Wrapped in Music

Imagine sitting in a room made for music. Imagine closing your eyes and breathing in the simple eloquence of a lone instrument and accompanying musician. Eyes closed, I could feel the notes surround the small crowd in the newly finished concert hall, weaving in and around each of us. No microphones were needed, no curtains, no barrier between the music and the listeners. As Mary Rogers put it, we were wrapped in a blanket of music.



I spent last evening at the Green Music Center on the campus of Sonoma State University. A retirement party was the inaugural event for the Hospitality Center. It was strictly invitation only, a semi-private affair that I lucked into because I am fortunate to be related to one of the retirees. My uncle, Sonny, was one of the two men honored last evening for his many, many years working at SSU. He, along with a team of equally incredible people, is responsible for the at times controversial but irrefutably incredible music center.

I have a complicated relationship with music, but last evening my issues were non-existent. What was on the forefront was family pride and awe. Sonny stepped onto the campus fresh out of high school, and until 2009, never left. All told he spent 45 years of his life dedicated to his academic and professional career at SSU. His mother, my beloved grandmother, died long before the Center was an clear idea. But his father, born a simple farmer from Arkansas, watched Sonny work tirelessly to oversee that the design and building of what is now a world class music center. Sonny and I both missed his parents last night, but I could feel them there. I could feel the pride they felt for him. I could feel their love wrap around our shoulders as surely as the music did.

There wasn't a spot in the hall that wasn't enveloped in the notes that emanated from the piano. Even nearly empty, the hall was so clearly full of the music that will be. The small crowd were merely representatives of the hundreds of thousands of listeners of all ages and all walks of life who will enjoy the variations of the musical blanket that will now, and maybe forever, fill that hall to the rafters.

Rainy Reflections

Most people I talk to are taken aback, and some are even appalled, that I enjoy a dark, cold rainy day. I get it, many people suffer from seasonal depression, so the rain only adds to their already depleted stores of the all important Vitamin-D whose presence can be restore with some sun-shine. They not only enjoy the sunshine, but they like the heat that accompanies it and can spend hours outside soaking in the heart. Not me. The rain re-energizes me as much as it soothes me.

I deal with depression plenty, but it isn't seasonal. Very little makes me happier than being bundled up with good company of some sort–a book, my dog, my honey, a favorite move–and the sound of rain drops outside the window. I enjoy pausing and watching the wind whip the leaves into a frenzy, the heaviness of the water pulling down on branches, or puddling up on outdoor furniture.

I like to drive in the rain, even when I should be safely home behind solid walls, to watch the water build up in the gutters and become small ponds in the street. Like a horror movie or scary story, I am drawn to watching flood waters (from a safe distance) rise above sand bags, or the river creep over its banks. I don't like to watch actual destruction, but the promise or threat of it. It feels a bit like flirting with a bad boy from afar, or playing with a burning candle. I want to get close to the danger, feel its power and threat, absorb the energy that waft off the tiny waves created when the wind coaxes the water beyond its natural boundaries.

When the sun and temperature are high, I prefer to hide inside in the dark. It feels as though I actually wilt in the heat. I feel limp and lifeless, as if the sun absorbed my energy. Isn't that supposed to be the other way around, or am I just thinking of Superman? The sun is supposed to give life, but it feels like it is stealing mine one degree at a time. I never feel daintier or weaker than when the sky is cloudless, the sun is high and bright, and the ground heats up.

El Nino is coming. That's what I have been hearing for months. Today is supposed to be the beginning of weeks and weeks of heavy rain and wind. My memory of an El Nino winter was one that lasted well into June. This is only January; the area is limping into winter after three years of drought. If the rain comes down hard enough, the natural stream systems won't be able to get the water into the depleted reservoirs fast enough and while the major river(s) likely won't flood, the smaller streams might. And the streams is what caused problems a few years ago.

So far today there is plenty of rain, but not enough to convince me that the little boy is back. Regardless, I am reveling in the fact that I don't have anywhere to be until afternoon tomorrow. Until them I'm praying for rain; not because our eco-system needs it, but because I do.

Procrastination and the New Year

If I actually sat down and made a list of all the things I am not doing right now, the "shoulds" of family, house and employment responsibilities, I wonder if I would feel better or worse.

I quietly gave up on resolutions years ago, long before it was fashionable to flaunt my non-conformity, or lack of desire to choose the worst possible time of year to make grandiose pledges to better myself. Two New Years ago we began a new tradition of throwing a presto-log into the fire pit and tossing in bits of wood covered in the our desires for the new year. The desires could be about letting go of old habits, about moving forward, or words of encouragement to the cosmos to bring brighter happier things into our lives. It is another way of making lists, listing out the things we are willing to give up and lists of things we are willing to accept. This year we have already have several "Spare the Air" days and frankly I don't want to acquire any bad Karma for purely selfish reasons. Maybe once this week's rains die down we can safely perform what is quickly becoming a favorite ritual.


But for the moment I will admit to putting off the following:
Writing a letter of recommendation for a dear friend
Updating syllabi
Creating lesson plans and schedules
Putting the last of Saturday's party stuff away
Returning the party stuff that I borrowed
Attacking the piles of laundry in my bedroom
Making my bed
Cleaning out my car
Cleaning my office
Organizing my office
Making plans as to what I am going to move into my new office space
Writing about my upcoming grandchild & my ensuing anxieties
Writing creatively (besides the blog update)
Updating my other blog
Eating
Getting dressed
Drying my hair

One thing that I should do is to meet my dear friend Linelle for coffee. She is a bright shining light in my life. Consider one thing done!

(P.S. This posting sounds much more depressed than I feel.)

Practice or Review

I sit and write this with a kitten tucked between my arm and the keyboard of my laptop. She came home with us on Halloween–not because she was black or scary (she is decidedly neither)–but because when I pinned her down, her back against my legs, and rubbed her ears she relaxed into the affection I was forcing onto her, and I saw a glimpse of something in that moment of kitten bliss (hers and mine). It simply made sense to bring her home and watch her meld into the familial fold.

Her penchant for cuddling, for curling up on a lap, a chest, a shoulder, or a bodily nook serves to pin us down for indeterminate amounts of time while we revel in the love she brings to us in her purr and her napping posture. There is an informal (but often enforced) rule in our home that a sleeping or cuddling cat on human is an instant excuse for avoiding a chore. If the water is boiling on the stove, the phone is ringing, the dinner plates need to be cleared and/or washed, and a cat has suddenly appeared on a lap, that lap is free to remain immobile until the cuddly body is gone. Someone else will take care of the chore.

A cuddly kitten body not only helps avoid chores, but most other movement as well. It is all too familiar a feeling; many kittens have come before her. From the first night she crept in between Joe and I in bed and plopped down for the night we knew that she was the puzzle piece we hadn't known was missing. Now we spend our downtime held in our chairs unable and unwilling to move lest we disturb this lovely cherub.

These feelings are familiar, not just because we have lived through and loved kittenhood before, but because it is so reminiscent of babyhood. One of my earliest and favorite memories of my son is the first night we spent in the hospital. I was holding him, chest to chest as he slept. The place where our bodies touched warmed and expanded until it engulfed us both. I had felt connected to him from the first moment that I felt him move inside me, but this outside, physical connection was stronger and deeper than I could have imagined. It was intoxicating, a feeling I didn't want to end–which also meant that I didn't want to move. Once we took him home, I spent as many hours of those first days as I could sitting comfortably on a rocking chair, holding him as he slept, occasionally allowing a visitor or family member a few moments of baby bliss.

On days when my baby and I visited my grandparents, my grandfather would insist on staying home to babysit while Gram and I went out to lunch. We would leave him sitting in the rocking chair cradling the sleeping infant head in the crook of his arm. Hours later we would find him in the same position still happily rocking while baby Vincent slept; Grandpa often nodded off himself, all the while gently rocking them both.

Now my son is expecting a baby of his own. I wonder if this kitten (who came from my son's house) was meant to be with us so that we could be reminded of that all consuming love of a baby, that visceral need to stay in one spot while something warm and cuddly sleeps and we revel in the warmth and intoxication. Are we practicing the immobility of being pinned down by a sleepy, needy baby, or are we simply reviewing our favorite positions.

Tourism

An outing to Carmel-by-the-Bay that immediately followed a visit to the Monterey Outlet Mall was very eye-opening.

Carmel was packed! Nearly every two-hour parking space on the streets was filled. The sidewalks were brimming with people. Some restaurants had lines of people waiting to be seated. And this was at 1 o'clock in the afternoon.

We stepped briefly into a shop that sold pens and paper. The hope was that in addition to finding a cool journal (which we did find, but did not purchase) we could check in with the salesperson about a finding a local bookstore. We left shortly after we overhearing a woman choosing the $295 pen to add to her collection. Notice the missing decimal point. Yes, this was a nearly $300.00 pen! And I saw several on display, including a jewel-encrusted one, for over $1000!

In all the shops that we visited, nothing sold for less than $50. Nothing. Of the shops we visited, the average price for any item was $300. And the place was packed! There was no shortage of money in that little town on the last Friday of September.

In contrast, the Monterey Outlet Mall where we began our day was pretty quiet. Well over half of the store fronts were empty, 2/3 if I wanted to be realistic. We saw only a handful of people while we looked (mostly in vain) for some great clothing deals. The candy store was the happening place, the few visitors all seemed to gravitate towards the recession proof goods.

So it would seem that in the midst of a recession, the people who have always had money still do, and the people who could use a bargain can't find one. Interesting.

Love, Gratitude and Writing

I am feeling particularly blessed these days. I am working; I have a job with regular income; actually I have two teaching jobs (as of tomorrow). In this economy I feel blessed several times over. I am, however, grappling with the fact that although I am making more money than I have in my life, the cost of living here is more than ever and so I don't have any money. In fact this week I am waiting with baited breath for a paycheck so that I can pay my bills much later than I like to. But, hey, at least I WILL be able to pay them. Again, feeling blessed.

I am also feeling a tremendous amount of gratitude that my creativity level is so high. I am researching and writing a book that is the story of being sexually abused as a child. Yeah, I know, sounds dark. And it kind of is. But it is also very, very enlightening. The man who molested me is quickly moving from the deepest darkest shadows of my memories into the light where he looks more pathetic than menacing. You see I am researching my own story, the accuracy of my own memory, and the timeline of my life versus his. It is really fascinating how we humans deal with trauma, and much like that pathetic and ugly man, the more I examine my trauma the less of a grip it has on me.

I also joined a reading and writing group on Facebook, along with several alumni from my graduate program. It is such a joy to discuss books and craft with my contemporaries again. As much as I love teaching and watching students make connections with the required readings and their writing, it is really lovely to have discussions on a higher plain.

I am feeling loved on all fronts. My kids are healthy and happy. My marriage is good and we are quickly approaching our 20th wedding anniversary. I have the best friends a woman could ever hope for, and I seem to have learned how to accept their love.

Yep. Life is good.

Educational Nightmares

I think that most everyone has bad dreams about school, even long after we are done attending classes. My dreams often include an embarrassing state of undress, a corridor full of people and the inability to find a classroom or locker or paper to hand in.

Or realizing that I have an exam in a class I forgot to attend all year.

Or looking at homework that should be easy to do, but requires skills I have suddenly forgotten.

In my waking life I have a graduate degree, but in my sleeping life I might have forgotten to finish a class in high school which, if not rectified, could result in my losing all my degrees. There always seems to be one more classes to return to, one more paper to write, one more test to take. I understand that these kinds of dreams are the sub-conscious mind's way of processing unfinished business, but I sometimes wonder if I will ever finish processing the student life.

Then last night I dreamt that I was on my way to give a final exam for a class (finally I was the teacher) but I couldn't remember teaching them anything. It was a short-course (only 5 weeks or so) in a culinary class. I was fully dressed, but much like waking life I was carrying around mounds of papers. I couldn't remember teaching food or knife safety, recipes, or anything for the class. Keep in mind that I am generally a writing teacher, so I must have accepted the job to teach the course as a favor at the last minute. In a futile attempt to decide what I was going to test the students on, I visited them in a study group and invited their input which I wrote on a white board. None of them were asking questions about the subject matter of the class; they were asking questions about sentence structure and finding my errors as we went!

Then I visited a jail and spoke with some fascinating people, including a Native American who had wonderful stories to share–none of them were about the culinary arts. I was on my way to the classroom determined to ask the students to write short essays describing what they had learned in class when I woke up.

Apparently I have graduated (pun intended) from nightmares about being a student to nightmares about being a teacher. Lovely. The lesson here could very well be that no matter whether I am a teacher or a student the paperwork feels endless, the tension is ongoing and the deadlines don't stop.

Wonderful.