My Own Story: Banned Books Week

In his book, The Storytelling Animal, 

Jonathan Gottschall wrote 

"Story is for a human as water is for a fish."  

Which raises a question:   

 "What happens when the story is banned?"

Because my own story is so interesting, this past weekend I was part of arranging a film festival dedicated to just such a question.

I sat in a blackened theater for much of the available hours in the day,

and reflected on the stories that we tell,

the stories we are afraid of,

the stories we are charmed by.

Others in the community reflected with me; 

some even were given a mic.

And when all was said and done, 

I drove away glad that I wasn't born a fish.

On waiting, pure and magical

Today I begin my teaching off with a pair of hilarious,
high energy, so-extremely-musical twin boys.

They love to make music in my living room.  

They also love to wreak a bit of havoc,
when I've barely turned my back.

Before they come, I hide all of my precious things, 

or else I find them standing precariously on end.

Within moments of their arrival, 

every piano-lesson related item finds itself in mid-air

before it rests, scattered across the floor.

And we make music that is complex and brilliant and wholly fun, as they beat their drums and sing with noisy gusto, as they lean on each side of me while I play or drape their feet all over my chairs,
as they scat rhythm patterns to beat the band and fling their finger puppet friends from key to key in coordination with the intricacy of our ensemble.

It is loud, and it is not for the faint of heart.

But today, as I danced around the room to the music on the stereo,
I gradually came to notice:

One of them, standing in the corner, waving a scarf slowly through the air in quiet and concentrated adoration;

the other, curled silently on the floor underneath the piano,
his arm draped over the pedals.

Listening.  Enraptured.  Still.

They didn't move, for a few extendedly pure and magical moments.

I could barely breathe, but they wouldn't have noticed if I did.  

And I thought of the quote my dear friend blogged about yesterday:

"A waiting person is a patient person.  The word patience means the willingness to stay where we are and live the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there will manifest itself to us." 

[Henri Nouwen]

These insanely active boys, for a moment that felt like a century, were willing to stay.  They were listening for what was hidden.  They were in the moment, and nothing could remove them.  They were living it out, to the full.  What did they believe they would find there?  What was it that they needed to know?

The moment passed, and the rest of the students came and left, 

and I cleaned up the mess and put back the precious things.  

But that moment of magic laid itself down on my mind as a picture I cannot shake, a reminder I need to cling to:

I am willing, to sit in the places of difficult waiting. Enraptured. Still.

Believing that each moment is held in the hand of God, because there's something in it that I need to know.  Something pure and magical.

I was hungry and you fed me

Today, I spend the day in my kitchen, preparing for a dinner party to welcome a new friend to town.

I think a lot about what it means to feed people.

I remember my own early days in this town, when I was wandering in confusion and brokenness, depressed out of my mind.  Lost in a swirl of voices I couldn't understand, I remember how one consistent and committed friend fed me, time and time again.  How when there were no answers and we'd run out of words, there was--at least--food.

And I remember back to a day earlier this summer, when I walked down a city street and was confronted by a smell more powerful than any I'd smelt before.  It was the smell of four unwashed humans and one unwashed dog, sitting in a circle, in front of a sign that read:

CLEAN, SOBER, & HUNGRY

I looked quickly at my feet, and walked on past.

I walked all the way back to my hotel, battling voices in my head.

Justifying voices of why it was unwise to hand over the hard-earned money that I had budgeted so carefully for this little trip, rationalizing voices regarding the fact that they were white and probably privileged and had probably at some point decided to reject all that had been handed them, getting themselves into their own mess.

"But," one voice in the midst of them all said, "they're hungry, 
they're hungry."

So I imagined myself walking back there and handing them money,
to go and buy themselves food.

And then, I confronted the battle of what other people would say.  Voices of criticism--regarding how handing beggars money just continues the problems--beamed through my mind. Voices of accusation, regarding whether or not I would hand a group of black people money if they were in the same situation.

Voices, voices, voices, just attacking me like crazy.

I sat in the lobby under their weight.  I fought and I fought,
this battle for my mind.

But that voice in the midst of the rest, the one that seemed to be swirling from the pit of my stomach, the voice that was calling out to stand above the rest and be heard--that voice was my voice, and it said:  They're HUNGRY.

And so I stood up, with decision.  I marched myself right back.  I tucked a wad of cash into the hand of the man who seemed to be the one in charge.  And I looked him right in the eye and I said: I can't stand it when people are hungry.  Take this, and be blessed.

And as I looked deeply into his tattooed face, I thought: What are the swirl of voices around your head? The ones that direct you and turn you and keep you in this unwashed state?

But I turned around and walked back, the swirl of voices around me quiet.  Quiet, except for One, still and small: I was hungry.  I was hungry, and you fed me*.

So today, I'll host my dinner party.  I'll welcome my friend to this new place.  And I will remember:  There are many battles we fight, many voices we face.  There are many ways to be hungry. And while I wish I could fight the voices and win the battle of each person I meet,
I can at the very least say:

If you're hungry, I can feed you.  Take this, and be blessed.

*Matthew 25: 35

On Learning how to Play

This morning, I lead three separate groups of pre-school and kindergarten children in making music together.  After each class, I lead three separate groups of college students--who have spent the time either participating with or observing us--in conversation of "what's important here?"

And we observe:  Those little darlings are more inclined than we are to do whatever comes to their mind. They feel free to try out their musical being, they allow themselves to respond to the music around them.  They are blissfully ignorant of any attempt of theirs either making or missing the mark.  And while often it is genius, it is also often 'wrong'.

We talk about how we don't expect them to be "right" yet--they're learning! They're exploring! They're trying it out!

We talk about how one day they will be able to recognize the difference between "right" and "wrong", but that part of the process of recognizing what the mark is is to have permission to blatantly and freely miss it.  Aiming and missing, aiming and missing, until one day they get it, and are secure.

It's the aiming that's important, not the getting it right every time.

And it makes me think about my practicing journey recently, of how anxious I had been about being perfect, of playing every little thing perfectly, and how it ended up just shutting me down.

It makes me think of how, last week, as I practiced, I allowed myself to play wrong notes.  How it struck me that wrong notes occurred far less when they were allowed for, than when they were not. 

And it made me think of how now--after allowing myself to JUST PLAY, wrong notes included--I am playing the score and thinking "gosh, this is easy!"  

Because stepping into the thing I was terrified of caused the thing to lose its power.  

It turns out wrong notes aren't such a big deal; it turns out, wrong notes are the way to doing it right. 

I aimed and I missed, and I learned how to play.   

On being Reliable

I am determined: It is time to conquer all that stands in the way of my being a free piano-playing person.

In my quest for victory, memories begin to stir, begin to float themselves to the surface.

I remember, being a wee little baby baby freshman, swimming in a big big sea with very much larger fish.

I remember that I didn't know what I didn't know, but that I was there to try.

My good friend Patrick, a tenor of some fine quality, asked me if I would accompany him.  I agreed.

I practiced, we practiced.  I did what I knew how to do.  We brought it to his teacher, a woman I will call Dr. N.   Dr. N. considered herself a bit of a pianist, and Patrick a bit of a pet.  Dr. N. did not think I was Patrick material.  

I remember that lesson, that after we showed her what we'd done, she sat down on the bench and showed me what I should do instead.  It was, I suppose, a relatively normal lesson.

But then, I remember a master class, in front of her whole studio.  I once again played for Patrick; she once again sat herself down, showed me what to do.  Nastily.  

I was a student, just as much as Patrick; but Dr. N. felt I should be more accountable, seeing as I was accompanying him.  And she let me know it.  She didn't teach me that day--she obliterated me.

I remember cowering in the library basement afterward, sobbing.

I remember that soon after this, Patrick and I performed for a performance class, for the whole department of music.  I was nervous--who wouldn't be, seeing as I'd never seemed able to play things right for him before?

I didn't yet know that when one is nervous, one's heartbeat picks up, which can significantly effect the tempo one chooses to play in.  I remember that it felt right to me; I remember that Dr. N. chased me down when we were finished, to tell me I'd ruined poor Patrick's moment with my excessive speed.

Is it any surprise that I never really liked her?

And yet, she was a voice of authority.  And, according to her, I was --at the very least-- an unreliable pianist. 

Fast forward, to a rehearsal, today, with some principal cast members.  I find myself questioning my reliability, I assume that I am going to mess them up.  I think ahead to the opera performances, how my piano role will be reduced to just smaller parts within the orchestra, which will feel unfamiliar. Already I see fear in me: I am unreliable, I am not to be trusted with this responsibility.

And then I have a step-back-and-take-a-moment moment:

I am.  The most.  RELIABLE PERSON I KNOW.  

Being reliable is important to me, so no wonder Dr. N.'s tirades felt like attacks against my very core. 

But today, I break her voice, which has hovered over all these years.
I set my mind to:  Free.

I choose to remember: I AM reliable. 

On being lost

On the way to my office this afternoon, I run into the orchestra conductor, who is both brilliant and lovely.  We talk about today's rehearsal.  From out of my mouth I hear the words,
"I was totally lost last time!"

And it hits me: Well, sure.  I am afraid of being lost.

Which is interesting, because just this morning I had a mental image of myself, as a little boat, cut from the side of an ocean liner.  On its own, floating in the water.  Feeling very very [very] vulnerable to?  Being lost.

Except that a little boat cut off of an ocean liner is typically known as a lifeboat.

Which means that I also felt very very [yes, very] free.

What if feeling lost is actually evidence that I am on the water, where I'm supposed to be?

On Fear, Fortitude, Freedom

In the spirit of conquering failure, I have devoted my weekend to my piano.  My rear-end is tired.  My hands are tired.  My mind and every inch of my body, is tired.  

But I am determined.

Boiling around in my head is the realization: I have to walk back in there on Tuesday.  What will they be thinking about me? What have they decided about me?  [What if they find me lacking, now, and always?]

And there is fear in me, in every tired inch of me.  

I have battled this fear my whole life--the simple truth is that, when it comes to playing the piano, I am a total headcase.  The question in my head, as I sit in rehearsals, as I get up on the stage, is "Can I do it?"  

Most of the time, I believe that I can't.  

Even though the truth is: I can. 

One of my favorite conductors looked at me in consternation one day as he stood in front of the choir, and said "Just PLAY."  And I knew what he meant--I was filtering every note through a film of terror, and he could hear it.  And it was getting in the way of the music, free and flowing.  Afraid of what I will find--that I am lacking, that I can't do it, I am not free.  To Just. Play.

It's an idol of perfection--I care too much.  And it's an idol of self, because if I can't do it...what does that mean about me?

The reason it feels so easy as I play my heart out by myself in my living room is because I'm just being me, no evaluative voices to be found.  Put me in a room full of people, and I'm wading through their thoughts between every note.

And listen--That just takes time and energy I don't have to spare.

But this fear has been my long companion.  It feels hopeless, it feels like I have no power to overcome it--it will suck me down, it will  be the one that wins.  

Because, guess what? It has won, time and time again.  

But this time, this time it is different.  This time I am weary of its game.  I am determined, in every tired inch.

It's diligence, isn't it?  It's commitment to the goal and fighting my way toward it, come hell or high water, come failure, come fear.  It's courage in the face of difficulty: It's fortitude.

Recently I woke up from a dream, where I saw myself being stretched between two stakes, holding on to each for dear life. They were stakes I'd placed in the ground--stakes to claim my territory.  But then, over time, I saw myself walking easily back and forth between those two stakes, lifting one and placing it just a bit further out than it had been, walking peacefully to the other, placing it just a bit further away as well.  The word in my head was: Fortitude.

When I'm being stretched thin, will I hold onto those stakes for dear life, until the ground between them becomes the place where the difficult things fall, and I walk among them easily? Expanding my territory?

At the end of the day --and in the early hours of the morning--it's a decision, to not allow fear to be the power that controls me, but to stand up, move forward, seeking the Power that calls me.  To walk straight through the fear, until I find myself in Freedom.

And so, as I prepare for battle on Tuesday [as I prepare for battle in every difficult place], I am determined:

Be present--in the moment.  You don't have time to evaluate each and every note and whether or not you can play it.

No matter what the difficulty is today, you just need to PLAY.