Monday morning. No one wants to go back to school, myself included. How difficult to drag myself from the fuzzy flannel sheets into the chill of pre-dawn hours and shake Drew awake. We are driving carpool this morning. We cannot be late, despite the residue of effect from late Sunday night activities.
I stuff a half-asleep Drew into Baby, scrubbing the sleepy seeds from my own eyes, and head out for the pickups. One by one they stumble from their houses and plop into the car. I glance in the mirror to make sure everyone is buckled up. They all have their iPod earbuds dangling at the right tilt, their heads pressed back against the seat, their eyes shut, mouths hanging open. Moments after we pull onto 390, I hear gentle snoring. Without exception, they are all sound asleep.
Ahead, the traffic is slowing for the inevitable construction. The sun hangs a glowing orb in the eastern sky, dazzling me momentarily with colors of gold and rose and orange. The faint music from each of the iPods brushes the air with its own aural tint. I boldly turn on my own CD, no longer concerned with how it will affect my riders. Beethoven's Fifth spills into the car's interior not even eliciting a half opened eye from the sound sleepers.
I don't know about their day, but mine is unfolding gently and kindly. What better way to begin than with gorgeous color, soul satisfying music, and the happy knowledge that you are still able to provide nurture to some not-quite-adult young men who are in training for life. Happy Monday.
Diary of a daughter, sister, mom, librarian, musician, Christian, cancer patient, writer, friend, . . .
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Rehearsal
Its getting close, our PrayerSong debut. Rehearsal tonight went a bit bumpy. One of our singers is on vacation in Hawaii, one is fairly new to the group and hasn't had time to read through the music yet due to some life events, our accompanist was out last week - yikes! I feel adrift, like we just aren't ready.
We have one more rehearsal next Sunday to pull it all together, and I have asked for extra time. Its hard to feel like you know things well if you only get an hour once a week. Of course, last week the singers did read through everything (sans accompanist) and I felt much better about things then.
I have arranged with my engineer friend from Eastman to borrow a DVD recorder and record our upcoming rehearsal - I need to see for myself what works, what doesn't, what songs just need a bit of adjustment. I have arranged for us to rehearse in the church sanctuary so we get a better sense of space and placement and arranging stands and all that. A dry run if you will.
Even so, I struggle with how to communicate my vision to everyone, to bring them along through a process I have been involved with for several years, to get them to the heart of the matter. This is not just a fun activity, something we love doing (although it is obvious we all enjoy singing). This is a serious service for sick people.
I try to communicate that in what I say about things.
Our motto - PrayerSong: good for what ails you.
Music is medicine for the spirit, for the soul. I am reading Don Saliers book Music and Theology, and Bruce Epperly's book Healing Worship. They speak of music as the intersection of heaven and earth, a thin place where we can connect with the Divine. Music is so much more than just the notes on a page. When it becomes the sound in the air, it is larger than the sum of the parts, to borrow a phrase.
There is a multiplicity of research document the positive effect of music on blood pressure, the need for pain meds, the heartbeat rate, the presence of endorphins, even the reversal of aging and dementia. To touch a life on any of these levels - physical, emotional, spiritual - is a sacred privilege and not to be taken lightly.
Well, I leave it in the hands of the Almighty. We will be what He enables us to be. He will take our inadequate preparation, our human faults, our musical inabilities and transform us to be of use to those who so desperately need a touch from God. I totally can't wait!
We have one more rehearsal next Sunday to pull it all together, and I have asked for extra time. Its hard to feel like you know things well if you only get an hour once a week. Of course, last week the singers did read through everything (sans accompanist) and I felt much better about things then.
I have arranged with my engineer friend from Eastman to borrow a DVD recorder and record our upcoming rehearsal - I need to see for myself what works, what doesn't, what songs just need a bit of adjustment. I have arranged for us to rehearse in the church sanctuary so we get a better sense of space and placement and arranging stands and all that. A dry run if you will.
Even so, I struggle with how to communicate my vision to everyone, to bring them along through a process I have been involved with for several years, to get them to the heart of the matter. This is not just a fun activity, something we love doing (although it is obvious we all enjoy singing). This is a serious service for sick people.
I try to communicate that in what I say about things.
Our motto - PrayerSong: good for what ails you.
Music is medicine for the spirit, for the soul. I am reading Don Saliers book Music and Theology, and Bruce Epperly's book Healing Worship. They speak of music as the intersection of heaven and earth, a thin place where we can connect with the Divine. Music is so much more than just the notes on a page. When it becomes the sound in the air, it is larger than the sum of the parts, to borrow a phrase.
There is a multiplicity of research document the positive effect of music on blood pressure, the need for pain meds, the heartbeat rate, the presence of endorphins, even the reversal of aging and dementia. To touch a life on any of these levels - physical, emotional, spiritual - is a sacred privilege and not to be taken lightly.
Well, I leave it in the hands of the Almighty. We will be what He enables us to be. He will take our inadequate preparation, our human faults, our musical inabilities and transform us to be of use to those who so desperately need a touch from God. I totally can't wait!
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Winter Wonderland
Overnight three inches of snow turned the world into a white fairytale landscape. Every tree and bush swathed in an inch or more of cottony white, all the grass quilted in shining whiteness under the blue blue sky, everything new and pristine and perfect! Would that our lives could somehow look as wonderful. For one whole long morning, we were captives of Currier and Ives, frozen in the crispness of pre-Christmas expectation. How delightful! I wanted to get outdoors, to walk and breathe in the joy of just seeing all that splendor.
Yet you know that buried beneath the picture postcard scenery lies the mud, the dirt, the aging, sagging imperfections of the world of yesterday. Almost without perception, clouds begin to fill the cheerful sky. Another storm is brewing. You gaze at the now platinum trees vividly outlined against the pewter sky to the west. It seems surreal. Details you never bothered to notice suddenly jump out at you, screaming for attention. A squirrel nest of leaves clump in the top of a nearby maple tree. Sap buckets hang precariously tilted on the trunk beneath. Crows caw angrily at the drop in temperature, darting away from a raccoon carcass they have decimated in a nearby ditch.
You realize tiny white flakes have begun to swirl through the air, dropping a gauze curtain on the happy scenes of just moments ago. So like life. One moment you are celebrating some joyous wedding, some new birth, some family outing, time spent with special people. The next you are battling some difficulty your actions did not precipitate. You find yourself sick or alone or facing some unwanted change.
I find it helpful to keep in mind that the wind will change again. This too shall pass, and likely as easily as the sunshine. How important to treasure the moments of wonder and fully appreciate them while they are here, to think on them when the icy winds blow. How good to know that seasons change with regularity and spring will soon come. I am already thinking about drifts of tulips and daffodils and crocuses and yellow forsythia bushes. Yes, spring will be here soon. I smile as I trudge home through the stinging snow.
Yet you know that buried beneath the picture postcard scenery lies the mud, the dirt, the aging, sagging imperfections of the world of yesterday. Almost without perception, clouds begin to fill the cheerful sky. Another storm is brewing. You gaze at the now platinum trees vividly outlined against the pewter sky to the west. It seems surreal. Details you never bothered to notice suddenly jump out at you, screaming for attention. A squirrel nest of leaves clump in the top of a nearby maple tree. Sap buckets hang precariously tilted on the trunk beneath. Crows caw angrily at the drop in temperature, darting away from a raccoon carcass they have decimated in a nearby ditch.
You realize tiny white flakes have begun to swirl through the air, dropping a gauze curtain on the happy scenes of just moments ago. So like life. One moment you are celebrating some joyous wedding, some new birth, some family outing, time spent with special people. The next you are battling some difficulty your actions did not precipitate. You find yourself sick or alone or facing some unwanted change.
I find it helpful to keep in mind that the wind will change again. This too shall pass, and likely as easily as the sunshine. How important to treasure the moments of wonder and fully appreciate them while they are here, to think on them when the icy winds blow. How good to know that seasons change with regularity and spring will soon come. I am already thinking about drifts of tulips and daffodils and crocuses and yellow forsythia bushes. Yes, spring will be here soon. I smile as I trudge home through the stinging snow.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Peace
You've seen those pictures that we are told depict real peace - you know, the ones with the mother bird sheltering her babies in a nest high up the craggy mountain, in the middle of a violent wind storm with hail and snow and flying branches. You cannot know real peace unless you experience it in the midst of chaos, they tell you.
I am not so sure that you can only know peace by comparison with chaos. Yesterday I scooted home after work to collect my choir music and check on Drew before heading off to choir rehearsal. It had been a busy, productive day - not hectic because the school is on break. A nice breather to get done those things that constantly fall to the bottom of your priority list.
As I headed out the door, it was suddenly as if someone had pulled my plug. Energy fled. Tiredness overtook - once again I found myself working just to breathe. Drat and doggone. I have an hour and a half rehearsal to conduct, with music we haven't looked at much because of the focus on the Easter cantata. Besides, my accompanist will not be there, so I get to play piano as well - demanding under the best of conditions. Now what?
I drive slowly to the church in the spitting rain. Streets are wet and glistening. Trees are dripping. Street lights reflect in the puddles. I have turned the heat up as high as it will go, trying to warm up in hopes that will somehow return some strength. I reach the church parking lot. It is filled with the cars of people who have come for the dinner. Must be spaghetti night.
I am too tired to eat, too tired to move. I sit in the car, wrapped in my wool shawl, my coat buttoned tightly about me, my gloves covering my hands. I lean back and close my eyes. In less than twenty minutes I must find the strength to get out of the car, energize, and lead the choir. They too will be tired from a long day of work, and if I don't bring energy with me, we will both spiral into a terrible rehearsal.
I take a deep breath, searching for the peace of God, for His touch, His strength. I hear the rain gently pattering on the roof of the car. A few hundred yards in front of me, I hear cars whizzing by on Buffalo Road like so many ducks in a shooting gallery at some weird carnival. Somewhere in the distance a train whistles mournfully into the rain laden air and trails away into nothingness. The carillon at Peace rings out the three quarter hour. Time is flying by.
I wriggle in the car seat, scrunching down into the soft fabric. I watch the rain polka dot the windshield. It comes in gentle waves, now a bit heavier, now almost nothing. The light drumming on the roof reminds me of summer camp (wouldn't it be nice if it were summer?). I spent many weeks at summer camps of various sorts over the years. Sometimes we resided in a real cabin, sometimes in an open log cabin structure, some with screened-in porches, other times in a tent.
This rain sounds most like the year we tented near Camp Pinnacle with our whole youth group. We bunked down as a family (you get to do that when your Dad's the pastor) in a pukey colored tent of the army variety - the kind that's not so waterproof, and if you touch the canvas, the rain decides that's an open invitation to trickle in and dampen your spirits along with your bedding.
It was a great week, even if there were bumps along the way. I loved the sandy paths, the pond, the big old tabernacle where we had meetings. It was fun to 'cookout' (who doesn't love burnt hotdogs and bug juice?) and wander by flashlight after dark as we made our way from the roaring campfire where we sang and heard stories back to our dark tents. We had a great cinder block bathhouse for brushing teeth en mass and crafts up the wazoo. It was a good summer. I smiled at the memories that came flooding back, even of when one of my best friends slapped me hard upside the face.
I remember clearly an afternoon when it was raining and we were all stretched out on our cots in the tent, glum at missing out on fun and games. Mom had suggested we write letters or read. Some kids slept. I just watched the rain make shadows on the tent top, the small droplets rolling together into large clumps that finally rolled down the side of the tent into the little trench we had dug below. You could hear the rustle of the green leaves flopping about in the rain. Mosquitoes hummed, frogs croaked here and there, crows cawed overhead, joyous for the unexpected bath. It was lazy and peaceful and soothing.
Just like the sound of the rain on my car roof. The patter was beginning to slow, and my spirits felt refreshed. My tiredness was lifting. Not gone by any stretch of the imagination, but endurable. I knew I had a reprieve that would last me hopefully through the rehearsal. Sometimes a moment of quietness and waiting brings good results. Thank you Lord for Your peace - not in the midst of a violent storm, but in the midst of life's weariness.
I am not so sure that you can only know peace by comparison with chaos. Yesterday I scooted home after work to collect my choir music and check on Drew before heading off to choir rehearsal. It had been a busy, productive day - not hectic because the school is on break. A nice breather to get done those things that constantly fall to the bottom of your priority list.
As I headed out the door, it was suddenly as if someone had pulled my plug. Energy fled. Tiredness overtook - once again I found myself working just to breathe. Drat and doggone. I have an hour and a half rehearsal to conduct, with music we haven't looked at much because of the focus on the Easter cantata. Besides, my accompanist will not be there, so I get to play piano as well - demanding under the best of conditions. Now what?
I drive slowly to the church in the spitting rain. Streets are wet and glistening. Trees are dripping. Street lights reflect in the puddles. I have turned the heat up as high as it will go, trying to warm up in hopes that will somehow return some strength. I reach the church parking lot. It is filled with the cars of people who have come for the dinner. Must be spaghetti night.
I am too tired to eat, too tired to move. I sit in the car, wrapped in my wool shawl, my coat buttoned tightly about me, my gloves covering my hands. I lean back and close my eyes. In less than twenty minutes I must find the strength to get out of the car, energize, and lead the choir. They too will be tired from a long day of work, and if I don't bring energy with me, we will both spiral into a terrible rehearsal.
I take a deep breath, searching for the peace of God, for His touch, His strength. I hear the rain gently pattering on the roof of the car. A few hundred yards in front of me, I hear cars whizzing by on Buffalo Road like so many ducks in a shooting gallery at some weird carnival. Somewhere in the distance a train whistles mournfully into the rain laden air and trails away into nothingness. The carillon at Peace rings out the three quarter hour. Time is flying by.
I wriggle in the car seat, scrunching down into the soft fabric. I watch the rain polka dot the windshield. It comes in gentle waves, now a bit heavier, now almost nothing. The light drumming on the roof reminds me of summer camp (wouldn't it be nice if it were summer?). I spent many weeks at summer camps of various sorts over the years. Sometimes we resided in a real cabin, sometimes in an open log cabin structure, some with screened-in porches, other times in a tent.
This rain sounds most like the year we tented near Camp Pinnacle with our whole youth group. We bunked down as a family (you get to do that when your Dad's the pastor) in a pukey colored tent of the army variety - the kind that's not so waterproof, and if you touch the canvas, the rain decides that's an open invitation to trickle in and dampen your spirits along with your bedding.
It was a great week, even if there were bumps along the way. I loved the sandy paths, the pond, the big old tabernacle where we had meetings. It was fun to 'cookout' (who doesn't love burnt hotdogs and bug juice?) and wander by flashlight after dark as we made our way from the roaring campfire where we sang and heard stories back to our dark tents. We had a great cinder block bathhouse for brushing teeth en mass and crafts up the wazoo. It was a good summer. I smiled at the memories that came flooding back, even of when one of my best friends slapped me hard upside the face.
I remember clearly an afternoon when it was raining and we were all stretched out on our cots in the tent, glum at missing out on fun and games. Mom had suggested we write letters or read. Some kids slept. I just watched the rain make shadows on the tent top, the small droplets rolling together into large clumps that finally rolled down the side of the tent into the little trench we had dug below. You could hear the rustle of the green leaves flopping about in the rain. Mosquitoes hummed, frogs croaked here and there, crows cawed overhead, joyous for the unexpected bath. It was lazy and peaceful and soothing.
Just like the sound of the rain on my car roof. The patter was beginning to slow, and my spirits felt refreshed. My tiredness was lifting. Not gone by any stretch of the imagination, but endurable. I knew I had a reprieve that would last me hopefully through the rehearsal. Sometimes a moment of quietness and waiting brings good results. Thank you Lord for Your peace - not in the midst of a violent storm, but in the midst of life's weariness.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
As the Sparks Fly Up (and the lights come on)
Today on my lunch hour I drove to Eastman where one of our Roberts faculty's daughters was giving her master's degree recital in French Horn. Normally I would not have done so, but she was premiering a piece written by our newest music faculty person, our composer in residence, Dan Barta. I was interested to hear his work, to check out his style. He is a delightful person, so vibrant. I guessed his music would reflect his soul.
I was right. As she introduced his piece, she told how her grandmother was battling lung cancer, and how she wanted to dedicate a piece to her. She and Dan talked about the grandmother's favorite hymns, about how difficult her battle was, how unrelenting. The piece he wrote reflected all of that and more. He based it on a verse in Job about how man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards. It was engaging, tantalizing, filled with the difficulties of illness. Interwoven throughout were snatches of the two hymns, reflecting her hope in Christ, the strength of her faith.
I am glad they record it. I want to hear it again. I liked it a lot, and I'm not a fan of French horn music particularly. Then suddenly the lights came on for me. How wonderful it would be if Jairus House could offer that service of having someone write a piece in memory of a loved one who died of cancer - a piece that reflects something about the person, about their likes, their interests? What a great gesture that would be. Dan and I spoke of it, and he was as excited as I am. We are exploring how to get funding to do that.
I am sure I can find a grant for him to write a piece for PrayerSong to sing. After our concert I will do some research and find out how to make that happen. Once I have found one path, others will follow. I will have the first piece written in memory of Kayleen Merry, my continuing inspiration to keep reaching out to cancer patients. Yes, I am sure we can find the funding.
I was right. As she introduced his piece, she told how her grandmother was battling lung cancer, and how she wanted to dedicate a piece to her. She and Dan talked about the grandmother's favorite hymns, about how difficult her battle was, how unrelenting. The piece he wrote reflected all of that and more. He based it on a verse in Job about how man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards. It was engaging, tantalizing, filled with the difficulties of illness. Interwoven throughout were snatches of the two hymns, reflecting her hope in Christ, the strength of her faith.
I am glad they record it. I want to hear it again. I liked it a lot, and I'm not a fan of French horn music particularly. Then suddenly the lights came on for me. How wonderful it would be if Jairus House could offer that service of having someone write a piece in memory of a loved one who died of cancer - a piece that reflects something about the person, about their likes, their interests? What a great gesture that would be. Dan and I spoke of it, and he was as excited as I am. We are exploring how to get funding to do that.
I am sure I can find a grant for him to write a piece for PrayerSong to sing. After our concert I will do some research and find out how to make that happen. Once I have found one path, others will follow. I will have the first piece written in memory of Kayleen Merry, my continuing inspiration to keep reaching out to cancer patients. Yes, I am sure we can find the funding.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Saying GoodBye
Kiel had only been home a few short days. Now I was taking him to the train station to send him back to his world of dorm rooms, soccer training, late night gab fests. Somewhere in there they sneak a few classes and a paper assignment, but only a touch. Can't interfere with the real work of college - that of growing up!
I looked at my son, towering above me, smiling. It had been a good weekend. In fact, it was shaping up to be a good year. Both boys have been able to put behind them the disasters of the last few years created by their Mom's life meltdowns of divorce and cancer. They are feeling better about things, hopeful that their lives will actually turn out to be OK, despite the curve.
A long time ago I learned to say goodbye without tears. I have said so many goodbyes in my life. Some of them were permanent. I never saw the person again (and not necessarily because they died). Some of them I knew would be a final farewell on this side of the Jordan. Some of them I did not know would be our last. I never said goodbye to Michael when he died - I clung to the belief that he was just having a health issue and that he would be fine. He said goodbye to me though. Some of the goodbyes I have had to say were not forever. I have happily reconnected with people even though our paths went in different directions.
Saying goodbye to Kiel was a bit harder than I thought. He plans to return in just a few weeks to spend summer here with us. Its just that it was so good to see him even though we went to North Carolina at Christmas time together. I'm not sure why I was so reticent for him to leave on that train. Perhaps because in the past, I knew he was still a child at heart, and he would never really leave home until he grew up more.
But he has changed. There is a seriousness about life creeping into his conversation, a warning sign that he is preparing to depart for his own life's path soon. I am happy for him. I am glad its happening. I don't want to say goodbye. He has been a main support for me through thick and thin. But its time. Its time for him to follow his heart to worlds of joy. So I said goodbye and watched him out of sight. You can only watch someone out of sight if you are willing to let them go. No denial here. Only a quiet acknowledgement, and bit of sadness mixed with great joy.
I looked at my son, towering above me, smiling. It had been a good weekend. In fact, it was shaping up to be a good year. Both boys have been able to put behind them the disasters of the last few years created by their Mom's life meltdowns of divorce and cancer. They are feeling better about things, hopeful that their lives will actually turn out to be OK, despite the curve.
A long time ago I learned to say goodbye without tears. I have said so many goodbyes in my life. Some of them were permanent. I never saw the person again (and not necessarily because they died). Some of them I knew would be a final farewell on this side of the Jordan. Some of them I did not know would be our last. I never said goodbye to Michael when he died - I clung to the belief that he was just having a health issue and that he would be fine. He said goodbye to me though. Some of the goodbyes I have had to say were not forever. I have happily reconnected with people even though our paths went in different directions.
Saying goodbye to Kiel was a bit harder than I thought. He plans to return in just a few weeks to spend summer here with us. Its just that it was so good to see him even though we went to North Carolina at Christmas time together. I'm not sure why I was so reticent for him to leave on that train. Perhaps because in the past, I knew he was still a child at heart, and he would never really leave home until he grew up more.
But he has changed. There is a seriousness about life creeping into his conversation, a warning sign that he is preparing to depart for his own life's path soon. I am happy for him. I am glad its happening. I don't want to say goodbye. He has been a main support for me through thick and thin. But its time. Its time for him to follow his heart to worlds of joy. So I said goodbye and watched him out of sight. You can only watch someone out of sight if you are willing to let them go. No denial here. Only a quiet acknowledgement, and bit of sadness mixed with great joy.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Easter!
No Easter baskets stuffed with plastic purple, yellow and green fake grass filled to overflowing with jellybeans, eggs, peeps and chocolate bunnies. No new patent leather shoes. No frilly new dress. No matching hat and gloves or new spring coat. No colored eggs (at least not yet). Easter dawned early, though I have to admit I missed the sunrise service thanks to the lateness of the previous evening and the boys chattering into the wee hours. Still, Easter arrived right on schedule without all the fuss and faulderaul.
I had been told that the morning service would not be heavily attended. This church had the big Sunday on Palm Sunday, then most of the families traveled out of town to visit grandparents. I was pleasantly surprised to find the sanctuary filled to capacity, almost as much as the week before when we sang most of our cantata. All we left unsung was the resurrection piece, which we would sing today.
Despite our guest pianist, it was a wonderful service. She brought a trumpet player who helped us soar through the Easter hymns, bringing a sense of joy beyond our normal singing. I was delighted to head home afterwards (no chime choir rehearsal) to make - not a traditional Easter dinner, but Drew's birthday dinner of choice. This year it was strip steak, french fries, cottage cheese, peas, and cheesecake (New York style, of course). Kiel added a tossed salad and Greek olives.
It was a lovely day, even without all the normal Easter trimmings. A day of quiet togetherness and good things despite the fact that it isn't even April yet. Hope your Easter was as filled with joy as mine.
I had been told that the morning service would not be heavily attended. This church had the big Sunday on Palm Sunday, then most of the families traveled out of town to visit grandparents. I was pleasantly surprised to find the sanctuary filled to capacity, almost as much as the week before when we sang most of our cantata. All we left unsung was the resurrection piece, which we would sing today.
Despite our guest pianist, it was a wonderful service. She brought a trumpet player who helped us soar through the Easter hymns, bringing a sense of joy beyond our normal singing. I was delighted to head home afterwards (no chime choir rehearsal) to make - not a traditional Easter dinner, but Drew's birthday dinner of choice. This year it was strip steak, french fries, cottage cheese, peas, and cheesecake (New York style, of course). Kiel added a tossed salad and Greek olives.
It was a lovely day, even without all the normal Easter trimmings. A day of quiet togetherness and good things despite the fact that it isn't even April yet. Hope your Easter was as filled with joy as mine.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Tchaikovsky
I made them go. I don't often make my boys go hear "long hair" music (?!), but this was Easter. I wanted it to be a memorable year, wanted to do something unusual to mark the weekend. Kiel was coming home, and would miss all the wonderful Good Friday events. This seemed a perfect special event for us to do together.
I asked Kiel in advance, and he was agreeable. Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra was playing an Irish piece, the Grieg piano concerto featuring the Canadian pianist Louis Lortie, and Tchaikovsky's Sixth Symphony, affectionately called the Pathetique. We would make an evening of it. I had a gift certificate for a restaurant left over from a Christmas present, just waiting to be part of a celebration. We would have dinner, then catch the pre-concert lecture before enjoying the swirling sounds of the orchestra.
Anyway, it was *my* idea of a perfect evening. The dinner part went well and we topped off the good food with a decadent chocolate dessert (the waitress was amused that we asked for one dessert and three spoons). It was rich and melty and warm - just right. Drew tolerated the lecture. Admittedly, the conductor worked hard to be personable, but fell somewhere short of engaging, especially when the pianist began to ramble a bit.
We had seats in the 'nosebleed' section. Even with my discount, it was a stretch price wise. We were packed in like sardines. The house was fairly full, no room to relocate somewhere less crowded with more legroom. Drew was immediately taken with the huge chandelier and took pictures with his phone. We chattered away about various things that were second nature to me since I had worked there for so long, but brand new to Drew.
I refuse to feel badly about forcing him to endure the long concert. He nodded sleepily now and again, but its not often he hears an orchestra, and for a provincial ensemble, this one is fairly decent, being made up of so many Eastman faculty who are stellar musicians. I myself soon forgot about our surroundings and my kids and fell into the familiar and well loved music.
It was nice. Nice to hear good music, nice to spend time with the boys, nice to be part of the upper crust world of elegance for an evening, nice to be touched by something beyond the normal day to day stuff. I'm glad I made a special effort to do something different. And who better to do it with than an enigmatic Russian. Delightful!
I asked Kiel in advance, and he was agreeable. Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra was playing an Irish piece, the Grieg piano concerto featuring the Canadian pianist Louis Lortie, and Tchaikovsky's Sixth Symphony, affectionately called the Pathetique. We would make an evening of it. I had a gift certificate for a restaurant left over from a Christmas present, just waiting to be part of a celebration. We would have dinner, then catch the pre-concert lecture before enjoying the swirling sounds of the orchestra.
Anyway, it was *my* idea of a perfect evening. The dinner part went well and we topped off the good food with a decadent chocolate dessert (the waitress was amused that we asked for one dessert and three spoons). It was rich and melty and warm - just right. Drew tolerated the lecture. Admittedly, the conductor worked hard to be personable, but fell somewhere short of engaging, especially when the pianist began to ramble a bit.
We had seats in the 'nosebleed' section. Even with my discount, it was a stretch price wise. We were packed in like sardines. The house was fairly full, no room to relocate somewhere less crowded with more legroom. Drew was immediately taken with the huge chandelier and took pictures with his phone. We chattered away about various things that were second nature to me since I had worked there for so long, but brand new to Drew.
I refuse to feel badly about forcing him to endure the long concert. He nodded sleepily now and again, but its not often he hears an orchestra, and for a provincial ensemble, this one is fairly decent, being made up of so many Eastman faculty who are stellar musicians. I myself soon forgot about our surroundings and my kids and fell into the familiar and well loved music.
It was nice. Nice to hear good music, nice to spend time with the boys, nice to be part of the upper crust world of elegance for an evening, nice to be touched by something beyond the normal day to day stuff. I'm glad I made a special effort to do something different. And who better to do it with than an enigmatic Russian. Delightful!
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Good Friday - Part the Last
You will forgive me for not being on Easter Day yet even though today is Easter. I want to talk about the final event of Good Friday first. Drew and I proceeded directly to Pearce Memorial Church from the stations of the cross event. Pearce is just down the road from my church, on the other side of the campus.
We entered the darkened sanctuary just as they were beginning the service. Thick shades covered the normally unfettered windows down both sides of the sanctuary. Above the baptismal area there is an enormous stained glass window depicting Jesus the good shepherd and king. Someone had mounted and hung thick curtains the whole length of the window - you wouldn't have even known a window was there. The overhead chandeliers were dimmed, the wall sconces were not on. The only bright light in the vast room came from nine lighted tapers set on the communion table on the platform.
There was a hushed excitement in the air, a sense of expectancy as the worshippers huddled together in families and small groups. The service was quiet, somber, filled with Scripture and exhortation to think on the last week of Christ's life. Drew was there to experience the tenebrae part, the extinguishing of the candles until there was nothing left but darkness.
I don't know if he had realized there would be communion, but he willingly walked down the aisle with me to the altar. We moved in silence, no music to ease the passing of time. No one talked. No one was impatient. No one was in a hurry. Drew whispered in my ear that he planned to stand instead of kneel at the altar. I didn't even realize that he had knelt after all until he told me later.
There was a certain sense of sacredness, a sad coming together to mark a life and a death that meant something to each of us. Then the part for which Drew had waited - the final readings and the extinguishing of the candles on the altar. The first person read, then picked up the small candle snuffer, put out his candle, and while the smoke was still rising, left the table. The second person read a Scripture, picked up the snuffer, extinguished the second candle, and descended the stairs, moving out of view. Then the third and the fourth, moving down the line in order until all nine candles had been read over and put out.
The light scattering on the vaulted ceiling became dimmer and less diffuse. I wondered whether we would be able to see well enough to leave the sanctuary. There would be no talking, just leaving. Leaving as you do when someone you love has been buried, and there is nothing left to see, no one to hold on to. Just an emptiness. You leave for no other reason than that you can't really stay where you are.
Drew whispered in my ear, "They have the balcony lights on." - as if to say Rats! We won't be in total darkness. It turned out to be not the balcony lights, but the hallway lights beyond the balcony that were lit. There was just enough light to create a sense of night, of closing, of the end of day. Just enough light to walk safely.
Our departure was eerie - hundreds of people walking quickly, headed out into the chilly night, stopping only long enough to button a coat or tie a scarf. Shoes muffled against the thick carpet, a few keys clacked, then were silenced. It almost reminded me of scenes of the Holocaust when crowds were herded to a destiny they did not know, did not want to know.
We, at least, had seen the end of the movie. We know the scene about to play. But tonight, we walk silently, quietly, stirred to remember the events took place so long ago and which still mean life to the world in this age.
We entered the darkened sanctuary just as they were beginning the service. Thick shades covered the normally unfettered windows down both sides of the sanctuary. Above the baptismal area there is an enormous stained glass window depicting Jesus the good shepherd and king. Someone had mounted and hung thick curtains the whole length of the window - you wouldn't have even known a window was there. The overhead chandeliers were dimmed, the wall sconces were not on. The only bright light in the vast room came from nine lighted tapers set on the communion table on the platform.
There was a hushed excitement in the air, a sense of expectancy as the worshippers huddled together in families and small groups. The service was quiet, somber, filled with Scripture and exhortation to think on the last week of Christ's life. Drew was there to experience the tenebrae part, the extinguishing of the candles until there was nothing left but darkness.
I don't know if he had realized there would be communion, but he willingly walked down the aisle with me to the altar. We moved in silence, no music to ease the passing of time. No one talked. No one was impatient. No one was in a hurry. Drew whispered in my ear that he planned to stand instead of kneel at the altar. I didn't even realize that he had knelt after all until he told me later.
There was a certain sense of sacredness, a sad coming together to mark a life and a death that meant something to each of us. Then the part for which Drew had waited - the final readings and the extinguishing of the candles on the altar. The first person read, then picked up the small candle snuffer, put out his candle, and while the smoke was still rising, left the table. The second person read a Scripture, picked up the snuffer, extinguished the second candle, and descended the stairs, moving out of view. Then the third and the fourth, moving down the line in order until all nine candles had been read over and put out.
The light scattering on the vaulted ceiling became dimmer and less diffuse. I wondered whether we would be able to see well enough to leave the sanctuary. There would be no talking, just leaving. Leaving as you do when someone you love has been buried, and there is nothing left to see, no one to hold on to. Just an emptiness. You leave for no other reason than that you can't really stay where you are.
Drew whispered in my ear, "They have the balcony lights on." - as if to say Rats! We won't be in total darkness. It turned out to be not the balcony lights, but the hallway lights beyond the balcony that were lit. There was just enough light to create a sense of night, of closing, of the end of day. Just enough light to walk safely.
Our departure was eerie - hundreds of people walking quickly, headed out into the chilly night, stopping only long enough to button a coat or tie a scarf. Shoes muffled against the thick carpet, a few keys clacked, then were silenced. It almost reminded me of scenes of the Holocaust when crowds were herded to a destiny they did not know, did not want to know.
We, at least, had seen the end of the movie. We know the scene about to play. But tonight, we walk silently, quietly, stirred to remember the events took place so long ago and which still mean life to the world in this age.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Good Friday - Part the Second
The second event I participated in on Good Friday was Stations of the Cross at the church where I conduct. I took Drew with me, under great protest. He had asked to attend the final event, and felt quite put upon that I made him do a second event on a day off, for crying out Pete.
It didn't take him long to jump into the activity. As you entered the church, you followed purple crosses on the floor to each station, most of which had a large poster on the wall directing you to do a particular activity or think about some aspect of the journey Christ made on that fateful Friday so long ago.
In Jerusalem, of course, it is much different. Drew later told me he had watched a program on TV where they walked the Via Dolorosa, explaining each station. Some places we were directed to pick up a stone and feel its hardness or rake through dirt for buried stuff, realizing that Christ lay on the cold ground. At one station we were directed to nail a huge spike into a wooden cross. Drew was afraid to make so much noise. As we each hammered our spike into the hard wood, the sound echoed in the fellowship hall with a piercing ring of metal against metal.
After moving through all the stations, we walked a labyrinth laid out on the floor - a new experience for Drew, a familiar and comfortable one for me. Once Drew finally reached the center, he wanted to just walk straight out and not take the time and effort to wind back through the lines, but he resisted the temptation and dutifully wound his way back to the start.
The final activity was in the sanctuary where we were invited to spend some time in prayer. There were prayer tiles, a candle to light, books of prayers and meditations, a journal to write in and various other tools to aid us in our time there. It felt good to just pray. In fact, I rather lost track of time, and suddenly Drew touched my shoulder and urged me to wrap it up or we would be late for the Tenebrae service at Pearce.
With a final nod toward the hanging cross draped in purple, we left together. It was a time we will both remember.
It didn't take him long to jump into the activity. As you entered the church, you followed purple crosses on the floor to each station, most of which had a large poster on the wall directing you to do a particular activity or think about some aspect of the journey Christ made on that fateful Friday so long ago.
In Jerusalem, of course, it is much different. Drew later told me he had watched a program on TV where they walked the Via Dolorosa, explaining each station. Some places we were directed to pick up a stone and feel its hardness or rake through dirt for buried stuff, realizing that Christ lay on the cold ground. At one station we were directed to nail a huge spike into a wooden cross. Drew was afraid to make so much noise. As we each hammered our spike into the hard wood, the sound echoed in the fellowship hall with a piercing ring of metal against metal.
After moving through all the stations, we walked a labyrinth laid out on the floor - a new experience for Drew, a familiar and comfortable one for me. Once Drew finally reached the center, he wanted to just walk straight out and not take the time and effort to wind back through the lines, but he resisted the temptation and dutifully wound his way back to the start.
The final activity was in the sanctuary where we were invited to spend some time in prayer. There were prayer tiles, a candle to light, books of prayers and meditations, a journal to write in and various other tools to aid us in our time there. It felt good to just pray. In fact, I rather lost track of time, and suddenly Drew touched my shoulder and urged me to wrap it up or we would be late for the Tenebrae service at Pearce.
With a final nod toward the hanging cross draped in purple, we left together. It was a time we will both remember.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Good Friday - Part the First
I have not worked for an organization that gives you Good Friday off for a long time. I appreciate that Roberts not only gave us the entire day off, but on Thursday they sent staff home at 3. This gesture creates the kind of breathing room so desperately needed in this era of packed schedules, insane activity and relentless demands. I determined to put the gift of a free day to "soul" use.
There are three special events I wish to attend. I had been introduced to the first one back in 1998. The Asbury First Methodist Church on East Avenue holds a noontime service that offers readings from the Bible about the events leading up to and including the crucifixion and burial of Christ. They surround the readings with projected slides of works of art from various ages and in various media, and intersperse the readings with choral and instrumental music written to portray the particular incident.
The first year I attended, I left with tears streaming down my face. It was exceedingly moving. Every year thereafter, I invited someone to attend with me, and they had the exact same reaction. You become quieter and quieter and the events unfold. You know what is coming. The reality of the sacrifice is overwhelming. You are impressed by how different artists portray the same scenes - especially the flogging, the arduous journey to Golgotha, the nailing.
All the artwork you see reaches into your soul and touches your inmost being. Some of the music is elegantly simple but speaks volumes. Some music is difficult, complex, dissonant. It is raw and bare and moving. They thoughtfully leave space between the fading vibrations of the a cappella choral works and the beginning of the next reading so you have time to process, to allow yourself to react, to decompress.
You can hear everyone sniffling, coughing. You see people dabbing at their eyes with a white handkerchief or a Kleenex. You are not alone in your experience. I came expecting the same, interested to see how they might have improved upon the presentation.
The format was much the same, many slides were new. Rembrandt, Renoir, Picasso, Spanish painters and sculptors I did not know. The music was new and very fitting. A string quartet, an excellent a cappella choir, a stellar organist. I especially liked the Shaker tune arrangements. The voices of the singers floated up from behind the huge screen splashed with an artist's rendition, above which you could still see the round stained glass window with its beautiful hues glistening in the noon sun.
What surprised me this year was that I was strangely calm during much of the presentation. No need for the tears, though of course, I am moved tremendously thinking about all the Christ endured on my behalf. What does me in is the picture of Mary holding the crucified body of her son. It is the dark entrance to the tomb that sends chills down my spine, grabs me, pulls me in.
I am glad I am not with anyone this year. I am quiet, reflecting long afterwards on what was presented. It washes my heart.
There are three special events I wish to attend. I had been introduced to the first one back in 1998. The Asbury First Methodist Church on East Avenue holds a noontime service that offers readings from the Bible about the events leading up to and including the crucifixion and burial of Christ. They surround the readings with projected slides of works of art from various ages and in various media, and intersperse the readings with choral and instrumental music written to portray the particular incident.
The first year I attended, I left with tears streaming down my face. It was exceedingly moving. Every year thereafter, I invited someone to attend with me, and they had the exact same reaction. You become quieter and quieter and the events unfold. You know what is coming. The reality of the sacrifice is overwhelming. You are impressed by how different artists portray the same scenes - especially the flogging, the arduous journey to Golgotha, the nailing.
All the artwork you see reaches into your soul and touches your inmost being. Some of the music is elegantly simple but speaks volumes. Some music is difficult, complex, dissonant. It is raw and bare and moving. They thoughtfully leave space between the fading vibrations of the a cappella choral works and the beginning of the next reading so you have time to process, to allow yourself to react, to decompress.
You can hear everyone sniffling, coughing. You see people dabbing at their eyes with a white handkerchief or a Kleenex. You are not alone in your experience. I came expecting the same, interested to see how they might have improved upon the presentation.
The format was much the same, many slides were new. Rembrandt, Renoir, Picasso, Spanish painters and sculptors I did not know. The music was new and very fitting. A string quartet, an excellent a cappella choir, a stellar organist. I especially liked the Shaker tune arrangements. The voices of the singers floated up from behind the huge screen splashed with an artist's rendition, above which you could still see the round stained glass window with its beautiful hues glistening in the noon sun.
What surprised me this year was that I was strangely calm during much of the presentation. No need for the tears, though of course, I am moved tremendously thinking about all the Christ endured on my behalf. What does me in is the picture of Mary holding the crucified body of her son. It is the dark entrance to the tomb that sends chills down my spine, grabs me, pulls me in.
I am glad I am not with anyone this year. I am quiet, reflecting long afterwards on what was presented. It washes my heart.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Spring! - no, wait. . .
Spring arrived early this morning at 2 am, so the weather forecaster said. By the weather outside, I do not believe it. As I glance to my left past the comfy brown leather chairs in the newspaper reading area, out the wall of windows towards the geothermal parking lot, I see small white flakes of dancing snow swirling lightly through the air. Despite yesterday's rain, the ground is still covered with snow. Students bound through the front doors, stamping their snow covered boots, boisterous from the cold, cheeks kissed red.
This is not the spring I know and love. Where are the tulips, the daffodils, the crocuses? Why have the trees not begun to wake, shaking their stiff limbs, dangling the beginnings of leaf buds from the tips of new branches? I do not care that Easter is Sunday. If that Bunny knows what's good for him, he will turn tail and run for the nearest rabbit warren and burrow down until Mother Nature straightens out her recalcitrant children.
I thought at first perhaps the ubiquitous flooding we encounter on our carpool run might be a harbinger of Spring, but no, its just the refusal of the frozen ground to open its throat and swallow the copious rain and the poor stuff has no choice but to pool in the low lying gullies and hollows, stifling bushes and forcing trees to tiptoe through the muck like so many girls dashing from limos to the prom, gowns raised, delicately picking their way through rain laden streets.
No, Spring has not yet begun to make an appearance. We are still bound by winter's heavy hand. But I can wait. After death comes the resurrection, the glorious, light and life giving rebirth with its splendorous amazement of warmth and beauty. I just hope it comes soon. I am ready.
This is not the spring I know and love. Where are the tulips, the daffodils, the crocuses? Why have the trees not begun to wake, shaking their stiff limbs, dangling the beginnings of leaf buds from the tips of new branches? I do not care that Easter is Sunday. If that Bunny knows what's good for him, he will turn tail and run for the nearest rabbit warren and burrow down until Mother Nature straightens out her recalcitrant children.
I thought at first perhaps the ubiquitous flooding we encounter on our carpool run might be a harbinger of Spring, but no, its just the refusal of the frozen ground to open its throat and swallow the copious rain and the poor stuff has no choice but to pool in the low lying gullies and hollows, stifling bushes and forcing trees to tiptoe through the muck like so many girls dashing from limos to the prom, gowns raised, delicately picking their way through rain laden streets.
No, Spring has not yet begun to make an appearance. We are still bound by winter's heavy hand. But I can wait. After death comes the resurrection, the glorious, light and life giving rebirth with its splendorous amazement of warmth and beauty. I just hope it comes soon. I am ready.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Rain on Snow
Mysterious, Buffalo Road swaddled in gray-white clouds slung low like smoke drifting across a battlefield in wisps. The hurried trip downtown on lunchhour to purchase a ticket for Kiel's Easter visit felt more like some clandestine tryst shrouded in furtive apprehension.
Who would have expected, creeping along 490 hampered by the mist and rain, that an entire skyline of high rise buildings lay in wait just beyond the hill. One encountered only blurry dark shapes constantly disappearing into the thickness of the atmosphere, like watching a herd of elephants in a grove of trees through early dawn duskiness and haze, not sure whether you were really seeing something or if they were just a figment of some surreal dream.
I drove with an unjustified sense of safety based on the myopic bubble of clarity surrounding my car, a sense in many ways the echo of life's journey. How often have I not seen some monstrous event looming in the shadows ahead, obscured by an inadvertent focus on immediate minutiae and wrapped in the mist of reactionary changes?
As the rain forces snow to evaporate in clouds of mist, so often my reaction to moving into a new season of life clouds my ability to see the treasures and value of what lies ahead. Fortunately, today I know the way to the train station, know when to change lanes, when to expect a streetlight to suddenly appear in front of me, liberated from the fog. I can navigate this familiar landscape despite the limited vision.
Just so, when I am navigating life's cloudy landscape, I must trust One who knows the way, One who can tell me when to turn, when to stop, when to go. Clouds caused by my human limitations need not prevent moving forward, so long as I do it in faith, and firmly hand in hand with One intimately familiar with life, One who is not limited by my lack of vision.
Who would have expected, creeping along 490 hampered by the mist and rain, that an entire skyline of high rise buildings lay in wait just beyond the hill. One encountered only blurry dark shapes constantly disappearing into the thickness of the atmosphere, like watching a herd of elephants in a grove of trees through early dawn duskiness and haze, not sure whether you were really seeing something or if they were just a figment of some surreal dream.
I drove with an unjustified sense of safety based on the myopic bubble of clarity surrounding my car, a sense in many ways the echo of life's journey. How often have I not seen some monstrous event looming in the shadows ahead, obscured by an inadvertent focus on immediate minutiae and wrapped in the mist of reactionary changes?
As the rain forces snow to evaporate in clouds of mist, so often my reaction to moving into a new season of life clouds my ability to see the treasures and value of what lies ahead. Fortunately, today I know the way to the train station, know when to change lanes, when to expect a streetlight to suddenly appear in front of me, liberated from the fog. I can navigate this familiar landscape despite the limited vision.
Just so, when I am navigating life's cloudy landscape, I must trust One who knows the way, One who can tell me when to turn, when to stop, when to go. Clouds caused by my human limitations need not prevent moving forward, so long as I do it in faith, and firmly hand in hand with One intimately familiar with life, One who is not limited by my lack of vision.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Piano Tuning
My friend needed a place to house her upright piano (she got a grand!) until such time as her children have their own place and are ready to accept her old piano. I needed a piano to practice on, and help with PrayerSong rehearsals. It is a marriage made in heaven (-:
Yesterday, the piano tuner came. I had dutifully let the instrument adjust to new surroundings, different humidity levels and the change of weather. Now is the time to make sure it is both in tune with itself, and up to pitch A440.
What is there about piano tuning that brings me such pleasure? Drew complained about the constant pounding of the same pitch over and over - and not only did the tuner tune it once, so that all the strings for a particular note agreed, and each note was where it should be relative to its neighbor, but then he went through a second time to bring it up to the international music standard pitch.
I could listen to those vibrations all day. It brings goosebumps and calms my soul. I used to think it was just because someone was doing something nice for me and I felt pampered, but now I think it also has to do with "good vibrations." As I listened to his fingers putting the keys through their paces, watched him as he listened intently, checked out the action, the felts, the hammers, vacuumed the strings and the sounding board, I thought how much better the piano must feel - sort of like getting your hair done and your face waxed.
Perhaps that is what Lent is for believers. Its a time of making sure we are in tune with ourselves, in tune with our neighbors, and in tune with the word of God; vacuuming out the dust and cobwebs of indifference and selfishness, exploring our whole range of emotions and connections, pounding on every area to make sure our actions are solid and good and reliable and right, fixing anything that doesn't ring true.
Ah, a good tune-up. I have an appointment Saturday for my car. I wonder what else needs tuning in my life?
Yesterday, the piano tuner came. I had dutifully let the instrument adjust to new surroundings, different humidity levels and the change of weather. Now is the time to make sure it is both in tune with itself, and up to pitch A440.
What is there about piano tuning that brings me such pleasure? Drew complained about the constant pounding of the same pitch over and over - and not only did the tuner tune it once, so that all the strings for a particular note agreed, and each note was where it should be relative to its neighbor, but then he went through a second time to bring it up to the international music standard pitch.
I could listen to those vibrations all day. It brings goosebumps and calms my soul. I used to think it was just because someone was doing something nice for me and I felt pampered, but now I think it also has to do with "good vibrations." As I listened to his fingers putting the keys through their paces, watched him as he listened intently, checked out the action, the felts, the hammers, vacuumed the strings and the sounding board, I thought how much better the piano must feel - sort of like getting your hair done and your face waxed.
Perhaps that is what Lent is for believers. Its a time of making sure we are in tune with ourselves, in tune with our neighbors, and in tune with the word of God; vacuuming out the dust and cobwebs of indifference and selfishness, exploring our whole range of emotions and connections, pounding on every area to make sure our actions are solid and good and reliable and right, fixing anything that doesn't ring true.
Ah, a good tune-up. I have an appointment Saturday for my car. I wonder what else needs tuning in my life?
Monday, March 17, 2008
Exploding String Beans
On Mondays I work from noon to 9pm, and take a short break for dinner when the reference desk is slow, always with the circ desk knowing where I am so they can page me if someone needs help. Usually I bring a "TV" dinner, and tonight was no exception.
I have to laugh when I use that term. Back in the day, we knew how to make a "TV dinner." Usually we made them en masse after a holiday like Thanksgiving. Mom bought special aluminum trays with the divided sections that we reused. She would create an assembly line, and we would all plop our food item in the appropriate section, filling those trays to overflowing with potatoes, turkey, dressing, squash, and a touch of cranberry sauce. Then Mom would carefully crimp tin foil over the top and stack them in the freezer for a later date - some emergency meal when cooking wasn't convenient (translation, Mom wasn't home) or when unexpected company showed up.
What a treat it was to pop one of those holiday bookmarks into the oven. You drooled for the hour it took to reheat them, the air smelling more and more of holiday memories. Eating one left you stuffed - not at all like the skinny little half meals you get today, slenderized in their petite plastic trays.
Anyway, I popped my dinner into the microwave in the staff lounge, waited the appropriate four minutes,stir,one more minute, then peeled back the "saran wrap" for my evening repast. Although I am sure the chefs at Stouffers (what happened to be on sale this week) carefully prepared the meal in accord with all sorts of guidelines and regulations, I have to admit, I miss the tantalizing smell of the TV dinners of my childhood.
At least the meat was recognizable, and the vegetables a vibrant hue of green, as any self respecting string bean should be. Cognizant of the passing time, and not wanting to be away from the desk too long, I stuck my plastic fork into the stack of green beans, recalling with pleasure the fresh green beans straight from the garden, all soft and flavorful and juicy.
These were juicy all right. Water squirted from the top few beans. It took me a bit by surprise, but undaunted, I took another stab at them. Suddenly a dozen hard round seeds burst out of the stack of beans and flew across the room, landing on the coffee table, some of them sliding to the floor. For a moment, I stared in surprise, then I started laughing.
I couldn't help it, it was just so funny. I stabbed the pile of beans again, and more seeds went flying. This called for all out silliness. I stabbed the stack again and again, laughing at how far some of the seeds flew. One actually hit the window at the far side of the room. Man, it was such a hoot. A food fight without anyone getting messy!
OK, so the beans were too old and should not have been in the dinner. And I had to clean up the mess after I made it, but it was totally worth it. Cardboard food should not be allowed any dignity. I scraped what was left of the supposed beans into the trash, still laughing, and went back to the reference desk.
Perhaps I should send my Mother to the Stouffer kitchen to show them a thing or two about real food!
I have to laugh when I use that term. Back in the day, we knew how to make a "TV dinner." Usually we made them en masse after a holiday like Thanksgiving. Mom bought special aluminum trays with the divided sections that we reused. She would create an assembly line, and we would all plop our food item in the appropriate section, filling those trays to overflowing with potatoes, turkey, dressing, squash, and a touch of cranberry sauce. Then Mom would carefully crimp tin foil over the top and stack them in the freezer for a later date - some emergency meal when cooking wasn't convenient (translation, Mom wasn't home) or when unexpected company showed up.
What a treat it was to pop one of those holiday bookmarks into the oven. You drooled for the hour it took to reheat them, the air smelling more and more of holiday memories. Eating one left you stuffed - not at all like the skinny little half meals you get today, slenderized in their petite plastic trays.
Anyway, I popped my dinner into the microwave in the staff lounge, waited the appropriate four minutes,stir,one more minute, then peeled back the "saran wrap" for my evening repast. Although I am sure the chefs at Stouffers (what happened to be on sale this week) carefully prepared the meal in accord with all sorts of guidelines and regulations, I have to admit, I miss the tantalizing smell of the TV dinners of my childhood.
At least the meat was recognizable, and the vegetables a vibrant hue of green, as any self respecting string bean should be. Cognizant of the passing time, and not wanting to be away from the desk too long, I stuck my plastic fork into the stack of green beans, recalling with pleasure the fresh green beans straight from the garden, all soft and flavorful and juicy.
These were juicy all right. Water squirted from the top few beans. It took me a bit by surprise, but undaunted, I took another stab at them. Suddenly a dozen hard round seeds burst out of the stack of beans and flew across the room, landing on the coffee table, some of them sliding to the floor. For a moment, I stared in surprise, then I started laughing.
I couldn't help it, it was just so funny. I stabbed the pile of beans again, and more seeds went flying. This called for all out silliness. I stabbed the stack again and again, laughing at how far some of the seeds flew. One actually hit the window at the far side of the room. Man, it was such a hoot. A food fight without anyone getting messy!
OK, so the beans were too old and should not have been in the dinner. And I had to clean up the mess after I made it, but it was totally worth it. Cardboard food should not be allowed any dignity. I scraped what was left of the supposed beans into the trash, still laughing, and went back to the reference desk.
Perhaps I should send my Mother to the Stouffer kitchen to show them a thing or two about real food!
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Palm Sunday
So it begins, Holy Week. Our choir presented half a cantata this morning, complete with slides of the scenes we were musically portraying. We began with the Triumphal Entry when Jesus rode into Jerusalem. What a divided perspective He must have had, knowing what was coming immediately afterwards, and seeing the victorious resurrection beyond at the same time.
In a short half hour, we touched briefly on the events of that week - the Passover and Last Supper, the trial, the torture, the crucifixion, the burial. And we left Him there, in the tomb, for an entire week. We will not sing the rest of the cantata, the resurrection, until Easter Sunday.
This church has a tradition of removing everything from the chancel at the end of the Palm Sunday service. So we buried Jesus, the final slide showing three crosses on a hill, and then, as we sang the closing hymn unaccompanied, each choir member picked up a candle, a Bible, a purple banner, the offering plates, anything else not nailed down, and left the sanctuary with it.
I sat contemplating the bare, empty front of the church. The lights were off. There was nothing left. The once sacred place was just another area, just some storage space where an odd table or two took up room, surrounded by a few chairs. Nothing special. Surely this is how one mourns the loss of a loved one. You take their things and pack them away, out of sight. Your heart is broken, and looking at the klediments that remind you of that person brings pain and sadness. It is finished. The place where they once lived becomes just a meaningless space that someone else takes over for other purposes.
It doesn't entirely help to pack things away. You still hurt. You are still shocked and bewildered at the emptiness where once there was life. You forget, and go to call the person, or visit them and suddenly you remember - they are not there anymore. You cannot reach them. Not on this side of the Jordan.
It takes a long time for us to accept such unrelenting constraints. One moment they are alive and warm and looking at you, the next they are gone. Gone. They don't look dead, but they are, and nothing you do will bring them back. Science has made amazing advances, but it cannot reach beyond the grave. Only God can do that.
Only God was able to overcome death. Only God breathed His immutable power into the lifeless form of Jesus and re-enlivened the dead body. Only God put Being back into flesh. Only God will translate our being from flesh to immortality.
Next week, we will triumphantly put everything back, and more. The banners will fly again, the Bible will take is place on the altar, the candles will be set on the communion table and lighted once more. The choir will sing with joy and not sorrow. The congregation will celebrate in many ways the return of the one who made it all possible. We will reclaim life.
But this week, the silence was eerie and uncomfortable. What should I do now? I shake my head and slowly file out, into the hallway where life is still going on, where people are talking and laughing and eating as if nothing had happened. I find it hard to enter in. I am still thinking how hard it must have been for his bewildered disciples, for those closest to Him. They scattered, crawled off to dark hidden places, frightened - perhaps angry. Certainly scared.
Can I possibly know what they felt, how sick to their stomachs, how weak and undone they were? To remain in that state for three days must have been close to unbearable. Did they have any idea what was to come? Probably not. They believed it was over. Their dreams had come crashing around them, their leader destroyed.
How do you move on, get back to the business of living? How indeed? I cannot imagine life without Christ, cannot fathom facing that horrible yawning crevasse of dark nothingness that caused Jesus to cry, "My God! Why have you forsaken me?" Wait. Don't leave me. I can't live without you. Please don't go.
We will explore again and in more depth the events of the week leading to His death. Maundy Thursday communion service, Friday stations of the cross, a tenebrae service, the all night vigil of the orthodox community until we come at long last to the Easter Sunrise Service, the return of Light and Life, the renewal of hopes and dreams.
I vow to move through this week at a sacred and savoring pace. I hope you will too, and that you will enter into a new sense of His presence, and new awareness of His absolute love.
In a short half hour, we touched briefly on the events of that week - the Passover and Last Supper, the trial, the torture, the crucifixion, the burial. And we left Him there, in the tomb, for an entire week. We will not sing the rest of the cantata, the resurrection, until Easter Sunday.
This church has a tradition of removing everything from the chancel at the end of the Palm Sunday service. So we buried Jesus, the final slide showing three crosses on a hill, and then, as we sang the closing hymn unaccompanied, each choir member picked up a candle, a Bible, a purple banner, the offering plates, anything else not nailed down, and left the sanctuary with it.
I sat contemplating the bare, empty front of the church. The lights were off. There was nothing left. The once sacred place was just another area, just some storage space where an odd table or two took up room, surrounded by a few chairs. Nothing special. Surely this is how one mourns the loss of a loved one. You take their things and pack them away, out of sight. Your heart is broken, and looking at the klediments that remind you of that person brings pain and sadness. It is finished. The place where they once lived becomes just a meaningless space that someone else takes over for other purposes.
It doesn't entirely help to pack things away. You still hurt. You are still shocked and bewildered at the emptiness where once there was life. You forget, and go to call the person, or visit them and suddenly you remember - they are not there anymore. You cannot reach them. Not on this side of the Jordan.
It takes a long time for us to accept such unrelenting constraints. One moment they are alive and warm and looking at you, the next they are gone. Gone. They don't look dead, but they are, and nothing you do will bring them back. Science has made amazing advances, but it cannot reach beyond the grave. Only God can do that.
Only God was able to overcome death. Only God breathed His immutable power into the lifeless form of Jesus and re-enlivened the dead body. Only God put Being back into flesh. Only God will translate our being from flesh to immortality.
Next week, we will triumphantly put everything back, and more. The banners will fly again, the Bible will take is place on the altar, the candles will be set on the communion table and lighted once more. The choir will sing with joy and not sorrow. The congregation will celebrate in many ways the return of the one who made it all possible. We will reclaim life.
But this week, the silence was eerie and uncomfortable. What should I do now? I shake my head and slowly file out, into the hallway where life is still going on, where people are talking and laughing and eating as if nothing had happened. I find it hard to enter in. I am still thinking how hard it must have been for his bewildered disciples, for those closest to Him. They scattered, crawled off to dark hidden places, frightened - perhaps angry. Certainly scared.
Can I possibly know what they felt, how sick to their stomachs, how weak and undone they were? To remain in that state for three days must have been close to unbearable. Did they have any idea what was to come? Probably not. They believed it was over. Their dreams had come crashing around them, their leader destroyed.
How do you move on, get back to the business of living? How indeed? I cannot imagine life without Christ, cannot fathom facing that horrible yawning crevasse of dark nothingness that caused Jesus to cry, "My God! Why have you forsaken me?" Wait. Don't leave me. I can't live without you. Please don't go.
We will explore again and in more depth the events of the week leading to His death. Maundy Thursday communion service, Friday stations of the cross, a tenebrae service, the all night vigil of the orthodox community until we come at long last to the Easter Sunrise Service, the return of Light and Life, the renewal of hopes and dreams.
I vow to move through this week at a sacred and savoring pace. I hope you will too, and that you will enter into a new sense of His presence, and new awareness of His absolute love.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Giving Up Money
Yeah. The idea came to me after someone plunked a huge supply of the very item I have given up on my desk, right in front of me, and left it there for the next two weeks. If I had known that just by giving something up you would get tons and tons of it from every possible direction, I would have given up all sorts of things years ago.
I have had the exact thing I am not partaking of mailed to me in copious quantities, handed out FREE in stores repeatedly, received multiple coupons for really good deals - so good I've never seen these steals before, been blessed with it as hostess gifts at events I have attended, seen it offered at faculty meetings, staff meetings, campus policy meetings, lecture symposia - I have never seen so much of it!
So it follows logic that whatever it is that I give up, I shall be abundantly blessed with that thing for weeks and weeks. The longer I "go without" the more offers I shall have! Ergo, I shall be going without money for at least six months. I can't wait to see the creative ways it will flow towards me! Of course, I suppose the minute I accept any, the offers will dry up. So I shall be resisting ferociously (and collecting for later consumption furiously).
Wouldn't it be nice if it really worked that way!
I have had the exact thing I am not partaking of mailed to me in copious quantities, handed out FREE in stores repeatedly, received multiple coupons for really good deals - so good I've never seen these steals before, been blessed with it as hostess gifts at events I have attended, seen it offered at faculty meetings, staff meetings, campus policy meetings, lecture symposia - I have never seen so much of it!
So it follows logic that whatever it is that I give up, I shall be abundantly blessed with that thing for weeks and weeks. The longer I "go without" the more offers I shall have! Ergo, I shall be going without money for at least six months. I can't wait to see the creative ways it will flow towards me! Of course, I suppose the minute I accept any, the offers will dry up. So I shall be resisting ferociously (and collecting for later consumption furiously).
Wouldn't it be nice if it really worked that way!
Friday, March 14, 2008
Dress for Destiny
Some days you bound out of bed, slip into a comfy pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt and bounce into the activities of the day (right). Other days, you refuse to slide from between those comfy sheets until well beyond the last possible moment, throw on whatever is dangling over the closest chair regardless of how it looks, and slog down the hall for a cup of something warm and soothing before forcing yourself out the door (more likely).
But there are days when you know you are headed for an event that is beyond the normal routine of life, something important, momentous even, an event that may alter the very course of your life. Those days don't come along often, and we recognize them in unique ways, ways that often include how we dress.
I think of things like when you graduate from kindergarten, or are in elementary school, and you have a part in a pageant, or are a contestant in a spelling bee; in high school when your team won the state play offs and you have that award banquet, better yet, prom night! When you play your first recital or graduate from high school, then college, your first day on a new job, your wedding day - your friend's wedding day - your child's wedding day - the day you dedicate/christen your child - or stand up for someone else's child!
There are also times when you will meet someone important, someone you want to look your best for. For us growing up, that included Sundays when you came into God's house. I think of when I attended the inauguration of Skidmore College's new president, and Hillary Clinton made an appearance, or last summer when the new library was dedicated and a number of local political figures came for the ribbon cutting ceremony.
Sometimes we do not see a life altering event coming. Who could anticipate things like natural disasters, car accidents, sudden deaths of friends or loved ones? Those catch you in whatever state you happen to be found.
Today, as I dressed, I was very cognizant of my doctor's appointment. I am determined that this be a defining moment, a turning point - away from the ever present "something isn't right, but we don't know what it is" to "everything looks good, have a great life." Dress for success, they say. So I pay particular attention to what colors I wear (bright blue to accent the gray hair), select the sapphire blue earrings I picked up in Kentucky at a conference, complete with the necklace I ordered later, do a full nine yards with the makeup and hair. I will look ready. Ready for a special day, for meeting someone important, for being the career professional that I am.
It is important to my work at Jairus House that I be mentally engaged fully, ready to do what needs to be done without the constant nagging thought that at any minute I could be dragged back into death defying treatment for life threatening illness. Even though I have made that decision, it feels like I am still on the merry-go-round. I want it settled.
The nurse calls me back. My blood pressure is high. I wait quietly in the examination room. I am ready to ask the hard questions, to press for decisions, to unentangle myself from this web. (Like I can do anything! Really, it all boils down to the hours I have spent praying for release from the torture. God is more than able to answer those prayers).
The doctor breezes in. Before I can ask the questions, she herself answers them. PET scan looks good, in fact, some of the glands have shrunk, others have enlarged a bit - typical symptoms for follicular lymphoma. She did consult a number of doctors and present my symptoms and test results at a number of symposia, all agree. Nothing to be overly concerned with, just need to continue monitoring in case anything changes.
Should I see an lymph expert? They won't see me unless the glands are larger, a biopsy is done, and the results are positive. Nothing is biopsy-able at this point. Should I explore what else this might be? No, there's really nothing else to consider. She is 99% sure this is follicular lymphoma, and a very low grade, non aggressive case that will likely be exactly as it is for the rest of my long life. [death sentence removed].
Even if they had the proof that's what I have, the specialists wouldn't do anything about it. They only treat if a gland becomes a problem, and then its usually a chemo pill that has few side effects, is easily tolerated. What about the tiredness that comes and goes? Still a result of the initial chemo. Yes, the PET scan will stir that up.
The plan from here? Continue the PET scans every 3 months, tapering them to 4, then 6 after awhile. If I find there is a gland that's bothering me, they will take a look and see if they can get a decent biopsy. What about the radiation from the PET scans? How damaging is that? Less dangerous than the cancer suddenly becoming aggressive and spreading to my bone or lungs or liver or spleen (that's where this type of cancer would go next). Sigh.
Where does that leave me? I'm moving forward with life as I have been, making plans, launching PrayerSong and Jairus House, traveling, taking coursework, attending conferences, presenting, writing, singing, conducting, practicing, caring for Drew and the grandbabies. The way I see it, there is Cancer and there is cancer. This one, if I indeed really have it, is just cancer. No big deal. And it gosh darn better stay put and quit bothering me. I am, after all, dressed for a glorious destiny, and I plan to go out and enjoy it.
But there are days when you know you are headed for an event that is beyond the normal routine of life, something important, momentous even, an event that may alter the very course of your life. Those days don't come along often, and we recognize them in unique ways, ways that often include how we dress.
I think of things like when you graduate from kindergarten, or are in elementary school, and you have a part in a pageant, or are a contestant in a spelling bee; in high school when your team won the state play offs and you have that award banquet, better yet, prom night! When you play your first recital or graduate from high school, then college, your first day on a new job, your wedding day - your friend's wedding day - your child's wedding day - the day you dedicate/christen your child - or stand up for someone else's child!
There are also times when you will meet someone important, someone you want to look your best for. For us growing up, that included Sundays when you came into God's house. I think of when I attended the inauguration of Skidmore College's new president, and Hillary Clinton made an appearance, or last summer when the new library was dedicated and a number of local political figures came for the ribbon cutting ceremony.
Sometimes we do not see a life altering event coming. Who could anticipate things like natural disasters, car accidents, sudden deaths of friends or loved ones? Those catch you in whatever state you happen to be found.
Today, as I dressed, I was very cognizant of my doctor's appointment. I am determined that this be a defining moment, a turning point - away from the ever present "something isn't right, but we don't know what it is" to "everything looks good, have a great life." Dress for success, they say. So I pay particular attention to what colors I wear (bright blue to accent the gray hair), select the sapphire blue earrings I picked up in Kentucky at a conference, complete with the necklace I ordered later, do a full nine yards with the makeup and hair. I will look ready. Ready for a special day, for meeting someone important, for being the career professional that I am.
It is important to my work at Jairus House that I be mentally engaged fully, ready to do what needs to be done without the constant nagging thought that at any minute I could be dragged back into death defying treatment for life threatening illness. Even though I have made that decision, it feels like I am still on the merry-go-round. I want it settled.
The nurse calls me back. My blood pressure is high. I wait quietly in the examination room. I am ready to ask the hard questions, to press for decisions, to unentangle myself from this web. (Like I can do anything! Really, it all boils down to the hours I have spent praying for release from the torture. God is more than able to answer those prayers).
The doctor breezes in. Before I can ask the questions, she herself answers them. PET scan looks good, in fact, some of the glands have shrunk, others have enlarged a bit - typical symptoms for follicular lymphoma. She did consult a number of doctors and present my symptoms and test results at a number of symposia, all agree. Nothing to be overly concerned with, just need to continue monitoring in case anything changes.
Should I see an lymph expert? They won't see me unless the glands are larger, a biopsy is done, and the results are positive. Nothing is biopsy-able at this point. Should I explore what else this might be? No, there's really nothing else to consider. She is 99% sure this is follicular lymphoma, and a very low grade, non aggressive case that will likely be exactly as it is for the rest of my long life. [death sentence removed].
Even if they had the proof that's what I have, the specialists wouldn't do anything about it. They only treat if a gland becomes a problem, and then its usually a chemo pill that has few side effects, is easily tolerated. What about the tiredness that comes and goes? Still a result of the initial chemo. Yes, the PET scan will stir that up.
The plan from here? Continue the PET scans every 3 months, tapering them to 4, then 6 after awhile. If I find there is a gland that's bothering me, they will take a look and see if they can get a decent biopsy. What about the radiation from the PET scans? How damaging is that? Less dangerous than the cancer suddenly becoming aggressive and spreading to my bone or lungs or liver or spleen (that's where this type of cancer would go next). Sigh.
Where does that leave me? I'm moving forward with life as I have been, making plans, launching PrayerSong and Jairus House, traveling, taking coursework, attending conferences, presenting, writing, singing, conducting, practicing, caring for Drew and the grandbabies. The way I see it, there is Cancer and there is cancer. This one, if I indeed really have it, is just cancer. No big deal. And it gosh darn better stay put and quit bothering me. I am, after all, dressed for a glorious destiny, and I plan to go out and enjoy it.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Strategic Defense
All week I have driven home for lunch, something I rarely ever do unless there is a driving reason (Drew has a day off of school, I forgot to bring something I need for work, I need to change shoes, etc). I don't know why I started doing it, but it felt right.
At first, I just thought it was because I was too tired to make a lunch to take, but could easily have popped over to Garlock Commons and picked up the entree of the day. Then I thought maybe it was because I have been teaching so many classes, I just needed a break and wanted to get out of the building. But I could also go anywhere on campus to take a break.
No, I think its more of a strategic defense against what I will hear tomorrow at the doctor's. Certainly, she will talk about the last PET scan. But this time there is the added concern on my part about the tiredness that is back, and now about my throat which aches all the time, probably as a result of glands that are swollen enough as to be palpable and visible.
So I return to the house where I can warm up, feel comfortable, fortify myself. I need to ask the hard questions this time. If this is not cancer, what else could it be and who should I see about it? If this is cancer, shouldn't I be seeing a lymph specialist, and who would that be? If you are still stumped, perhaps I should see someone else who can figure it out. And why don't you listen when I ask if my glands being swollen are a result of all the radiation I have endured? Should we really be doing all these PET tests? Do you even know the potential side effects from continued exposure?
It will not be an easy conversation. Up until lately, the swollen glands have been in my groin or under my arms. Painful, yes. But the effect has mostly been about what I can't comfortably wear, not worries about losing ability to function. Now with my throat so achy, I worry about being able to talk, to sing, to swallow. I don't want to lose my voice. I don't want to mess around with feeling like I am choking. Well, I don't dwell on it. I pray over it. And apparently I go home to prepare myself for the unknown, whatever that may entail. The calm before the storm? Perhaps.
At first, I just thought it was because I was too tired to make a lunch to take, but could easily have popped over to Garlock Commons and picked up the entree of the day. Then I thought maybe it was because I have been teaching so many classes, I just needed a break and wanted to get out of the building. But I could also go anywhere on campus to take a break.
No, I think its more of a strategic defense against what I will hear tomorrow at the doctor's. Certainly, she will talk about the last PET scan. But this time there is the added concern on my part about the tiredness that is back, and now about my throat which aches all the time, probably as a result of glands that are swollen enough as to be palpable and visible.
So I return to the house where I can warm up, feel comfortable, fortify myself. I need to ask the hard questions this time. If this is not cancer, what else could it be and who should I see about it? If this is cancer, shouldn't I be seeing a lymph specialist, and who would that be? If you are still stumped, perhaps I should see someone else who can figure it out. And why don't you listen when I ask if my glands being swollen are a result of all the radiation I have endured? Should we really be doing all these PET tests? Do you even know the potential side effects from continued exposure?
It will not be an easy conversation. Up until lately, the swollen glands have been in my groin or under my arms. Painful, yes. But the effect has mostly been about what I can't comfortably wear, not worries about losing ability to function. Now with my throat so achy, I worry about being able to talk, to sing, to swallow. I don't want to lose my voice. I don't want to mess around with feeling like I am choking. Well, I don't dwell on it. I pray over it. And apparently I go home to prepare myself for the unknown, whatever that may entail. The calm before the storm? Perhaps.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Nervous
He sat in my office and twiddled with his hat, not sure what to expect, this tall, lanky young man. His professor required him to meet with a librarian for consultation on a paper they are assigned, and he drew my name from the list. His email had been polite and brief.
I realized how awkward it must be for him, working with an older woman who is a total stranger. I have been fascinated with his other classmates' topics ~ women aviators in world war II, napoleon's military strategies, the influence of English police evolution on American police, how the advent of the nuclear bomb has changed our society ~ I want to hear their presentations, to explore how they see things.
I asked him the topic of his paper. He answers," The White Rose." Didn't ring a bell with me, so I asked him to tell me about it.
His eyes softened, and he spoke with quiet gentleness as he stared at his boots. It was a group of six German students who had bravely spoken against Hitler, clearly stating that what he was proposing was wrong. They passed out a few pamphlets, and paid for their beliefs with their lives. Beheaded. Guillotined. Cut down in the prime of life despite their nationality.
I am fascinated, drawn in to his research, on the hunt. Motivated as much by my curiosity as by the fire I see in his eyes, we explore databases for clues. I go beyond what I have done for others. Something about his connection to this project. What do I read in his attitude? A hunger, an intensity, a yearning to understand what drove those young students, undoubtedly his own age, to do what they did. Did they know they would give their lives for speaking an unpopular truth? Would they still have spoken out? Their cause was right and in the end, truth won out. Could they have made their case differently, with less dire results? He will settle for no less than truth. Hans Scholl, the leader, would be proud.
Do I sense that this young man identifies in some way with them? How will their story shape his life? It is as if he knows something important about this story, something necessary to a part of his own life. He connects with each article and book with an almost visceral satisfaction as we gather information. He will write a dynamic paper. I tell him I would like to read it when he is done. He grins a crooked, shy smile and nods as he shuffles that printouts together and gathers up his stuff.
Perhaps there is hope for this generation after all.
I realized how awkward it must be for him, working with an older woman who is a total stranger. I have been fascinated with his other classmates' topics ~ women aviators in world war II, napoleon's military strategies, the influence of English police evolution on American police, how the advent of the nuclear bomb has changed our society ~ I want to hear their presentations, to explore how they see things.
I asked him the topic of his paper. He answers," The White Rose." Didn't ring a bell with me, so I asked him to tell me about it.
His eyes softened, and he spoke with quiet gentleness as he stared at his boots. It was a group of six German students who had bravely spoken against Hitler, clearly stating that what he was proposing was wrong. They passed out a few pamphlets, and paid for their beliefs with their lives. Beheaded. Guillotined. Cut down in the prime of life despite their nationality.
I am fascinated, drawn in to his research, on the hunt. Motivated as much by my curiosity as by the fire I see in his eyes, we explore databases for clues. I go beyond what I have done for others. Something about his connection to this project. What do I read in his attitude? A hunger, an intensity, a yearning to understand what drove those young students, undoubtedly his own age, to do what they did. Did they know they would give their lives for speaking an unpopular truth? Would they still have spoken out? Their cause was right and in the end, truth won out. Could they have made their case differently, with less dire results? He will settle for no less than truth. Hans Scholl, the leader, would be proud.
Do I sense that this young man identifies in some way with them? How will their story shape his life? It is as if he knows something important about this story, something necessary to a part of his own life. He connects with each article and book with an almost visceral satisfaction as we gather information. He will write a dynamic paper. I tell him I would like to read it when he is done. He grins a crooked, shy smile and nods as he shuffles that printouts together and gathers up his stuff.
Perhaps there is hope for this generation after all.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Angry Geese
This was no organized gaggle of geese flying in orderly V formation to any predetermined destination. This was a gnat-like swarm of darting, writhing, honking huge birds swirling over the parking lot making enough noise to wake the dead. I could not figure out what they were so riled up about. There weren't any injured birds that I could see, no sound of gunshots (I should hope not in the middle of town), no kids pelting anyone with stones.
I stood there a few minutes watching them, assuming they would eventually calm down and go about their business. How long they had been there I don't know (my office doesn't have an outside window). But after fifteen or twenty minutes, I gave up, swept the accumulation of snow from my car, climbed in and drove home.
Maybe they feel cheated. After several days of forty and fifty degree sunny weather, the day's snow and wind seemed unfair. Maybe they thought winter was over and began their northward journey too early, and they resent being exposed to such weather. Whatever the reason, when I drove past campus later, they were gone. Hopefully they went back to where the days are balmy and comfortable. Perhaps I should go with.
I stood there a few minutes watching them, assuming they would eventually calm down and go about their business. How long they had been there I don't know (my office doesn't have an outside window). But after fifteen or twenty minutes, I gave up, swept the accumulation of snow from my car, climbed in and drove home.
Maybe they feel cheated. After several days of forty and fifty degree sunny weather, the day's snow and wind seemed unfair. Maybe they thought winter was over and began their northward journey too early, and they resent being exposed to such weather. Whatever the reason, when I drove past campus later, they were gone. Hopefully they went back to where the days are balmy and comfortable. Perhaps I should go with.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Bird Heaven
Today as I left the apartment, I noticed for the first time that the neighbor's bird feeder was occupied with a half dozen little sparrows pecking happily at the bountiful supply. I never see birds there, and small wonder! There must be two dozen wind chimes hung from the balcony, twinkling with every little waft of air - enough to scare away the boldest crow.
Beside that, she has a little muffin dog that barks noisily everytime anything moves outside the sliding glass doors. And if that isn't enough to keep birds away in droves, the upstairs neighbor smokes like a fiend, and habitually litters the entire area with his smelly cigarette butts. Poor birds don't stand a chance.
Today, the sky is gloriously blue and cloudless, brushed with sun like a lobster drenched in butter. The air is so still not a leaf flutters. The dog is remarkably silent and the upstairs neighbor not yet stirring. So these bold little sparrows are feasting to their hearts content, twittering away, flitting about pecking, lifting their heads, fluffing their feathers. They don't seem to mind that the same seeds have hung there for months untouched and unchanged. It is a feast of which they take full advantage.
May I be smart enough to recognize a windfall when I find one.
Beside that, she has a little muffin dog that barks noisily everytime anything moves outside the sliding glass doors. And if that isn't enough to keep birds away in droves, the upstairs neighbor smokes like a fiend, and habitually litters the entire area with his smelly cigarette butts. Poor birds don't stand a chance.
Today, the sky is gloriously blue and cloudless, brushed with sun like a lobster drenched in butter. The air is so still not a leaf flutters. The dog is remarkably silent and the upstairs neighbor not yet stirring. So these bold little sparrows are feasting to their hearts content, twittering away, flitting about pecking, lifting their heads, fluffing their feathers. They don't seem to mind that the same seeds have hung there for months untouched and unchanged. It is a feast of which they take full advantage.
May I be smart enough to recognize a windfall when I find one.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Leaving Compline
My friend and I love to go to Compline. How wonderful it is to sit in the candlelit sanctuary and watch the soft light gleam on the polished woodwork of the pews and the ornate scroll work on the sacristy. The forms of angels holding up the pulpits and altars, the muted figures in the Last Supper wall hanging create a sense of sacredness.
You hear the nine o'clock bells toll, and you count them in your head. You know that as the last vibration dies away, the robed singers will silently enter, surrounding the communion table, their black music stands each lighted with a tall white candle.
They place their music on the stand and wait for the director's measured signals, and suddenly the music begins. At first, just one deep voice chanting words of comfort and encouragement for us as we face another long night. Then other voices wind their tones around the chancel until the entire choir - all eighteen of them - pour their flowing sound into the quiet air where it rises the full twenty feet to the top of the dome, flooding out into the congregation, lifting us up with its velvet fluidity, caressing our hearts with joy and confidence in Christ whose words are true, whose promises are dependable, who will not leave us alone.
I close my eyes, reveling in the palpable sounds, especially blessed by the motets and their unexpected harmonic turns. I hear my friend breathe deeply and exhale slowly. I do the same. It is delicious, being bathed in golden vibrations of harmony filled with uplifting texts. I want it to go on and on forever.
Too soon the half hour is up. The singers close their music books and silently exit stage right, followed by the director, his brown robe swishing slightly. Two priests make their way up the aisle, snuffers in hand, their shoes thudding dully on the bare wood floor. They genuflect at the altar, then begin extinguishing the candles at the back of the chancel. Darkness overtakes the dimly lit space, eating away at the light like bites out of a cookie. People linger in the pews, reluctant to leave. We are shocked at being expelled so rudely. Don't turn out the lights and make us go out into the cold cruel world! We want to stay where it is warm and safe.
But the darkness is too hard to fight. By ones and twos we leave, brushed out by the priests who move methodically through the sanctuary, sweeping it clean of its light and its occupants. Our one consolation: God leaves with us, in our hearts and in our minds. We are not alone even though we have left the building.
You hear the nine o'clock bells toll, and you count them in your head. You know that as the last vibration dies away, the robed singers will silently enter, surrounding the communion table, their black music stands each lighted with a tall white candle.
They place their music on the stand and wait for the director's measured signals, and suddenly the music begins. At first, just one deep voice chanting words of comfort and encouragement for us as we face another long night. Then other voices wind their tones around the chancel until the entire choir - all eighteen of them - pour their flowing sound into the quiet air where it rises the full twenty feet to the top of the dome, flooding out into the congregation, lifting us up with its velvet fluidity, caressing our hearts with joy and confidence in Christ whose words are true, whose promises are dependable, who will not leave us alone.
I close my eyes, reveling in the palpable sounds, especially blessed by the motets and their unexpected harmonic turns. I hear my friend breathe deeply and exhale slowly. I do the same. It is delicious, being bathed in golden vibrations of harmony filled with uplifting texts. I want it to go on and on forever.
Too soon the half hour is up. The singers close their music books and silently exit stage right, followed by the director, his brown robe swishing slightly. Two priests make their way up the aisle, snuffers in hand, their shoes thudding dully on the bare wood floor. They genuflect at the altar, then begin extinguishing the candles at the back of the chancel. Darkness overtakes the dimly lit space, eating away at the light like bites out of a cookie. People linger in the pews, reluctant to leave. We are shocked at being expelled so rudely. Don't turn out the lights and make us go out into the cold cruel world! We want to stay where it is warm and safe.
But the darkness is too hard to fight. By ones and twos we leave, brushed out by the priests who move methodically through the sanctuary, sweeping it clean of its light and its occupants. Our one consolation: God leaves with us, in our hearts and in our minds. We are not alone even though we have left the building.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Slain
Sleet and freezing rain - slain. That's what you feel like when you have to go out in the stuff. It took me over an hour to extricate my poor Baby from the parking spot, between shoveling off the car (three inches of snow crusted over with a layer of ice) and then the blacktop, buried beneath the same. I kept wishing someone would come along and give me a push. The thought occured to me that after I shovel the space out and leave, some lazy guy (this place is full of smoking, drinking, out of work men) will come along and park there, not caring that I spent so much time clearing it out. It's enough to make you cuss, but I will not get upset. I will leave it in God's hands.
The great thing was that I didn't have to drive far, and the store was virtually empty. No line! No cart jockeying! No noise! I was able to complete my errands and get out of there in record time. I know I have a limited time to get things done before my minimal supply of energy runs out, so I am trying to get the music for PrayerSong ready. There are at least two and maybe three women joining us tomorrow, and I need to have full folders of music all organized, punched and ready for them. We get few rehearsals, and I don't want to waste any precious time organizing music.
Once that's done, any left over energy will go for housework (the place is a mess) and laundry (the very thought of trudging down those creepy cellar steps makes me cringe). I also bought some Easter things for my sweet little grand daughters Katie and Kelly, and if I have energy left over, I will package that up to mail. If not, I will do it Monday morning.
Slow and easy. Go at the pace you can sustain without killing yourself. I gave myself permission long ago to just not do things when I find myself in an energy crisis. So I don't deliver on something. The world will not come to an end. Let people think what they will. I can only do what I can do, I make no apologies. Somehow things eventually happen and the world moves on. For now, I believe I will take a nap, and perhaps feel more like doing a few more things later.
The great thing was that I didn't have to drive far, and the store was virtually empty. No line! No cart jockeying! No noise! I was able to complete my errands and get out of there in record time. I know I have a limited time to get things done before my minimal supply of energy runs out, so I am trying to get the music for PrayerSong ready. There are at least two and maybe three women joining us tomorrow, and I need to have full folders of music all organized, punched and ready for them. We get few rehearsals, and I don't want to waste any precious time organizing music.
Once that's done, any left over energy will go for housework (the place is a mess) and laundry (the very thought of trudging down those creepy cellar steps makes me cringe). I also bought some Easter things for my sweet little grand daughters Katie and Kelly, and if I have energy left over, I will package that up to mail. If not, I will do it Monday morning.
Slow and easy. Go at the pace you can sustain without killing yourself. I gave myself permission long ago to just not do things when I find myself in an energy crisis. So I don't deliver on something. The world will not come to an end. Let people think what they will. I can only do what I can do, I make no apologies. Somehow things eventually happen and the world moves on. For now, I believe I will take a nap, and perhaps feel more like doing a few more things later.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Wham
Where did that come from? I have been feeling well, energy levels dependable, slight tightness in the throat. Suddenly today, after teaching two morning music theory sections about finding music analyses, my whole body is exhausted. I try to move, and it feels like I am pushing through wet cement. It take Hurculean efforts to walk, to pick up things, to breathe. I don't understand. Nothing has changed.
Except for my neck. Where I used to have a chin, there seems only to be swollen glands that make my throat tight and achy. This will not do. I was scheduled for another test Monday (cardio stress based on potential heart damage from the chemo - just checking) but they cancelled it because the insurance company has not approved it yet. Just as well. I'm pretty sure I would flunk at this rate.
Good thing Drew is at the Robotics meet. I came home from work and collapsed in the easy chair, too tired to even eat. I have had bouts of tiredness before, but this is over the edge. I'm sure it will pass. These things always do. Fortunately I don't have anything heavy scheduled for tomorrow - just preparing for PrayerSong rehearsal. And the inevitable housework. But I can't think about that tonight. Tonight I stare at the TV blaring away about I don't know what, and try to help my body relax and rest. Chamomile tea, warm applesauce, heating pad, and lots and lots of pillows.
If I can relax enough to sleep, I am sure tomorrow will be better. President Bush said when he can't sleep, he calls the White House pianist who comes and plays lullabies. And that's what PrayerSong is doing for cancer patients. So I will take a bit of my own medicine and put on a lullaby CD, followed by my favorite piano music (Chopin, Liszt, Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, Brahms. . .). I spray some herbal sleepytime aroma (made by a friend of mine from Connecticut) on my pillow, and sink down for the night. Sigh. Some days are just this way.
Except for my neck. Where I used to have a chin, there seems only to be swollen glands that make my throat tight and achy. This will not do. I was scheduled for another test Monday (cardio stress based on potential heart damage from the chemo - just checking) but they cancelled it because the insurance company has not approved it yet. Just as well. I'm pretty sure I would flunk at this rate.
Good thing Drew is at the Robotics meet. I came home from work and collapsed in the easy chair, too tired to even eat. I have had bouts of tiredness before, but this is over the edge. I'm sure it will pass. These things always do. Fortunately I don't have anything heavy scheduled for tomorrow - just preparing for PrayerSong rehearsal. And the inevitable housework. But I can't think about that tonight. Tonight I stare at the TV blaring away about I don't know what, and try to help my body relax and rest. Chamomile tea, warm applesauce, heating pad, and lots and lots of pillows.
If I can relax enough to sleep, I am sure tomorrow will be better. President Bush said when he can't sleep, he calls the White House pianist who comes and plays lullabies. And that's what PrayerSong is doing for cancer patients. So I will take a bit of my own medicine and put on a lullaby CD, followed by my favorite piano music (Chopin, Liszt, Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, Brahms. . .). I spray some herbal sleepytime aroma (made by a friend of mine from Connecticut) on my pillow, and sink down for the night. Sigh. Some days are just this way.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Icicles
Barrett Place is a covered alley in downtown Rochester between Java Joe's and Eastman School of Music that provides semi-protection against the elements when walking from the parking garage to Gibbs Street, location of not only the school and Eastman Theatre, but also Sibley Music Library, one of the premier music libraries in the nation.
Today I accompanied Roberts Wesleyan College's music theory classes on a field trip to Sibley to delve into the amazing treasure trove of music collections. Their first floor alone contains over 300,000 scores and doesn't even count the collected sets or rare books and special collections on the top floor where I used to work.
It was wonderful to catch up with former colleagues as I assisted students with their assignments. It's one thing to tell them what they will find at Sibley, and another to watch their eyes bug out as they discover an overwhelming amount of material about their music selection.
The two hours flew by, and all too soon I was walking back through Barrett Place towards the car, my head aswim with things I want to track down for my own research for PrayerSong. Maybe I can carve another few hours out this weekend to do more searching.
I glanced up and was surprised to see ice swords every foot or so, sticking straight out from the metal gutters on each side of the roof over the alley. It looked ridicolous, all those spikes hanging over the edge of the roof right where the seams of the metal met in a rigid track, looking for all the world like clear antennaes.
Crystal decorations. Party favors glistening in the sun, just starting to soften and melt, releasing a drop of water now and again. I wondered how they formed horizontal to the ground instead of pointing straight down like any sensible icicle would have done. Then I realized that the water had frozen in the track, and the sun had warmed the metal just enough for the frozen contents to slide halfway out. How unique!
Just at that moment, the sun hit all the ice sticks at the right angle to make them sparkle and dance and begin to drip all at the same time. It was like watching fireworks. Roof sparklers! What a glorious sight.
Today I accompanied Roberts Wesleyan College's music theory classes on a field trip to Sibley to delve into the amazing treasure trove of music collections. Their first floor alone contains over 300,000 scores and doesn't even count the collected sets or rare books and special collections on the top floor where I used to work.
It was wonderful to catch up with former colleagues as I assisted students with their assignments. It's one thing to tell them what they will find at Sibley, and another to watch their eyes bug out as they discover an overwhelming amount of material about their music selection.
The two hours flew by, and all too soon I was walking back through Barrett Place towards the car, my head aswim with things I want to track down for my own research for PrayerSong. Maybe I can carve another few hours out this weekend to do more searching.
I glanced up and was surprised to see ice swords every foot or so, sticking straight out from the metal gutters on each side of the roof over the alley. It looked ridicolous, all those spikes hanging over the edge of the roof right where the seams of the metal met in a rigid track, looking for all the world like clear antennaes.
Crystal decorations. Party favors glistening in the sun, just starting to soften and melt, releasing a drop of water now and again. I wondered how they formed horizontal to the ground instead of pointing straight down like any sensible icicle would have done. Then I realized that the water had frozen in the track, and the sun had warmed the metal just enough for the frozen contents to slide halfway out. How unique!
Just at that moment, the sun hit all the ice sticks at the right angle to make them sparkle and dance and begin to drip all at the same time. It was like watching fireworks. Roof sparklers! What a glorious sight.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
The Salute
More freezing rain. Predicted and delivered. On the way home from Robotics last night, Drew kept rolling down the window and sticking his hand out - must be he enjoys the sting of hard water driven into your fingers. "Ow! That hurts. This isn't frozen rain, its hail. Ow. Ow."
I knew morning would not be pretty. The weather guys on all the channels were out there experimenting with how long it would take to clear the frozen ice coating from your car - everything from just letting it warm up by itself to trying out different types of scrapers. Bottom line - give yourself extra time to unwrap the car.
I was half afraid I wouldn't be able to open the doors, but Baby cooperated fully. It was the trunk, where I keep the scraper in case the car doors are frozen shut, that needed some coaxing. It would have been a lot easier if it hadn't been snowing big wet sloppy flakes that covered everything an inch deep just in the ten minutes I was out there scraping the windows clear.
I stomped back into the house covered like a snowman and sogging wet, shaking off the white globs like a dog shakes its coat clear of water. Drew has been much better about getting up these days - mornings are considerably easier. We climbed in the car, backed out of the space with no problem, and headed towards the carpool pickup point.
As I drove down the main drive, almost all of the cars had their windsheild wipers pulled away from the windshield to avoid being frozen down. The arms pointed straight into the air, some with the blades removed for good measure, leaving stumps of metal punctuating the snow-filled vista.
It was ludicrous. I felt like a five star general reviewing the troops all standing at attention. I started to giggle. When did this become an accepted winter measure? Who started it? How did it catch on? Did it do any good, really? After all, you still have to chip the ice from the windsheild before you can even consider driving.
No matter. We reviewed the ranks properly, then backed into my waiting space, my own windsheild wipers flopping back and forth periodically, keeping the sloppy white stuff from drowning us. I wonder if Baby got a kick out of it?
I knew morning would not be pretty. The weather guys on all the channels were out there experimenting with how long it would take to clear the frozen ice coating from your car - everything from just letting it warm up by itself to trying out different types of scrapers. Bottom line - give yourself extra time to unwrap the car.
I was half afraid I wouldn't be able to open the doors, but Baby cooperated fully. It was the trunk, where I keep the scraper in case the car doors are frozen shut, that needed some coaxing. It would have been a lot easier if it hadn't been snowing big wet sloppy flakes that covered everything an inch deep just in the ten minutes I was out there scraping the windows clear.
I stomped back into the house covered like a snowman and sogging wet, shaking off the white globs like a dog shakes its coat clear of water. Drew has been much better about getting up these days - mornings are considerably easier. We climbed in the car, backed out of the space with no problem, and headed towards the carpool pickup point.
As I drove down the main drive, almost all of the cars had their windsheild wipers pulled away from the windshield to avoid being frozen down. The arms pointed straight into the air, some with the blades removed for good measure, leaving stumps of metal punctuating the snow-filled vista.
It was ludicrous. I felt like a five star general reviewing the troops all standing at attention. I started to giggle. When did this become an accepted winter measure? Who started it? How did it catch on? Did it do any good, really? After all, you still have to chip the ice from the windsheild before you can even consider driving.
No matter. We reviewed the ranks properly, then backed into my waiting space, my own windsheild wipers flopping back and forth periodically, keeping the sloppy white stuff from drowning us. I wonder if Baby got a kick out of it?
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Mr K
I had never met him, this grandfather of one of Drew's friends. I had been hearing about him and he had been bringing Drew home from Robotics work sessions, saving me so much time, energy and gas. I wondered that he was so willing to drive clear across the city to pick the boys up in the late evenings, but I was extremely grateful.
Tonight I finally met him. What a delightful gentleman! And extremely knowledgeable about many topics. You could see his love of life and a zest for living emanating from his face. I introduced myself, and he shook my hand with a hearty grasp, introducing himself as Drew's adopted grandfather. How delightful considering Drew's own grandfathers live a good 4+ hours away.
While we waited for Drew to complete his tasks, we chatted about construction and I listened with interest while he talked about various building projects he has worked on over the years, including his own house and the church he attends. Drew told me he has a knack for fixing things. Parts that just wouldn't cooperate on the robot, parts that everyone had tried to persuade to work, he would touch and it would behave as expected.
No one dimensional person, this elderly man who obviously keeps himself active and very involved in his children's and grandchildren's lives. His happiness at being there was apparent, and a vivid contrast to most of us parents who had come directly from work, dinnerless and tired from driving in the horrible weather, only to find that the half hour meeting would stretch into an hour and a half while things got checked, inventoried and packed. Even the teacher was weary as he scrutinized every task on the checklist.
The big competition is this weekend. Nerves were raw, tempers tightly controlled. The tension was almost palpable. Yet there was Mr. K, cracking jokes, volunteering to do more than his fair share, keeping tabs on the boys, and smiling happily. How easy it would have been for him to be grumpy. It surely wasn't his responsibility to make this event happen with quality and grace. I know he suffers with arthritis pain, and had spent part of the day involved with another demanding project.
For a man in his seventies, he was an encouragement to all, and one of the first to purchase a couple of tee shirts in support of the team. Yes, I am happy for Drew to have such a mentor setting an example of integrity and good sportsmanship to follow. I wonder if that has helped Drew be better about getting going in the morning?
Tonight I finally met him. What a delightful gentleman! And extremely knowledgeable about many topics. You could see his love of life and a zest for living emanating from his face. I introduced myself, and he shook my hand with a hearty grasp, introducing himself as Drew's adopted grandfather. How delightful considering Drew's own grandfathers live a good 4+ hours away.
While we waited for Drew to complete his tasks, we chatted about construction and I listened with interest while he talked about various building projects he has worked on over the years, including his own house and the church he attends. Drew told me he has a knack for fixing things. Parts that just wouldn't cooperate on the robot, parts that everyone had tried to persuade to work, he would touch and it would behave as expected.
No one dimensional person, this elderly man who obviously keeps himself active and very involved in his children's and grandchildren's lives. His happiness at being there was apparent, and a vivid contrast to most of us parents who had come directly from work, dinnerless and tired from driving in the horrible weather, only to find that the half hour meeting would stretch into an hour and a half while things got checked, inventoried and packed. Even the teacher was weary as he scrutinized every task on the checklist.
The big competition is this weekend. Nerves were raw, tempers tightly controlled. The tension was almost palpable. Yet there was Mr. K, cracking jokes, volunteering to do more than his fair share, keeping tabs on the boys, and smiling happily. How easy it would have been for him to be grumpy. It surely wasn't his responsibility to make this event happen with quality and grace. I know he suffers with arthritis pain, and had spent part of the day involved with another demanding project.
For a man in his seventies, he was an encouragement to all, and one of the first to purchase a couple of tee shirts in support of the team. Yes, I am happy for Drew to have such a mentor setting an example of integrity and good sportsmanship to follow. I wonder if that has helped Drew be better about getting going in the morning?
Monday, March 3, 2008
Expecting the Unexpected
Today I taught an early morning class, Music Theory, about library resources germane to their research. There is so much to tell them about, so little time. I had carefully put together a powerpoint with lists of resources for each format they might need to use for their upcoming papers.
I had anticipated about 20 students, since I had a list of their paper topics from the professor. I knew he had mentioned that another class might sit in, but I hadn't seen the reservation form or realized that we were going to have 32 students! Yikes!
I hurriedly copied a few more handouts, and lowered the second screen in the instruction lab, queuing it up for the same presentation. I should know about being prepared for the unexpected. I often have to change horses in mid stream and go another direction. Its one of those "transferable skills" people are always looking for.
As I talked, I watched the students. Some were interested and writing things down. Others were yawning, others quietly talking. I would ask them to click on different databases and search for their composers or topics, and most of them did a bit half heartedly. But when I showed them the databases of recordings they could access (classical repertoire), they all perked up. I walked them through how to navigate the interface, asked for a favorite composer and piece, brought it up.
I had the sound off and someone asked if I could turn on the sound, so I obliged. Unfortunately, the volume was turned up to high E, and I blasted them for a moment before I could turn the knob down.
Unexpected for all of us. It certainly woke up the half asleep and jarred people into the moment. From that point on the class was engaged in what I was showing them. Too bad I didn't present that part first!
Sometimes I think God must want to blast a trumpet in our ear to get our attention and wake us up so we will be engaged in the work at hand. Maybe He does!
I had anticipated about 20 students, since I had a list of their paper topics from the professor. I knew he had mentioned that another class might sit in, but I hadn't seen the reservation form or realized that we were going to have 32 students! Yikes!
I hurriedly copied a few more handouts, and lowered the second screen in the instruction lab, queuing it up for the same presentation. I should know about being prepared for the unexpected. I often have to change horses in mid stream and go another direction. Its one of those "transferable skills" people are always looking for.
As I talked, I watched the students. Some were interested and writing things down. Others were yawning, others quietly talking. I would ask them to click on different databases and search for their composers or topics, and most of them did a bit half heartedly. But when I showed them the databases of recordings they could access (classical repertoire), they all perked up. I walked them through how to navigate the interface, asked for a favorite composer and piece, brought it up.
I had the sound off and someone asked if I could turn on the sound, so I obliged. Unfortunately, the volume was turned up to high E, and I blasted them for a moment before I could turn the knob down.
Unexpected for all of us. It certainly woke up the half asleep and jarred people into the moment. From that point on the class was engaged in what I was showing them. Too bad I didn't present that part first!
Sometimes I think God must want to blast a trumpet in our ear to get our attention and wake us up so we will be engaged in the work at hand. Maybe He does!
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Music with Friends
My friend who sings in PrayerSong filled in at church today, playing for the service while our regular accompanist is away. What a joy to work with a friend doing what I love to do best - sing and praise God, encouraging others to do the same.
Even though she sang in a choir I conducted before, we are new at this, working together one on one. It takes time to sense each others rhythms, know what the other one is thinking, gain confidence. And yet we flowed together so smoothly! I had a chance to sing, something I don't get to do often, and I didn't even feel the usual case of jitters.
I think we will have a long season of working together, and I welcome the opportunity to settle in and be at peace in our performances. Without our own sense of peace and joy, we can hardly impart that to others. I look forward to services of healing where there is the sweet presence of the Holy Spirit that is so rare these days.
What a wonderful way to start a Sunday, one that was already packed with activities. It would have been so easy to have put my mind on the upcoming chime rehearsal (last one before we perform and those are always hectic) or on working at the library (my weekend) or on things still not done at home, or on the upcoming teaching week for which I am not ready.
Yet with my friend there, and with the pastor's focus on living at a sacred and savoring pace, I was able to be in the moment, fully focused on what was happening in the service, knowing my responsibilities well enough now not to have to constantly be thinking ahead to what I need to do next, just flowing. Harder for her I know since she is not familiar with the service pieces. Yet she did such a great job. It was nice. I am glad I will be doing more of this!
Even though she sang in a choir I conducted before, we are new at this, working together one on one. It takes time to sense each others rhythms, know what the other one is thinking, gain confidence. And yet we flowed together so smoothly! I had a chance to sing, something I don't get to do often, and I didn't even feel the usual case of jitters.
I think we will have a long season of working together, and I welcome the opportunity to settle in and be at peace in our performances. Without our own sense of peace and joy, we can hardly impart that to others. I look forward to services of healing where there is the sweet presence of the Holy Spirit that is so rare these days.
What a wonderful way to start a Sunday, one that was already packed with activities. It would have been so easy to have put my mind on the upcoming chime rehearsal (last one before we perform and those are always hectic) or on working at the library (my weekend) or on things still not done at home, or on the upcoming teaching week for which I am not ready.
Yet with my friend there, and with the pastor's focus on living at a sacred and savoring pace, I was able to be in the moment, fully focused on what was happening in the service, knowing my responsibilities well enough now not to have to constantly be thinking ahead to what I need to do next, just flowing. Harder for her I know since she is not familiar with the service pieces. Yet she did such a great job. It was nice. I am glad I will be doing more of this!
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Cradle Songs
One category of music PrayerSong sings is cradle songs, aka lullabies. I found many arrangements in the collections at Illinois, one of which was titled Celtic Lullaby. We sang it at rehearsal today, and when we finished reading it the first time, we all sighed. Its such a lovely piece, so gentle, so calm.
Not so much in the words:
Sweet babe, a golden cradle holds thee,
Soft a snow white fleece enfolds thee,
Fairest flowers are strewn before thee,
Sweet birds warble o’er thee.
Shoheen, sholo, lu lu lo.
Oh sleep my baby free from sorrow,
Bright thou’lt ope thine eyes tomorrow,
Sleep while o’er thy smiling slumbers
Angels change their numbers.
Shoheen, sholo, lu lu lo.
In fact, the text seems too silly and flowery. But with the music, better than a Valium and no side effects. Sung with women's voices, its especially quiet and comforting. It will be interesting to see what happens when we sing for cancer patients who are obviously *not* babies.
There is something in lullabies that touches the heart. For babies of course they say it mimics what they experienced in the womb, hearing their mother's voice and heartbeat etc. Particularly effective if sung while rocking the baby.
Well, I can't hold a cancer patient in my arms (at least not most of the time, though I have hugged many). But I can still sing to them "comfort music." Sort of like comfort foods. Ultimately, the comfort comes from God, knowing that He is with you and will never leave you. But if a heart can be momentarily comforted with gentle music, that's a good thing.
So I will continue to practice that piece until it becomes such a part of me that I find myself humming and singing it in all seasons. And much of the other music we are learning. May God use it to bring solace where there is pain.
Not so much in the words:
Sweet babe, a golden cradle holds thee,
Soft a snow white fleece enfolds thee,
Fairest flowers are strewn before thee,
Sweet birds warble o’er thee.
Shoheen, sholo, lu lu lo.
Oh sleep my baby free from sorrow,
Bright thou’lt ope thine eyes tomorrow,
Sleep while o’er thy smiling slumbers
Angels change their numbers.
Shoheen, sholo, lu lu lo.
In fact, the text seems too silly and flowery. But with the music, better than a Valium and no side effects. Sung with women's voices, its especially quiet and comforting. It will be interesting to see what happens when we sing for cancer patients who are obviously *not* babies.
There is something in lullabies that touches the heart. For babies of course they say it mimics what they experienced in the womb, hearing their mother's voice and heartbeat etc. Particularly effective if sung while rocking the baby.
Well, I can't hold a cancer patient in my arms (at least not most of the time, though I have hugged many). But I can still sing to them "comfort music." Sort of like comfort foods. Ultimately, the comfort comes from God, knowing that He is with you and will never leave you. But if a heart can be momentarily comforted with gentle music, that's a good thing.
So I will continue to practice that piece until it becomes such a part of me that I find myself humming and singing it in all seasons. And much of the other music we are learning. May God use it to bring solace where there is pain.