To define the character traits of a musician is to limit and even endanger the creative individuality of the human spirit that creates, interprets, and expresses the many facets of what music means, and the emotion surrounding the creation and enjoyment of sound. But, indeed, and rather strangely, there are some general characteristics often found in many musicians, such as emotionalism, spontaneity, complexity, that are not displayed by our son Joel who loves music as much as anyone.
Most musicians, performers, composers, appreciators, scholars, have an element of creativity and expression that require emotional demonstration in some form or another. According to Aristotle, music helps purify and organize unwanted emotions by reaching into the brain and beyond and into the soul of the human, and then clarifying and sometimes systematizing those feelings that are difficult to put into words. Music, and the arts in general, allow for expression of emotions which in turn purify or provide catharsis for the human spirit.
Joel may not have all the typical characteristics of autism, incidentally, in fact, very few autistic children have absolutely all the qualities that traditionally define autism, but he does have two distinguishable traits often found in children with his disability. Joel displays a marked lack of emotional personal creativity, and connected to this is an unusual objective expression of truth without emotional coloring. This enchanting and unusual quality requires him always to tell the truth in all situations without any additional human interpretation or supplementation of the situation. Joel seeks after joy, goodness, and light in all things and in all people without an awareness of any darkness that may exist in the world or any kind of hidden agenda. He finds the good in everyone and everything.
Because music demands emotional expression, it becomes a difficult but not impossible medium for Joel to understand and to apply. And yet, music is very meaningful to Joel in many ways despite the fact that he is unable to sing. His two favorite styles of music are the hymn and the march, both of which are organized, clean styles of music without the romantic, emotional excesses found in other genres. A majority of hymns are in 4 to 8 measure phrases with a repeated chorus, in a balanced poetic meter, with emphasis on the text, and mostly a singable tuneful melody. Similarly, a march with an introduction, first strain repeated, second strain repeated, trio, break strain, repeat trio, maintains a sense of balance, tonality, rhythmic energy, and melodic tunefulness. Both genres are organized, obvious, clean, enjoyable, uncomplicated, and musically pure.
Joel's inability to pass negative judgment prevents him from criticizing other types of music such as jazz, country western, rock, or atonality, but he does display marked appreciation and emotional response to hymns and marches. He furthermore loves hearing the organ playing almost anything. Psychologically, Joel seems to desire a consonant, dissonant free existence without the edginess and discomfort that are often a part of the ups and downs of normal living. An extension of this desire is the smooth, non-percussiveness of the organ playing hymns and the light enjoyable quality of marches.
Harmonically, most marches and most hymns are in a major key, giving them a buoyancy and unbounded optimism that easily match Joel's world-view and desire for a harmonious existence. Since most people tend to respond and appreciate music that matches their own philosophy, personality, and value system, it is easy to understand how hymns and marches played on the organ are a manifestation of Joel's own charm, warmth, and positive outlook on life. In Joel's world, the more hymns and marches heard, the better off we are! Maybe he has something there.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Lessons Learned from the Goats
Although far from being an expert, my limited time as an unsuccessful, inconsistent but zealous goat farmer has given me a new perspective on priorities. Theirs is a simple existence without the complexity of making choices and having to analyze every situation. At times their lack of intellect and creativity seems almost enviable, but in the end, they are just goats. Still, maybe there is an element of charm to their simplicity! Some of these are lessons the goats still need to learn as well.
10. Every now and then, go run and play.
9. Eat the right things and avoid the indigestible.
8. Rest at night.
7. There is safety and comfort among friends.
6. When you get butted, which happens often, don't give up.
5. Protect your children, they are worth it.
4. Stay clean and keep the germs away.
3. Express your happiness at the simple joys of life.
2. Seek cover when it rains.
1. Don't stick your head in a fence, it is hard to get out without help!
10. Every now and then, go run and play.
9. Eat the right things and avoid the indigestible.
8. Rest at night.
7. There is safety and comfort among friends.
6. When you get butted, which happens often, don't give up.
5. Protect your children, they are worth it.
4. Stay clean and keep the germs away.
3. Express your happiness at the simple joys of life.
2. Seek cover when it rains.
1. Don't stick your head in a fence, it is hard to get out without help!
Thursday, July 19, 2007
The Volunteer
Glancing at the clock on the wall, she knew it was time for her nightly journey to fulfill the promise she had made. She looked in on her children before heading out of the door to her 1957 Mercury that although it had some scratches and some dents, it was the only car they had. The old car was far from perfect but to the family of five, it was a limousine of the highest order.
Before leaving the house, as she had done countless times, she made sure her youngest, a little girl of 3, was warm and comfortable, glanced at her other daughter, a 5 year old in the nearby bed, walked across the hall, smiled at the poster of the motorcycle that her 8 year old son kept on the wall, kissed her husband goodnight, whispered in his ear that she loved him and that she would be back in time to make him breakfast, and left the house for the center.
It had all begun a few years before when her good friend from grade school had shown up at her house with their 6 year daughter. The little girl was severely mentally handicapped and the family could no longer take care of her. The physical and emotional strain had eventually been too demanding on the family and although a difficult decision, it was time to put her in an institution. But the fear of leaving her there among strangers was too great for the loving family who lived far away, and on the way, they stopped to see their good friend to ask her a question that would change the woman's life forever.
"We are going to place our child in the school for the severely handicapped. Would you check on our little girl and make sure she is okay?"
These words would both haunt her and comfort her for the rest of her life. She often recalled that moment of hesitation as she considered her answer. What did this mean exactly? What did "check on" require? Did she want to do this? Would it take much time and energy? Could she really make a difference? These thoughts and more ran through mind rapidly before hearing herself say, "I promise to look after her."
Now the words "I promise" are often used haphazardly in today's world as a way to placate another person or to demonstrate a pretension of sincerity with no intention of keeping the promise. But to the woman, a wife and mother of 3, the words "I promise" represented a verbal commitment to long-term responsibility.
She recalled, wryly, her first time to visit the center. Instead of the sweet, learning disabled children she expected to see and to spend effort helping by reading to them, playing games, and telling stories, she found a crowded room full of severely handicapped children whose limitations were beyond the scope of her imagination. As she stared in astonishment at the scene before her, every part of her being wanted to run out of the room, never to return; and yet, she continued to stare, frozen in place, with a mixture of fear and determination as she recalled her promise to watch out for the little girl whose mother was a friend. Would it matter to the little girl? Would the people ever truly know whether she kept her promise or not? Strangely, these questions never entered her mind.
She found the child among the others and began the process of helping her, not trying to remake her, as she originally intended, but simply helping. She helped her wash her hands, eat her food, get dressed, put on her shoes, walk across the room, sit down, stand up, share her toys, play a game, hold a book, smell the flowers, throw the ball, hug a friend, hold hands, and mostly to love the life she had been given. As the woman helped the little girl, she felt herself change, and with the same grit and determination that gave her 3 children, a husband, a home, a life that although not always easy was filled with over-flowing love, she embraced her promise and her responsibility and began volunteering on a regular basis.
Each night when all had turned in and with her family safely in bed, full from dinner, relaxed and happy, her husband asleep, she would go to the family car, drive to the center and begin her work as a volunteer. Cleaning, gathering materials, counseling, redirecting behavior, sewing, washing, hugging, praising, encouraging, and doing everything she could to help the institution and the clients within. Her own children never knew of the woman's efforts since all took place while they were sleeping. They did know that each morning they saw their bright, happy mother and ate of the delicious breakfast before them as they prepared to go to school.
The years eventually became a full-time paid position for the special woman who had remained dedicated to her calling and fulfilled her promise. While she did earn her degree and became a leader among social workers, garnering respect and admiration everywhere she went, she did so without fanfare or self-accolades, but always with excellence and uncompromising devotion. The initial promise resulted in 45 years of making a difference in the lives of thousands of special children.
A heart-felt thanks to the volunteer for sharing of so much of yourself, your time, and your gifts.
Before leaving the house, as she had done countless times, she made sure her youngest, a little girl of 3, was warm and comfortable, glanced at her other daughter, a 5 year old in the nearby bed, walked across the hall, smiled at the poster of the motorcycle that her 8 year old son kept on the wall, kissed her husband goodnight, whispered in his ear that she loved him and that she would be back in time to make him breakfast, and left the house for the center.
It had all begun a few years before when her good friend from grade school had shown up at her house with their 6 year daughter. The little girl was severely mentally handicapped and the family could no longer take care of her. The physical and emotional strain had eventually been too demanding on the family and although a difficult decision, it was time to put her in an institution. But the fear of leaving her there among strangers was too great for the loving family who lived far away, and on the way, they stopped to see their good friend to ask her a question that would change the woman's life forever.
"We are going to place our child in the school for the severely handicapped. Would you check on our little girl and make sure she is okay?"
These words would both haunt her and comfort her for the rest of her life. She often recalled that moment of hesitation as she considered her answer. What did this mean exactly? What did "check on" require? Did she want to do this? Would it take much time and energy? Could she really make a difference? These thoughts and more ran through mind rapidly before hearing herself say, "I promise to look after her."
Now the words "I promise" are often used haphazardly in today's world as a way to placate another person or to demonstrate a pretension of sincerity with no intention of keeping the promise. But to the woman, a wife and mother of 3, the words "I promise" represented a verbal commitment to long-term responsibility.
She recalled, wryly, her first time to visit the center. Instead of the sweet, learning disabled children she expected to see and to spend effort helping by reading to them, playing games, and telling stories, she found a crowded room full of severely handicapped children whose limitations were beyond the scope of her imagination. As she stared in astonishment at the scene before her, every part of her being wanted to run out of the room, never to return; and yet, she continued to stare, frozen in place, with a mixture of fear and determination as she recalled her promise to watch out for the little girl whose mother was a friend. Would it matter to the little girl? Would the people ever truly know whether she kept her promise or not? Strangely, these questions never entered her mind.
She found the child among the others and began the process of helping her, not trying to remake her, as she originally intended, but simply helping. She helped her wash her hands, eat her food, get dressed, put on her shoes, walk across the room, sit down, stand up, share her toys, play a game, hold a book, smell the flowers, throw the ball, hug a friend, hold hands, and mostly to love the life she had been given. As the woman helped the little girl, she felt herself change, and with the same grit and determination that gave her 3 children, a husband, a home, a life that although not always easy was filled with over-flowing love, she embraced her promise and her responsibility and began volunteering on a regular basis.
Each night when all had turned in and with her family safely in bed, full from dinner, relaxed and happy, her husband asleep, she would go to the family car, drive to the center and begin her work as a volunteer. Cleaning, gathering materials, counseling, redirecting behavior, sewing, washing, hugging, praising, encouraging, and doing everything she could to help the institution and the clients within. Her own children never knew of the woman's efforts since all took place while they were sleeping. They did know that each morning they saw their bright, happy mother and ate of the delicious breakfast before them as they prepared to go to school.
The years eventually became a full-time paid position for the special woman who had remained dedicated to her calling and fulfilled her promise. While she did earn her degree and became a leader among social workers, garnering respect and admiration everywhere she went, she did so without fanfare or self-accolades, but always with excellence and uncompromising devotion. The initial promise resulted in 45 years of making a difference in the lives of thousands of special children.
A heart-felt thanks to the volunteer for sharing of so much of yourself, your time, and your gifts.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
The Rose Bush--Pt. III
Our friend, the little rose bush, sang merrily, walking along, touching various plants and participating in the natural joys of the world in which he lived, including the soft fuzziness of the dusty miller, the gentleness of grass beneath his feet, the sensitive and lovely petunias, the rich orchids, and the dedicated tomato plants which preoccupied the humans' attention more than anything else in the garden. Because the conduct of the humans was not to the liking of the little rose bush, he elected to ignore them and continue his journey and exploration of the garden without allowing his curiosity to be emotionally inhibited by their callous behavior.
He was amiable to all he encountered, except for those odd humans who remained rude and oblivious to the little rose, and he attempted to strike up conversation with the caterpillars and the plants who would converse. An outsider might consider the dialog to be banal, lacking in depth, and providing no sense of goal-direction, but to our walking rose bush in the garden of joy, it was exactly the preferred content for relaxed enjoyment. "Hi! Are you having a good day?" To which the caterpillar would answer, "Yes, I am happy and feeling good!" The little rose bush would smile and ask the bunny rabbit, who had returned to the garden after noticing the rose bush was no longer singing, "Hello! It is good to see you again. How is life treating you?" The bunny rabbit said with hidden irony, "Much better now, thank you." The rose bush smiled and decided not to think about why things were now better for the bunny rabbit.
All in all it was a happy day in the garden until he noticed that the dirt beneath his feet felt rather....well, rather dirty. Where this thought came from, he was not sure, for this was a new and unpleasant situation to our little rose bush having spent most of his life in dirt and never thinking anything negative about it. Previously, dirt had been home and something to enjoy and something in which to be prideful and something created for a sense of permanency and foundational for beauty in nature. Now, however, the dirt had become corrupt, diseased, a habitation for bacteria, a barrier to cleanliness, and the source for all things bad in the world. Suddenly the little rose bush felt a desperate need to get rid of the dirt and avoid it at all costs. In some ways, he did not enjoy these new and disturbing emotions, but at the same time, they seemed to be natural and out of control.
Dwelling on the dirt led him to think about the other ugly objects that surrounded him. He noticed the blotches on the flowers, the inconsistent and knobby bark on the trees, the worms seeking to destroy the tomatoes, the dark weeds creeping their way around the plants, the sharp rocks residing in the dirt, the despicable odors of the bugs and the fertilizer. What once had seemed joyous and blissful had become tension filled and frightening with very little redeeming qualities. This led him to question his unusual appearance of having arms and legs with 7 fingers and 7 toes, and in a rare, but poignant moment, he knew beyond any doubt that within him resided the 7 virtues and the 7 deadly sins, which although he could not define them, he was frighteningly aware of their existence. With this realization of light and dark, he hoped the virtues would overcome the sins, but more than that, he began to wish for an earlier time when he knew neither good nor evil.
Staring at the dirt and experiencing great queasiness in his stomach caused him to double over and to try and rid his feet of the clods that were touching him. But as he began to sweep the dirt away, he saw that his hands with 7 fingers and the tiny thorns on them that pained him on every touch, were causing a sharp almost metallic irritation that increased with each additional touch, and reached down into the core of his being. He looked, and for the first time realized that there were thorns all over his torso, and each thorn had an ugly, hideous appearance exacerbated by a surrounding flaming infection. A moment of reflection reminded him that the thorns had at one time been a normal part of his life and caused no pain, no sensitivity, and required no emotional effort. This moment lasted but a few seconds as his fear of the thorns returned, only to realize the thorns were growing quickly and threatening to stab everything in the garden.
Suddenly he heard an awful noise, similar to clap of thunder several octaves higher, and whirling around to find the source of the terrible sound, he saw something he would never forget and could not completely comprehend. He stared, frozen in place, hoping the terror in front of him was not real but knowing it had indeed really happened, and knowing beyond any doubt that his witnessing of the event had changed him forever. Too ghastly for description, the horror caused the little rose bush to lose his sanity to a world nobody should know.
Without cognition and in an emotional cyclone, he felt himself whirling around and around, spinning out of control, losing his legs, losing his arms, losing the horrid, growing thorns, and feeling the 7 sins as well as the 7 virtues leave his body, and returning to his former state as a sweet little rose bush in the garden. It had happened over a period of years in the space of a second.
All was well in the garden by the house with a family, a dog, and a white picket fence and since there is no such thing as unicorns, the little rose bush was still in the same spot as always, looking regal, and glistening with dew, and feeling that old feeling of contentment and joy. The frightening journey had not really occurred and he smiled as only a rose bush can smile and relished the upcoming day. Yet, for the first time, he was aware that around his stem were thorns, thorns that caused pain. To rid himself of such dark thoughts, he sang a song as our story ends.
"I am so happy here in my world,
Shining in the sun so bright.
It is fun to be simple,
And I do not enjoy the night.
Forever will I be content,
And never seek to know,
I am a little rose bush,
With my petals all aglow."
Knowledge is gain. Or is it?
He was amiable to all he encountered, except for those odd humans who remained rude and oblivious to the little rose, and he attempted to strike up conversation with the caterpillars and the plants who would converse. An outsider might consider the dialog to be banal, lacking in depth, and providing no sense of goal-direction, but to our walking rose bush in the garden of joy, it was exactly the preferred content for relaxed enjoyment. "Hi! Are you having a good day?" To which the caterpillar would answer, "Yes, I am happy and feeling good!" The little rose bush would smile and ask the bunny rabbit, who had returned to the garden after noticing the rose bush was no longer singing, "Hello! It is good to see you again. How is life treating you?" The bunny rabbit said with hidden irony, "Much better now, thank you." The rose bush smiled and decided not to think about why things were now better for the bunny rabbit.
All in all it was a happy day in the garden until he noticed that the dirt beneath his feet felt rather....well, rather dirty. Where this thought came from, he was not sure, for this was a new and unpleasant situation to our little rose bush having spent most of his life in dirt and never thinking anything negative about it. Previously, dirt had been home and something to enjoy and something in which to be prideful and something created for a sense of permanency and foundational for beauty in nature. Now, however, the dirt had become corrupt, diseased, a habitation for bacteria, a barrier to cleanliness, and the source for all things bad in the world. Suddenly the little rose bush felt a desperate need to get rid of the dirt and avoid it at all costs. In some ways, he did not enjoy these new and disturbing emotions, but at the same time, they seemed to be natural and out of control.
Dwelling on the dirt led him to think about the other ugly objects that surrounded him. He noticed the blotches on the flowers, the inconsistent and knobby bark on the trees, the worms seeking to destroy the tomatoes, the dark weeds creeping their way around the plants, the sharp rocks residing in the dirt, the despicable odors of the bugs and the fertilizer. What once had seemed joyous and blissful had become tension filled and frightening with very little redeeming qualities. This led him to question his unusual appearance of having arms and legs with 7 fingers and 7 toes, and in a rare, but poignant moment, he knew beyond any doubt that within him resided the 7 virtues and the 7 deadly sins, which although he could not define them, he was frighteningly aware of their existence. With this realization of light and dark, he hoped the virtues would overcome the sins, but more than that, he began to wish for an earlier time when he knew neither good nor evil.
Staring at the dirt and experiencing great queasiness in his stomach caused him to double over and to try and rid his feet of the clods that were touching him. But as he began to sweep the dirt away, he saw that his hands with 7 fingers and the tiny thorns on them that pained him on every touch, were causing a sharp almost metallic irritation that increased with each additional touch, and reached down into the core of his being. He looked, and for the first time realized that there were thorns all over his torso, and each thorn had an ugly, hideous appearance exacerbated by a surrounding flaming infection. A moment of reflection reminded him that the thorns had at one time been a normal part of his life and caused no pain, no sensitivity, and required no emotional effort. This moment lasted but a few seconds as his fear of the thorns returned, only to realize the thorns were growing quickly and threatening to stab everything in the garden.
Suddenly he heard an awful noise, similar to clap of thunder several octaves higher, and whirling around to find the source of the terrible sound, he saw something he would never forget and could not completely comprehend. He stared, frozen in place, hoping the terror in front of him was not real but knowing it had indeed really happened, and knowing beyond any doubt that his witnessing of the event had changed him forever. Too ghastly for description, the horror caused the little rose bush to lose his sanity to a world nobody should know.
Without cognition and in an emotional cyclone, he felt himself whirling around and around, spinning out of control, losing his legs, losing his arms, losing the horrid, growing thorns, and feeling the 7 sins as well as the 7 virtues leave his body, and returning to his former state as a sweet little rose bush in the garden. It had happened over a period of years in the space of a second.
All was well in the garden by the house with a family, a dog, and a white picket fence and since there is no such thing as unicorns, the little rose bush was still in the same spot as always, looking regal, and glistening with dew, and feeling that old feeling of contentment and joy. The frightening journey had not really occurred and he smiled as only a rose bush can smile and relished the upcoming day. Yet, for the first time, he was aware that around his stem were thorns, thorns that caused pain. To rid himself of such dark thoughts, he sang a song as our story ends.
"I am so happy here in my world,
Shining in the sun so bright.
It is fun to be simple,
And I do not enjoy the night.
Forever will I be content,
And never seek to know,
I am a little rose bush,
With my petals all aglow."
Knowledge is gain. Or is it?
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
The Rose Bush--Pt. II
Our little rose bush had never been so ecstatically happy with his new appendages that allowed him great freedom to walk about and touch and learn so many exciting things, to assuage his new curiosity, to discover the joys of the world, to feel the other flowers, to experience the emotion in the environment, and to know what was previously unknown, to love and to be loved, to bask in the bakery of life's desserts, and mostly to partake in all the pleasures presented on the plate.
It was not that the little rose bush had been unhappy with his life as a typical rose bush, rather he had always known contentment and total acceptance of his position in life, not in a sense of resignation as to his own constrained existence, but, since he knew of nothing more, there was no desire for anything greater. Awareness of the other hill often leads to curiosity, which leads to desire for the grass on the other hill, which leads to a lack of satisfaction, which leads to envy and anger. Our little rose bush, however, did not know those emotions since there was no need to experience them and no reason for those feelings.
Walking and touching, the little rose bush found so many wonderful things and even some friends he did not know he had, including worms, caterpillars, spiders, crickets, aphids, and a small but lively bunny rabbit whose goal was to eat and hop, eat and hop. At first the other animals looked at the little rose bush rather strangely, but given the limited capacity to process information, they shortly accepted the oddity of a rose bush with arms, legs, and hands with 7 fingers. Soon everyone not only tolerated each others' differences and respected each others' strengths, each character seemed to draw abilities from the other to create a type of commune not unlike the balance achieved in nature's ecosystem of checks and balances.
The garden was a rich culture of plants, flowers, vegetables, and small fruit trees, all in various stages of growth but all equally healthy displaying the kind of personal attention and love necessary for vitality and beauty. The colors, with green being the prominent hue, were varied and included red, blue, pink, tan, orange, white, and many variations in between. The plants stood tall and received an appropriate balance of sunshine, water, shade, and the occasional natural fertilizer provided by wandering animals. It was a garden deserving of awards and a garden that projected love and physical and emotional health. A place to read, to sleep, to meditate, and to learn, both the plants and the animals. A place of rest, beauty, grandeur, and magnificence. A place for Everyman or in this case, every rose bush.
All were very happy especially the little rose bush who was full of the bliss of newness having never experienced anything so glorious in his previous life as an immobile, albeit beautiful rose bush in a garden by a lovely home in which resided a nice family. Strangely, the family continued its usual activities of checking the garden, leaving the home to run errands, and eating food appropriate to humans but not appetizing at all to the little rose bush. Yet, he was shocked that no family member acknowledged his new look, almost as though each person considered a walking and touching rose bush to be a common occurrence in the garden. Not only were they oblivious, they also seemed rather rude as they pruned, raked, pulled, and organized the garden.
What had henceforth been accepted by the rose bush as human behavior beneficial to the continued existence and success of the garden, now was invasive and violent. He was a little concerned about this and asked his new friends about it, "Why are those people who used to be nice, attacking our sweet garden and being mean?" His friends the insects said, "They are doing what they always do. It is neither nice nor mean." This answer confused the little rose bush who decided to ignore the humans and the insects and walk around some more touching all the things he could see. He sang a pretty song as he strolled through the garden,
"I am a little rose bush,
With brand new hands and legs.
In the garden I walk along,
And avoid the dirt with dregs.
It all seems rather new,
As I learn about what I see,
I am nervous about the future,
Hope I don't hit a tree."
He noticed that the bunny rabbit had run away and he wondered idly if his voice was unsatisfactory or if he just wasn't a good song writer. Since he had no way to compare the quality of his voice or his song to anyone or anything, he was perfectly contented with it and continued singing regardless of the lack of an appreciative audience.
It was not that the little rose bush had been unhappy with his life as a typical rose bush, rather he had always known contentment and total acceptance of his position in life, not in a sense of resignation as to his own constrained existence, but, since he knew of nothing more, there was no desire for anything greater. Awareness of the other hill often leads to curiosity, which leads to desire for the grass on the other hill, which leads to a lack of satisfaction, which leads to envy and anger. Our little rose bush, however, did not know those emotions since there was no need to experience them and no reason for those feelings.
Walking and touching, the little rose bush found so many wonderful things and even some friends he did not know he had, including worms, caterpillars, spiders, crickets, aphids, and a small but lively bunny rabbit whose goal was to eat and hop, eat and hop. At first the other animals looked at the little rose bush rather strangely, but given the limited capacity to process information, they shortly accepted the oddity of a rose bush with arms, legs, and hands with 7 fingers. Soon everyone not only tolerated each others' differences and respected each others' strengths, each character seemed to draw abilities from the other to create a type of commune not unlike the balance achieved in nature's ecosystem of checks and balances.
The garden was a rich culture of plants, flowers, vegetables, and small fruit trees, all in various stages of growth but all equally healthy displaying the kind of personal attention and love necessary for vitality and beauty. The colors, with green being the prominent hue, were varied and included red, blue, pink, tan, orange, white, and many variations in between. The plants stood tall and received an appropriate balance of sunshine, water, shade, and the occasional natural fertilizer provided by wandering animals. It was a garden deserving of awards and a garden that projected love and physical and emotional health. A place to read, to sleep, to meditate, and to learn, both the plants and the animals. A place of rest, beauty, grandeur, and magnificence. A place for Everyman or in this case, every rose bush.
All were very happy especially the little rose bush who was full of the bliss of newness having never experienced anything so glorious in his previous life as an immobile, albeit beautiful rose bush in a garden by a lovely home in which resided a nice family. Strangely, the family continued its usual activities of checking the garden, leaving the home to run errands, and eating food appropriate to humans but not appetizing at all to the little rose bush. Yet, he was shocked that no family member acknowledged his new look, almost as though each person considered a walking and touching rose bush to be a common occurrence in the garden. Not only were they oblivious, they also seemed rather rude as they pruned, raked, pulled, and organized the garden.
What had henceforth been accepted by the rose bush as human behavior beneficial to the continued existence and success of the garden, now was invasive and violent. He was a little concerned about this and asked his new friends about it, "Why are those people who used to be nice, attacking our sweet garden and being mean?" His friends the insects said, "They are doing what they always do. It is neither nice nor mean." This answer confused the little rose bush who decided to ignore the humans and the insects and walk around some more touching all the things he could see. He sang a pretty song as he strolled through the garden,
"I am a little rose bush,
With brand new hands and legs.
In the garden I walk along,
And avoid the dirt with dregs.
It all seems rather new,
As I learn about what I see,
I am nervous about the future,
Hope I don't hit a tree."
He noticed that the bunny rabbit had run away and he wondered idly if his voice was unsatisfactory or if he just wasn't a good song writer. Since he had no way to compare the quality of his voice or his song to anyone or anything, he was perfectly contented with it and continued singing regardless of the lack of an appreciative audience.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
The Rose Bush--Pt. I
Once upon a time there was a rose bush in a beautifully landscaped garden whose purpose was to provide lovely decoration for the nearby building, a home with a family, a dog, and a white picket fence. All was well in the garden and the little rose bush lived a contented and often pruned life of leisure without ambition, without curiosity, and without fear of destruction. Happy, yes but complete in awareness of what happy really could mean, no, and yet it was an enviable life for it had no knowledge of good or evil, truth or lies, joy or sorrow.
But as chance would have it, there lived a unicorn who, sadly, got lost from his family, wandered off many miles across the plains, which were not really plains but more like rolling hills with many wildflowers, but plains seems to be understood as a general term for the terrain, and arrived in the garden of the home where recognizing the need to relieve himself, he selected a nearby rose bush and promptly fertilized it, left the area, and went about finding his way home. Unfortunately, he never did find his way home but instead made a new life in a cave by the ocean inhabited by fairies who enjoyed sharing their home in the cave by the sea where strangely enough they lived anonymously for many years until their non-physical state eventually took its toll and all of them vanished never to be found nor even acknowledged for having existed.
Meanwhile, back home our little rose bush fell asleep and had a nightmare about a man on a horse who was jousting in the garden and accidentally stabbed the little rose with a long spear. The initial stab was shocking in that it was unexpected and was a new sensation that seemed both wrong and right at the same time and resulted in a confused state not unlike those pruning times that although necessary and beneficial were not necessarily pleasant and inevitably caused a feeling of loss and gain each time. After the shocking stab, the little rose was removed from the bush and began to rise in the air and grew ugly and fat as it looked down on the rest of the garden with undeserved pride and arrogance. In the air, the fat, ugly rose changed color and became gray with scars all over its petals in a suspended state of horror that caused the rose to quake and scream. The aberration began to grow in its core, but also lose its outer covering. Petals began to peel, fall off, and as the thing neared the implosion point, the little rose bush woke up confused but also relieved that it was just a dream, a silly dream at that, not even worth another thought.
It was early but the little rose bush decided to go ahead and begin the day. Each day normally began with the rising of sun, an opportunity to glow as the sun rose and shone on the mystic dew that gently glistened on each petal, providing the rose bush a chance to blush with pride about his beauty. But today, as the rose bush waited patiently for the sun and smiled with anticipation, he realized he had changed. He had grown arms and legs during the night.
Now the little rose bush did not know about the unicorn that had fertilized it during the night. All he knew was that he went to sleep a rose bush and had awakened a walking and touching rose bush. He jumped with joy and began to walk around, gingerly at first, and then more boldly and aggressively, without any kind of sense of tenderness or compassion for the ground beneath its feet. But the newly found legs with feet and lots of toes did not have as much interest as the new hands, hands with 7 fingers and tiny thorns that gave each hand a special strength and an appearance that on any other object would be frightening but on our little rose bush seemed rather charming. The hands were fascinating to the little bush and he couldn't seem to stop touching things everywhere he went.
He began to explore the garden where he lived, reaching out and touching everything he could see. He had never had so much fun, so he sang a little song:
"Life is now so very grand
For a bush that holds a rose.
Attached to me is a hand
As well as 14 toes.
It is all so very fun
As I walk in the dirt.
I look up at the sun
And may I never hurt."
But as chance would have it, there lived a unicorn who, sadly, got lost from his family, wandered off many miles across the plains, which were not really plains but more like rolling hills with many wildflowers, but plains seems to be understood as a general term for the terrain, and arrived in the garden of the home where recognizing the need to relieve himself, he selected a nearby rose bush and promptly fertilized it, left the area, and went about finding his way home. Unfortunately, he never did find his way home but instead made a new life in a cave by the ocean inhabited by fairies who enjoyed sharing their home in the cave by the sea where strangely enough they lived anonymously for many years until their non-physical state eventually took its toll and all of them vanished never to be found nor even acknowledged for having existed.
Meanwhile, back home our little rose bush fell asleep and had a nightmare about a man on a horse who was jousting in the garden and accidentally stabbed the little rose with a long spear. The initial stab was shocking in that it was unexpected and was a new sensation that seemed both wrong and right at the same time and resulted in a confused state not unlike those pruning times that although necessary and beneficial were not necessarily pleasant and inevitably caused a feeling of loss and gain each time. After the shocking stab, the little rose was removed from the bush and began to rise in the air and grew ugly and fat as it looked down on the rest of the garden with undeserved pride and arrogance. In the air, the fat, ugly rose changed color and became gray with scars all over its petals in a suspended state of horror that caused the rose to quake and scream. The aberration began to grow in its core, but also lose its outer covering. Petals began to peel, fall off, and as the thing neared the implosion point, the little rose bush woke up confused but also relieved that it was just a dream, a silly dream at that, not even worth another thought.
It was early but the little rose bush decided to go ahead and begin the day. Each day normally began with the rising of sun, an opportunity to glow as the sun rose and shone on the mystic dew that gently glistened on each petal, providing the rose bush a chance to blush with pride about his beauty. But today, as the rose bush waited patiently for the sun and smiled with anticipation, he realized he had changed. He had grown arms and legs during the night.
Now the little rose bush did not know about the unicorn that had fertilized it during the night. All he knew was that he went to sleep a rose bush and had awakened a walking and touching rose bush. He jumped with joy and began to walk around, gingerly at first, and then more boldly and aggressively, without any kind of sense of tenderness or compassion for the ground beneath its feet. But the newly found legs with feet and lots of toes did not have as much interest as the new hands, hands with 7 fingers and tiny thorns that gave each hand a special strength and an appearance that on any other object would be frightening but on our little rose bush seemed rather charming. The hands were fascinating to the little bush and he couldn't seem to stop touching things everywhere he went.
He began to explore the garden where he lived, reaching out and touching everything he could see. He had never had so much fun, so he sang a little song:
"Life is now so very grand
For a bush that holds a rose.
Attached to me is a hand
As well as 14 toes.
It is all so very fun
As I walk in the dirt.
I look up at the sun
And may I never hurt."
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Finding Your Niche
I could hear the crowd cheering wildly as I once again crossed home plate, a common event for me that summer, having hit a home run and driven in several runs to take the lead, becoming the hero of the team, the leading hitter, and the greatest over-achieving 8 year old in baseball history, at least for that day and perhaps for that entire season. It was a summer of success and monumental meaning for a skinny little kid without much talent.
I was an average player in many respects, a decent fielder, a good arm, good instincts, quick reflexes, alert intellect, knowledgeable on the rules, and a lover of the game with an analytical mind, but I could not seem to hit the ball. At age 6, I began a batting slump that lasted for many years and guaranteed a strike out for the opposing pitcher and the promise of an automatic out for the team with no hope of anything more. I could almost hear the groans from my teammates as I stepped up to the plate, hoping that the pitcher would hit me with the ball (not too hard), or would throw 4 straight balls out of the zone. I was kept on the team possibly for my fielding ability, but mostly because my dad was one of the coaches and besides, when has an 8 year old ever been fired from little league baseball?
The question in your mind should now be, how in the world could I, of average ability, be a successful hitter in an interminable batting slump? The answer is easy, the bunt. I was the bunt king. A slight shift of the body, the bat laid out parallel to the ground, a gentle touch of the wood on the ball, and I was off to first base. What followed was a fielding disaster of major proportions. It was a veritable error-fest to be experienced by all present--players, spectators, and umpires. First was the falling down by the fielder, next the overthrown balls, third the wild yells of different instructions from many people, and last the running into each other as the players scrambled for the ball. All in all a sad but comical display on the field as I ran around the bases to home plate.
The famous bunter, Robert Lee Tucker, continued his unbridled bunting success all season long and into the next year. Although teams did improve their fielding skills by working on throwing and fielding, it remained difficult to manage these skills in the heat of the battle. It seemed that when I squared off for the bunt and everyone ran forward to deal with the situation, once again the next set of events were worthy of the national baseball bloopers award. Unfortunately, as the players matured, the bunt became less successful and with that went my amazing but short-lived career as a professional bunter.
Yet for a time I had found my niche on the team as a valued member, and I belonged as an integral part of the unit, and it felt good. Maybe not respected by everyone, and not exactly the means I would have selected, and my success was mostly based on other people's flaws, and it is a little disconcerting to create humor in what should require a serious focus, nevertheless I found my niche, my role, and my purpose on the team at least for awhile! Out of weakness grew strength and out of flaws grew success.
What is your niche? What role do you play? It may not be what you intended or expected but I believe everyone fills a needed void either in an event, or a relationship, or an idea, or an institution. That niche may change and might be temporary or permanent, and it may be misunderstood or not appreciated, but whatever it is, it is valued by many, making you connected in so many special and vital ways. Find your niche and capitalize on it. Maybe you too will be the bunt king!
I was an average player in many respects, a decent fielder, a good arm, good instincts, quick reflexes, alert intellect, knowledgeable on the rules, and a lover of the game with an analytical mind, but I could not seem to hit the ball. At age 6, I began a batting slump that lasted for many years and guaranteed a strike out for the opposing pitcher and the promise of an automatic out for the team with no hope of anything more. I could almost hear the groans from my teammates as I stepped up to the plate, hoping that the pitcher would hit me with the ball (not too hard), or would throw 4 straight balls out of the zone. I was kept on the team possibly for my fielding ability, but mostly because my dad was one of the coaches and besides, when has an 8 year old ever been fired from little league baseball?
The question in your mind should now be, how in the world could I, of average ability, be a successful hitter in an interminable batting slump? The answer is easy, the bunt. I was the bunt king. A slight shift of the body, the bat laid out parallel to the ground, a gentle touch of the wood on the ball, and I was off to first base. What followed was a fielding disaster of major proportions. It was a veritable error-fest to be experienced by all present--players, spectators, and umpires. First was the falling down by the fielder, next the overthrown balls, third the wild yells of different instructions from many people, and last the running into each other as the players scrambled for the ball. All in all a sad but comical display on the field as I ran around the bases to home plate.
The famous bunter, Robert Lee Tucker, continued his unbridled bunting success all season long and into the next year. Although teams did improve their fielding skills by working on throwing and fielding, it remained difficult to manage these skills in the heat of the battle. It seemed that when I squared off for the bunt and everyone ran forward to deal with the situation, once again the next set of events were worthy of the national baseball bloopers award. Unfortunately, as the players matured, the bunt became less successful and with that went my amazing but short-lived career as a professional bunter.
Yet for a time I had found my niche on the team as a valued member, and I belonged as an integral part of the unit, and it felt good. Maybe not respected by everyone, and not exactly the means I would have selected, and my success was mostly based on other people's flaws, and it is a little disconcerting to create humor in what should require a serious focus, nevertheless I found my niche, my role, and my purpose on the team at least for awhile! Out of weakness grew strength and out of flaws grew success.
What is your niche? What role do you play? It may not be what you intended or expected but I believe everyone fills a needed void either in an event, or a relationship, or an idea, or an institution. That niche may change and might be temporary or permanent, and it may be misunderstood or not appreciated, but whatever it is, it is valued by many, making you connected in so many special and vital ways. Find your niche and capitalize on it. Maybe you too will be the bunt king!
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Ravel's Radiance
It is Saturday morning and I sit here at my computer listening to Bolero by Maurice Ravel and reflecting on the forthcoming events of the day, emotionally encompassing for many reasons, and I place my mind into a loftier world, one without ugliness, despair, fear, or tragedy, into a world of music replete in its grandeur, hope, joy, and energy. Ravel's music is the right sound to create this emotional transformation, this sense that all is indeed "right with the world" (thank you Robert Browning), this need to see things through stained glass windows, and mostly to hold desperately to optimism and promise of better things, beautiful things, and in Ravel's case, beautiful sounds.
Maurice Ravel (1875-1937) was of French descent whose father was a well-known inventor of that time having invented the combustible engine as well as a circus style somersaulting car for entertainment. Trained under Gabriel Faure at the Paris Conservatory of Music, Ravel was committed to and steeped in the classics with emphasis on the precision and craft of Mozart and Couperin. Ravel's extensive study and dedication to musical scholarship was ultimately manifested in great knowledge of each instrument, making him one of the greatest orchestrators in history.
His compositions ranged from chamber works, piano works, to orchestral showpieces, operas, and vocal works. Although considered a leading composer of the "Impressionistic" period--not really a period of music at all, but rather a style of music primarily represented by master composer Claude Debussy--Ravel never felt restricted by one style and considered himself more of a structured, formalized composer with tonal innovations including the use of modes, unresolved suspensions, and layers of harmonies.
Ravel's music was meticulously conceived with strict adherence to his prescribed rules for the chosen language of each particular work. Not unlike Mozart, who rarely changed his mind, or made any errors in his manuscript, or Stravinsky whose fastidious precision comes through in his music in a systematized or ordered manner, Ravel was a very careful and thorough composer who made great intellectual and scholarly demands on his own knowledge, including counterpoint, harmonic depth, other composers' styles, capabilities of each instrument, and potential for colors and sound.
It is difficult to narrow my favorite Ravel pieces to just a few, but for this writing, I want to mention one of Ravel's least favorite pieces which he considered trivial, but one of my personal favorites, Bolero. This marvelous orchestral showpiece was written as a personal challenge to depart from the German tradition of thematic development. To accomplish this goal, Ravel limited his piece to two contrasting but similar themes used alternately and effectively on top of a recurring rhythm pattern drawn from the dance of the same name. The result is an amazingly powerful work that ironically does a form of development in its orchestration and in its dynamic growth. Like all Ravel's music, Bolero is emotionally charged, shimmering in energy, glossy in colorful sounds, intellectual in scope, and gushing in expression. One cannot help but respond to the repetition and continued growth of this work, which some consider the earliest example of minimalism. Yes, trivial in its complexity of thematic usage but powerful in its scope, Bolero remains an audience favorite around the world.
Other great works include the beautiful and touching Pavane, Daphnis and Chloe, Rhapsodie Espagnole, and the two piano concertos one of which is for the left hand only, and the marvelous orchestration of Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition. The music of Maurice Ravel is magical, beautiful, scholarly, energetic, poetic, poignant, and memorable.
Maurice Ravel (1875-1937) was of French descent whose father was a well-known inventor of that time having invented the combustible engine as well as a circus style somersaulting car for entertainment. Trained under Gabriel Faure at the Paris Conservatory of Music, Ravel was committed to and steeped in the classics with emphasis on the precision and craft of Mozart and Couperin. Ravel's extensive study and dedication to musical scholarship was ultimately manifested in great knowledge of each instrument, making him one of the greatest orchestrators in history.
His compositions ranged from chamber works, piano works, to orchestral showpieces, operas, and vocal works. Although considered a leading composer of the "Impressionistic" period--not really a period of music at all, but rather a style of music primarily represented by master composer Claude Debussy--Ravel never felt restricted by one style and considered himself more of a structured, formalized composer with tonal innovations including the use of modes, unresolved suspensions, and layers of harmonies.
Ravel's music was meticulously conceived with strict adherence to his prescribed rules for the chosen language of each particular work. Not unlike Mozart, who rarely changed his mind, or made any errors in his manuscript, or Stravinsky whose fastidious precision comes through in his music in a systematized or ordered manner, Ravel was a very careful and thorough composer who made great intellectual and scholarly demands on his own knowledge, including counterpoint, harmonic depth, other composers' styles, capabilities of each instrument, and potential for colors and sound.
It is difficult to narrow my favorite Ravel pieces to just a few, but for this writing, I want to mention one of Ravel's least favorite pieces which he considered trivial, but one of my personal favorites, Bolero. This marvelous orchestral showpiece was written as a personal challenge to depart from the German tradition of thematic development. To accomplish this goal, Ravel limited his piece to two contrasting but similar themes used alternately and effectively on top of a recurring rhythm pattern drawn from the dance of the same name. The result is an amazingly powerful work that ironically does a form of development in its orchestration and in its dynamic growth. Like all Ravel's music, Bolero is emotionally charged, shimmering in energy, glossy in colorful sounds, intellectual in scope, and gushing in expression. One cannot help but respond to the repetition and continued growth of this work, which some consider the earliest example of minimalism. Yes, trivial in its complexity of thematic usage but powerful in its scope, Bolero remains an audience favorite around the world.
Other great works include the beautiful and touching Pavane, Daphnis and Chloe, Rhapsodie Espagnole, and the two piano concertos one of which is for the left hand only, and the marvelous orchestration of Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition. The music of Maurice Ravel is magical, beautiful, scholarly, energetic, poetic, poignant, and memorable.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Camp Mission Possible
We followed the young man, one of the "commanders" assigned to our son Joel, to the dorm to help him get settled in his new, and very temporary location. We looked in the room that contained several beds already occupied, and I felt a mixture of trepidation and excitement for Joel that he would be staying in this dorm for the next two nights. We opened his suitcase to remove his fluffy, warm sleeping bag, got out his favorite pillow and placed them on the unoccupied bed which happened to be approximately in the center of the room, and looked around the room.
We were comforted to an extent by meeting some of the other campers, similar to Joel in that all had some kind of disability, mental or physical or a combination of both. My first impression was that Joel was among friends of various ages and various disabilities, but all of whom were charming in their limitations, special in their hunger for life, and warm in their joy and excitement. This thought created an emotional sense of confidence in the camp as we completed the introductions and prepared to leave the dorm and the center. We hugged Joel goodbye, with that same feeling that all parents have throughout their lives, not unlike the mother letting her daughter off for the first day of kindergarten, or saying goodbye for the first day of college, or perhaps even that odd feeling of elation mixed with loving concern as the young couple heads off on their honeymoon. Will Joel be okay? Will he have fun? Will he learn? Will he need us? Will he eat right? Will he sleep? All normal parenting thoughts.
It was Camp Mission Possible, not impossible as Joel reminded us countless times, located at the 4-H Center at Lake Brownwood. A camp complete with a playground, climbing wall, swimming pool, shooting range, cafeteria, offices, dorms, canoes, and plenty of space for playing and learning. There were plenty of sponsors, adults, and students called commanders to ensure the safety and success of each attendee. The schedule was rigid in its specific details on expectations, including bedtime, meals, events, rules, discipline, and code of conduct; but the love and compassion seemed to have no boundaries, for it oozed freely and unconditionally from the directors, sponsors, and commanders (who were not really commanders but rather facilitators or care givers).
Two days later--it felt like two months in many ways and two hours in others--we returned to the 4-H center to pick up Joel and see the final event, a video of all the campers and their experiences. It was easy to see our tall son in the front row as we enter the large but darkened room. The music began and included inspirational music and even more inspirational pictures as we watched photographs of each camper climb, shoot, run, dance, fish, and swim. Among the most touching pictures were the shots of the campers as they were carefully strapped in for the climbing wall and reached to the stars with each step and each grip--and were gently pulled up by the attached ropes to ring the bell at the top of the wall.
After the video, we gathered up Joel's belongings and following many thanks and hugs for and from many people, we returned home with our son the hero who had rung the bell. The bell rings loud and clear for all the special children in the world and those who help them achieve the impossible.
As I read the paper, watch the news, and learn about bombs, death, suicide, drugs, terrorism, and destruction, I remind myself that the darkness of the world does not come from hearts of the special children. The light of the world shines brightly for them and for the many who reach out to help them ring the bell. Thank you 4-H Center and Camp Mission Possible for making the dreams come true. May your bell ring loudly, clearly, joyfully, and beautifully for all to hear.
We were comforted to an extent by meeting some of the other campers, similar to Joel in that all had some kind of disability, mental or physical or a combination of both. My first impression was that Joel was among friends of various ages and various disabilities, but all of whom were charming in their limitations, special in their hunger for life, and warm in their joy and excitement. This thought created an emotional sense of confidence in the camp as we completed the introductions and prepared to leave the dorm and the center. We hugged Joel goodbye, with that same feeling that all parents have throughout their lives, not unlike the mother letting her daughter off for the first day of kindergarten, or saying goodbye for the first day of college, or perhaps even that odd feeling of elation mixed with loving concern as the young couple heads off on their honeymoon. Will Joel be okay? Will he have fun? Will he learn? Will he need us? Will he eat right? Will he sleep? All normal parenting thoughts.
It was Camp Mission Possible, not impossible as Joel reminded us countless times, located at the 4-H Center at Lake Brownwood. A camp complete with a playground, climbing wall, swimming pool, shooting range, cafeteria, offices, dorms, canoes, and plenty of space for playing and learning. There were plenty of sponsors, adults, and students called commanders to ensure the safety and success of each attendee. The schedule was rigid in its specific details on expectations, including bedtime, meals, events, rules, discipline, and code of conduct; but the love and compassion seemed to have no boundaries, for it oozed freely and unconditionally from the directors, sponsors, and commanders (who were not really commanders but rather facilitators or care givers).
Two days later--it felt like two months in many ways and two hours in others--we returned to the 4-H center to pick up Joel and see the final event, a video of all the campers and their experiences. It was easy to see our tall son in the front row as we enter the large but darkened room. The music began and included inspirational music and even more inspirational pictures as we watched photographs of each camper climb, shoot, run, dance, fish, and swim. Among the most touching pictures were the shots of the campers as they were carefully strapped in for the climbing wall and reached to the stars with each step and each grip--and were gently pulled up by the attached ropes to ring the bell at the top of the wall.
After the video, we gathered up Joel's belongings and following many thanks and hugs for and from many people, we returned home with our son the hero who had rung the bell. The bell rings loud and clear for all the special children in the world and those who help them achieve the impossible.
As I read the paper, watch the news, and learn about bombs, death, suicide, drugs, terrorism, and destruction, I remind myself that the darkness of the world does not come from hearts of the special children. The light of the world shines brightly for them and for the many who reach out to help them ring the bell. Thank you 4-H Center and Camp Mission Possible for making the dreams come true. May your bell ring loudly, clearly, joyfully, and beautifully for all to hear.
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