much rejoicing!

2007-09-09T19:42:00.001-04:00

I'm safe! Guitar guy, he of the incredible height and big blue eyes that my boss was so wild about for me, is engaged! Yippee for him, yippee for me! Now my boss will probably be stuck on fixing me up with the percussion guy. But she's not quite as wild about him -- at any rate, no pictures of him have appeared on my desk. Perhaps my lack of social life will become a little less interesting to my local Yente.

Birthday Reflections

2007-09-07T07:57:00.000-04:00

On this, my first morning at age 29, I am feeling good. This is not always the case. When I turned 25, I woke up feeling old. When I turned 28, I was terrified as I started a brand-new chapter of my life. On turning 29, though, I find that I am content. I'm not distressed at the impending close of my 20's -- actually, it feels like a really long decade at this point, and I'll be thrilled to move on! I'm not apprehensive at my apparent lack of direction in life. I don't feel inadequate because my mother was married with two children by this time in her life. I'm not even depressed because I celebrated alone last night. I feel good.

I love my job, the paying one. I love my work, the non-paying part. I adore my new piano teacher. I get a kick out of German. I like living in Kentucky. The sunrise this morning was more gorgeous than it has been all week. I sprang to life before the alarm rang -- and considering that the alarm rings at four, that doesn't happen very often! This will be a wonderful year. It will certainly be difficult in many ways, and has already been so. Nonetheless, I'm thrilled to be 29 today.

A Quick Note to Catch Up With...

2007-09-05T07:01:00.000-04:00

I don't really have that much to blog about, but I just realized that it had been well over a week since my last note. So this will be a little newsy, rather than philosophical.

Classes have started! I'm trying to limit what I'm doing, thus preventing utter exhaustion and physical break-down (we hope!). So I'm only taking German and piano, which will turn out to be plenty, I think. I'm enjoying German, and my first lesson went well, but there is work to do!

I have several new students this semester, which promises to be fun. I'm teaching a lot, working in the office a lot, and have some neat therapy projects in the works. It's fairly necessary to stay very on top of things, but it's not overwhelming. And I don't think it will be, so long as I stay well-behaved from the outset.

Since I'm at work so much, I've increased my internet usage! I'm trying to force myself to take lunch and dinner breaks, to prevent grouchiness and exhaustion, and I'm finding new internet toys that are helping me do that. Besides, it helps me to interact with folks that I never get a chance to see. Despite the fact that I keep moving away from my friends, I really do miss them.

And it's time to practice! More later, I promise...

Did I leave that sign on my forehead again?

2007-08-24T07:11:00.000-04:00

Apparently, I look desperate. Either that, or romantically helpless. The anecdotal evidence:

For a special treat, I will occasionally trot across the street to the Marathon station and pick up lunch or dinner or whatever. Sometimes it just seems better than the old faithful PB&J. Sometimes my coworker, S., will accompany me. She's what I would call a "grown-up," meaning "old enough to have kids in high-school." She's also from Russia, which comes with a certain amount of frankness. As we sat under a tree this last time to enjoy our repast, she asked, "Why do you not flirt? You should be flirting with that guy. He is a nice guy, yes? He smiles at you. Why are you not nice back to him?" In all honesty, the idea of pursuing a relationship with the gas station guy had simply not struck me. Should it? I'm really not sure. What would my mother say, after all? I endeavor to be pleasant, but I don't think I will ever really master the art of flirting. Maybe if I cared enough for that sort of book or movie... What am I supposed to do, mention how quiet things are at the old Music Institute, perhaps with a suggestive wink? Somehow, it doesn't seem my style.

We have finally hired a new guitar teacher here. I met him briefly on Saturday, and yesterday M., my boss, began to suggest (with an utter lack of subtlety) that I should get to know him well and soon. "Oh, he's really cute," she says. "He has these great big blue eyes," she says. And the conversation for the rest of the afternoon repeatedly returns to that theme. "He wasn't wearing a ring," she says. Do I look like I am in desperate need of a cute, blue-eyed guitar player in my life? Because I haven't enough to do at the moment? Because I'm so utterly lonely and depressed and looking for love at every turn? Honestly! I appreciate the concern, I'm so glad that somebody cares, but you can lay off a little!

They write songs about this sort of thing. "But he's a good man, a fine catch! True? True!" This was the final complication my life required: a good old-fashioned "Yente" or two!

Discipleship: Thinking about differences

2007-08-21T07:52:00.000-04:00

I don't often write overtly Christian posts, but this has been on my mind. I'm not using this as a pulpit, but just as an opportunity to organize my thoughts. This is not my attempt to convert anyone or offend anyone. That said, feel free to skip this post if you like; I don't mind!

I work and play with a wide variety of people, including pagans, Wiccans, and atheists. Much of this is through my connection with Ren Faires, which I view as a sort of mission field. I don't preach or anything; I'm just there, hopefully being a different sort of Christian than most of them expect. These tend to be people who have been hurt or betrayed by the Church, often badly. The last thing they need to turn them away from Christ is another heavy-handed Bible-thumper. By being a quiet witness, someone who loves them without expectation, I hope that I can help to re-open the window to Light in their lives. In the process, I end up surrounded by murky theology a lot, and I felt the need this morning to de-murk.

To clarify: my God is not the same as the little gods of earth, wind, sky, or internet. If my God were the same as those others, He would be a liar. Everything He has said or demonstrated about His nature would be false, beginning with "The Lord your God, the Lord is One" and continuing through "I came that you should have life and have it abundantly." Worship the goddess if you must, but do not confuse her with the Lord who created heaven and earth and laid down His life for me.

I've always loved the story of Paul in Athens, when he spoke with the people worshiping at the altar of the "Unknown God." I love that it shows that God makes Himself known, even to those who haven't heard Truth. Still, it was unacceptable for the Romans to continue this practice once they knew the Truth. There are many powers, certainly; the little gods are real, the power they wield is real. I've seen and heard too much evidence to try to deny that. However, there is only one God worthy of our praise, one Lord whose power and love surpasses all others. And He knows that we cannot share our affections among the many. He knows me that well.

This is not about me reading the Book and spouting the right answers. This is about what I know in my heart of hearts, together with what my brain does or doesn't comprehend. If it weren't for what I know inside, perhaps the little gods of tree and earth would be enough for me. But they don't satisfy. They can't satisfy. And I can't settle for that.

Creative Differences

2007-08-17T10:10:00.000-04:00

I was doing some dummy-work last night, sticking things together for a bulk mailing, and I needed entertainment. On PBS, they were showing "The Mozart Dances," which were a joint-effort between pianist Emanuel Ax and choreographer Mark Morris. I'm a big fan of Mr. Ax, and I'm usually a sucker for Mr. Mozart, and I was in a dance-watching mood. Not a bad concept, exceptional dancers, and some really fine moments. However:
* Why were the girls (using "girls" and "boys" to mean grown-up dancer-types) all dressed in transparent dresses? I had no wish to see their undergarments, and it didn't seem to fit with the concept. Happily, my reception was such that I could basically ignore that.
* Why were the boys dressed in shipwreck outfits? Frilly long sleeves and knee-length shorts were distracting from what I thought the concept was.
* Occasionally, I started to think: "Gee, this is really good! What a neat seamless blend of artsy-contemporary dance with court dance!" And then something would jar -- a sudden insertion of sharp edges and angles, writhing on the floor, a total lack of cohesion between music and dance. Frustrating, because I was really beginning to like it!
* I understand that it is difficult to film dance well. I'm not sure it is done well very often, and I was willing to make allowances for the cameraman's desire to focus on one dancer (or a portion of one dancer) to the exclusion of the others. However, surely Emanuel Ax would be the first to ask that the camera not be turned on him when there are dancers to watch! Who thought that would be a good idea? He's great, of course, but he was providing the aural to the dancer's visual.
* In this day and age, when men in dance are assumed to be "little girly men," I think it's especially important that they dance in a way that is masculine. This doesn't mean a lack of sensitivity, but rather a lack of femininity. Some of the soloists managed this, despite the choreography; most did not. It was not a surprise, when they showed a bit of a rehearsal, to hear Mr. Morris instruct his men to be "dainty and feminine." Disappointing, yes; surprising, no.

The end result was that I went to bed as soon as I finished the mailer. This was probably the best idea anyway, but I was terribly dissatisfied by what could have been wonderful. Sigh.

Cheating

2007-08-08T10:07:00.000-04:00

I've been reading voraciously this summer, enjoying the opportunity to go to bed before I'm exhausted beyond belief, cherishing the chance to read over breakfast and lunch rather than grabbing things on the run. I'll admit, the level of literature has varied dramatically. Mostly, I've been speeding through the legacy of paperbacks my Grandpa left behind. This morning, I finished "An Old-Fashioned Mystery" by Runa Fairleigh.

Back in 1929, Monsignor Ronald A. Knox, a chaplain at Oxford and avid reader of mysteries, set forth the following rules for fair-play:
"A Detective Story Decalogue"
I. The criminal must be someone mentioned in the early part of the story, but must not be anyone whose thoughts the reader has been allowed to follow.
II. All supernatural or preternatural agencies are ruled out as a matter of course.
III. Not more than one secret passage or room is allowable.
IV. No hitherto undiscovered poisons may be used, nor any appliance which will need a long scientific explanation at the end.
V. No Chinaman must figure in the story.
VI. No accident must ever help the detective, nor must he ever have an unaccountable intuition which proves to be right.
VII. The detective must not himself commit the crime.
VIII. The detective must not light on any clues which are not instantly produced for the inspection of the reader.
IX. The stupid friend of the detective, the Watson, must not conceal any thoughts which pass through his mind; his intelligence must be slightly, but very slightly, below that of the average reader.
X. Twin brothers, and doubles generally, must not appear unless we have been duly prepared for them.

Since I think it fairly unlikely that any of you will ever read this obscure little book, I feel free to tell you that Runa Fairleigh breaks every one of those rules. When Agatha Christie did it, there was a mighty ruckus in her literary circles. And I can understand why. She tricked the reader by presenting a pretty cool psychoanalytical story in the guise of a classic whodunit, thus blatently violating Rules #I and #VII. Fairleigh, however, continually turns her story on its ear with wry wit and morbid humor.

For example:
One day, though, Augustus's inveterate kidding caught up with him when he sneaked up on a guest who believed himself to be alone in the room. Unfortunately, the guest had just finished loading a shotgun preparatory to taking a few shots at the local seagulls. The coffin was closed for the ceremony.

Simply great fun! Once, just once, someone can break all the rules with such panache that they surpass the rules altogether. But I don't think you could get away with it on a regular basis. This is why they call it "cheating."

On the Road Again...

2007-08-07T17:56:00.000-04:00

So, as I drive, I will generally read street signs. Good thing to do. Helps me get from here to there. Some signs, however, cause me to wish I could raise one eyebrow skeptically. For example:
"Battle Creek River"
Um... Identity crisis here? Or is it merely a creek with hopes of someday becoming a river? We may never know.
"Covert Road"
Now, perhaps I misunderstand the meaning of "covert." I have always thought that something wishing to be covert (an operation of some type, perhaps) would do well not to advertise.
And you will be glad to know that the fabled "Huggy Bear Motel" seems to be doing well since my post last summer. It has a nice, new, shiny sign with a picture of what I can only assume to be a Huggy Bear on it. Well, it looks pretty huggy to me. :)

Have you ever noticed...

2007-07-27T12:37:00.000-04:00

At the dentist's office, butterflies fly upside-down. I suppose this is an attempt to display the prettier (up)side to the patient, who is down. I find it disturbing. No butterfly goes around all day upside-down. I think it's probably impossible, certainly inadvisable. It sort of gives you a feeling of vertigo, as though you are looking down at them when all other sensations are certain that you are looking up.

Yeah, it's been one of those weeks. Stay tuned for a more in-depth post, where I examine the relationships of perfectionism, failure, despair, and Lutheranism. You might notice a new link in my "other blogs" section; Bluegrass Lutherans is a blogsite operated by the pastor of the Lutheran church where I am now the pianist. I haven't gone entirely Lutheran yet, but I'm exploring. There's something that frightens me about committing to a denomination. It's sort of like committing to a political party -- am I still stuck, even when I disagree with them? If so, I'd rather be independent and non-denominational!

I think my soul is sunburnt

2007-07-18T13:25:00.000-04:00

It might be rewarding to say only that much and make you all guess what on earth I mean. I'll eliminate a few possibilities for you. My nose is not pink, and I haven't even had much time outside since Sunday. Even when I was in New Mexico with R., I didn't spend nearly as much time outside as we often do. No aloe necessary this summer. Sunburnt is just the best word I could think of for that dry, exhausted feeling.

Have you ever spent all day out on a lake with no sunglasses? You get that pleasant feeling of well-baked weariness. Your eyes are tired, your skin is dry (and possibly burnt, depending on your complexion), your arms may be sore from rowing. You may have some new mosquito bites on your legs. And you go to the screened-in porch for supper, as a slow hunger creeps up on you. You watch the sun set, the fireflies come out. You hear the whippoorwill. The bats begin their eerie, silent dance. You want to go to bed, but you don't want to go to that much trouble. You feel supremely content.

This summer has been something else so far, no doubt about that. My inside is feeling like my outside spent the day on the lake. Happy, worn, and perhaps a little lethargic. Once again, my adventures fall into the category of not-to-be-blogged; you'll have to wait for the book. Really, there aren't that many specifics to tell -- like being on the lake, you just have to be there. I guess I've been absorbing a lot, rather like sunshine. Perhaps it's a good thing that I'm back at work for a small dose of reality before finishing out the Silverleaf season. I wouldn't want to end up with sunstroke, after all.

Potpourri, once more

2007-07-10T11:12:00.000-04:00

I've had several lengthy philosophical entries rolling around in my head over the last several thousand miles, but I haven't had the chance to post them. So, I'm afraid they must be cobbled together haphazardly if they are ever to see the web. And that, surely, would be disaster! (Tongue firmly in cheek.)

1. You know the chap who said, "Parting is such sweet sorrow"? I don't think famous playwrights are always on the money -- he missed the mark with that one, I think. Nothing sweet about it. I had a lovely road trip with my mother to end June with pleasant adventures, including visiting with family and friends that I rarely have time to see. And never enough time to have my fill of. The problem with seeing people that you cherish is that you really don't want to leave. Sigh. This business of having bits of my heart attached to people so far-flung can be more than a little wearing.

2. I'm from Michigan. I know about busted waterpipes. They happen in the dead of winter, usually in the middle of the night when it's least convenient. Why, then, did I return to Kentucky after the road trip mentioned above to discover a broken waterpipe in my apartment? At least the lack of convenience was consistent -- I discovered this on Sunday, when it is most difficult to get help for this sort of thing. It was in my "office," which meant I spent the day moving four bookcases, a full filing cabinet, a computer, and a late-40's desk of extremely solid construction, along with less significant (read "heavy") incidentals. The access panel for the shut-off valve was located inaccessibly behind the water heater. Grumble, grumble, mutter, grumble. On the bright side, there was no damage done at all, except to my best-laid plans. And I finally had the impetus necessary to organize those bookcases, which I've been meaning to do since I moved. Nothing like a big mess and a fast-approaching deadline to finally get projects done!

3. Silverleaf season has begun with a bang! We had a hot opening weekend, in all possible ways, and I'm thrilled to be back at it. I was able to put in a few days planting, painting, and insulating beer chests (oddly reminiscent of coffins) and pop-carts; the site and the line-up is bigger and better than last year. Don't know why I enjoy sweating in garb in a ticket booth all day, but I do. I may be a little strange, now that I think about it.

4. Speaking of Ren Faires, I've been to more this season than I ever thought I would: Tennessee, Kentucky's "Highland Faire", and even the free one in Mancos, Colorado. And somehow, I always seem to find familiar faces, or at least friends of friends. Talk about your small town! It's almost frightening when a new acquaintance at Silverleaf knows that you made a new friend in Kentucky! Good thing I only hang out with the nice people...

I think that mostly brings you up-to-date. It may be a while before my next post, but it's not for lack of material! I'll try to continue the saga soon. :)

In the Words of Another Old Song...

2007-06-16T19:33:00.000-04:00

I got shoes,
You got shoes,
All God's children got shoes.
Jan Ernst Matzeligger invented a machine that made shoes.

Grammatically incorrect, perhaps. Sociologically incorrect, perhaps. (I remember teaching this to a class of first graders who accurately assessed that there were children the world around with no shoes.) And I may have spelled Jan Ernst's name wrong. But the point is:

I went to the KY Ren Faire today, and I'm finally the proud owner of a real pair of Rennie shoes. The dog-chewed sandals were ceremoniously disposed of, and I'm terribly proud of myself!

Dreams

2007-06-09T14:36:00.000-04:00

I believe in dreams. Not that dreams necessarily come true, or that dreams are some sort of Freudian window to our true selves, but that dreams are real. They are rather like what we often call "media:" books, movies, TV shows, magazines, and so on. They can entertain you, they can get you into trouble, and they can be highly informative.

Usually, I don't dream a whole lot; I'm too exhausted, and the sensible part of me insists that I make better use of my time. Regularly, any dreams that sneak through are what I call "reality" dreams. I dream rehearsals and performances and homework assignments. My general reaction is annoyance. When you spend all day working with your students on their Christmas program, do you really want to spend all night with "I Saw Three Ships" spinning about in your weary brain? Sometimes, these reality dreams make trouble for me. I will dream that I had an important conversation, paid a bill, turned in an assignment, or any one of those myriad tasks on my to-do list. These dreams are sometimes so convincing that I believe I carried out that task in real life. That can be dangerous; how do you explain to your landlord that your rent is late because you dreamt that you paid it already?

In my better-rested seasons, my dreams take on a more fanciful turn. No longer do I wake up with my hand clenching an imaginary pen, greeting my alarm clock with "Music Institute, may I help you?" Especially when my days are rather free-form, perhaps spending the night at the Institute or on my living-room floor, my imagination begins to get the better of me. I have nightmares that jerk me to wide-eyed terror, convinced that I must watch both door (left of the bed) and window (right of the bed) at the same time to remain safe. Sometimes, I'll dream of other lands, magical places, where I am among heroes who can fly above every obstacle. I dream of futures I might someday know and pasts that aren't mine. When I wake with my mind whirling from those dreams, I wonder why I haven't written in so many years.

Then, there's the sort of "True" dream that seems reserved for unusual sleeping times and places. I took a long sunny walk this morning, and treated myself with a nap on the floor this afternoon. Saturdays are my day off, after all. I dreamt that I was sharing a house with a pianist friend. My parents and my maternal grandparents were visiting. The moment that I had been dreading came: they asked me to play for them. I'm not sure anyone understands how much I dread playing for anybody again. This has been a semester of challenge, not only to my ability, but to the very essence of my musicianship. I have a church job tomorrow morning, and I'm uncharacteristically frightened. Can I really play? Or am I no better than the hack I've appeared in studio classes this spring?

Back to the dream. When your parents ask you to play, you might be able to wiggle out of it. When your grandparents (both passed away years back) ask, what else can you do? I played in my dream. I played adequately at best. My pianist friend began to tear me apart, as if it were a studio class. Do I see now why she didn't ask me to play on her benefit recital? Don't I hear how awful it was? Don't I see that the best thing for me would be to quit school entirely? Eyes brimming, I looked to my musician father for his advice. But he wasn't the one who stepped in. My grandfather, my gruff, alcoholic, grouchy, beloved Grandpa spoke first. I haven't heard his voice, in my dreams or out of it, in at least a decade; he spoke to my friend. Maybe my phrasing was disorganized, my notes imperfect. Somebody else could have played it better. But there was something there, something in my playing that was special, unique, poetic. My Grandma spoke up as well -- not in the disoriented, faltering way of her later years, but with the authority of one who always knew beauty when she saw it. I was not yet where I could be someday as a pianist, but she knew there was within me the poet's heart that makes a musician. My mother squeezed my hand, and my father turned to address me. He had, I knew, specific things to direct me toward. The problem, you see, was that I didn't have the whole landscape of the piece mapped out. This phrase, for example... The real world intruded rudely in the form of the telephone, like the harsh cry of a peacock.

So, where is the Truth in the dream? I'm not the mystic Ghost Hunter type, and I never will be. That's a discussion for another time -- this one has already become far too long. What I am is the culmination of generations of poets and musicians. I come from a long line of people who see and hear beauty and grace where others ignore it. This poetic nature is the legacy of my family, made tangible in the things that they have left behind -- artwork, music, pictures, books. Beauty and truth and things of real substance, not just material.

So now I'm going to practice. I'm going to find the meaning behind the notes and I'm going to make music. Because dreams can teach you a lot.

It's not just me!

2007-05-29T15:33:00.000-04:00

When April with his showers hath pierced the drought
Of March with sweetness to the very rooot,
And flooded every vein with liquid power
That of its strength engendereth the flower;
When Zephyr also with his fragrant breath
Hath urged to life in every holt and heath
New tender shoots of green, and the young sun
His full half course within the Ram hath run,
And little birds are making melody
That sleep the whole night through with open eye,
For in their hearts doth Nature stir them so,
Then people long on pilgrimage to go...
~From The Prologue of The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, trans. by Frank Ernest Hill

Haven't read Chaucer in a goode longe tyme. Ask, if you'd like to know my sudden inspiration. :)

Maybe these sentiments, expressed in timeless rhyme, are why I can't reconcile myself to have a weekend without adventure. I traipse off to Michigan at the least provocation. I run away to the Tennessee Ren Faire (only 250 miles or so) for the day. And despite the fact that my "spring" cleaning (I know, April has come and gone and June is nearly here!) is barely begun, I'm looking for excuses to hit the road this weekend. I'm happy in my work and play here, but I have that old wanderlust hitting me strong...

Any ideas for a good cure? I'm afraid, if I don't get some of it out of my system before late June, I'll drive my mother nuts when we take our road trip!

So Worth It!

2007-05-21T20:22:00.000-04:00

I may be, as my some-times boss commented, an idiot to drive some 900 miles for little more than a day spent with friends. It's possible many people would view the time and expense required to go to Michigan for a morning's Race for the Cure and an afternoon's shoveling brush somewhat exorbitant. I guess it all depends on your perspective.

What priceless things did I get out of this weekend?

1. Time spent with M., whom I miss incredibly
2. A brief grey walk through downtown Kalamazoo
3. A chance to further good acquaintances
4. A brief walk through the sunny woods
5. Playing in the dirt
6. A few large ugly bruises -- really not sure where I earned those
7. Camera-dodging, thanks to A., who can't seem to help himself
8. A day in the company of people to whom I have nothing to prove
9. Gorgeous drives!
10. Yummy cook-out with one of my "other" families

Really, I think it's the company that made this so worthwhile. Of course, there was M. -- even though we didn't solve the problems of the universe or anything, we simply spent time with each other. Amazingly refreshing! And the other friends -- honestly, rennies are the most accepting people I know. I don't need to be an amazing pianist, a faultless person, or brilliant on command. I can just be there, and they make me one of their own. Even in many churches, I don't feel that welcome. There's something special about being loved that way.

What is no longer true...

2007-05-11T08:43:00.000-04:00

For some time now, I have felt qualified to say that I don't know beans about atonal analysis. I may have only been saying this for a semester, simply because I had no reason to mention it prior to this semester. I regret to inform you that, regardless of my personal feelings, this is no longer accurate. Though my final paper was not quite the overwhelming success of my Webern analysis (would you believe 102?!), the 100% I received on this four o'clock (am) attempt at coherence did the trick.

Apparently, I now know beans about atonal analysis.

Really, I still feel pretty clueless. I guess the part that matters is that I no longer _sound_ clueless!

So, how are you?

2007-05-08T08:35:00.000-04:00

The inevitable question.

It has been quite the semester for me. Details shall remain off-line, but suffice it to say that I am older than I was a few months ago. Technically speaking, I suppose that's true for everybody. Are you familiar with the ideas of ontological, psychological, and virtual time? I've only met them briefly, through a short quote from composer Elliot Carter, but this is how I understand them: Ontological time is time as we measure it, the ticking of a clock, the turning of pages on a calendar. Psychological time is time as we feel it, as in "I spent a month there one night." Virtual time becomes a sort of combination of the two, wherein time moves in "fits and starts" according to the state of the observer.

This semester has put me in virtual time with a vengeance. If I were to write a book chapter on this, I would have no idea of most of the dates and figures, though I would probably have the general order of events right. My students tell me what day it is as I write in their notebooks -- I often have that strange feeling that I don't know When I am, if that makes any sense. I usually have Where pretty set, unless I'm mostly asleep (which apartment is this?), but When seems to make less sense and become more irrelevant than it once was. I spend days in limbo, such as my quick trip to Michigan this weekend (what an amazing, sunny, unexpected blessing!). I spend days in a tightly structured schedule, with every minute accounted for (do minutes really count?), such as yesterday when I returned to teach. And I sleep in great gulps, deep, solid hours at a time, as though I've found a beautiful oasis after an age in the desert.

When you're asleep, what sort of time are you operating in?

That's kind of my life right now. I'm in retreat mode, reacting to some of the things that have been a part of this season. I hide in fiction and nature, music and laughter, travel and sunshine. Mostly, I hide in solitude and work. Can you hide in your hermitage while you smile genially, answer the phone, kill ants, teach pre-schoolers? Sort of, I think you can -- if you divide yourself between times. Don't know if it's a good idea, but I do think it can be done.

Kentucky Friendly

2007-04-25T07:52:00.000-04:00

You all know of my lack of fond feelings for Nicholasville Road. It is a poorly planned, highly congested mess of a highway with frequent stoplights that manages to make ten miles take as long as forty-five minutes to travel. To add to our joy, we have been experiencing road construction! Happily, they have only set up shop during non-peak hours and on weekends. Still...

This Monday morning, though, I was surprised by the message on the blinking orange light that had plagued me over the weekend. "Speed Limit 55 mph." Okay, so no construction? Next message: "See ya next week." Oh, my dear friendly road workers, we'll so look forward to that!

"No Evidence of Progress"

2007-04-20T15:03:00.000-04:00

Several years ago, when I was still at Radford, I signed up for daily devotions by Elisabeth Elliott. She has long been one of my favorite Christian writers -- she was an amazing person who knew that being a woman of God had nothing to do with being "girly." Sometimes, she says just what I'm longing to hear:

At times nothing seems to be happening. So it must be for the bird that sits on her nest. Things are apparently at a standstill. But the bird sits quietly, knowing that in the stillness something vital is going on, and in the proper time it will be shown. It takes faith and patience for the bird, and such faith and patience never seem to waver, day after day, night after night, as she bides the appointed time. Restless and doubtful we wonder why we have nothing to show for our efforts, no visible evidence of progress. Let us remember the perfect egg -- unchanged in its appearance from the day it is laid. But while the bird waits faithfully, doing the only thing she is required to do throughout those silent weeks, important things are taking place.

I wait for the Lord. My soul waits, and in His word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning.
--(Ps. 130:5, 6 RSV)
(From "A Lamp for my Feet" by Elisabeth Elliott)

The End of the World

2007-04-17T16:53:00.000-04:00

Seeing images of a place I once knew very well appear on my "Yahoo" homepage with the label "Massacre" is more than a little bit disconcerting. That gut feeling of insecurity, the sudden shift of the world on its axis, was akin to what I felt when I heard over the radio that four members of Christian Peacemaker Teams had been abducted in Iraq -- a matter of weeks after my aunt had returned from her work there with CPT. It's the inner knowledge that things are not right, the world is not as it should be. Worse, it's a reminder that the world is never as it should be, is never right, has not been right for centuries, will never be right until the end of all things.

I spent a lot of time at Virginia Tech while I was an undergrad at Radford. They're "sister" schools, and the on-campus church I worked with was planted by an organization based at Tech. I looked at those grey stone buildings on the news, saw the orange and maroon shirts, and I was transported back. I remember people, places -- a different life, one far removed from today in space, but not so far in time.

I remember working at Wendy's in Radford on September 11, 2001, after student teaching all day. I remember N., a really sweet kid, though not awfully sharp. He asked me that day, his head swimming with news of terrorists, bombs, wars, and Nostradamus, if I thought the world was coming to an end. I don't remember what I responded, out of my great 23-year-old wisdom. Probably something soothing and worthless, or possibly a little cynical after a long day.

The people on the news and in the classrooms today were full of the tragedy. How can people attack students, children, like this? How appalling that society drove a young man to such an action! Is this an argument for gun control? A reason to chastise the lack of communication and instant decision-making abilities in large universities? We should examine the weapons used, analyze the details of the attack, prevent such a thing from ever happening again!

Is it the end of the world?

Mankind has been inventing new and creative means of destruction since the beginning of time. We hurt each other, physically, mentally, socially, economically. We are psychotic, neurotic, schizophrenic, and depressed. We have eating disorders and self-injurious behaviors and dysfunctional families. Looking at the great scheme of things, I think we always have done. There is nothing new under the sun -- new methods and materials, perhaps, but the same motivations.

Is it the end of the world? Yes, N., I think it is. But the world has been ending for centuries. We have no security here; it's times like these that remind me of that anew.

Really and Truly?

2007-03-26T06:47:00.000-04:00

The signs are abundant:
Motorcycle riders in the sunny afternoons
Birds twittering before the sun rises
Children with no attention span
The Quad full of students throwing footballs and kissing girls
The forsythia in bloom
Trees flowering everywhere
The first set of twins at the cattle ranch, kicking their heels in time-honored fashion

Could it be? Is it really and truly spring?

In the Words of an Old Song...

2007-03-22T09:15:00.000-04:00

"Work your fingers to the bone,
What do you get?
Boney fingers!"

I've been practicing all morning -- it seemed appropos.

Blue Skies

2007-03-20T14:18:00.000-04:00

Nothing but Blue Skies...

I speak figuratively. We're in the midst of a string of spring showers, and my shoes are soaked through. From where I stand, though, the skies are blue! I just played rather well in my lesson, and I think Dr. V. might believe that I have a smidge of musicality, after all.

Perhaps all is not lost.

The Intrepid Daffodil

2007-03-19T06:51:00.000-04:00

The past season has been highly unusual, weatherwise. We called it winter, but in early January the trees were in bud and the crocuses were a full seven inches above ground. Then, of course, we had a string of ice and snow storms, causing Fayette County schools to be closed every Wednesday for a month. Ever since, we've had a lovely mild spring for several days, followed by hard freezes for the next few days. This past Tuesday, it was a sunny seventy -- perfect for a morning tramp through Raven's Run. Wish you could have been here with me, walking buddies! We've barely broken the forty degree mark since.

What's my point? In the community where the Music Institute is, there are several deserted flowerbeds. One of them must have been tended in the fall, because it is now full of small daffodils in bloom. These daffodils have been trying to come up since January, only to be frozen and covered with snow. Somehow, they have lived. Despite the tempest, despite the frost, despite all the abuse they've suffered through the season, they are nodding cheerful yellow faces to the world. "Yes, yes, spring is coming," they seem to say, "Just hold fast; life will be reborn! New joy is on its way!" It's a beautiful thing.

On the Go

2007-03-12T12:13:00.000-04:00

I learned to walk early, as a lot of strong-willed younger siblings do. My mother recalls that it was a struggle to have me hold still long enough for a diaper change. (Perhaps this is about the time her idyllic dreams of a half dozen children reduced to a practical two!) Ever since, I've been on the move pretty constantly. This doesn't mean I object to a little cocooning, or that I don't need to rest now and again, but there's something about motion...

Friday morning held what is probably my closest brush with a nervous breakdown in memory. I came into the office, sat morosely doing nothing, and began to weep uncontrollably. S., one of the older piano teachers at the Institute, was here to practice, and she spent about an hour putting me back together again. I'm sure a lot of this was exhaustion; after we talked, I sat and stared out the window for about twenty minutes. No thoughts, no emotion, no action. Just sitting there, taking up space. I realized how un-me this was, in a disinterested sort of way, and I canceled my morning lessons. Driving home, where I expected to sleep, practice, or both, I decided to take the long way. This little two-lane highway, which I'd rarely explored, curves out of the city into two-hundred-year-old horse country. The sun, the road, the green grass, the coming spring, the space, the act of driving ... I began to feel again. I began to be me again. I began to care. I had a lesson that afternoon, so I had my cross-campus walk in the sunshine, as well. A couple productive hours of practicing later, I felt that I was nearly functioning once more.

There's something about being on the move, going somewhere, the action of driving or walking until I'm human again, that has a way of healing me. Maybe that's why I've always been on the go.

It's a beautiful day, the first day of Spring Break -- anyone want to go for a walk with me? I don't teach until 4:30...

On Courtesy

2007-03-08T10:28:00.000-05:00

Everybody knows I'm fairly old-fashioned. Feel free to open the door for me if you like, though I might look at you funny if you offer to carry my books. Yet, even in Kentucky, the home of the Southern gentleman, courtesy is dying. In all fairness, most of these interactions are with the female of the species -- I keep forgetting that women are above the rules of courtesy. For example:

Jeanine wakes up between four and five in the morning. Please refrain from calling her after midnight unless you're dying. And even if you are, I might not truly comprehend the situation. Yes, I sound awake on the phone. That's acting ability, not reality. The perpetrator in this case: a college professor with a doctorate!
Jeanine may be found closeted quietly in a study room in the library, preparing for midterms. Please don't walk in uninvited and prepare to join her. Even if you promise to work quietly, she will no longer be alone. That was the original idea behind sitting alone in a closed room in the first place. And you know you won't be able to remain quiet! The perpetrator: one of the most talkative people in my class.
The Italian professor has been walking on a bad foot all semester, limping about with a cane. Before meeting with Jeanine and another student, she begins to erase the board, which runs the entire length of the classroom. Does courtesy suggest that you help erase the board or that you encourage her in word and gesture? Hmmm... The perpetrator: dense blonde sorority girl. Who would have thought.
Your son has a trumpet lesson with Jeanine at seven this evening. He comes home from school sick. Really, is 6:55 the best time to call and cancel the lesson? The only appropriate excuse I can think of is if the boy gets out of school at 6:50. The perpetrator: the same woman who called every Wednesday for four weeks to ask her son's lesson time. Yup, still 7:00.
You drive down a two-lane road. You stop in the middle of the road. You give no indication of the cause for this sudden stop. After a confused pause, you turn left. Aha! That's what you wanted! You wanted to turn! You know, somebody should come up with a device to alert other drivers of your desire. I bet it would really catch on. The perpetrator: 50% of the drivers in the UK area.
Okay, this one was a guy thing. There is a sidewalk down which I walk daily to and from school. It is wide enough to drive a Mack truck upon (which they do, on occasion). Just before the sidewalk reaches the road, there's a two-armed gate that has enough room for one person (or two good friends) to walk through. You and several of your friends wish to congregate on this sidewalk to chat. Obviously, the best place to do this is in the middle of the one-person gap in the gate. As you stand there, watching a pedestrian nearing the gate and talking with your friends, perhaps you should practice your look of surprise for when you discover she intends to walk through your congregation in order to reach the street. It's important to be convincing; how were you to know she desired to pass through the gate? After all, she easily could have been ... um... going to the fraternity house next door? Walking up and down fully loaded with school books for her health? The perpetrators: Two different groups of guys on two consecutive days.

The good news is that there is yet hope. The other night, after withstanding (I hope graciously) an undeserved (though understandable) blow-up by a coworker, she called me. She apologized beautifully and courteously. Her small courteous act made my night, and I'm not sure she'll ever know how much. Courtesy -- I wonder what the etymology of the word is. Surely something to do with the noble court. Behaving in a noble manner could change the world, don't you think?

An Unknown Talent

2007-03-07T05:47:00.000-05:00

Apparently, I have a natural talent for causing people to worry, exacerbated by my ability to broadcast my thoughts worldwide, a generally pale complexion, and a tendency toward circles under my eyes. Yes, I'm tired; yes, I'm frustrated; yes, I'm still fighting migraines. However, I am not: seriously ill, depressed, miserable (generally speaking), or really about to hang it all up. This is one of those struggles which just keeps resurfacing, and I'm usually able to handle it. It's when I'm in the middle of the raging black torrent that everything seems unmanageable -- a day or so later, I know I'm okay. I was just airing my feelings -- now, in the soon-to-be clear light of day, things are pretty good.

Agony and Frustration

2007-03-06T09:10:00.000-05:00

Ask anybody, I'm about as stubborn as they come. I toss my head up high on my stiff neck, stick out my chin, dig in my heels, and decide to win out on will-power alone, if need be. Sometimes, though, I meet an enemy that won't stand and fight properly.

This is day two of one of my championship migraines. Yesterday, I had to cancel my piano lesson (for the second time this semester), which is the whole reason I'm in Kentucky. I'm on campus now, because I was determined not to miss two days in a row, but this was a stupid decision. I ended up practicing in the dark, because I couldn't stand the lights, and I only lasted an hour before giving in and coming to the library. Really, another stupid decision, because this building gives me a headache on the best of days. It's not that I can't take a little pain -- I have a pretty good pain tolerance, thank you very much. But I can't see straight or think straight or be successful at the things at which I can usually depend on being successful. It's not fair, and it's not fight-able, and I hate it very much!

Last week, I learned a lot about "His strength made manifest in [my] weakness." I was exhausted beyond my limit by the end of the week, but I was granted joy and strength beyond anything I could have anticipated. So what's the lesson this time? That I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I ought to go sign up for a nunnery where things are peaceful and quiet? If I didn't know beyond all knowing that I'm doing what God has asked me to do for this season, I'd pack my bags.

What do I do, instead, then? Try to fight an invisible enemy? Collapse into tears and acknowledge my misery? Give up?

I hate this.

Luke Simpson on Tour!

2007-03-01T08:21:00.000-05:00

Normally, when I talk about my friends or family on this blog, I only use initials -- after all, I never actually asked to mention them in an internationally accessible forum. In this case, since publicity is often a good thing, I'm going to make an exception.

My lifelong friend, Luke Simpson, is now playing with a group called "Rend the Heavens," a Christian group based out of Nashville. Check out their site if you want to hear some of their stuff: http://www.rendtheheavens.com/ Luke is one of those musicians who really knows music, understands the language, and has an incredible amount of talent. It's always been such a pleasure to play with him, on those rare occasions when we had the opportunity. I would bet that Rend the Heavens under-utilizes him terribly, but it's a professional gig all the same. Luke is playing drums with them on their current tour, and they'll be appearing at New Covenant Christian Church (Lansing, MI) this Sunday, March 4, at 7 pm.

I'm so thrilled for Luke! He ought to be a full-time musician, and I hope this may be the beginning of big things for him. Wouldn't you know it, this is one weekend when it's absolutely impossible for me to go to Lansing and see him. Well, the life of a musician is full of being somewhere you love to be when you want to be somewhere else.

News Bulletin

2007-02-23T19:31:00.000-05:00

The top five reasons Jeanine hasn't been blogging lately:

She's been feeling a little uninspired.
She has just increased her work hours and is a little bit swamped!
She is actually trying to do most of her readings for her classes, and she is even studying Italian. Occasionally.
It's almost mid-terms! Ack! Projects due! Ack!
She is being torn apart twice weekly in private and public piano lessons, and she is beginning to feel that she ought to live at the piano and forsake all others as she tackles an enormous amount of new repertoire.

The news, consolidated:

I'm now the untitled administrative assistant at the Music Institute. And rather enjoying it. If you want something done right, after all...
I'm teaching a Petite Pianists class for kindergartners that is an absolute riot -- and way too much work on my part, but who cares? They're great!
I've finally joined a home group, filled with people my age. Not sure I fit in, but I never have before, so who cares?
About twice a week, I get the feeling that I should give up this whole music charade and go back to pulling weeds for a living.
Despite it all, I love my job, I love my music (new and old), I love my classes, and I'm pretty perky. Perhaps a bit under-rested, but what else is new?

And that may have to last you for a while. But I'll try to come back after some of this paperwork is cleared up. Any questions?

Don't Bring on the Groom Just Yet!

2007-02-23T19:20:00.000-05:00

Or, "Another Reason We Know Jeanine is Not Ready to Marry"

Lately, I've been chiding Xana Ender as she struggles to determine the difference between periwinkle and English lavender in preparation for her wedding this summer. Apparently, though, this sort of decision is crucial. I was listening to a couple acquaintances chat last night. J. had a meeting with her wedding outfitter (or whatever you call them), and she was appalled to discover the woman didn't know what J's wedding colors were to be. "I could have ended up with nine bridesmaid dresses in the wrong color!" Imagine -- having a wedding in taupe and ivory rather than taupe and champagne!

I apologize, Xana Ender. It is most likely a sign of my immaturity and single-hood that I don't take these things seriously enough. I'll try to grow out of it ... but I make no promises of success!

We all know that Jeanine's a dork

2007-02-07T09:47:00.000-05:00

Or a nerd, if you prefer. Either way, I don't usually care because it's much more fun than being boring or bored! All the same, when you hit the snooze button in the morning and your half-conscious mind begins to organize the numbers on the clock into a set-class, and you find yourself thinking of <3,4,5> in best normal order [O12] and realizing that this is a common subset of the initial set in the Webern you're analyzing, perhaps things have gone too far.

Warm and Cozy Tips from Jeanine

2007-02-07T09:37:00.000-05:00

Last night, I made a marvelous discovery. My friends, the K.'s, gave me a microwaveable heat wrap for Christmas. Now, if you have a headache (or the more severe Headache), the best thing in the world is to curl up under the covers, heat your jasmine-scented heat wrap, and put it over your face. It feels absolutely amazing. Unfortunately, it's a little hard to be productive in this position, unless you have a tall stack of Haydn string quartets that you need to listen to, and you should take care not to suffocate. The warm-and-cozy quotient is extremely high, and you might just fall asleep. Which is what you wanted to do, anyway, and your stupid Headache wouldn't let you.

This concludes your Warm and Cozy Tip of the Day. Grab your jasmine-scented heat wrap and enjoy!

The definition of "gang aft agley"

2007-02-02T16:35:00.000-05:00

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy!
-- "To A Mouse" by Robert Burns

Some of you may have looked at the calendar and wondered why I'm not in Russia, playing my little heart out and shivering. Well, we ended up cancelling the trip. Of course, I'm a little disappointed, but I think it's for the best. In fact, over the past week, we've all decided this was probably the hand of God. So, what exactly happened?

Um. Actually, I don't know all the details and I don't feel at liberty to post some of those that I know. The up-shot is this: Dr. Voro was given to understand that she was not welcome at the festival. Having our only Russian-speaking companion out of the picture, we (the three grad students) took a careful look at some of the issues we had expected her to help with. The degree of organization of the festival was such that we didn't know some of the details such as address, phone number, and whether or not any heat was available. We were faced with the necessity of travelling to down-town Moscow to take a bus out to Ruza, which was physically impossible for two of us, or finding alternate transportation, which was impossible without a basic knowledge of the language and an precise destination. Even had we been able to surmount these obstacles, we still didn't know with whom we would be studying. Additionally, T. had an ever-worsening back problem that kept her in agony most of the time.

Besides, I had a sinking feeling that this was going to resemble some other badly organized international adventures I had survived recently. I figured that this could easily be much worse, given my lack of Russian and the difference in mission of the two organizations. Previously, I could rest in the assurance that the Powers that Be were ultimately concerned with my welfare as well as the completion of our mission. This time, I had no idea what the interests of the Powers that Be were.

Over the course of the week, as we all relaxed from the "getting ready for Russia" tension, we were all relieved to be here in Kentucky. T. finally saw the doctor and was able to treat her back properly -- no thirteen hour plane trips, plenty of powerful muscle relaxers, etc. P. and I were able to attend classes (of the snooze and lose variety) that we were rather worried about missing. And I'm finally beginning new repertoire. So, really, even though the week began with a series of frantic phone calls and disappointments, things haven't gone so awfully "agley" after all. People say, "Man plans -- God laughs." I'm not sure He was laughing at us, but I think His eyes are twinkling -- and He may have winked.

John and Jane

2007-01-29T13:26:00.000-05:00

Perhaps you have wondered about the current occupation of the fetching couple (I call them "John and Jane") that we first met selling Folger's coffee, later to be found spreading Country Crock upon their muffins. Well, wonder no longer -- I've found them! Apparently, John is a frequent flyer with a penchant for ball-games (though I'm not sure what type), and Jane rents cars on occasion. If you ever have the opportunity to be on hold with Travelocity for thirty to forty-five minutes, you too can be caught up on the further adventures of John and Jane.

John, you see, has a Big Game the same weekend that he planned to travel to New York. Jane doesn't know how to check for business e-mails in her junk e-mail folder. John has a rental car that he isn't certain how to cancel, and poor Jane is trying to figure out whether or not she can take her embroidery scissors on the plane. (Actually, John's no help at all on that one -- he tells her to check the website!) Oh, the adventures of the upper-middle class! How will they ever get out of this one? Will John make it to the Big Game? Will Jane lose her embroidery scissors to airport security? Sadly, we may never know. Perhaps we should bring them muffins and coffee to loosen their tongues!

Phun phor Physics Pholk

2007-01-24T13:38:00.000-05:00

Paraphrased from whatever physics text UK is using:

There are two fellows playing hockey. Let's call them Ezekial and Japeth, for simplicity's sake (the text doesn't give them any names at all, which tends to make things a little more confusing). Ezekial is standing around with the puck between his feet, when Japeth swings by (at a steady 12 m/s) and takes it from him. After three seconds, Ezekial decides to give chase. He accelerates at a rate of four m/ss.

The text asks: How far does Ezekial travel before catching Japeth? How long does it take?

I ask: Why does Ezekial so generously give Japeth a 36 meter head start? Why, when Japeth observes that Ezekial has finally sprung into action, does he not accelerate in response? Knowing that hockey is strictly a team sport, where is everybody else? Why don't they get involved? Perhaps they are all busy yelling at Ezekial for letting Japeth steal the puck in the first place. Finally, what does Ezekial plan to do when he finally catches his opponent?

So many important questions -- so little time. :)

A Quandary

2007-01-19T13:03:00.000-05:00

What do you do when a good friend is trapped in the same sort of prison you just escaped? There are no words that would be helpful, there is no action I can take. How is it right for me to be superbly content in my new life, while my friend is so thoroughly downtrodden? Life, as we all know well, is simply not fair. I am no more deserving of my joy than my friend is of her sorrow, yet there we stand. My heart breaks for her, I taste the bitterness of her sadness and despair. And I'm completely unable to help.

If I'm ever tempted to scorn the joys and blessings that surround me today, let me remember the chains that once bound me.

Numbers

2007-01-18T15:10:00.000-05:00

This is going to be a very interesting semester. I'm not, as I had planned, taking counterpoint this semester (shucks!) due to my own incompetence in reading a schedule book. Rather, I'm taking an advanced post-tonal analysis class. Yeah. Post-tonal. Really, I'm a pretty tonal girl, when it comes right down to it. We jumped in the first day with both feet -- set theory! Woo-hoo! Actually, the rest of the class jumped in the first day; I was still sorting out my schedule, so I gave them a head start. Really good planning, especially since I DON'T KNOW BEANS ABOUT SET THEORY!!!

Anyway. I've always preferred to let my math be math and my music be music, and never the twain shall meet. So my approach to set theory, in which "music" is created by permuting a series of numbers, is strictly mathematical. I enjoy permuting series of numbers; it's the idea that they then make "music" that holds me back. So I'm simply ignoring the aural aspect of the whole thing and becoming a mathematical analyst. And that's really fun! Playing with numbers is so much like playing Bach; there's so much going on, so many little tangles to deal with, that my normally chaotic musician's brain gets all sorted out somehow. This is the part of my brain that loves physics and patterns and logic puzzles. This is the part of me that took the Mensa test just for fun. This part of me is really glad to have the chance to come out and play.

Thanks, B., for twisting my arm to take this class! I still don't like Webern, but the sets are great. And yes, I'll help you with your homework.

Back in the Saddle Again

2007-01-12T12:14:00.000-05:00

Did you ever wonder what it was like for cattle men just starting out on a drive? I can imagine it...

After the frenzied days of round-up, breaking in new men and horses, cattle all fat and sassy from their days of freedom, the routine begins to form. The first few days of a drive must be a bit of a shock -- the schedule arduous, the physical demands considerable. There is the mix of new faces and old, the conflict between old habits and fresh ideas. The daily grind may be filled with drudgery, but it's your own specific brand of drudgery. This is your job, what you do, out under the sun or in the pouring rain. There's the freedom of the open range partnered with the structure of hard work. Even being saddle sore and exhausted feels somehow satisfying, because this is what these days are for. And you know your body will toughen up again, you'll grow accustomed to the changes and comfortable with the routine once more. It's good to have a job to do.

It feels good to me to be back in my own saddle. My vacation was fairly busy; beyond a couple days that were, frankly, absolute laziness, things were happily frenzied. There were To-Dos to do, friends and family to see, practicing to get done. But the structure of my days was largely of my own making. To be back in class, meeting T at the gym before dawn, practicing, teaching, doing dishes -- my job, what I do. I'm tired, of course -- I'd forgotten how early 4:30 can feel! But I'll toughen up again, grow accustomed to the changes. It's good to have a job to do in my own little corner.

In a Contemplative Fashion

2006-12-30T06:26:00.000-05:00

After a couple days of unaccustomed inactivity, I feel like I'm finally well-rested and ready to take on the world once more. It's about time! There's so much to do...
It's good to be home for a little while. I visited the school where I used to teach and was hailed as a conquering hero. I do miss my kids an awful lot, especially at this time of year, when I used to be neck-deep in performances. Still, for all those who keep asking, I don't know if or when I'll be coming back to Michigan and/or teaching. It's kind of complicated. I can't go back to what I used to do -- the restlessness, the frustrations, the stagnancy of my former life was killing me slowly and painfully. Sometimes I feel like those fish who have to keep moving forward, or they'll die.
Okay, let's get beyond the morbidity! I shouldn't read the blogs of others before posting, I seem to get falsely deep and lugubrious.
Anyway, I do need to get on with the morning. It's past seven already! But, after the example of B (who often has good ideas), a quick FAQ before I go:
What's this about Russia?
Um, yeah, going to Russia in February. Hotshot piano festival thingy. Really excited. Plenty terrified. I'll post pictures, probably.
How long is this master's program?
Two years, so I'm a quarter of the way done, trusting that UK comes through and works out a few administrative flaws. What comes next is entirely and completely uncertain -- let's not dwell on it.
How much do you practice each day?
Not enough. Probably five hours or so. Really, I promise, not enough -- I've got a lot of make-up work to do.
Do you like being in school again?
I really love it! See my previous posts for details. Though I could have done without spending the last two weeks in panic mode, cramming a research paper into a week or less, etc., this last semester was pretty successful (sneaked by with a four-point) and the next one promises to be exciting.
Do you like your piano teacher?
I love learning from her, and I've come a long way under her tutelage. I don't know her all that well yet (remember, I like to have a good decade or so before I consider that I really know a person), but the trip to Russia should remedy that somewhat.
And now, I really must get to work. I'll try not to disappear for so long next time! :)

Merry Christmas!

2006-12-25T11:30:00.000-05:00

I'd love to share some deep philisophical thoughts on the true meaning of Christmas, friends, family, home, and so forth, but I'm in the midst of Christmas with friends, family, home, and so forth! I have been wildly contemplative (is that a little bit oxymoronic?), happily busy, and storing up wise, wonderful, and quirky things to post. That will have to wait, though, since everybody is gathering in the livingroom with coffee and Yule-tide cheer. But I will take a moment to post a photo from last night -- my mother made me some new garb for Christmas, and I was pressed to display her artistry for the family. Umm...I'll try to upload the picture if I can figure out my mother's settings... One moment, please, as we pause for station identification...

Me...as Myself?

2006-11-15T15:24:00.000-05:00

In case you haven't noticed, I have a few minutes of leisure for a change! So I can finally be communicado once more. My friend A., also known as Xana Ender, had an interesting game on her blog where you could use a picture of yourself to find which celebrities looked most like you. Ah, higher technology -- great stuff! I approved of several of her matches (even the guy looked surprisingly like her -- and he was pretty, too), so in my last chunk of leisure time I tried it out. So, for those of you who haven't seen me in a while and wish for a better description than the fuzzy picture of me at the piano, I am apparently a cross between Tom Cruise, David Copperfield (the magician), Kelly Hu (I'm unfamiliar with her work, but at least she's female, albeit rather more Asian in heritage than I am!), and Danny Devito. You may have to use your imaginations for this one!

What my Daddy sent me when I said I was a mess...

2006-11-15T15:19:00.000-05:00

It's not exactly a father-daughter kind of thing, but it's good for us female types to remember that there are certain people who will never see us through our eyes -- and that maybe they have the more flattering perspective. Thanks, Daddy. :)

Aside to Husbands
By Ogden Nash
What do you do when you've wedded a girl all legal and lawful,
and she goes around saying she looks awful?
When she makes deprecatory remarks about her format,
And claims her hair looks like a doormat?
W hen she swears her complexion of which you are so fond,
Looks like the bottom of a dried-up pond?
When she for whom your affection is not the least like Plato's,
Compares her waist to a badly tied sack of potatos?
Oh, who wouldn't want to be on a flimsy bridge with a hungry lion at one end,
a hungry tiger at the other end and a hungry crocodile underneath,
than confronted be their dearest
making remarks about her own appearance
through clenched teeth?
Why won't they believe that the reason they find themselves
the Mother of your children is because you think of all the looks in the world,
their looks are the nicest?
Why must we continue to be ordealed and crisised?
I think it high time these hoity toity ladies were made to realize that
When they impugn their face and their ankles and their waist
They are thereby insultingly impugning their tasteful Husbands
Impeccable taste.

What happens when I just sit and think...

2006-11-15T15:14:00.000-05:00

Observation
Words...
Sounds...
Footsteps...
Do you ever sit
and think
and let the world go by around you?
Voices,
People,
Lives playing out on the stage before you,
As you observe, touched and untouched by their drama...
Then,
A smile,
A brief moment of contact,
And you are no longer alone...
You have become part of the scene,
A character in the play,
No longer an island...
Words have meaning once more,
And you rejoin Life...
A participant,
An Observer no more...

Another Thing Everyone Should Do...

2006-11-08T17:29:00.000-05:00

If you ever get the chance to hear Daniel Buranovsky give a piano recital, take it. If you ever get a chance to attend or participate in a master class given by him, be there. He is absolutely amazing. The man doesn't play piano -- he makes music. And even though he says he only knows a hundred words in English, he is one of the best teachers I've ever seen. They don't call him "Slovakia's premeire pianist" for nothing, you know!

A Book Report (III)

2006-11-08T17:19:00.000-05:00

Okay, this doesn't really qualify as a book report, because I haven't actually finished reading the book yet. I'm going unusually slowly, savoring the thoughts and ideas.

Blue Like Jazz by Don Miller is stupendous. He's no theologian, but he shares very frankly his thoughts and experiences. Anyone who is frustrated in their search for authenticity in the Christian universe can find relief in this book. Particularly, people in their twenties (ahem) who find themselves odd-man out (ahem) because they don't fit the Christian Mold (or any other mold!), who are tired of "doing another book", who think few people feel the way that they do because everyone else seems to fit the Mold -- this is your book. He is not full of answers, but he has anecdotal evidence that will inspire, encourage, and challenge you. And he'll make you laugh quite a bit.

Pardon raving nature of this post -- I'm really not the fan type, and I wouldn't consider myself a fan of Don Miller, but I think this book is one of the most timely, appropriate things I've read. And B., you're never getting it back from me. :)

Okay, okay, I'll give it back. But I don't have to like it. :)

News Bulletin!

2006-10-30T10:19:00.000-05:00

This just in: Jeanine is slightly eccentric! Some might even call her "odd" or "weird." Just one more demonstration of her peculiarities:

I like Mondays. I realize that there is probably a (very small) support group that could help me overcome this abnormality, but I don't think I want to. (Besides, I haven't the time.) I like leaping out of bed to greet the day with an annoying amount of energy. Perhaps it's because I tend to catch up on things over the weekend. My house is clean, I have groceries, and I've slept an unusual amount. So I feel good, physically (it's the sleep!), emotionally (a clean house), and spiritually (my churches here are really great). Monday, the start of a new section of my life, brings a clean slate, a chance to start over. It's sort of like New Year's Day, only better -- I get one every week! Why do Mondays get such bad press? I don't get it.

About Power

2006-10-17T20:54:00.000-04:00

When I was an undergrad, many and many a year ago, I was required to take a sociology course. Sociology was not created for me -- I'm far too hung up on the individuality of each person to enjoy examining them as groups and categories. Anthropology was actually better, because we focused on lifestyles rather than tendencies. Anyway, my sociology prof (who's name I have blessedly forgotten...oops, I remember now, but I won't use it) told us that all relationships are based on power. Marriage, politics, friendship, mentorings; every interaction is based on the desire to have power over one another. My thought then and my thought now: Baloney.

However, over the past week I have developed a new appreciation for power. When I haven't got it, I feel the lack. The saga: Last week, our temperature plummetted from 80-something to 30-something. And I concurrently lost power. The electrical kind. Repeatedly. And then, it would spontaneously re-appear. Repeatedly. When, arriving home in the frost late on Thursday night, I heard that silence which means your chicken is thawing in the freezer and your toes are freezing in your shoes, I called the power folk. Blue Grass Electrical Co-Op, in addition to putting out a fine magazine that features articles on things like pet therapy and custom-made coffins, is staffed by a fine bunch. A nice fellow came out and replaced my meter, which was a good deal more complicated and time-consuming than it sounds. I went to sleep around 11:30, happily listening to the hum of freezer and heater. I awoke at 4:30 to dread silence once again. Called the power folk. The same nice fellow came out and fiddled with something. "I think it's your main breaker," says he. "You'll have to call your manager." I did so that very afternoon. I arrived home, late Friday evening, to that familiar silence. Losing no time, I called the after-hours maintenance man, J.J. J.J. is a great guy, willing to do anything to help, but slow as molasses in January. He thinks it's my main breaker, too. He and the electrician finally left sometime after eleven, freezing, but with a very pretty over-time paycheck on the way. If my apartment manager didn't want to pay overtime, she should have taken care of it before I got home. I have a new main breaker, now, and my power has stayed on. Mostly.

So, maybe Dr. S. was right. Maybe I do desire power. Sometimes, I think I'm down-right hungry for it. Or maybe just hungry, since I can't make my oatmeal without it.

Ho pauno di ______

2006-10-12T15:08:00.000-04:00

It's an exciting week in Italian class -- we're finally learning verbs! Well, we've known "to be" and "to have," but now we're getting into real conjugation and whatnot. We practiced in partners with the phrase "avere paunare di ________" ("I'm afraid of _____"), according to the scripts in the book. Strangely, of the thousands of things that I fear, not one of them was on the list. I sounded amazingly fearless as I replied again and again, "No, non ho pauno di ____." Wouldn't it be nice if I was really as fearless as I seem?

Gerry, meet Larry. Larry, shake hands with Gerry.

2006-10-10T08:16:00.000-04:00

Perspective. It really changes the way you look at things, doesn't it? :)

Trite profundities aside, I spent some time this morning reading "Seven Steps to Personal Freedom" (Gerry Spence, attorney) because I am required to do so; I also spent some time reading "Finding God" (Dr. Larry Crabb, professor of counseling) because I wish to do so. The fundamental differences between the two are, I believe, all born of a root difference in perspective. It's clearly visible in the titles of the books: Is the author looking to free himself or to find God? I haven't finished either book yet, but it seems to me that Gerry spends his time convincing the reader to love himself, while Larry is focused on moving through trials and tribulations to love God more dearly. Let us compare how the two deal with the issue of poor self-image:

"The second step to personal freedom is therefore acknowledging as an irrefutable fact our uniqueness, and therefore our perfection. We are as perfect as the Hope diamond is perfect. There is no one to whom we may be compared -- no one in the universe -- no one now, no one in the past, no one to the end of time. Our absolute acceptance of that truth -- and it is a truth -- is our most powerful step to freedom. Yet our view of ourselves as perfect, accurate as it is, is not one of conceit but one of inclusion because we realize that all others in this world contain their own uniqueness and therefore their own perfection as well." ~Gerry Spence, pp. 32-33

"Many Christians have rightly recognized how a bad self-image generates the terrible pressure to perform. But they wrongly assume that its root is self-hatred. They teach that if we can overcome our hatred for ourselves and learn to rest in God's unconditional love, the pressure to measure up will vanish and we will lead happy, productive, meaningful lives. This reasoning has a serious flaw: the root problem behind the pressure to perform is not self-hatred, but rather the determination to handle disappointment without ever turning to God, without ever acknowledging personal evil, and without ever gratefully accepting mercy. We prefer to see ourselves as wounded in our relationships, not sinful before a holy God." ~Dr. Larry Crabb, p.129

I'm not saying that Larry has all the answers (and neither is he, by the way), but I think he comes a lot closer to asking the right questions than Gerry does. He has the sort of perspective, the direction of focus that I need -- he has his eyes on God, rather than on peeling the layers of his onion-like soul. Last night's post, though full of valid concerns and sorrows and emotional outburst, was awfully self-centered. If I spend too much time lost in that sort of introspection, I'll lose sight of my mission in life. My goal is not just to live, but to accomplish the mission God sets before me.

"Get your nose out of your shirt, and take a look outside." ~David Simpson, "Good-Bye Me, Hello Jesus"

The Mensan Meets the Artist

2006-10-09T20:43:00.000-04:00

Dr. V. would be thrilled to know how many deeply philosophical posts are inspired by our lessons together. But I don't think I necessarily want her to read these things. It's sort of like those teachers who have you keep a personal journal -- and then turn it in. Even if you believe that they honestly think that they want to hear your thoughts, you still end up writing what you think they want to hear.

Okay, that's a string of awkward sentences. If this continues like this, I might never publish it.

Anyway, I was very honest in my lesson today. Dr. V., as noted before, is big on the sensation of playing. How does it feel? And sometimes, whether or not she says I made the right motion and sound and everything, it honestly doesn't feel any different. It's like at the optometrist's -- he gives you choice one or two, and you know you should be able to choose which is better, but you can't tell the difference. So I told her that I really couldn't feel whether or not I was releasing tension in my thumb. Then, for the second time in the past couple weeks, the question of whether or not I suppress my emotions arose. Do I overanalyze? Do I hid behind a facade?

In a way, I suppose I do suppress my feelings to some extent. In reality, I'm awfully sensitive. I used to end every day exhausted by my emotions and the emotions of those around me, and then I'd be so caught up in them that I couldn't sleep at night. I can't live that way. I can't survive or even function if I'm ruled by my overly sensitive heart. I can't cope with that sort of turmoil. Instead, I allow my brain to take charge. If I can think through every action, every reaction, every situation, than I have a certain amount of control over myself. I don't want freedom from that control -- I've tried that. I go nuts. Just ask my mother about my childhood sometime.

Then, too, my brain doesn't really turn off. I can divert myself, a skill I developed after a tendency toward morbid introspection became evident. I can think light thoughts, heavy thoughts, simple thoughts, complex thoughts, but I can't imagine thinking nothing. Besides, it doesn't make sense to me. Dr. V. likes the bath analogy -- imagine that you are stepping into the tub, relaxing into the warm water. In that totally honest moment, I admitted that I think quite logically when stepping into the tub. If I didn't, I would probably break my tailbone. I analyze the motion of the ripples. I day-dream. I plan my next course of action. It's a pleasant time, certainly, but my brain doesn't stop. Should it?

Must I choose between my brain and my senstivity? Does one path lead only to the physics teacher and the other to the musician? Dr. V. would have been surprised to know how close to tears I've been since our conversation. This re-ascendence of my over-sensitivity is more than a little bit alarming to me. I don't know what to do with it. And when I can't figure out the proper action, I really do begin to suppress. What a mess I am.

Just a brief note to say...

2006-10-03T11:01:00.000-04:00

Remind me never to be a secretary. Or a receptionist. Or anything else that requires me to sit around for hours on end waiting for the phone to ring. I'm simply not good at cooling my jets. Hmm, three blog entries in one morning. Can you tell I'm desperate for action?

Happiness

2006-10-03T08:25:00.000-04:00

I drove from Michigan to Kentucky on Sunday afternoon, after a weekend away. The sky was that brilliant blue featured by the best days of autumn, the sun was shining, and the trees were just beginning to turn in places. I-74 and I-75 go through some of the friendliest territory in the country, I think. I rolled my windows down, cranked John Williams up, and I was happy.

I thought briefly of the long list of things that are not ideal in my life; I should be annoyed, unhappy, heartsick, insecure, stressed out, concerned, or at least discontent. How is it that we humans can distance ourselves from our tribulations to find joy despite ourselves? I think that may be one of the kindest gifts God ever granted.

Me as Myself

2006-10-03T08:18:00.000-04:00

For those of you who haven't seen me in a while, this is me!

My, what a lot of hair I have. Somebody took this at the gallery hop a few weeks ago, unbeknownst to me. A fairly standard pose, I must admit, though I don't always glare at the music that way. I was beginning to feel the strain of the long evening, I suppose. Or this may have been before people began to arrive, when I was practicing rather than performing. I'm sure there was some sort of legitimate excuse!

Goals

2006-09-27T09:51:00.000-04:00

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)

2006-09-22T10:19:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-21T10:16:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-15T10:40:00.000-04:00

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

2006-09-13T12:35:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-09-12T18:45:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-09-11T18:01:00.000-04:00

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?

Things I've learned in Grad School

2006-08-30T23:03:00.000-04:00

I've been a Master's student for a whole week now, and I've learned so many things already! For all you prospective grad students out there, here's some of my new wealth of knowledge.

1.) Be a morning person. I don't care what time you were in bed the night before; if you hit Nicholasville Road after seven o'clock, your morning will suddenly become worse.

2.) Bring a book. Nothing creates an instant vacation during that annoying useless half hour like a bit of Tolkein or whomever.

3.) Have patience! I promise, things will get lost, computers have viruses, new systems have snafus, and Murphy's law will reign supreme. Just get used to the idea now.

4.) Make the right kind of friends. This includes somebody who knows where they're going (a native guide is a must!) and people in the offices. Secretaries know more than anyone else on earth; be nice to them, and they'll be nice to you!

5.) Shake hands with the library ASAP. Your native guide (see #4) can be a big help here, too. Not only are libraries a wonderful thing on principle, what with all those books, but they also have computers in them, important for things like: registering for classes, contacting the professors of those classes when registration fails, arranging financial aid, reading assignments, listening to assignments, banking, and communicating with the outside world. My fine arts library will even check out headphones to me, so that I can listen to the friendly electronic audio reserves that one of my professors loves! They will check out my new piano repertoire to me and borrow from other libraries on my behalf. They will even get resources from one library on campus and bring it to my fine arts library, saving me a fairly substantial walk. Great place.

Keeping lesson #1 in mind, I think I had better go home. My useful work is done, and sleep is a good thing. In moderation, of course.

A Brilliant Discovery!

2006-08-27T19:17:00.000-04:00

I have discovered, after a certain amount of time spent operating a motor vehicle, that stop-lights, though providing intervals of "unavoidable delay," can be well spent observing my surroundings, searching for a water-bottle, of speaking with a person in the other seat. However, throughout this process, I continue to firmly depress the brake pedal. This ensures that my car will not begin to move forward of its own volition without my direct supervision, thus endangering the vehicle in front of me. I've found that my car is subject to the prickles of boredom; if left to its own devices, who knows what it might do? Therefore, I find it best to provide it with clear instructions regarding when to move and when to remain stationary.

Perhaps the Kentucky Department of Motor Vehicles would like to include this information in its driver's education curriculum? So many of the drivers on Nicholasville Road seem oblivious to the facts I've mentioned above.

On a related note, does anyone know of a universal hand sign (appropriate for use by a Good Girl) that can convey the following message: "Yes, you just bumped me in the rear! Next time, look in the direction your car is moving! You imbecile, the least you could do is demonstrate some smidgen of apology!"

No real damage done, but I think it's more classy to show some remorse, don't you?

I'm Giddy as a School-Girl!

2006-08-22T20:01:00.000-04:00

Well, that sort of makes sense. I'm a school-girl, again! UK has a sneaky way of ensuring that I meet all my professors -- they locked me out of every class I wished to register for, so I spent yesterday and today running around to various professors for autographs so that I can take the classes I should. At least I think these are right... We'll see. Actually, the last two days have been great, hassles and all. T's car broke down, so I gave her a lift to school and she was my native guide. So great to know somebody who knows what they're doing! Besides, she has perks like a good parking pass and a practice room key. Not to mention what fun it is to have a friend in a strange land.

I'm so keyed up. I know it's silly, but I have that same feeling R and I would have the night before the first day of school. We used to sleep on the floor, so that we could whisper late into the night. We were always far too excited to actually sleep much, though we couldn't have told you why. I'm still not entirely sure what it is. Maybe it's the sense of upcoming adventure, the knowledge that there is a New Year coming just around the corner of night. I'm so hungry to learn and work and practice; I'm so sure that my inadequacies won't stay decently hidden; the idea of all those People everywhere scares me to death. It's a good thing I have plenty to do this evening and an early morning tomorrow -- I haven't anybody to whisper with tonight, but I know I won't be sleeping much!

A Book Report

2006-08-20T15:10:00.000-04:00

There's a marvelous book that I reread this weekend -- A Small Rain by Madeleine L'Engle. It's one of her few adult novels, which few people seem to have heard of (though I know J appreciates it properly). It's very much a "first novel," as L'Engle notes in her forward, but perhaps that's part of the reason I like it so well. There's a poetry about her youthful philosophizing that I find beautiful. In so many ways, both author and heroine seem even more naive than I am (yes, it's possible!), but I can appreciate and enjoy that naivete. And really, I kind of like being a little naive. Most of the time.

What is it about poetry and beauty that makes me want to practice? Granted, the heroine of this book is a pianist, so I know that has a good deal to do with it, but whenever I find I need a little motivation, I can find it in this book. I want to work, I want to become the pianist that I should be. And all those moments over the past few days, as I looked around at the gathering hordes of college students (have I ever mentioned how much hordes of college students frighten me?), as I wondered why on earth I've just moved to a Big City where I don't know which way is up, I remember. I need to realize the potential I have been given; I need to make music; I need to become what I am supposed to become. Otherwise, what am I here for? And don't quote Rick Warren at me -- maybe he's great at generalities, but I'm looking for specifics. There are some things that are about me -- some questions, some answers, and some purposes. Otherwise, why am I me?

There, I've managed to fit two of Mrs. McG's Universal Questions into one paragraph. She would be proud.

On a different note, do you know what lifted my spirits Friday, after my fairly gloomy post? The somewhat anticipated phone call from my mother helped (really, the leg isn't all that bad, I promise!). Afterwards, I sat on my patio with a carbonated caffeinated beverage and an unopened book, watching the little birds come to my tree to begin their good-night ritual. There's something amazing about the silhouette of a bird gliding downward, perfect little triangles of wings stretched outward, no doubt of its destination in it's small brain, no fear that the wind will give out beneath it. Maybe someday, I can fly like that.

Have you ever...

2006-08-18T13:22:00.000-04:00

...Writhed on the floor in agony? I'm honestly not much of a writher, generally speaking, but this was a writh-worthy experience.

So, I'm working in my happy apartment yesterday evening, having a new-found spurt of energy, when I have this Chicken Little moment. A five pound weight descends rapidly from an overhead shelf, hitting just above my knee before you can say "The sky is falling!" I couldn't even come up with any good periwinkle prose, but chose to cower on the floor in silent agony, instead. After a while, coherent thoughts begin to percolate through the pain-riddled haze.

Coherent thought number one: Oh gosh, I think I just broke my leg.
Coherent thought number two: My mother's going to kill me.
Coherent thought number three: Why don't you check and see if it's really hurt before you get carried away?

Yes, my thoughts speak to me on occasion. The anticlimactic finale: I have full range of motion, no permanent damage is done. Simply stiffness, swelling, pain, and all the lovely colors of the sunset. Good thing I tend to keep my legs covered up -- it's bad enough to explain away the bruises all over my arms (I'm actually not really sure about those -- carrying boxes, I think), but this would really raise eyebrows.

In other news -- received my very first parking ticket today, while waiting in line to purchase my parking permit. Irony, yes? And I was not the only one, I promise!

So, Kentucky's great. How are you? :)

Three in the Morning

2006-08-13T20:56:00.000-04:00

"[Three A.M.] Doctors say the body's at low tide then. The soul is out. The blood moves slow. You're the nearest to dead you'll ever be save dying."
~Ray Bradbury in "Something Wicked This Way Comes"

"The time-between-times--that's just a folk superstition, more poetic device than anything else. It doesn't exist."
~Stephen Lawhead in "The Paradise War"

There's something special about three o'clock in the morning. Bradbury knew it, Lawhead knew it, people from time immemorial have felt that there is something about that hour. It may become an object of superstition -- Magical things happening only at that "time-between-times." Or perhaps it becomes a time for morbid introspection in the insomniac dreamer. When I was at Radford, three a.m. was occasionally bedtime. More recently, it's become the time for me to begin a new adventure. The world is asleep, silence reigns supreme -- and Jeanine is washing dishes, getting ready to hit the road.

Driving down the highway in the wee hours of the morning really does have a magic to it. The bakery trucks may be out, but most of the semis are sleeping by the side of the road. (It's always the trucks that seem to sleep, not the truckers -- don't quite know why!) There may be some fog, but I haven't met much rain at that time. The world seems in a state of partial being, neither here nor there. And in a hundred miles or so, about time for breakfast, the sun begins to rise.

What is it about sunrises? They always seem to herald the start of a new adventure, the beginning of something great. I love them in the same way I love Mondays, only more so. Mondays are great, because you have a fresh start on the week. Nothing can be too terribly wrong yet, because nothing has happened. A New Beginning. Sunrises are rather the same, I think -- only much more gorgeous and special.

My new apartment in Nicholasville (photos coming soon!) has a north-facing window. For the first time in my life, I can see the sunrise from my bed. How can you resist beginning the day when that sort of motivation is before you?

I know why birds sing.

Time Warp

2006-08-07T13:26:00.000-04:00

Do you ever feel like time has become an unpredictable entity? I know my life is a little crazier than usual, but recently it feels like I'm almost living outside of time.

I've been spending my weekends in the alternating rush and lull of a ticket booth at Silverleaf Ren Faire, where my customers are all "m'lord" and "m'lady;" where the security guy wears a sword at his belt and a plume in his hat; where my faithful rock dragon, Igor, guards the modern money while I make change. I spend my breaks hanging around with knights, ladies, and bards of all stripes, watching sword fights and jesters. It really is like some sort of alternate universe. The spell doesn't always break the moment I leave, either -- I've caught myself calling waiters, waitresses, and strangers at the rest stop "m'lord" or "m'lady." Luckily, they don't usually realize what I've said.

Then, perhaps I'll spend my evening playing trumpet in the Kiwanis band, where my friends talk of the day that Harry James came to East Lansing as though it was yesterday. ("He kept drinking from this glass of water through the whole show -- though it wasn't really water, you know..." a gentlemanly clarification for the naive girl at the end of section.) They remember going to dances where all the men were too old or too young, because the truly eligible fellows were away at war. My friends are on the young end, but they never minded dancing with an older woman.

I'll be home, reading -- currently a charming novel by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, "Beyond the City." This portrait of suburban life before 1900 is one into which I would fit very comfortably, and my imagination takes me there in a minute. Perhaps women will earn the vote someday...

I'm still packing boxes, so I'm playing every LP I own. I even cut the cellophane off my brand-new Big Band LP -- great stuff. Harry James, Duke Ellington, everybody who matters. I've discovered the Smothers Brothers -- so much talent and silliness in one package! Perfect for a late-night effort.

What decade am I living in? What century, for that matter? Which state am I in today? It's Monday, you say? And afternoon already. Well, how time flies. Or does time spin like a top? Maybe I spend some time with the theory of relativity again. It's so hard to measure the immeasurable. Still, without some type of measure, my days begin to lose all feelings of structure. Without structure, I begin to lose track of where and when I am today.

Where and when, perhaps, but never who. That's the best part -- I'm always still me. :)

WOO-HOO!!

2006-08-04T21:16:00.000-04:00

Let there be rejoicing in every mouth and a song of praise on every tongue! Let the flags unfurl and the trumpets sound! With celebration and joyous shouts, dancing and leaping, whoops and sighs of relief, let it be known:

Jeanine has finally received her acceptance information from UK!

They have resolved to stop losing my paperwork and at last realize that they want me. And there is much rejoicing!

Little Known Facts

2006-08-04T17:54:00.000-04:00

Somewhere near scenic Gas City, IN, there are several signs advertising the "Huggy Bear Motel." Normally, I go in for names like "Budget Host," but there's something terribly inviting about a name like "Huggy Bear." "Gas City", not so much...

Okay, once and for all: the "cute accent" (Thanks, Aaron, that was the kind way to phrase it!) is from exotic Lansing, MI. I incorporate other accents fairly quickly, maybe because I'm a musician, but some of my altered vowels have no excuse. I just talk funny!

There are few feelings more rewarding than looking around a living room full of empty boxes. After loading a car from a third floor apartment, driving seven hours, unloading said vehicle (which shares certain characteristics with one of those clown cars that have an amazing number of clowns in them), and putting things where they belong, one can look around at the fruits of one's labors and sigh. Time to cuddle up with a cold beverage and an old movie. Starring Ronald Colman, perhaps, or maybe Cary Grant. Or, if you're as lucky as I am and have a copy of "The Talk of the Town", both!

Gexa Energy Corp -- great folks! Even if it takes five years, they are bound and determined to return your security deposit to you. I was shocked, amazed, and pleasantly surprised to find their check in my parents' mailbox the other day. Unexpected cash -- doesn't it just makie your week?

Polyurethane is wonderful stuff. Not only can it spiff up your twenty dollar plywood bookcases, but it can seal the crumbling leather trim of the 1940's suitcase you can't bear to part with. No longer will my legs be marked with brown dust every time I carry my suitcase somewhere! Amazing what one can do these days!

The Music Institute of Lexington

2006-07-28T11:54:00.000-04:00

I'm in the insane stage of moving to Kentucky. Whereas normal people manage to confine the insane stage to about a week (or a weekend, if they're single and lucky!), I prefer to drag mine out for about a month. I like to find schools that lose my paperwork, as much road construction as possible, and sleep on the floor as often as I can. Okay, some of this was honestly not my choice, or even my fault, but it does seem to keep happening to me. In an effort to achieve a certain optimism, I'll look for the good things of the last few days. Bound to make me feel better, don't you think?

1.) The Music Institute of Lexington, where I'll be working, is fantastic! It's so cool to have a dream of mine suddenly appear before me. For years, I've wanted to help create a community music school, where every facet of musical study was available for all ages and abilities. Poof -- it's here in Lexington! There's a strong emphasis on early childhood programs of different types and even a music therapist on staff! I'll have to see if I can start using that music therapy degree. Even if I weren't looking forward to studying with the faculty at UK, I'd want to move here just to work at the Institute. The director is great, too -- even though I showed up breathless and sweaty a good forty-five minutes late for our meeting, she was great about it. (Blasted Indianapolis! Darn New Circle Road! To think I only allowed an hour and a half extra, when I should have allowed two!) I can't wait to improve the impression I must have made on her.

2.) This is going to be the nicest place I've ever lived. My apartment feels like a real house! There's actual woodwork and everything. Even though I possibly own more books than anyone my age should (and I'm not giving them up, either!), it's a joy to move them in to my built-in bookcases. I'm going to feel like a real person here, rather than a college kid again. I'm so glad!

3.) I have friends in town. I've never moved across the country to live near someone I know before. They live about five minutes away, and it will be so fantastic to have them nearby. T has already gotten me a job and offered me a piano and been an amazing help to have inside the music department. What an incredible blessing!

See? Life is good! I'm tired and stiff and have a lot of work to do, but what a great adventure I'm having! I have plenty of good music and lots of caffeine, and soon I'll be a Real Person again. How's that for a silver lining? :)

From the Poet Baudelaire:

2006-07-25T12:37:00.000-04:00

"One should always be drunk,
It's all that matters,
Whether with wine, with poetry, or with virtue,
As you choose."

I don't drink alcohol (why bother acquiring a taste for something that you don't like?), so I suppose I can't really say what it is to be drunk. This Friday, though, I think I came close. I had about fourteen hours of driving with some meetings in the middle. The day was hazy, grey, and sleepy -- perfect conditions for curling up with a good book. Unfortunately, it was rather less perfect for driving, even for those of us who love the call of the open road. I always keep a variety of tapes in the car, so I had plenty of music to keep me going, but I like a little variety, too. Among the recordings I had inherited from my grandmother, I discovered some poetry readings. I may have been tempting sleep, but I put one in somewhere in late Indiana.

There was no danger of my falling asleep! These beautifully wrought words -- everything from the Ancient Mariner to Father William, Psalm 91 to Kubla Khan -- cherished and explored by skilled and lovely voices -- Ronald Colman, Derek Jacobi, Prunella Scales (whose voice is much more lovely than her name), and many other fine British folk I had never before met -- I don't know if I drew breath through the whole tape. There was the elegant, the trite, the scathing, the poignant, the dramatic, and the silly. I was spellbound. I have read a good bit of poetry, of course, but I had never been surrounded and engulfed by it as I was on this Friday. I may have, as Baudelaire recommended, become drunk on words. The very sound of each syllable, rolling over me like waves... Poetry must have been meant to be read aloud, by people who know its music.

PS -- Don't worry about my driving while drunk on words -- my focus was, if anything, greatly improved by my drinking. :)

Potpourri

2006-07-19T16:14:00.000-04:00

...I'm a trumpet player again! I'd stopped playing almost six years ago (time flies!), but a friend/colleague asked me to step in with a community band. So I started practicing Friday. Ouch! On Saturday, it felt like someone had socked me on the mouth, but it hasn't been so bad since. First rehearsal last night -- how long has it been since I played a two-hour band rehearsal?! I was predictably shot by the end, but it was so great to be back in the saddle. We perform tomorrow night. Certainly not a great group or necessarily great music (how many Disney songs can you fit in a medley?), but a real blast! Thanks for twisting my arm, Betsy!

...Have you ever gotten home at 4:50 to find a message on your machine asking for a check to be in the mail that night? Have you ever dropped the check in the mailbox with the five o'clock pick-up time at 4:58? How smooth was that?

...My great-grandaddy would be appalled. At the farmer's market this week, I beheld a full crate of prickley-pear for sale! Ah, well -- one man's trash...

...Mark your calendars, folks! Jeanine is throwing things away! This was my first day of serious packing to move for grad school, and I'm determined that I will weed things out. Just maybe, if I haven't used those ten tin-foil pans in the past five years, I don't need them! I can throw them away! I will no doubt continue to be a packrat, but I'm getting more selective. And my parents breathe a collective sigh of relief! :)

...This season, I'm doing an (involuntary) experiment, comparing the tolerability of chiggers t0 that of poison ivy. Chiggers take forever to go away entirely (it's been a month, and they're still healing!), but poison ivy spreads so awfully, in a rather embarrassing and visible way (I'm a little vain about my hands). Anyone have any input?

...God bless the internet! Never in history has it been possible to arrange as many things long-distance and immediately as it is today. Most of my recent admissions process, apartment searching, job procurring, and communicating -- all done via the world wide web. Of course, an amazing number of things still get lost in translation (or in reality!), but such has always been and I dare say will continue to be the case. C'est la vie.

...Yes, folks, my title is spelled wrong! Appogiatura should have a double g. I noticed this right after I published, but who wants to go to all the trouble to change it? Maybe I'll just be unique -- like the people who spell Jeanine with a G or quick with a kw.

Why I Gave Up Teaching

2006-07-15T20:17:00.000-04:00

Last night, I had a dream...

Okay, it was mid-afternoon, and I was trying to ward off a migraine. No Cyber Land involved. Anyway.

So, in this frighteningly realistic dream, I was directing an elementary musical. This was one of those extravaganza-type things, complete with set, lights, sounds, acting, dancing, singing, and general chaos. I've done this more often than I care to think about in real life, and they've always been huge successes, despite all the minor catastrophies that go into them. They are cute, preachy, and a lot more work than the educational benefit merits. But everybody loves them. Except maybe me.

In my dream, it was an open dress rehearsal, which we generally perform for the rest of the school. Enrollment must have been up, because the place was packed. The sound guys messed up, jumping to the wrong track on the cd, and then all **** broke lose. They couldn't fix the problem, the kids decided to go "on with the show" in three different ways at once, and I began a slow burn. Finally, we get the show back on track -- and the whole disaster begins anew. After a lifetime of this chaos, I blow up at the kids, get them in their places and quiet, and go back to the sound table myself. The sound guy begins to assure me there is nothing he can do (it happened to be my friend Jake, who's always trying to get me to take life easy -- does he realize how annoying that is to a perfectionist?); I was in the process of letting a string of choice words rip at him when I woke up. I was so incredibly angry about the whole thing that I think I woke myself up. Heart racing, seeing red, I was still absolutely seething, even as I realized it was a dream.

What's the big deal, you ask? I used to have a big problem with my temper as a child, getting overcome with these incredible rages that could have gotten me in a lot of trouble. I thought I'd mastered this as I grew up. I learned ways to vent frustration and anger that, though possibly not really healthy, didn't hurt anybody. Since I've been teaching, I've rediscovered my wrath. It really is like a monster inside, though it seems to feast on me more than others. Sometimes, granted, anger is extremely constructive and right. I had a nice talk with one of the world's best mothers on this point. She never thought yelling would ever be appropriate -- until her oldest was about three. Sometimes it's the only way. I don't think I've left irreparable damage on any of my kids -- they probably don't even remember my blow-ups at all. But it takes so much out of me to be so very angry. I become exhausted and ill and hate myself and hate my students and hate the world and hate my job until the only thing I can do is exhaust myself with practicing or working out enough to sleep, hoping tomorrow will be better. Maybe it comes with being a musician, a selfish, sensitive, artistic type of person; I just can't distance myself from my anger and frustration the way other teachers can. At least, I assume they can, because they keep teaching. Some of these people teach for forty years! Can you imagine? I'd jump off a bridge!

Maybe some people can take it for decades. I survived for five years, but that's it. I quit. Maybe after grad school, I'll have the maturity and perspective to teach again, for another five years before I burn out once more. Maybe not. For now, I'll go attack the piano until my mind goes numb.

Hey, Look! I'm Blogging!

2006-07-14T21:53:00.000-04:00

So, the ancient Celts used to have three good (or moderately good) reasons for any action. I find that a decent rule of thumb, so here are my reasons for beginning a blog:

1.) I really need an excuse to take time and process my thoughts, especially since I'm moving (again!) to No Man's Land (okay, Kentucky) where I know nobody (except two good friends from college, but it's different with married folk).

2.) I like reading other people's blogs. Maybe they'll like reading mine!

3.) I'm among the world's worst correspondents, even by e-mail, and this will help people know what's going on in my life -- even if I don't actually tell them.

Of course, when I move away from this snazzy computer with the cable modem, I may stop posting entirely. We'll see. For now, woo-hoo! I'm in the 21st century! :)