On Lacking: The Now that leads to Always

This morning I wake up far earlier than I expect to.  My first appointment is at 10:15--why not sleep until at least 9:45?! I have been up until wee hours every night this past week, after all, tucked away in my corner of the orchestra as opera rehearsals rage on in expectation of this weekend's performances.  But, alas, 5:49.  Eyes wide.

I get up.  Make a giant pot of coffee.  Sit down at my piano, and pull out: Bartok.  The Sonata I played for my graduate recital,
ten (holy cow, t-e-n) years ago.

It's strange that this is how I choose to start my day, because the reality is: I hated that dang sonata.  I did not appreciate its inherent aggressive attitude, or the fact that it required a lot of loud banging of giant key-clusters from a lovely sweet and gentle girl such as myself.
Lyrical is far more my style, Bartok!

But I worked and I toiled; it was on my program, and it had to be done.

One lesson day, I handed the music to my teacher, sat down at the piano, and proceeded to crap all over it, from beginning to end (please excuse all of the lovely sweetness I seem to have lost since then...).

When it was all over, that dear lady looked at me.  Not typically a mincer of words, she inclined her head toward me, very very kindly.  Speaking softly and gently, she told me how one day when she was in school she brought a difficult piece in to play for her teacher.  When she finished, he told her he believed in always finding something positive to say.  He said he liked her socks.

"So," she said, looking me directly in the eye.  

"I really like your sweater."

I looked back at her, tears glistening everywhere, 

and wailed "It's not even my sweater!!"

Needless to say, it was not a very good day for Bartok, or for me.  Eventually, though, I got it together well enough.  I played it for the recital, well enough. And then, I put it away. I've re-played every other piece from that program in the ten years since, but not that one.  That one had gotten the best of me, and I didn't want to remember it.  It exposed my weaknesses, and I simply wanted to forget that when it came down to it, I was only...well enough.

[What if they find me lacking, now, and always?]

So is it surprising that today, in this weary early morning, in this season that is kind of wearing me down to my emotional and physical nubbins, I take it out again? After ten years of putting it behind me?

I think it is.

But I also think, it isn't.

And here's why:

We all know that my experience with the score of this opera started out as a beast leading its victim smack into the middle of the arena.
I was not amused.  Terrified of the mistakes, of the being lacking.
[What if...lacking...now...always...?]

But I was also determined: It would not get the best of me.

And now, in this final week of preparation, relegated to an impossibly annoying little keyboard in the very back of the stage, unable to see and sometimes even hear the singers I entered the battle with those seemingly few weeks ago, playing off of two bare-bones harpsichord/celesta/piano/harp scores that are really quite uninteresting, I find:

I miss that piano score.

I miss the complexity of it, the beauty of it, the reward of moving my hands and my arms all over the keys and marveling at how it is possible that I know so easily where to go and what to do to make such glorious sound.

The thing that was so daunting has become the thing I miss.  And the journey of entering deeply into the mess of it, of setting my mind to the difficulty of it, of coming to know it far more richly than I ever could have predicted and of finding more of myself in the process of it,
has left me in a place of:

I want to know who I am.  I want to know who I am, as a pianist.

So yesterday I dig out the CD from that ten-year ago recital, the CD I've listened to only a handful of times, not wanting to hear all of the things I wished were different.

And I listen to it.  I listen this time for the wholeness of it, for the beauty and the mistakes.  I realize: Enough of my life has been lived listening only for mistakes.

And I find that it really is quite beautiful. I find that I hear some things differently now, that I'd change things if I were to play it all over again.  And I find that even the mistakes are beautiful in their own way, because they are mine.  Ten years ago, they were me, being me,
on my journey of learning to live.

And so this morning I pull out that crazy Bartok, after a ten year hiatus.  And I discover:

It's not as bad as I remember it being.  I even kind of like it,
and it's actually pretty easy to play.

It turns out that in these ten years, in this opera season: I've grown.
As a pianist, as a person.  In knowledge; in being me.

It turns out that this morning I wake up early to find that the only failure I will not accept from here on out is the failure to enter the mess.

For, if now I decide to keep myself clear from danger of mistake,
then always lacking you would in fact find me.
Lacking all that I might have otherwise come to know;
the richness of who I could have come to be.

You would find me lacking, me.

Here is Good:

Soaking up final early morning opera practices.

"Where were we when the morning stars sang together, 

and all the sons of God shouted for joy?"

[~Madeleine L'Engle, The Irrational Season]

At my piano Madeleine, at my piano.

Here is Good:

This beauty of a piano shall be missed.

Here is Good:

In this whirlwind October,

 finding 15 minutes:

[Because, in the spirit of honesty,

this week went from 

'wow, this full fun life is so great!'

to

'wow.  I am losing. my. freaking. mind.'

...pretty quick.]

Here is Good:

Today:

7:30 - 9: Arrive at Institute.  Make pot of coffee.  Email.  [Send info to grad assistant regarding what needs to happen at Institute this week, ask upcoming speakers for publicity elements, indicate availability for opera-orchestra rehearsals, contact new piano family.]  Finalize powerpoint for 9 am meeting.

9 - 10: Facilitate meeting regarding MUS241, its content and revision.

10 - 11:15: Email. [Life Group regarding birthday dinner, doodle poll for piano kids Fall Piano Party, is there lunch scheduled to arrive for tomorrow's talk?!?!?, draft interview requests for applicants for Institute Administrative Support Coordinator position, respond to requests for talk dates.] Call the caterer, update calendar.

11:15 - 1:15:  Think, read, and brainstorm new study I want to do.

1:15 - 2:15:  Meet with doc student/teacher of MUS241, listen/question/coach for professional development.

2:15 - 3:15: Walk to car.  Go to post office.  Clean up cottage.

3:15 - 6:30: Piano time with children ages 6-10.  Halloween songs!

6:30 - 8:30: Read grant proposals from a wide variety of scholars in a wide variety of fields at Penn State.  Reflect on strengths and weaknesses, make recommendations for or against funding.  Have deep conversation with friend who spontaneously drops by, regarding the problem of pain and God. Make a quesadilla.

8:30 - 10:30: Play piano for opera staging rehearsal.

10:45:  Arrive home.  Putz around, wound up, reflecting on the wide breadth of my life, and how it perfectly suits my dislike of being bored.

Tomorrow: Wake up, participate in 3 music/piano lessons with children under the age of 5, facilitate an Institute scholar's talk, plan for a meeting, work on one article on my list of articles to write, have another meeting, go to opera rehearsal.  Life Group Birthday Dinner! Home, dishes? Bed.

***

And all I want to say is: My life is so interesting.  [Here, is good.]

Here is Good:

"I do not want ever to be indifferent to the joys and beauties of this life.  For through these, as through pain, we are enabled to see purpose in randomness, pattern in chaos.  We do not have to understand in order to believe that behind the mystery and the fascination there is love.

...The questions worth asking are not answerable.  Could we be fascinated by a Maker who was completely explained and understood? The mystery is tremendous, and the fascination that keeps me returning to the questions affirms that they are worth asking, and that any God worth believing in is the God not only of the immensities of the galaxies I rejoice in at night when I walk the dogs, but also the God of love who cares about the sufferings of us human beings and is here, with us, for us, in our pain and in our joy.

I come across four lines of Yeats and copy them down:

But Love has pitched her mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent."

~Madeleine L'Engle, Two Part Invention

Here is Good:

 First meetings;

sleepy snuggles;

precious quality time.

Here is Good:

Here is Good:

Warm beverages, thoughtful friends, sweet children, and piano time, all wrapped into one precious afternoon.

Here is Good:

A "good morning Aunty Lauren" text 

from this wise little face.

[That moment when your baby brother becomes a daddy;

meet Asher Finley Kooistra!]

Underground, the Real moments

Once upon a time ago, I was living in a season of needing to remind myself of what was good, so as to not get lost in the places I was lost.  And, in that same season, it was painfully clear to me that I had shut my mind and my memory to much of my life leading up to that point.

It occurred to me that when my brothers or my friends were to talk about "remember when?!"....I could not, in point of fact, remember.
But, show me a picture?  Suddenly, there I was, returned.

And so, this blog began with dual purpose:
Look at what's good, and remember it.

And it turned out that I loved to blog, loved the creative outlet of mixing pictures with words, recording moments and spinning them into story.

Which, fast forward to how I've come to approach life, means:
I always have a blog in mind.
And I take a lot of pictures.

There is one person in my life, however, who challenges me on this.  Frequently.  Quite verbally, actually.

And, via other means of communication:

It makes the moment "un-real" she says,
to stop what you're doing and take a picture.
[She doesn't like to make moments "un-real",
if you couldn't tell.]  

What she means is "we're sharing in this time together, and you just broke the moment by drawing attention to it".

She's a wise child.

I thought about this, over the weekend, during moments where whipping out the camera would have been truly odd:

Moments like lounging on the bed, in front of the tv for after-school relaxing, a messy mound of limbs all wrapped up together...

Moments of early morning as I wrap myself in my sweater and pretend that I am functional alongside  9-year-old commentary, such as, "you seem grumpy..."...

Moments of conversation over hair brushing and braiding, before we head out the door and share more thoughts together, walking along to school, our sides bumping together in easy camaraderie as we go...

Moments of overhearing the precious and time-stamped play conversation of these two not-yet-grown girls, or the singing loudly in the car, scatting and laughter all thrown in together...

These are the moments that I found myself knitting together in my heart.  These are the underground, the stolen moments.  The real ones.

Because here's the thing: No picture, no blog can ever capture the fullness of the sinews of life that get shared in between the camera.  It can't pour the feelings back in to you, can't keep the funny turn of phrase and the laughter that accompanies it inside of a magic jar.  It can't replay the little hand finding mine because she wants to know I'm there or the lilt of the laughing voice, calling my name.  It can't re-create the connection of "here we are, sharing together", no matter how much I want to hold on to--to not lose--that precious moment of time.

But, of course:  Still, I take the pictures.  Still, I write the blog.

Because here's the other thing:  That one captured moment can remind you that all the rest was there.

Would we truly remember how fun it was

  to dance in the bathroom with wildly done make-up and hair

if we didn't have a document like this to look back on?

But I hear her, that wise child of my soul:

This blog started because I was afraid of losing the moments, 

when the real moments are the underground moments, 

tucked inside of my heart.

Our Multi-Cultural Weekend

Every year I book out time with my two favorite girls, 

while their parents take a weekend away.

There are some typical things that happen,

 like swinging,

 pancakes of some delicious variety,

quietly shared moments,

and antics
[including but not limited to alarms set for 2:30 am,
by a child who knows she is adored].

As the babes get older, I find myself having some time to myself,

reading as I listen to their play,

reflecting as they entertain themselves
[with my camera it would seem...],

even my own swing.

And then, to keep things interesting, this year we found ourselves in the midst of a multi-cultural experience.

First, there was dinner at The Greek,

 which this one needed a little talking into

 but in the end we all loved.

Then there was the drive through Amish country,

 in one-lane construction, behind a truck holding a load of manure.
[The smell of tar and manure combined is terrible, just so you know.  In Sarah's words, it smelt as if we were "inside of someone's pants!"....a culture none of us want to experience ever again.]

 Ultimately our Amish adventure left us with treats,

and a stop at a country store for lunch
exposed us to the culture of country living.

Then, we hit the Asian market,

 for a dumpling making extravaganza

involving lots of chopping,

 inanity,

challenge,

and reward.

There were other cultures explored,

 

stepping back in time,

 and through whatever culture introduced Monkey Bread to the world.

Sunday morning church consisted of
making the dough and watching it rise,

then--chopped into pieces--

we rolled it all up in buttery cinnamon goodness.

And though we researched but could not find the original culture of the Bread of the Monkey, I have my suspicions that we did not really need to look far:

Multi-cultural or no, 

I'll take any kind of weekend with these, 

my favorite monkeys.