An evening with Patti Smith

The past few weeks of my life have been consumed by one name: Patti Smith.

The recipient of this year's IAH Medal for Distinguished Achievement, we have been preparing for her arrival, getting word out to our Penn State community that this is a moment they would not want to miss.

She's a Rock and Roll Hall of Famer, 

on Rolling Stone's Top 50 Acts to See Right Now.

So see her--we were saying.  See her, right now.

And then, last evening, we saw her indeed.  What's more, we tasted a bit of who she is, the sweet strength and the humor that mix inside of her.  We witnessed a powerful presence, as she shared herself with us from the stage.  I sat, I watched, I listened.  I experienced that moment when art collides with your deepest thoughts, the ones you didn't even know you had.  And I came away, a million seeds of reflection rolling through my mind.  Here, some of them.

~~~

Unfolding.
In reading her book Just Kids, which details her early years in New York and the unfolding of her career, I was most struck by how her singing and musicianship simply seemed to emerge.  Without plan, without premeditation, suddenly, there it was.  Once there, then, it seemed to take shape, grow with time.  And as a person who thinks quite a ton about the emerging musical behavior of children, I found this to be quite interesting.

At a small dinner before the ceremony, I sat across from her.  I watched and I listened.  And when she turned to ask me what it is that I do, I told her. I told her about the children, about their musical development, how I want to know how it works.  And then I told her: I'm curious about you too--how is it that your music unfolded for you?

She told me about her early years as a child, how she was drawn to opera, how in school she was always given the tenor lines to sing, how everyone sang around her, how a cappella music was a normalcy then.  She talked about how her singing in her 20s started as a way of breaking up poetry readings, to make things more interesting.

And I realized:  All of life is an unfolding, of being in a place where you can push in and try out and allow yourself to grow.  And I thought of those children I'm always thinking about, how the most important thing I can provide for them is a place to do just that--to push in, to try out, to allow themselves to grow.

 Courtesy of Institute for the Arts and Humanities, Sara Abu Bakr

Bravely go, but don't even think about it.
Later, I stood in the Auditorium, taking in the hungry hum of the crowd as she talked with them, answering their questions with humility, wisdom.  I listened as she told them about her journey, how she took what was in front of her, and did what it asked her to do. She said her focus has never been on where her work might take her, but always on the work itself.  And what I heard was: go where it asks you, but don't think about it too much, or you'll just get in its way.

I thought, then, of my own journey.  I looked back at how one thing led me to the next, how one question drew me forward, into looking for insight, answers.  I looked at where I find myself now, a giant dissertation on my desk, the insight deep but the questions raised far greater than those said and done.  I looked at my to-do folder, the growing list of ideas.  And I remembered my perception of this new two-year stint: to push in, try out, and allow myself to grow.  To bravely go, following the vision of the moment, unfocused on the end.

 Courtesy of Institute for the Arts and Humanities, Sara Abu Bakr

Art is the work, work is the art.
The night proceeded into music, the gravel of her speaking voice breaking into rich warm song.  I sat in my seat, I watched, I listened.  I admired the poetry poised in melody, the artist poised in the telling of her song.  I saw that this was no mere performance; it was a part of the process, a part of the being.  And I thought of those children, I thought of my insistence that their music be theirs, and not about what they can perform. And I realized: The art is the process, it's the being.  It's the work of the work, and it will be, what it is.

To be an artist.
The evening came to a close as these things do, over cake, the shaking of hands.  And as I observed her--complimenting the cake maker, reaching out to the only child in the room, signing the books without being asked, listening to those who sought her ear--I realized that through the stretch of the whole, from beginning to end, I was witness to a woman who knows what it means to be true to herself. She did not overindulge us, as she told us what she needed, what she thought.  She was direct, and she was gracious.  And through it all she remembered what was important to her, and pointed us to what she wanted us to know.

I have long believed that  the true artist is one who can remind people of who they are and of who they will be; the one who speaks beyond words, and then gets out of the way.  And--along with many that I spoke to after all was said and done--this was the truth of the evening.  I left, inspired to think about my own work, my own artistry, my own way of being.  Feeling able to move forward, in freedom, without fear.

I left the evening saying: 

Once in a lifetime, indeed.

Camp Lauren: Groovy

Take a normal weekend.  

Combine it with the annual event of Heather and Ash heading out of town.  The result: Kate and Sarah and I fall into Camp Lauren routines, the grooves of which have become indelible.

We know how this works:

In the early mornings, 

 Kate and I have quiet time,

 with warm beverages,

and Jack [the one-eyed beyond adorable cat].

We dwell in each other's company, until Sarah emerges 

and our day begins. 

Once we get school out of the way, our weekend begins in full:

 trips to Michael's, to pick up craft supplies,

 dinner at Otto's

 [because we LOVE Otto's].

There is always at least one movie night on a Camp Lauren weekend, but this year they multiplied:

 Thursday night, Spirited Away at the local downtown theater [thanks to my lovely new job];

 Friday night, 

 our standard get-in-your-pajamas-and-craft-while-you-watch movie night;

Saturday afternoon, Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2, cozied up in the dark of the theater.

And there are always lazy mornings at home,

 including standards like the making of [the most delicious pumpkin chocolate chip] pancakes,

culinary explorations  

with delicious outcomes,

 a bit of work 

[me: slog through endless email,
Kate: draw endless pictures of my hair],

 a bit of scientific exploration

[and lessons on how to deal with disappointment and defeat],

a bit of the wild outdoors

and random creative episodes [that's a wheelchair folks, inexplicably crafted out of garbage and duct tape].

In general,

there is always us,

being us.

And, always, it's a weekend of special treats,

 like when this girl got a coffee date with yours truly while Kate was at a birthday party,

like closing out an evening with massive [and wholly inadvisable] amounts of ice cream.

Our groove, refined and defined through the years,

 to which we all say--

groovy.

We cleaned the heck out of it.

You may remember these ladies,

lovingly known as my 'housies'.

Here's something I would like you to know about us:

We are relatively clean people.

Even relatively clean people, however, need to deep clean every once in a while, and that would be why this past weekend found us:

tearing. it. up.

The tall one 

 was deployed to the highest places;

the organized one,

to the places needing her most. 

Then there was the thorough one,

put onto the dirtiest.

When she had finished, we looked at that fireplace door so clean, 

and busted a little bit of gut, laughing at ourselves:

Who knew it wasn't supposed to look like that?....

And the answer is: WE didn't.

We've sat in front of that fire for years,
and never once thought it was a little dim.  

Of course I, being I,
jumped right inside the spiritual principle found there: 

How often in life do we sit around thinking that the dim light is all there is, until God wipes us down in all of His thoroughness?

In fact, once I started looking I couldn't stop finding: 

The nature of deep cleaning,

 where it gets worse before it gets better.

Where things are found that have long been forgotten,

like carcasses of dead old nasty things hiding out in unseen places, needing to be removed for good, sucked out through a rather uncomfortably aimed nozzle.

And then, after the walls were washed, the corners exhumed of any and all things resembling and/or made up of dirt, 

 the furniture moved back into place,

after we looked around and breathed in the clean,

and realized that that dirt has been eating away at our very souls without our even knowing it;

after all of that, I looked around and thought:
How often do I sit in my own filth, not even knowing it's there?

Kind of like, 

 who knew the top of the fridge was massively disgusting?

But--once I got a vantage point, I could see, and once I could see,

I could clean it spotless.

And do I even need to say it? 

I realized--once again--that the only One with a vantage point on me, is the only One who can truly make me clean.

And so, at the end of the (very long) day of cleaning the heck out of our house, I was reminded of what I never want to forget:  

I know a God who says--

You may not know you need it.

You may think you're relatively clean.

But here I am--ready to deep clean the heck out of you.

Ready to tear it up, in order that you may freely and freshly breathe.

Routine, you're nice.

Every year there comes a moment where I realize that the free-play of the summer is ready to transition into the routine of the fall, and by the time it rolls around, I'm ready for it too.

This fall has started slowly, gently, easily.

There's been time for leisurely and luxurious cooking.

There's been a return to my piano teaching schedule, with more time for more students, and a fresh start for those who have been marching through their piano goals with me for a while.

There's been settling into my office and my roles 

of teaching and assistant-directing.

And there's still some flexibility for work days at home, with baking bread, laundry, a little bit of piano tuning on the side.

And all of these things cause me to sit back and sigh, 

with peace, with content.  

Hello fall, your routine is welcome, your ease is nice.

I never said my normal was actually 'normal'...

The thing about a return to normal life is that when a good friend says 'hey, I have to go do this weird thing, wanna come with me?', I have the capacity to say: Sure!

That would be why I found myself here,

not that long ago.

Who knew that in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania there does actually exist a Himalayan Salt Cave?

Yes, deep inside this warehouse of a building, 

there is a cave,

 made of walls of salt,

 complete with lanterns.

You pay the good people of the cave 15 bucks, and they let you in.  You sit in eerie silence on reclining chairs, waiting with others in the room whom you don't know, and who may or may not make very odd sounds once the session commences.  For the next 45 minutes, you allow the salt to infiltrate your body whilst listening to terrible music.  And when all is said and done,

you step back out onto the floor of pink salt crystals in your blue paper booties, full of far more iodine and--supposedly--far less inflammation, ready to take on the world.

As for Katy and I,

we figured that if we were less full of toxins, 

we might as well fill ourselves back up before we got back home.

Hello normal life....who knew you'd be so interesting?