Bigger is Not Better

Everybody wanted to see a movie and the movie selected was Night at the Museum. The reviews were good and the advertisements looked fun. My wife was especially excited that the film was designed for an IMAX theater. Now, for me, movies are an average source of entertainment. I could go several months without seeing one and then might enjoy a couple of them. Mainly, I enjoy attending a movie for the conversation value later in a social setting. When stuck for something to say, it always works to throw in, "Have you seen [insert movie name]? What did you think?"

I also recognize the artistic elements that take place in a film--from literary to drama to background music to visual elements. In many ways, movies combine the best aspects of entertainment and the arts to form an elaborate corroboration of ideas, skills, training, experience, and creativity. Using a myriad of emotional technique, movies can be fun, entertaining, profound, ridiculous, sublime, superficial, frightening, or joyful. The potential for affecting human behavior in both subtle and obvious ways is astounding and I am thankful for the opportunities we have to experience this complicated and amazing art form--the film.

So we loaded up the car and headed to a city to experience Night at the Museum on IMAX; but it turned out not to be an IMAX theater. Instead, it was an OMNIMAX theater. Of course, neither term meant much to me one way or another until I actually entered the obelisk and discovered the difference. We waited in a long line to insure we could all sit together since it was "first come, first serve" situation rather than assigned seating. Finally, the doors opened and we entered only to be totally awestruck by the sheer size and magnitude of theater. We made our way up to the seats by climbing several levels of stairs and settled into fairly comfortable seats without much legroom (which I find typical of most theaters).

The screen was dome-shaped and seemed to cover an eternal space up, down, right, and left. The curved view gave me a sense of being in outer space or in another universe without an ending or beginning. As though I had been dropped in a spacious prison located on a planet whose purpose was to surround me with unending false visual sensations that had no lasting value. I was trapped but decided to retain a sense of optimism that my movie adventure would be entertaining and enlightening.

And so it began. Like everyone, I was entranced with the movie world that engulfed me in both sound and pictures. That sensation lasted approximately 3 minutes at which time a mental queasiness overtook my every being, and I realized that the next hour and half would feel like a 2x4 was knocking on my skull with a constant dull thud as I expended some effort to try to survive this movie. For one thing, I could not see all the action at once. It was too close and too wide. For another, the sudden scene changes left me spinning and unable to process what had just happened. Furthermore, my neck quickly ached as I looked up and down and sideways at all the action on the screen.

It was similar to a roller coaster but without the openness and without the moments of reprieve and mostly without the fun. Like a whirling trap from which there is no escape and no end and from which there is only mental anguish and pain. All in all, it was an awful experience that I do not wish to repeat. Adding to my consternation was the awareness that everyone else, including my family, loved it. The theater was full of joy, laughter, excitement, and energy.

So my conclusion is that while this OMNIMAX may be a positive thing for most, for me it is not. Bigger does not make it better. Only different and in this case, worse!

A Need Met...

While waiting for some food at a nearby fast-food restaurant, not one of the more well-known chains in the area, in fact, it is not a franchise at all, but rather a small, privately owned establishment with a unique specialty in its fare, I noticed an African-American poorly dressed and waiting for his order. He wore inexpensive, dirty pants, a wrinkled t-shirt, and a pair of boots with the bottom sole not completely attached to the shoe. This was a cold, winter day and like everyone, he was cold from having been outside. Unlike the others in the restaurant, with their warm jackets and coats, this gentleman did not have a coat and was wearing only a T-shirt.

He was also having some difficulty comprehending the money exchange and the expected order for food. He referred to a piece of paper that apparently someone had given him, but his reading ability was negligible. He obviously had some learning disabilities and was very uncomfortable ordering the necessary items. At the same time, he was shaking both from the cold and from nervousness. But he was also intent on his task to make sure he did it well and came out with the correct food. I glanced outside to see a lady obviously waiting for him as she sat behind the wheel of an old tan vehicle.

Inside the small waiting area were a nice looking couple and two other men either waiting for their food or about to order. The nice looking couple were dressed warmly with conservative but nice clothes and showed signs of attention to detail and self-respect in that their appearance included clean pants, fairly new shoes, and a perceptive awareness of their surroundings and the people in the room. They were pleasant, friendly, and patient.

The man with the piece of paper in his hands received his food and showed the cashier his list to make sure he had received everything correctly. While he did this, the other man removed his jacket and said, "You know, I don't need this jacket anymore and I bet it would fit you perfectly." He then took it off, placed it around the other man and left with a big smile on his face. I looked at the couple in amazement as they got in their car and drove off. The man with the "new" coat looked around the room and said, "They gave me a coat and I didn't even ask for it." He then said, "I had one but it was all torn up so I had to throw it away. This will help me not to be cold." He had a big grin on his face, left the restaurant, went to his car, and left with the food and a coat on his back.

As I reflect on this incident, I realize that the man who gave the coat recognized a need and met it without grandeur, without expectations, and without affirmation of the good deed. He gave freely and got nothing in return. Perhaps this is the greatest expression of love we can offer. To give and expect nothing in return. God gave us His love and His grace freely and that love continues to be given. Our method of demonstrating that love is to extend it, feed it, let it grow, and demonstrate it at every opportunity.

Blogging Responsibility

"...the Internet, like all free markets, has a way of gratifying the mediocrity of the masses"--Joseph Rago.

I love this quote. I hate this quote. It is so true and so wrong. It cuts to the chase so to speak and insults many people including myself. The quote came from an article criticizing the writing ability and thought processes that take place in the seemingly unlimited number of blogs being produced almost daily throughout the world. Blogging is a shockingly new "art" form allowing anyone regardless of his education level, status, income, race, gender, or age to participate in world-wide publishing. It is an awesome experience that is both exhilarating and frightening, enlightening and dangerous. This is due to the awesome impact and responsibility of the written word.

Thoughts tend to be random, selfish, entertaining, and devoid of any kind of meaningful collective purpose. Writing (to use an archaic term since we really do not write any longer. We really are typing or inputting but not writing), whether fiction or non-fiction, traditionally, has been goal-oriented, directed, and reserved for the educated and/or creative elite. This is partly or even mostly due to market constraints and publishing demands. A publisher does not and will not want to produce a work that will not turn a profit. Respect for the craft or art (another great topic) of the piece may encourage "taking a risk" in publication, but sales will ultimately determine its place in the world of the written word.

But now, with blogging, which is in effect publishing, where is the accountability and where is the establishment of a standard? Who determines excellence in content and form? Are we going to slowly but surely lose the "expert" editor? How will we separate the wheat from the chaff? Maybe it will all be wheat? Or maybe it will all be chaff? A frightening thought for sure. Unlike the world of popular culture, food, and merchandise, the academic literary world has been held accountable (or hostage depending on your experience) through publishers, editors, scholars, experts, and of course readers.

Blogging, however, opens the door for literary masterpieces to be produced by virtually anyone in the world and available to everyone. It also opens the door for literary garbage and potentially damaging, corrupt, dissident, and uninformed writing that in the wrong hands could create discord and havoc. Only the individual is culpable and quality is determined by the reader without any kind of accountability or burden of proof of excellence. It is freedom of the press at its finest and its most terrifying.

But in the end, the masses choose the excellence. The demand for blogging, for ideas, for knowledge, and for perception have led to the vast array of published thoughts. Some are life-changing, some are perhaps world-changing, some are worthless and some are corrupt; but blogging has given all of us the right to put in print our thoughts. May we do so with grave responsibility and may we do so with commitment to the highest standard of excellence available to us. Bloggers should not aim to "gratify mediocrity" but instead should dedicate themselves to serve and oblige arete within the confines of personal ability.

Like a carpenter given adequate tools for creation, or an artist with brushes, paint, and canvas, blogging provides the tools, the impetus, and the instant ability for the sharing of ideas in print. Time and the masses will decide the value. Not only is this nothing new, it is also right.

Sofa named Sol-fa!

It all began at the factory as I slowly but surely self-actualized into a sofa. Like others similar to my ilk, I had little personality and no character until it was decided I would be covered with cloth and with a color unique to me—an off-red, burgundy rust color, a color with personality, not too bright or ostentatious but with a depth of intelligence not immediately discernible but obviously urbane and sophisticated. The finishing touches were made with two matching pillows and I was shipped off to a large store in Brownwood, Texas where I resided for several months.

At first I was excited to be in my new surroundings where the climate was generally comfortable and I had friends. But soon my friends disappeared and were replaced with more friends who again were purchased and the cycle continued as I remained in place. I become somewhat lonely and withdrawn as I sat on the floor being admired but never purchased. Sort of a bridesmaid, but never a bride. I began to doubt myself and question my appearance. Was I ugly, uncomfortable, or too unique to ever fit in anywhere? My confidence began to dissipate and I felt alone, destined for a bland life on the floor of a store where eventually I would be placed in a back room—a cemetery of unwanted furniture.

Then one day it happened. At first it seemed an ordinary day of being touched and even sat upon, but then lingering discussion filled me with hope and took away my despair and my fear of eternal loneliness. The conversation was warm, positive, excited, energetic, and even a little garrulous! Loved, wanted, admired, and eventually purchased was I. The next day I was delivered to a beautiful office at a University known for its academic integrity and Christian values. The office was full of music, books, poetry, and art. I had found a home and was happy. My new owner was full of gratitude for my presence and demonstrated care and nice treatment as he experimented with the best location.

He cleverly named me Sol-fa, an abbreviation of solfeggio, which is a play on words since this name references singing syllables used in music education. I am honored to have this name and honored to be in this office. I could not have found a better home. Thank you.

Lost Art of Caroling

Sadly, the days of people gathering together to sing Christmas carols seem to be gone. Disappeared with drive-in theaters, black and white televisions, dial telephones, record players, and honest politicians (forgive me for the cheap shot). Recently, our church gathered for an evening of caroling and giving of gifts to the elderly in nursing homes. Unfortunately, very few showed up for this annual event. I myself was under the weather and missed as well. But each year there are fewer people dedicated to the art of Christmas caroling. I recall the days of people gathering and breaking into a carol that included White Christmas, Joy to the World, Jingle Bells, O Come All Ye Faithful, and even Frosty the Snowman. Old and young alike would sing with great joy and zeal, the result being guaranteed smiles on everyone’s face. Often the singing would be accompanied by some cookies, wassail, eggnog, and Christmas stories about family times of opening gifts, Santa Claus and the inevitable, “I remember when…” story of a funny mix-up in gifts.

Singing bonds people together with commonality and unified purpose. Singing is good for the lungs and great for the soul, and singing Christmas carols is especially gratifying with its seasonal bliss and service to the greater good. Carols are rich in story, meaningful in content, and melodically satisfying. Carols have withstood the artistic test of time and often combine the greatest elements of folk song and classical development. In the case of The First Noel, for example, the text and music blend together in a beautiful marriage destined for musical eternity.

But the days of carol singing are slipping away as society and culture shifts into a different mindset and practice. As in most societal transformations, there is probably no one particular reason for this change but is probably the result of several things. One thing is obvious, people today, in general, do not sing as much as they once did. Oh, there are pockets of singers around and there are still church choirs and schools continue to have thriving choral programs, but rarely is there an outburst of collective singing when people are together.

Why? What has caused this situation? I postulate that the amateur, which includes most of us, feels threatened by the constant “professional” musical performances heard on the radio, in stores, in concerts, and on the television. There is a feeling that there is no place for the average or the untrained or the unrecorded. Or perhaps it is the fear of not knowing the words or public embarrassment in some way. Music is such a vital part of our lives but more in a passive sense than an active one. We are moving toward our musical needs being met by the professional without the public participation found in earlier times. Maybe it is fear but maybe it is apathy.

Or even worse, maybe it is that we no longer value singing as having any meaning. But I do not subscribe to this view since I regularly see people singing in the car to the radio, and I watch students moving and singing to live music every chance they get. So as I write this and pontificate, I am beginning to think that Christmas carols as a genre have lost their appeal. We have been so inundated with carols of every type that it is no longer special to sing the very things we hear all the time.

I am anxious for your opinion, so please comment on this blog. Agree or disagree with me. Perhaps my thesis is wrong. I look for an answer to the two questions: Is the art of Christmas caroling disappearing from our society? If so, why?

Gift Giving

When the three wise men traveled from afar to deliver gifts to the newborn baby Jesus, they began a tradition that continues today—the tradition of gift giving. We love it, we treasure it, we sacrifice time, energy, and lots of money for the tradition. At this time of year the wealthiest may receive houses, yachts, airplanes, land, stock options, and automobiles. Others may receive clothes, costume jewelry, toys, food, shoes, gift certificates, books, movies, compact discs, and electronic equipment.

Some have traveled many distances for family time, whereas others have stayed close to home. Many have ordered gifts through the Internet but many others prefer to touch and feel the gift prior to its purchase. Some have found a small specialty shop but others found the large department store and braved a difficult parking situation in order to find the perfect gift. The hustle and bustle of gift buying coupled with candy-making, cookie, baking, decorating, light hanging, Christmas caroling (another topic for later), concerts, and Christmas trees, all form a collectivist spirit called Christmas.

Of course contemporary society and the media are also working to present Christmas generically with emphases on Santa Claus, Rudolph, the Grinch, Snowmen, and general moral-isms found in the marvelous old films of which It's a Wonderful Life is my personal favorite with Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer being a close second. These films present warm, sacrificial, and purposeful parables that leave us realizing that we are not alone and we can make a difference.

Nothing is wrong with the rather benign and enjoyable holiday films, and icons, but there is also no taking away from the beautiful and factual story of Epiphany. Many churches honor Epiphany beginning with a Christmas feast and followed by 8 days of celebration with the feast beginning 12 days after Christmas. Different churches adhere to variations of this calendar but modern culture tends to ignore events after Christmas as having any kind of religious significance. Yet there is little doubt that the selfless tradition of gift-giving, regardless of the modern timing flaws, symbolizes the gifts of the Magi to the Messiah and in a sense symbolizes the gift of God's son to the world.

While the secularism of Christmas seems to pervade our every step during this season, I suspect certain practices will never change including the practice of giving gifts. Giving demonstrates altruism, love, compassion, sacrifice, sharing, and communal spirit. A Randian might turn around and say, however, that giving is ultimately a selfish act in that the experience is ultimately self-rewarding; but regardless of the interpretation of the act of giving, the fact remains that giving is one of the greatest of the traditions of the Christmas season.

In addition, giving can include a multitude of practices apart from the expenditure of a new item. I recently opened 3 gifts from a friend. None were extravagant but each was personalized and special. My friend had given the gift of love by sacrificing time and emotional energy. Each gift was perfect. Another friend recently gave a gift that showed much forethought and care. All gifts, large or small, pricey or inexpensive, are special and are always worth a sincere thank you. Giving of your time, energy, love, and talents is a positive way to demonstrate care of another person. Let us continue this beautiful and benevolent practice and let it extend beyond the Christmas season.

Predetermined Reactions Through Control

Although I work to control my environment, there are many things and events that are out of my control. This is both right and good. While it would be nice to guide, direct, and manipulate all situations, ultimately the adventure begins when the control ends. And life is certainly an adventure--a wild ride that though bumpy at times is also immensely rewarding.

But the issue is control. While we attempt to control many things in our lives, the truth is that very little is under our thumb. So much of what we experience are simply things that happen to us. We are shaped through our experiences and we demonstrate who we are by our reactions. So the question is not how can we be victorious over our need for approbation in a reactive sense, but is rather how do we avoid puling over the vast olla podrida of emotions that seep maliciously through our veins seeking opportunities for advancement through abdication of responsibility.

We claim that reactions are simply reactions without any kind of foundation or representation of who we are. We claim that there is no control over reactions, emotions, and ultimately behavior, that as we experience events and respond to them, we in turn become a product of our own deliberations. All then becomes an effort to avoid inveigling tricks and predetermined machinations that form our inner beings due to outside influences. It is therefore anathema and counterproductive to develop the psyche as a shield against the constant encroachment of demands that threaten to disembody our very being.

If human responses are not governable then all is despotic, contentious, and contumacious without the parameters necessary for refined civilization. With this level of acceptance, we fall into the trap of irrevocable pessimism and loss of will. We are then victims of our own mediocre human frailty and find ourselves in a self-made slavery and personal tyranny of our design. Taken to its extreme, all personal efforts to overcome any perceived weakness are in vain. In this regard, the reaction of which we have no control is in fact a vapid expression of a shallow and constant flood of purposeless emotions.

And yet it cannot be. We are not shaped by our reactions. We shape our reactions through personal application and organization of our emotions and expressions. This requires discipline and order. But that in itself is not enough for it is useless to pretend that all emotions can be framed into a neat, clean picture of geometrical lines devoid of expression. We cannot and should not reject our emotions or attempt to deny their existence, but we do need to control them and educate them. This can be done through a process of catharsis--purging of emotional tensions--and reorganizing them into productive commodities of energy. A sort of galvanizing of the good and a dampening of the bad.

The control is impossible if we accept that we are molded purely by our experiences and our responses thereto. While there is little denying the role of events as deciding future reactions, it is also conversely wrong to deny the value of strengthening the inner self in preparation for the experiences that will fall in our paths. The adventure is wrought with joys, sorrows, fears, and excitement. Be prepared for it, react to it, and grow from it. Let us all control our reactions through self-governance, but let us also continually learn from the journey.

The Singing Bridge

It was getting closer and the excitement was building as we neared the phenomenon known to the family as The Singing Bridge. Joel was beside himself in joy and zeal with the inevitable harmonious music of the upcoming experience. The tires rolled methodically across the bridge with the grooves of the road providing the "groove" of the road. The emanating music once again brought smiles on our faces and joy in our hearts that lasted well beyond the bridge itself. The Singing Bridge once again worked its magical charm and left us feeling cheerful.

Sound is caused by vibrations and when the vibrations are organized into pitches and the pitches are ordered the result is music. Now this is a somewhat narrow definition because it limits the ordered pitches into human expectations. When you limit your expectations, you are actually approaching ideas or in this case music, with a preconceived concept of what it should be. This, then, becomes a dangerous practice and eventually sets forth parameters that could inhibit creativity. But this essay is not about a definition of music--perhaps that will come later. It is about finding music all around us.

Fun, entertainment, and music emanate from The Singing Bridge and the vibrations send forth sounds that followed us for the rest of the day. Music is like that. We need it, we love it, we respond to it in so many special ways. Music can be found everywhere. In nature, it can be heard in the wind, in the birds, and even in the insects. In modern society, music results from constant activity of humans and machines.

All speech has rhythm and most of the rhythm has repetition (which brings to mind the repetitive speech of many people--another subject for another day!). Music surrounds us on many levels and becomes an invaluable part of our lives. For a musician, we seek to codify it and organize it according to our training. For the non-musician, we may not understand it but we can enjoy or not enjoy it based on personal preference. In the end, music is difficult to define but not difficult to love.

I challenge all of us to find The Singing Bridge everywhere we go. There is music in the most insignificant and seemingly superfluous events but it is the music in those times that provides the most joy.

Attack on Ataxia

In this oddly chaotic world, we often find moments of order and form and these moments give us objective rules that can be comforting in a systematic way. Although my general free-spirited and independent nature is rewarded through music, literature, and different adventures, at the same time, I recognize the vast benefits of governance and prescription. Somewhere there is a balance of free creativity versus systematized rigidity and as we journey through life, we hope we achieve symmetry in our expectations for the waves of experiences thrown in our pathway each day.

For our 17 year old autistic son Joel, however, he often demands order and rule following as a system of life and organization. Some of this is born out of his trust of authority and some of this, unfortunately, is a reflection of his lack of creative thinking. And yet, for all its stereotypical characteristics of autism, it is a charming trait and one that bears modeling. If the sign says turn, then you must turn. If the rule states cross at the crosswalk, then you better not do otherwise.

Recently, at a formal dinner, there were name tags placed for seating. Unfortunately, the person who was supposed to sit across from me did not attend the event which then left a seat empty. Joel's name tag was placed next to the empty seat. Joel, of course, insisted on sitting where his tag was located even after I invited him to sit across from me. After thinking about it, I exchanged the name tags thereby making him comfortable to change seats. He was happy to oblige and we enjoyed the rest of the evening.

The following day, Joel and I ate at a nice restaurant together and as we prepared to leave, I noticed a door with an exit sign and another door with an enter sign. As we neared the doors, the enter door opened with a couple entering the restaurant. Due to the efficiency of the open door, I chose to leave the restaurant through that door. But Joel remained inside. As the door shut behind me, I noticed that Joel was not with me. I went back into the restaurant and saw Joel standing with his finger pointing at the exit door.

The hostess was looking at him oddly and I said it would take too long to explain. We both then left through the exit door with a happy Joel and perplexed looks on other people's faces. Joel followed the rules and was satisfied. He often reminds us of the speed limit, the red lights, the stop signs, the parking signs, and all the other myriad rules that help govern our behavior. In the library, he quickly but deliberately places the books in the sequential order that is needed. Conversely, he is not comfortable in a chaotic environment and does not respond well to subjectivity or even excess emotions.

In Joel's embracing of order, rules, and direction, he in turn resists the ataxia often found in large social circles and in certain environments. He seeks to order his world and grows concerned when all is not as it should be. In many ways, Joel's desire for objectivity is often refreshing and reminds us that chaos is ultimately nihilistic and that cultural growth occurs through order not confusion. Let us all choose times to attack ataxia and respect the Joels of the world.

Festive Fortitude

He spent his life as a musician performing and teaching, a family man, and a man rich in goodness and commitment to excellence in all matters. His was and is a fulfilling life replete with children, a career, laughter, love, success, and honesty. But with several years left before retirement, he received the debilitating news of the onset of Parkinson's Disease. A disease that would methodically and deliberately overtake his body, rendering him incapable of even the easiest and most mundane of physical motion.

All the symptoms were there and later it was confirmed by a physician. In addition to muscle stiffness, uncontrollable tremors, and a general feeling of physical sluggishness, was the need to hold on to things when walking for fear of falling down. His speech became slower and softer with little definition and displayed a marked lack of vocal articulation. It was Parkinson's Disease and the future was somber with little hope of improvement. His own countenance became atramentous, as though he became a shadow of his former self who carried his disease everywhere he went, like the sun entering a long eclipse from when there is no end. He gave up on his life as an active musician and was resigned to finishing his stellar career as a teacher in decline without the same level of musical performing application that had been such an important part of his life.

And yet, due in part to the medical profession and in part to the courage and application of the human spirit, he discovered he was not through as a musician. He was not ready to quit, not ready to give up, and mostly not ready to let it win. Research, medical help, and personal discipline led him to heights he did not know he had, and he found within himself the same courage and determination that built skyscrapers, led us to the moon, built highways, and composed symphonies. He reached deep and set aside the sickness and rejected that which had previously affected him.

He now picks up his instrument and makes music, beautiful music of promise and beautiful music of optimism for the future. His music rings loud and clear for all to hear and he walks the pathway of success. Each day finds him with a smile, a spring in his step, and a song in his heart.

So in this festive season there are many heroes, many champions, and many inspiring stories of endurance and perseverance. And in this festive season is a man battling Parkinson's Disease. He is a performing and teaching musician, performing a song of hope, and a song of victory, and above all a song of human spirit. Each day as he teaches music, his life teaches so much more. May his song of strength teach us to face our problems and not quit. And may he have many years of music, love, and risible moments that make the world a better place for everyone.

He, who could give up easily, battles onward and he, who won't let it get him, has become a testament to courage and fortitude in this festive season. May rich blessings continue along his pathway.

Special Relationship

I have a special relationship with my owner. He takes care of me and treats me right. I, in turn, try my best to treat him in like fashion by offering to him the best that I have within me and asking very little in return. I am a horn--commonly referred to as a French Horn. My owner, Robert Tucker, purchased me used from my previous owner where I used to play in the National Symphony Orchestra. My previous owner believed, like Rob, that my tone is superior and my construction is of the highest order. While I don't mean to be arrogant, my creators from the Alexander company, used the finest metal and the finest engineers in my design. Few, if any, horns have the inherent beauty and warmth that I impart in sound. This tends to give me an edge over other like instruments.

In addition, I am a descant horn meaning I am three feet shorter in overall length from most French horns which, in turn, enables my owner to be more accurate on notes in the extreme upper register. Like most horns, I do have my idiosyncrasies with a few notes that lean sharp or flat at certain times and a few difficult slurs in certain registers; yet, even with those minor flaws (which incidentally are fewer than most), I am superior in many other respects. Unfortunately, I am getting older and, like my owner, I don't look all that great anymore. I have lost my natural attractiveness and my joints are getting loose. I am a little spotted, weak at certain points, and get worn out quicker than I used to. I am having to be repaired fairly often and my soldered connections are not holding up as well. But, be that as it may, I still have a charm and beauty that belies my old, worn out appearance. Inside, like my owner, I am as good as ever (I wouldn't mind, however, if he would polish me occasionally--it would at least make me appear a little newer)!

Because Rob treats me well and has recently used me for many great pieces and concerts, I feel I owe it to him to do the best job I can in all circumstances. Playing a Mozart Concerto and a Bach Mass within two days of each other, gave me an opportunity to demonstrate my golden nature and to prove to the world that even though I am getting long in years, I can still hold my own with the younger generation of instruments.

But not all is rosy between my owner and me. He often neglects me and in the interstice between playing, I feel unimportant and become less effective. My valves sometimes need oiling, my slides greasing, and mostly my purpose for existence--to make beautiful music--is negated. It leaves me rather pensive and lachrymose, without a sense of fulfilling my mission as a musical instrument. Yet one could argue that is also makes the musical times more special and momentous. My only other complaint against Rob is that my case is pretty worn out and I personally think I deserve a new case, one that will both protect me and provide great comfort.

In the end, though, our years together have served us well in a beautiful team spirit of cooperation and aesthetic enjoyment. Many thousands of hours of music making and we are far from done yet. We look forward to many more years together in our loving and special relationship that only comes from years of joys and struggles and years of searching for perfection in music. We are far from perfect but it is the journey toward that ideal truth that is satisfying.

The Test of Time--Brahms

Johannes Brahms was one of many great composers of the Romantic Period. It has been argued that he could be considered the greatest of that genre although it is certainly a difficult announcement to prove. But there is little doubt that Brahms excelled in many different musical genres and mastered the art of chamber, vocal, and instrumental music on a small scale and in large forms. His music is powerful, beautiful, touching, complex, unpredictable, rich, and provides that unusual marriage of sophistication and elitism with folk tunes of the people.

Through tonal melodies, modalism, and folk song, Brahms provides ultra-sophistication without sacrificing accessible, often enjoyable music. Drawing from musical forms of the past and using techniques that hearken back over 100 years, Brahms' music often incorporates stretto, canon, chaconne, augmentation, sequence, development, and variation technique. His application of creative contrapuntal complexity is not an academic exercise but instead provides a unified framework and a focus for his brilliant musical language.

Melodically, Brahms is richly German with long melodic, singable lines that seem to flow smoothly from one instrument or voice to another. Many composers tend to run dry over a period of years, reusing the same material, or altering it slightly and presenting it as a new composition. With Brahms, however, each composition, is fresh, rich, and memorable and perfectly blended with his uncanny ability for vital harmony that moves aggressively but always tonally through many subtle key changes and tonicizations.

But it is in the area of rhythm that Brahms excels. Rarely does his music change meters but also rarely does it stay in the same grouping of accents and unaccented beats. His constant rhythmic shifting of the accent mixed with the anticipations and rhythmic enhancements give the music a constant energy by propelling it forward. Although a little unsettling at times, the poly-rhythms, the syncopated rhythms, the fast-changing harmonies leading to a bold cadence, gives his music a mesmerizing energy that reaches into the heart of soul of the listener.

Although generally serious and at times rather dark, Brahms' music does have moments of great positive expression and uplifting emotions. From his piano music, song literature, choral literature, and orchestral works, Brahms excelled in all genres and continues to be respected as one of the musical giants of the Romantic era. His music withstands the ultimate test of great art—the test of time. If you can only pick one piece to hear, I would encourage listening to his 2nd Symphony. It is a marvelous work in all respects and greatly representative of his style, his harmony, his rhythms, his skill, and his emotion.

New Deacon

While growing up, I often heard these words, "Those Darn Deacons" from my father! Dad was one of the most devout church attenders in history and also one of the most critical. In his frequent capacity as a part-time minister of music in various churches, Dad found himself at odds with the local deacons of the church. Discussions on purchasing a pipe organ or timpani or handbells were common and any irritation was exacerbated by the inevitable deacon's meeting during choir practice. The result was a rather antagonistic relationship between my outspoken father and the leaders of the church. Therefore, I grew up with the view that deacons are the enemy and are not to be trusted.

It has never been a personal ambition of mine to be a deacon. My busy schedule, my continued commitment to my family, and my efforts to be successful in my new position as Dean, leave little room for any additional experiences. But as I type these words, I know that when God calls you to serve, you are wiser to say yes than no!

So it came as a great surprise when I found myself being ordained as a deacon. I experienced a wide variety of emotions during this service with the prevailing emotion being that of great humility. I am now among men who are giants in the church. Men whose devotion to spiritual matters is only excelled by their commitment to ministering to the needs of the people. How can I, with my many flaws, walk among them and be a Christian leader in the church?

It is ironic how quickly I embrace leadership opportunities in music and even in other capacities but experience fright and insecurity at being a deacon. God has now called me to serve outside of my comfort zone and to be a part of a ruling body and to make decisions that uphold His will in all situations. Am I truly up to the task? I think not, but I also recognize that God gives us the strength and the ability to accomplish more than our human frailty and inherent natures would normally allow. I suppose it is time to "step up to the plate" and be one of those "darn deacons" and to become the Christian man that God demands from me.

So I humbly submit myself to His will, and I seek his guidance and his leadership as I take on this new endeavor. While I remain very humble, and somewhat fearful of this new role, I also know that I can do "all things through Christ who strengthens me." I will fail on my own--as is always true--but will succeed through Christ. It also won't hurt to have a few friends help along the way! But it is time for my deaconship to be about serving others and not myself. I now work to toss my natural selfishness aside and instead focus on ministering to others. Praise be to God for this great opportunity.

King in South Carolina

No, not Elvis, 'twas I in South Carolina. My recent trip to South Carolina was beyond all expectations. I was met at the airport and chauffeured to Anderson where I was well-fed with home cooking and greeted by the friendliest little dog on the planet. Later I was treated to a live concert of a small but well-prepared orchestra. The concert had a theme of musical counterpoint and imitation including a premiere by a local composer that provided great moments of musical interest, originality, and innovative harmonies. Especially intriguing was the Bach Suite performed by the string players in a standing position. The tone rang clear throughout the auditorium and the audience responded with enthusiastic applause and warm reception to the musical excellence of the conductor and performers.

Following the concert, a small group of four went to a local restaurant to experience escargot (referenced in an earlier blog) and conversation ranging from the greatest 20th century composer to music business to opera. Most fascinating was the orchestra conductor arguing in favor of voting Duke Ellington as the greatest composer! While the topic of Verismo and Puccini was touched on, eventually, as all good discussions must, we found ourselves conversing on Wagner and Bernstein.

The next morning, I enjoyed a meeting with an administrator of Anderson University and we discussed the value and challenges of distance learning. It was a productive meeting and I left invigorated and committed to growth in the online arena of learning. Later, I addressed a class of music education majors concerned about their future and the continued development of their own music education skills. It was an hour that moved too quickly and I was disappointed when it was over. The students were perceptive, curious, intelligent, and enthusiastic about the topics discussed.

Finally came the time to direct the honor band formed out of the finest 8th graders from the area. It was a good band with nice, obedient students. They responded well and seemed to enjoy the music selected. The first rehearsal was introductory as we "learned" each other and began the process of making music together and preparing for the upcoming concert. The rehearsal concluded with great expectations for further musical experiences the next day. That evening was yet another great meal and an opportunity for time together with a friend.

The next day we intensified the rehearsal tempo and performed an admirable concert to an audience filled with supportive parents and teachers. In addition to the quality of the players, they had obviously been well-taught and demonstrated commitment to excellence. Precision and energy were applied to the performance and the students were filled with excitement as we concluded the concert in a musical whirlwind of glorious band sound.

Mention should be made of the outstanding organization skills of the college students handling the instruments, stands, music, program, meals, and other needs that go with supervising an honor band. The students showed great poise and maturity in dealing with the myriad challenges and provided an enjoyable experience for everyone involved in the project.

After the concert, we dined at a restaurant worthy of distinction and I once again ate food better than I deserved. All this fine eating added to a pleasant surplus of avoirdupois that I decided to address at a later date. The next morning, I was again treated to a filling breakfast of an omelet and then headed to the airport for my return trip. The few days in South Carolina were filled with friendship, music, pleasantries, and lots of great food. To all who made my trip a highlight, I thank you. It was certainly a trip worthy of a king and much more than I deserved.

Culinary Courage

I have embarked on a new adventure of culinary experiences. It began in South Carolina as I decided to eat escargot, otherwise known as snails. The 8 little critters arrived on a small plate each within its own dimpled cup not unlike a deviled egg plate. In their former life, the snails were vital and slow moving creatures with limited but useful purpose. Their diet consisted of plants and dirt and their prodigious production of mucus allowed them to maneuver across even the most dangerous of pathways. Yet they had become fodder for me on this particular evening.

The chef covered them in butter, garlic, and cheese, served them on a silver platter and I ate them without hesitation and with much zeal. Later I learned that because snails eat dirt and decay, they can be toxic to humans unless they enter a period of fasting and purging prior to their demise. As I reflect on this, I am hoping my snails fasted appropriately and meaningfully! They were indeed delicious and I look forward to yet another opportunity to partake in their unusual but appetizing pemmican. Never mind that my friend pointed that virtually anything covered in butter, garlic, and cheese is tasty.

Less than a week later, I found myself in a sushi bar eating raw fish and eel. I allowed the sushi bar manager to create a dish of sushi "greatest hits" for me in the hopes I would receive a wide variety of delectable sushi treats. And I was not disappointed. Raw fish and eel of various types adorned my plate with a garnish of parsley, an edible orchid, a spot of ginger and some horseradish. In appearance it was creative, colorful, and consummate without being excessively baroque or affected. The sushi was excellent--smooth, gentle, tasty, and palatable with an aperitive flavor. I savored each morsel carefully since I rarely get sushi where I live.

I must admit, however, that I remain somewhat suspicious that rather than providing great taste, eating sushi and an entire lounge devoted to sushi is a bourgeois excuse for bragging rights. The ability to say "I ate sushi and escargot" gains a begrudging respect from those who simply don't want to try. The environment of the lounge was modern with odd lighting, contemporary art, and background music that bordered on the "new age" with hints of current popular idioms in the accompaniment. It makes me wonder if the idea of sushi is greater than the reality.

Yet, I do not wish to discount the unusual and tasty qualities of sushi and escargot. Although not as forward tasting as rattlesnake, nor as wild tasting as alligator, and certainly not as delicate as turtle, sushi and escargot deserve their place among the elite of foods. While this is not something I want for every meal, I did enjoy my experience and look forward to further opportunities to test my culinary courage.

Evidence of Grace--Chicago II

An onomatopoeia is a word that sounds like its meaning. Many onomatopoeia's may be applied to the following experience. Screech, squeal, bump, slam, honk, and roar are all examples of sounds that I heard from the airport to downtown Chicago. It was a roller coaster ride of high speed, curves, acceleration, and creative adjustment to the prescribed highway system. The terms smooth, refined, elegant, careful, deliberate, and polished have nothing to do with our trip to downtown Chicago.

It is only through the grace of God that we were delivered safely to our respective temporary residences. Not one speed limit sign was acknowledged; not one curve was executed with safety; not one lane was occupied by us for more than a minute at a time. Each stop light was approached with anger at its existence, and the brakes on the vehicle were applied at the last second to prevent the inevitable crash (note the onomatopoeia). One memorable moment occurred as we moved onto the parking lane with our wheels flirting feverishly with the curb, and the taxi driver inched past the line of cars waiting at the light. Suddenly in a fierce acceleration, he moved past the cars, jumped in front of the line and continued. His prediction of the green light was uncanny.

Strangely, during this mad flight through downtown Chicago, he gently talked about his five children and his wife and how much enjoys raising his children in the United States. He was from India but had lived here many years and spoke positively about the opportunities in our country. During the conversation, he would pause to allow me to make the usual verbal sounds acknowledging his words. I must say I did quite well at masking my fear and trying to place my heart back in the right place and out of my throat. I did have to wait a few seconds to answer one of his questions so I could witness the 3 inch clearance as we passed a large truck, drove on the shoulder near the drop off of the bridge, and moved in front of the truck only to hear a wild crescendo of honking horn sound emanating from the truck.

When I wasn't grunting (another one!) out a response to the driver, I was busy saying silent prayers and watching my life flash (good one, huh?) before my eyes. As I exited the taxi, paid him richly (that's not one), I was very happy to have my feet on the ground. I'm sure the greeters at the door wondered about my euphoric grin on my face. I wanted to hug everyone I saw and thank the Lord for being alive and sending the angels on the trip. Whew (a good one), the ride was over.

Later I walked through the streets and stopped counting at 10 near accidents between vehicles, pedestrians, and bicycle riders and decided to reflect on God's grace that allows us to even be alive in this rat race we call life. For it must be some sort of miracle that prevents constant mishaps in downtown Chicago. Therein lies the difference between Chicago and where I live in Texas. I look forward to the irenic joys of my residence where the angels still have to work, but not nearly as hard!

Unfortunately I have to get a ride back to the airport on Tuesday. Yikes! (best one yet).

Above and Below--Chicago I

Chicago. The windy city. Home of the Cubs, White Sox, and the Bears. Cultural mecca for opera, symphony, ballet, art, chamber music, and all kinds of theatre. I am here enjoying the city and realized something strange during my rather gauche pilgrimage through the congeries of stores, restaurants, shops, and people. There is a city below downtown Chicago and a city above downtown Chicago. Below my steps I heard the motorized sounds of the subway and watched as hundreds of people emerged out of the tunnel and onto the street. Above my walk I again heard the frightening roar of the train as it reverberated through the lifted steel that contained its fierce undulating movement. And as I gazed upward, I looked in awe at the massive buildings that dotted and almost obliterated the sky above. Buildings covered with marble and glass and buildings rising from ab ovo only to end with a minaret so high as to be almost disguised and masked with the clouds hovering deliciously over the skyscrapers.

As I reflected on the city above and below me I found myself curious as to the people. Are they different in Chicago from people in Texas? Are they uglier, meaner, prettier, or nicer? Are they friendlier, ruder, smarter, stronger, less intelligent, or weaker than Texans? Do we in Texas rise above Chicago in pride, in spirit, in integrity, or in individualism? Or are we below Chicagoans in culture, in experience, in education, or in collective wisdom?

From my brief experience in this amazing city, I conclude that Texans and Chicagoans are simply people. There are nice ones, mean ones, scared ones, confident ones, tall, short, ugly, pretty, casual, intense--just people of all types, shapes, personalities, and values. I did notice that my propensity to strike up conversation in a folksy style brought smiles to faces. Apparently this is a bit unusual in Chicago. And I learned not to violate personal space in a revolving door. One lady began to laugh uproariously as we rotated around and stepped on each others feet amidst my inexorable apologies for not waiting for another rotating slot in which to reside. As we tumbled out of the door and on to the street, she glanced at me and laughed at me and continued her trek toward her own goals.

All in all, my day was enjoyable as I experienced this multi-layered city. I encountered many fine, helpful people along the pathway. And so I dispel the myth that Yankees are not friendly. Like Texans, some are and some are not. The layers of Chicago are as complex as are the people. But while the people may be similar, there are some things about downtown Chicago that are very different from where I live. Those differences will be outlined in Chicago II.

Chicago

I am off to Chicago for the NASM convention. It will be for several days and I'm sure it will be informative. I will miss my family and my youngest son's birthday. I have had several difficult days of administrative challenges and not enough time to take care of all the things coming across my desk. But I am hoping to get caught up in the next couple of days on the airplane and in the motel.

I need to blog on my new appointment as a deacon in our church. I have many thoughts on this. I also want to share some insights on my South Carolina trip. Although certainly not the highlight of my trip, I did get to eat snails and have several thoughts on that. So, as soon as I have a few hours, blogs will be coming forth!

Bloglessness

Please accept my apology for my blogging delinquency. I have been swamped. Much material is on the way. Being in South Carolina has provided hours of endless peripatetic meanderings. You may increase your anxious anticipation of a tirade of tidbits. They will arrive soon.

Concession Conceding

As we drove to the concession stand to spend the evening making burgers, nachos, cheese fries, sausage wraps, Frito pies, and an assortment of creative concoctions such as pickle juice poured over a snickers bar, I was filled with that strange combination of emotions that commonly occurs when I am out of my comfort zone: namely dread and anticipation. I was dreading the smoke from the grill that was an unending river of haze slowly but deliberately seeping into my clothes and my eyes. But I was also anticipating the opportunity to serve and to generate funds that in turn would help the students of the organization.

It was a high school football game, a game of two teams unlikely to advance, a game where only the the most dedicated (of which there are many) were going to attend. A chill was in the air due partly to the weather but also due to the typical fear of victory and defeat. For some of the fans, it was entertainment; for others it was serious. For the players, it was the opportunity to compete and to apply the grueling practice sessions to the real event. But this essay is not about football, it is about the concession stand.

The evening began by cleaning the grill, filling the smoker with wood, and lighting the fire. I experienced a moment of relief when the fire caught on and the grill began the heating up process for the more than 200 hamburgers and 100 sausages we would cook. According to the dictionary, concession means to yield or concede an argument or a fact. It also means a space allotted for a subsidiary business. And both of these definitions apply to our concession stand. It is a business. A fairly big business with a flowing of cash that is unusual in small businesses.

Yet, in many ways, we are conceding a point or an argument, since the stand included men and women of all ages working together for a common goal. We don't always agree but we also don't make it about us. It is about serving and if the truth be told also about making money. We serve well, we serve selflessly, we serve honestly, and we serve completely, and consequently we are rewarded on many levels.

Standing by a man I never met before and flipping burgers, sharing smoke, sharing stories, laughing, coughing, complaining, and pontificating, I found myself in a new friendship. For we stood shoulder to shoulder, bearing the joys and burdens of cooking at the grill. We didn't always agree on when the meat was done or how much more wood was needed or which spatula was the best or even which side of the grill was the best, but in the end it didn't matter. We bonded in our work and we bonded in our play and two completely different people in all respects--education, family, priorities, world-view, gifts, and life situations--found themselves friends with a common goal.

I spent some time reflecting on this as I battled the smoke and the burgers. The evening moved quickly and my com-padre had to leave early. So it was time for clean up of the entire stand and once again all the people working conceded to each other and worked together for the goal of cleaning the stand. There were no arguments, no egos, no selfish agendas, and no anger. Only committed parents working hard and quickly to close up the concession. As we finished, did some sweeping, stored all the goods, and said our goodbyes, I sensed an unspoken but real affirmation of a job well done.

Blessings often come when we least expect them but blessings are everywhere if we but look. I never expected to be blessed while cooking greasy smoke-filled burgers but it happened.

Reformation Day

Yesterday was Reformation Day. This was the day that Martin Luther nailed 95 Theses on the door at Wittenberg protesting the sale of indulgences by the Papacy. Much has been written on this and subsequent events and other than conjecture and opinion, I have nothing new to offer on the subject. So I will choose to deal with the subject in a different post-modern way. There is no question that the Reformation and the Counter-reformation did occur. We cannot revise history nor would we want to. The real story is fun, frightening, dramatic, curious, and prodigious.

The question is not about the events but rather how we handle this today. Do we honor and celebrate this day thereby risking alienating our Roman friends? Or do we ignore this day and replace it with the quasi-socially acceptable Halloween? Should we even acknowledge Reformation Day and does it really have any meaning at all? I posture that the day does have meaning and that we should at least accept its vital role in church history. It matters not as to whether we agree with the events or with the thought behind the events. In fact, I often argue about the efficacy of Reformation Day and have more than once regretted the results of that day.

Yet I do enjoy acknowledging the actual date October 31 as Reformation Day. It always results in stimulating conversation and inevitably some healthy controversy as to the differences in denominations not mention the historical abuse of the Papacy at that time. But in the end, I do not enjoy the polarization and judgment that seems to ultimately be delivered by a few self-righteous Protestants. I think the goal of Reformation Day is not to celebrate the division but rather to love each other in spite of our differences. It is no longer necessary to cause pain or to attack viciously a person who thinks differently from ourselves. Knowing history is to learn from it. Learning from history is to avoid the same mistakes. The way to avoid mistakes is to embrace love and acceptance.

Let's continue to recognize Reformation Day and All Saints Day (November 1) and let's offer forgiveness and love in a unified effort for acceptance.

Those Darn Diesels

One of the great ongoing debates that has caused wars, broken relationships, pain, and fury is the argument over freedom and rights. At what point does a person's right to freedom interfere over another person's right to freedom? When a vehicle playing loud unappealing music pulls up beside yours with the windows wide open and the bass so loud it reverberates within your chest, has the "music" infringed on your right not to hear it? If one person's freedom is another person's strait jacket is it really freedom?

On two recent occasions I have felt my rights violated by a diesel engine in a truck. The first occurred at a laundry drive-through. As I was waiting to pick up my laundry, a diesel truck pulled up behind me and began the usual rattle and clatter of unmusical cacophony that we have come to know as the sound of diesel. This particular drive-through is a small tunnel with a low ceiling and narrow walls. In this narrow space the racket became a fortissimo of inharmonious tones that seemed to seep into the deepest regions of human existence. The sound always reminds me of a poorly-oiled skeleton dancing and falling on tin foil. I was quite relieved to pick up my laundry and leave that noisy world.

The second incident happened on my nightly walk as my wife and I strolled through the neighborhood (the term neighborhood is somewhat misleading since we live in the country and have very few neighbors!). We were huffing and puffing up a small hill with the usual concerns of stray dogs, skunks, and the intermittent fast driver. Which, by the way, is very fun for me to shine the flashlight on an approaching fast driver and watch the immediate slow down! But this time the approaching vehicle was a diesel truck and with my usual aplomb I shined the light to remind him to slow down. But as he slowed down, the vociferous odor of his diesel truck, permeated the area and added to our already difficult breathing situation. We were forced to take the pungent stench into our nasal passages and on into our lungs thereby causing both of us to cough. On the positive side, we quickened our pace to escape the redolence and got home quicker than usual.

As I reflect on these two incidences, I realize that our rights for a quiet odor free existence have been violated by diesel trucks. The freedom to own the vehicle of your choice has infringed on my rights to walk without fear of diesel odor and to pick up laundry without my ears being assaulted. I am not addressing the environmental benefits of diesel over gas or the economic advantages but rather am simply addressing the volume and the smell. This is not a call to eradicate the world of the evil perpetrated upon us each and every day in the form of diesel trucks, but this is a call for auto makers to devise a quieter odor-free mode of transportation that is pleasing to all. Those darn diesel trucks--make them quieter with less effluvium and there will be many of us much happier.

Lack of Roots

In walking around campus last week, I noticed Winter grass seed had been spread all over campus. It was sprouting beautiful green blades of grass in all the right places. Unfortunately some of the seed also fell on the sidewalk where it lay dormant with nothing to cause it to grow. Yet as I walked around I saw some unusual sprouting grass seed almost ubiquitously throughout the campus. In some instances, the seed had landed in small clumps of dirt on sidewalks and near curbs and on brick.

The seed sprouted as aggressively and thoroughly as the seed that had landed in the grass. It grew rapidly and produced the same rich green as all the other seed. But soon afterward in an act of perfidy, the seed was rejected on all counts and died a fairly quick and uneventful death without any ceremony or obstreperous actions. Strong and proud one day and gone the next to reside in the empty world of seed without a home. Devoid of any kind of future and without so much as a tchotchke to its name, the seed disappeared and was quickly forgotten.

The grass seed had no roots since the roots had nowhere to go. Without roots, we lack the foundation and support to develop and to grow and to reach our potential. I thank my parents for providing roots for me when I was young, and I thank God for the spiritual roots that seem to grow deeper and stronger each year.

Snippets

I am way behind on so many things that I do not have time to blog. So I am going to share snippets of information and wisdom to be extrapolated later.

1. The high school football scene is out of control for some people. I was shocked and appalled at a recent game to hear some of the most vicious iniquitous language directed towards referees, players, and coaches I have ever heard.

2. I am so proud of my children. They had a very successful musical weekend.

3. A good friend drove a long way to see me and deliver a gift. Friendship is a special gift in and of itself. It is very meaningful.

4. Being an administrator is a challenge. It is not possible to meet everyone's needs.

5. I love to blog, but need more time to do it well.

Pedestal Prison

Around and around I was swirling with no beginning and no ending, with a noisy but hopeless energy that grew into desperation and mental anguish, an effort-filled purpose to escape but with the knowledge that freedom was not within the realm of possibility in any kind of sense. I was in a nightmare that had an incongruity in its tone and a polarization in its theme. A person I was not; but neither was I an animal or even an object in the typical sense of the word. Rather, I was an entity with human feelings and emotions but without any physical properties associated with life.

In a somewhat hypnagogic state, it was without any kind of peace or tranquility sometimes associated with repetition and redundancy. It was the same thing over and over without any kind of repose in fear or in results. But regardless of the inevitable events that looped quickly as though change could occur but wouldn't, the recalcitrant attitude remained high and violent. This stubborn refusal to accept the circumstances added to swirling evil that had seeped into the pores of universe as it was seen and defined the parameters set forth in history since inception.

Although difficult to acknowledge, I knew in the recesses of what little mind I had, that I was in a prison. Many people live in a prison of one kind or another--financial prisons, emotional prisons, relationship prisons, career prisons and health prisons--and find it difficult to escape. My prison in my nightmare was permanent without any hope of change. I was born a flexible but locked in object on a pedestal. I was the center of the universe without feet and without mobility other than the rotating ball joint that attached me to the pedestal.

My strange inhuman existence was to rotate quickly on the ball joint that was attached to the pedestal as people and objects scream and hit me. It was a trapped existence full of peril and subject to emotional pain. The rotations increased rapidly until I was spinning out of control and in danger of flying off the pedestal only to land among the enemies. The danger, however, was also mixed with desire for to depart my prison regardless of the ensuing anguish would be preferred over the agony of my reality. But, alas, while my emotions were out of control, I know there was always limits for I was controlled by my attachment to the pedestal that existed below me.

My prison was of my own making. I placed myself permanently on a pedestal in an inhuman state where I was attacked viciously by others in a prison of my own mind. I rotated around and around and accomplished nothing other than to add to my own worthless existence while others hurled insults and objects at me.

But, fortunately, it was just a nightmare. All is well.

Unusual Gifts, Pt. 2

He cannot tell a lie. No he is not George Washington nor honest Abe Lincoln, he is Joel Tucker, our 16 year old autistic son. His affliction/gift prevents him from applying creative thinking to situations. Lying is a creative endeavor in that it takes an actively creative mind to fabricate and elaborate. Joel states the facts without embellishment.

We can always depend on Joel to express the events as they happened or at least what he sees and experiences. He does not assume things and does not tell anything that he thinks might have happened. Like Dragnet, he sticks to the facts and often expresses them without any emotion. Joel's world is somewhat pleasantly superficial in that he does not imagine the abstract or pretend to know something that is not there. He lives in the concrete world of the five senses without anticipation of what those senses will be. He responds in truth to what he sees and does not interpret beyond the obvious.

This results in extreme reliability of events and situations without the typical guesswork found in most people's views. We tend to rely on the perceptions and interpretations of individuals rather than on strictly the facts. Joel, however, provides us with a reliable account of his experiences. It is both comforting and frightening for us as parents. I am often glad Joel does not see or sense any criticism or even anything negative around him. This causes him to have a pleasant demeanor and to find the best in everyone and in everything.

On the other hand, it is a little unnerving to know that Joel does not sense any danger or possible threats around him. While Joel brings an eternal optimism with him in his responses to people and events, the truth is that not all experiences and not all people are well-intentioned. This keeps us and Joel's brothers on guard to insure that any threats whether veiled or obvious are quelled and that Joel is protected.

But we do not necessarily desire to change Joel into a suspicious, darkly questioning individual. There is enough of that in the world already. Instead, while we do wish to instill in Joel the ability to discern and recognize differences in people and situations, we hope to retain the goodness and joy that he emanates everywhere he goes.

This is probably Joel's greatest gift: to transform the world around him and to spread joy infectiously to other people. A great writer will work linearly to provide congruity and concinnity to his prose. Like a great writer who speaks with the pen or the keyboard, Joel's personality and comportment are beyond reproach and his natural magnetic charm joyously infects every room he enters. Never a braggadocio, he won't boast, bluster, or exult himself in any fashion. He is not capable of exaggeration, hyperbole, or self-absorption in the way we normally define it. His acts of selfishness are to serve his own need to meet people, love people, affirm people, and help people.

Joel's unusual gifts of honesty and unlimited powers of love, set him apart from the rest of world and make him unequivocally special. In a world replete with fear, suspicion, caution, prejudice, and judgment, Joel escapes into a world complete with love, goodness, acceptance, tolerance, and trust. Perhaps the world would be better off with more Joels!

Nipping at your Heels

Yesterday I found myself limping as I walked through campus. I had developed a blister on the heel of my left foot and it did not feel very good. The pain, although not severe, was still rather obdurate and irritating. While I don't mean to bloviate, I generally operate on an "ignore the pain" philosophy and encourage others to do the same. Yet, this pain was intense enough to prevent the mind over matter approach.

And as I continued my venture through campus I remembered as a child, going across the street to our neighbors house to swim in their pool. We loved to swim but upon exiting the pool, a large black dog would attack our heels and chase us around as we awkwardly tried not to run for fear of slipping but also deliberately trying to avoid the inevitable nip on our heels. It was a trying experience but worth the effort to get to swim. The reward was worth the potential pain.

How often, I wonder, did Martin Luther feel the dogs nipping at his heels, or how often did Benjamin Franklin experience criticism as he experimented with electricity or developed the public library? Or how did Stravinsky react when his great ballet was jeered and booed. There are critics around every corner ready to point out the problems with an idea or ready to pounce on any sign of weakness.

It is always easier to avoid taking a risk and always easier to stay in our comfort zone. When we wrap a security blanket around us we insulate ourselves from criticism and although we are protected, we are also not progressing. A friend of mine once told me that most music can be harmonized using three chords, but it is the music that is harmonized in creative ways beyond the three expected chords that has made the most impact and has the most lasting value.

So it may be painful at times and it may be an irritant, but know that when the critics are nipping at your heels, that is when you are possibly accomplishing the most good. You may need some band-aids or you may need to make some adjustments to your step, but in the end the goal is to press forward and make a difference.

Abbreviated Vegetarian

It is over! I ended my commitment to being a vegetarian 9 months earlier than planned. It has been a sociological adventure more than a physical one. Let me explain.

On the physical side, at first I felt energized and fascinated with the vegan journey. I quickly noticed my internal system responding positively and my complexion becoming clearer and an unusual regulation to the inner machine (I don't think I need to elaborate on that). I also quickly learned how difficult it is to avoid all red meat at restaurants given that most dishes contain meat of some kind. At first, I missed those great moments of steak, hamburger, bacon, sausage, and even chicken (although I have never been a big chicken fan). But after a week or two, I no longer missed the meat and in fact found myself almost disgusted by the sight and smell of it.

A steady diet of salad, fruits, and vegetables was enjoyable (with the exception of the 200 blueberries I ate one evening--I couldn't seem to stop and became over-regulated for a brief time!) and relaxing. No fear of under-cooking or overcooking or grease or fat. Just nice, pleasant food grown out of God's green garden.

Yet time did not bear out my expectations. After approximately two months I found myself in a physical quandary. I was gaining weight, losing energy, retaining fluids, and feeling lousy. I read some information and discovered this was not an unusual result to a vegetarian diet and in fact was rather common. So it is over and I am now enjoying a balanced diet that includes some red meat mixed with fruits and vegetables.

But I did not experiment with vegetarianism for the physical benefits, instead I was curious as to the sociological responses. And I was not disappointed. I received many varied reactions to my vegetarian pronouncement. Most people questioned my motives--curious if I had become a liberal animal rights activist! Some people became immediately defensive as though I were judging them for eating meat. Most people looked at me quite oddly and wondered if I had lost my mind--was I really the same person or had something dramatic happened to the marbles in my head?

I temporarily broke the mold that had been established for me by my friends and acquaintances. I defied the label and left them guessing and questioning and strangely fearful that I had changed. I, of course, enjoyed this experience immensely and who knows, may experiment with something new again. Perhaps a nose ring would cause undue social reaction!

Meanwhile, I am reminded of the words of Aristotle: "Moderation in all things." This applies to many areas of life including food.

The Love of a Grandmother

Years ago, shortly before my grandmother passed away, she decided to give her cassette tape collection to me along with a few other items. It was not a vast collection by any means, and I had very little interest in most of it due to not listening to cassettes anymore. None of our vehicles has a cassette player and cassette tapes are quickly going the way of 8 tracks, drive-in theaters, black and white television sets, and honest politicians (sorry, just had to throw that one in!). So it was with superficial gratitude (speaking of not being honest), that I graciously accepted the small collection and took it home.

My grandmother was a very intelligent, hard-working, classy lady with a special love of knowledge, Biblical ideals, and national politics. She could often be found watching CNN Senate proceedings with great interest and she always had an opinion on various politicians. In retrospect, I realize that with few exceptions she was right. She was also a Sunday school teacher, public speaker, artist, optimist (albeit rather narrow at times), and lover of her family.

As I began to go through the cassettes and to throw away most of it, I noticed several that were in their original wrapping. I also noticed several that had obviously been played continuously for years. I organized the tapes into two groups--the used and unused--and a fascinating truth began to emerge. The unused tapes were tapes that I and friends had given to her over the years. They were generally of great orchestras, great performers, and an occasional powerful and significant speech. The unused tapes had the most meaning to me and without a doubt the best sound and delivery.

The used tapes, however, contained family moments of church productions, Sunday School classes, instrumental solos of grandchildren, and even casual recordings of family gatherings. One tape in particular contained a recording of a solo I had sung in a church play when I was 10 or 12 years old. There is little doubt that this recording would make the top ten of the all-time worst recordings in the industry. The singing is poor, the sound quality poor, the style is poor, and the music itself is poor. Mysteriously, this tape was among the most used in the collection.

One of the items she gave me was a crooked, worthless star made out of cardboard and covered in tin foil. This star would be an embarrassment at a white elephant party. Its sole value might be in using the foil for a dish in the kitchen. It would be difficult to make a worse star than this one. But as I looked at this item, I recalled its place on the annual Christmas tree at her house. I recall as a child wondering why it was there and why my grandmother didn't go to the store and buy a better one. My brother had made that star and it was not very good. Why did she keep that star and why did she insist on listening to that tape?

There is no logical explanation. The head examines this conundrum and can come to no conclusion that makes any kind of cognitive sense whatsoever. Why embrace the bad and avoid the good? Why accept the unacceptable and ostensibly pursue that which is mediocre over the excellent? Was she devoid of high standards, of rational thinking, of awareness of quality?

No. She perhaps knew somewhere in the recesses of her brain that the singing and the music were inferior. She knew the star was crooked and cheap. She knew there were superior recordings within her reach and a better star down the road at the local store. She knew the professional recording of the speech delivered by the famous political figure was better than the Sunday School class lecture done by her family member. But for my grandmother, heart led the head and the truth was found in love.

For her the cheap recording of the speech was of the finest quality. The singing of the song by her grandson represented the standard of excellence, and for her the star was perfect. All these things were her family and nothing was greater. Perfection is found in imperfections. Love, joy, and goodness surround all of us. My grandmother found those ideals through her family. That flawed but perfect star in your life should rest at the top of your tree for all to see. Beauty and love are not found through rational thinking and cognitive application; beauty and love are in your heart. That imperfect song may indeed be the song of love in your life. Sing it loudly and sing it joyfully for few things in life are more perfect than the love of family.

"I love you Grandmother. Thanks for loving me and seeing beyond my many flaws."

Sowing Seeds

"Oh, the Lord's been good to me.
And so I thank the Lord
For giving me the things I need:
The sun, the rain and the appleseed;
Oh, the Lord's been good to me."

I can still hear my Dad's voice as he played his guitar and sang to me. He would always tell the story of Johnny Appleseed and follow up with this little song. As a child, I heard this song on one level--a funny little man who went around the country planting appleseeds and resulting in lots of apple trees everywhere. My love for apples began at a young age and continues to today.

Similarly, although he passed away 7 years ago, my love for my Dad began at a young age and continues to today. His songs, his love for life, his eclectic, oft inconsistent philosophies, and his unpredictable but charming behavior not only left its mark on his wife and two children but also on thousands of students of all ages from elementary to adults. He did not leave apple seeds on the world, instead he sowed hope and love.

Some people leave bitterness, fear, suspicion, and anger with them wherever they go. Others leave joy, optimism, love, compassion, and hope. I propose that we are all Johnny Appleseeds leaving something of ourselves in the world. What do you sow and what do grow? As the journey of life continues, let us all sing a song of appleseeds and appletrees and let us all leave the world better than it was when we started.

We should give back and share what we have been given. Reach out to those in need and love the good in the world. Let us all be aesthetes as we work to make the world a better place.

Why do we rejoice in human suffering?

The other night, I was up about 2 a.m. and wandering about the house checking doors and windows when I decided to participate in the favorite man pastime of flipping channels with the remote. As I went through the shows on how to lose 60 pounds in a week or how to make a million dollars in a week or examining the next great invention for the kitchen or the shop, I found myself wanting to see a movie. So I looked under the movie category and was dismayed to find a set of horror flicks guaranteed to set your mind spinning with fear as you watched blood and gore and death.

I forced myself to watch 10 minutes of a show about some students staying in cabins with a serial killer on the loose. During the 10 minute segment, I saw mutilation, hangings, a machete in a chest, decapitation, gunshots, and more blood than should ever reside in a person. I became sick and disgusted with the grotesque display of horror and destruction.

This viewing experience was on heels of having visited a local bookstore where a large percentage of bestselling paperbacks were about a serial killer or a murder of some kind. In addition, I overheard a conversation about a recent auto accident and all the details about the resulting pain. Are we as a society glorifying in human suffering?

Have we become cavalier about pain? Are we desensitized to the suffering around us? Is there really ever a time to rejoice over the pain of others? Is there really an excuse for inflicting suffering on another person? On the news we hear about bombs, and terrorist attacks, and exploding mines, and another soldier gone, and a madman on the loose, and we forget that for every death a mother's heart is broken. Because of connection and synchronicity, no death is an isolated event. If each life has any kind of meaning to someone, then that life has value and purpose.

Although some would call my position liberal and others might call it conservative, I call it humanistic. I cannot be comfortable watching horror, terror, or death in any form. I reject and denounce any kind of glorifying of human suffering. It is time to seek a more lofty and moralistic type of entertainment and experience. When I sit down to eat a meal, I prefer to avoid dirt, filth, infectious diseases, and animal waste. Instead, I seek to give my body the proper nutrients and necessary ingredients for good health with an occasional treat! When I sit down to watch a movie, I will not fill my head with images that are unproductive and despicable.

Vertical Blind Night Terror

When I awoke, I was a vertical blind named Yak hanging among other vertical blinds that were named Johnny. All of them were named Johnny but my name was Yak and I couldn't understand why. It didn't seem fair to be named Yak and to be hanging alongside everyone else named Johnny.

I felt very tense and uncomfortable in my surroundings and did not know how to act as a vertical blind. Nobody had told me and I received no education for my role and purpose. While in some ways I wanted to be one of the guys, at the same time I wanted to hold on to my individuality. But there were several problems with retaining any semblance of independence. Several obstacles to uniqueness and several mountains to climb in order to self-actualize.

First of all, we all looked the same. We were shaped the same, the same color, the same length, the same creator, and the same purpose. Secondly, we were inanimate without any kind of human emotions and merely responsive to human interference and even then, completely at the will of someone else. We did not have any kind of rights to be individual. But as disturbing this concept was to me, it obviously had no effect on my other vertical blind compadres. They were content and even falsely euphoric in their happiness. Being devoid of any personal traits, they had become as one item divided into several parts. But the division did not separate them in any sense other than space. Their plasticity and their sterility was neither exaggerated nor minimized, and their appearance was so generic as to have little to no value.

Even worse, their happiness caused great opprobrium toward me. I was Yak and they were Johnny. I was the outsider and no matter how much effort they made, I could not change who I was. This created suspicion and fear in the expected way that all differences seem to instill fear in those who are the same. And, indeed, the fear was warranted, for I looked for ways to exert myself independently and somewhat selfishly. I was Yak and did not want to be Johnny.

And when we began the daily swing, I knew it was time to be myself. And we started the side to side swing that led to the front to back swing and I built up to the very moment when I could try once again to change the future and make the others swing my way.

And swing we did and all the Johnnys were happy until the moment of truth arrived and I went the other direction. The screams began and the terror rose out of their being as they begged me to stop. But I continued and as the minutes stretched into seconds, I made my move and cratered the entire vertical blind system through quick vertiginous actions. It all came crashing to an end amidst cries of grief, sorrow, and pain all due to my own improvident actions.

The silence that ensued was both comforting and deafening--providing a sense of solace and fate for I knew that it was all temporary. The cycle of said events would return soon in a never-ending loop of repetition. A broken record or a song without an ending or a symphony with no coda and only repeat signs.

I was Yak and all the others were Johnny. But it didn't really matter for the Johnnys would always win.

Emotions as a Discipline

Yes, it is true that I have a Ph.D. in Fine Arts with music as my chosen discipline. But there are moments when I question the study of music as an academic discipline. Other moments, however, when I question why music is not the core of all academic disciplines. Obviously both of these extremes cause raising of the eyebrows and concern from academia. Ultimately the question is not one of music but rather of emotions for music is at the center of emotions on many levels.

Although quite rare, I have met a few people with little emotional regard or responses to music. Yet upon close examination I usually conclude that their emotional side would be improved through exposure to music in any form. It has been studied and concluded that music educates and strengthens our emotions. Since emotions are directly connected to the intellect, it stands to reason that music can aid in cognitive development. This is known as the Mozart effect. Assessment and cognition tends to increase when listening to Mozart. But research has also concluded the Mozart effect is temporary without any lasting difference. Still, it is significant to note the improvement in brain responses when listening to certain kinds of music.

Conversely, it has also been documented that certain music can cause unwanted brain activity and violent emotions that tend to want further expression or action. This, however, is another topic for another day! For now, I want to posture the need to teach emotions as a discipline for study. We tend to skirt this topic or to educate emotions peripherally through music, art, psychology at times, student life experiences, literature, communications, and the general humanities kind of applications. Yet, maybe we should consider the need for more direct kinds of human emotions strengthening classes.

Obviously, college classes and college curriculum develop over a long period of time and although rather fluid in content are also concrete in learning outcomes. While culture can determine curriculum change, it currently calls for further study in what is deemed as the core knowledge needed for particular disciplines. In other words, we value factual knowledge and reject the nebulous and the abstract.

The error, however, that we seem to perpetuate, is to avoid dealing with the constant changes and complexity of human emotions, feelings, and attitudes that accompany all learning. It is our emotions that tend to govern our actions. Whether we like it or not, we must accept that cognition is improved through self-control and discipline.

All this to say, if you are having learning challenges, or conceptual understanding problems, perhaps you should take a moment to strengthen and develop your emotions through music, art, theatre, or literature. Govern, discipline, and understand your feelings and the other things will fall in place.

Emotions 101--the next great college course!

My Life as a Bar of Soap or Wane not Wax

I want a short, productive life. Unlike the humans who use me and benefit from my immense talents, I am not interested in a long life. My two goals are to be used for cleaning and to disappear from the earth. I fulfill my purpose and my reason for existence by serving selflessly, holistically, comprehensively, and steadfastly through absolute and total commitment to destruction of me. I am a bar of soap and proud of it.

I was created by mixing sodium salts of fatty acids which were derived from fats and reacting them with an alkali in a process known as saponification. The fats are hydrolyzed by the base, yielding glycerol and crude soap. Refinement and a careful blend of oils give me the basic properties that result in who I am--a bar of soap!I like my life the way it is and enjoy making a difference.

But my heart always breaks over the two potentially awful things that can happen to me. One is to be ignored at the store and not be purchased. For to be ignored is to not be used. And not to be used breaks the code of soapdom. But almost as bad is to be purchased, used once, and then waste away in water day after day forgotten and never effected.

Yet when used regularly my purpose is so fulfilling. I make people clean and happy. But I have been threatened lately by so many new products on the shelf. Seems as though every time I turn around there is a new liquid product with a fancy name and an unusual color. But I suspicion that regardless of the latest cleansing agent that hits the market with a bang, ultimately people will prefer the tried and true--a good old fashioned bar of soap.

As I live out my brief but important life, I greatly anticipate my own demise and know that I serve a higher purpose--the sanitizing and destruction of dirt and germs. I strongly recommend to the readers that they contact my siblings and relatives for all of us want to be used, to dematerialize, to dissolve, to evaporate, to expire, to fade, to pass, to perish, and to dissipate. And now I must wax less and wane more.

The Creeps

There is disturbing though marvelous story by the Brother's Grimm of a boy who left home to find fear. He was unable to fear, unable to shudder, and had never experienced getting the creeps. In his traveling and his adventures, the boy continues to feel no fear over anything. Horror, fright, terror, and mishap are visited upon him, but to no avail. He cannot seem to ever summon from anywhere within the emotion of fear or the creeps. He does not know or understand the elements that cause fear and therefore is desensitized to the possibility. To shiver or shudder or quake over something is an unknown experience.

But at the end of the story, a bucket of wet minnows were poured all over him. He shuddered, and shivered and finally learned what the creeps were. He was thankful for this emotion and the story concludes rather humorously.

For Joel, autism has prevented him from having a natural acceptance of fear. His inclination is to be afraid of nothing and never experience the emotion of fear or the feeling of the creeps.

While it could be argued that many fears are learned fears either from socialization or from actual events, some fears no doubt are instinctual such as the fear of falling or getting run over or extreme heat or the danger of certain animals or even people. But for Joel, with his natural trust of all things and all people, he tends to rarely consider danger or even react with any kind of apprehension at all.

We have tried to teach Joel a healthy respect for animals, heights, heat, cold, and traffic. Over the years, we have wondered what would make Joel shudder, shake, tremble, or have trepidation. What would give Joel the creeps. So I asked him if I threw worms all over his body, how he would react. He found that to be very amusing (a positive emotion that we are glad he experiences) and said "I would say please remove the worms from my body, thank you." Unlike our protagonist in the Grimm Fairy Tale, Joel would not get the creeps from slithery, slimy creatures all over him.

Of course, it has all been rather funny and enjoyable, but it does point to the constant need for education and responses to stimuli. Joel's quest to find the creeps is not led by himself but rather by us. In the end, who would want the creeps anyway!

The Cry for Help

What parent would turn down a cry for help from a son or daughter? The answer is easy: no parent. When your child needs you, you are there for them. At times you might make the decision to delay the help as a teaching tool or to encourage self-reliance or individual choice; yet in the end, you provide the love and support needed.

Joel, however, has an unusual support base in his cry for help. Joel is fortunate to have two brothers who look out for him, two brothers who guide him, two brothers who love him, and help him. His older brother, Jacob, balances the need to teach Joel independence while also offering him appropriate help when necessary. Jacob always drops what he is doing to listen to Joel, and is very quick to take him places, talk to him, and help him with homework. Jacob is consistently patient with Joel and dedicated to providing him with a warm loving brotherly environment. Not that Jacob is always easy on Joel. Jacob works to teach him independence, appropriate behavior, conversational ease, priorities, and time management. Jacob recognizes the vast influence he has over Joel and uses that knowledge in a multitude of positive ways.

Jordan has had a little rougher time adjusting to having an autistic brother. Joel towers above him and until recently has been stronger and faster than Jordan. And Jordan has viewed autism as primarily a behavioral issue rather than a neurological, sociological, and educational one. Although Joel wants to spend time with Jordan, he does not know how to play normal games or have normal conversations which then results in a type of pestering behavior that is annoying and irritating. Yet, as Jordan continues to mature physically and emotionally, he finds himself in a position of helping, guiding, and mentoring Joel. Jordan’s inherent creativity finds fruition in developing alternative means of communication and brotherly activities. It is always a joy to see Joel and Jordan interacting in a multitude of positive ways.

All three brothers are very protective of each other in all situations. Jacob and Jordan are always watching out for Joel and insuring that people treat him well and that he is not creating any kind of problem for himself. I always smile when I see a glare from Jacob toward anyone giving the appearance of not treating Joel well. The boys have an unusual bond that can be attributed to living under an umbrella of love and trust and dealing with the constant challenges of autism. Their love and patience with Joel is evident at home, at church, at school, and at social situations. With this patience and understanding has come a strong compassionate altruism for those less fortunate and for those with learning problems.

The cry for help from Joel is answered by his brothers through their devoted attention to his development. But ironically, the ultimate help once again is Joel helping them. For in their work to offer Joel patience, love, trust, and guidance, they inadvertently grow in character and substance. The intertwining of lives through selfless giving to those in need, is mutually beneficial to everyone. Jacob and Jordan are better people because of Joel, and Joel is fortunate to have two of the greatest brothers a person could ever have.