I feel confident in transcribing his song, because he repeated it about seven times in his joyful little voice while sitting on his mother's lap on the crowded streetcar. The sleepy-eyed commuters and the jittery late-season shoppers shared quiet smiles, and he sang loudly, too young to care about what other people were thinking, with absolute concentration.
Danke Danke lydesstah
Hauauantautschuah!
He was practicing the cool new sounds from kindergarten, probably on the way to his next class to play and sing with friends, have snacks, take a nap, and learn more English. Charlotte, our impossibly beautiful next door neighbor, has already shyly showed me her My First English book, which she puts into her little backpack every day before heading off to class with the other three-year-olds.
Appa bufftau also hai
I can still remember the Christmases of my Lutheran childhood illuminated by a thin chord of magical sounds linking me to the disappearing speech of my grandparents. I can still remember the sounds I didn't really understand: yay air so glawver yulekvel, for dah bre Yesu firt. But I didn't lack understanding either. I was yay, air was being, Yesu will always sound the same. A window only cracked, a sharp lack I feel as on the train as in front of me that little man sings, wide open.
Laika tyment indeskai
In my icecold workplace people walk through the offices with warm smiles and sweet gifts. The world will always be both brutal and generous. Knowing this makes it easier to consider both remaining and leaving. Packing up after the show, I hesitate over my heels and the bouquet from Sunday's recital. I leave those uncomfortable shoes in my office and bury my face in the roses, which are coming home with me.
Thank you, little star.
dkz
Showing posts with label rescue me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rescue me. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
so close and yet so far
I followed through with an act I could not complete past the threat stage last summer: I deactivated my Facebook page. From one angle this looks completely mad, to disconnect from a huge group right at a point of enormous frustration. I need my friends right now (like there's ever a time when you don't need your friends). But I had the same instinct right when I was leaving Texas, and there's something right about it for me. Hard to explain. Maybe it's this: living in a world that isn't real to me yet, where I am such a stranger and so lacking in connection, I need something stronger. Facebook is so fun and casual and I have enjoyed it so much, but the calories are pretty empty. I think it might keep all of us from spending just a little more time and effort on the most important people in our lives...or maybe that's just me.
So if you're my friend and you read this, please follow me, or save this link, and tell my other friends about it. And call me, or write to me. I'll call or write back. I miss you.
dkz
So if you're my friend and you read this, please follow me, or save this link, and tell my other friends about it. And call me, or write to me. I'll call or write back. I miss you.
dkz
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Passing through
The last five days have redefined my whole idea of being "unterwegs", on a journey. I'm on one wild ride, unsure from moment to moment of time, day, temperature, century - of location in general. I'm either nailed to the spot or unmoored, and sometimes I experience both conditions simultaneously. It started on Friday when I got the news of my grandmother's passing. On Facebook. I hadn't heard any news in the morning, but there was my brother's status update casually glanced at the rehearsal break. I had half of my mother's number dialed when I realized it was the middle of the night in Minnesota. I called my bro, who had since gone back to bed, and so I returned to rehearsal. The next days were a frustrating mixture of poorly timed attempts to connect to my funeral-planning family (that seven hour gap is a nasty beeyotch when your heart is aching and everyone involved has a big to-do list) and extremely taxing rehearsals (it happens, art can be hard. Stop laughing.). It was exhausting, disheartening, and lonely.
But that's only part of the story. I was also filled with gratitude and joy because at home a few weeks ago, Grandma gave me the gift of two good days, great conversations, a special burst of energy. I could talk to my sisters and brother and mom and dad on my phone, on my computer, practically for free and for as long as we pleased (I'm old enough to remember precious, painfully rationed long-distance calls). And miraculously, I was there in the church briefly on Sunday when the funeral took place, thanks to Skype. I saw the beautiful faces of my family, their faces were in my home and my face was there at Vision of Glory Lutheran. I saw one nephew's nervous smile before he went to prepare for playing the piano during the service, and as he turned to go I thought, my goodness...at every family event up till now, I've been sitting at the keyboard.
We'd had a pianist as our dinner guest that evening with his flautist wife and their brilliant daughter, new friends that lit up a heavyhearted weekend with laughter and conversation. We enjoyed a Thanksgiving feast, ate with abandon, and did the dishes together. Normally I'm the kind of person who refuses help with washing up in my kitchen (control freak, duh), but this night I didn't. Earlier in the day, my sister had called about her eulogy; she was taking ideas from everyone in the family. One story she mentioned was about how Grandma and Mom did the dishes together and sang, as Grandma had once done with her sister. So I let my new friends help me with my dishes (albeit no singing), and there was something deeply moving about that, although I'm glad I didn't have to try and explain it. After they went home and my static-y Skype call was over, I opened both sets of windows to the snowy Viennese night and took a long breath of cold winter air.
Clarity and collaboration, there may be something to this pairing. It will be a while before I can write about this week with any of the former. The orchestra is finally here in our Giovanni rehearsals, along with our music director, and finally the piece begins to take shape. I'm playing the recitatives with two stunning partners, cellists who are splitting the performances. So there are three of us collaborating on this project, and of course the work is faster and light years better with the addition of two sets of ears, minds, and hearts. I rehearsed with one of the two gentlemen this morning, and that was ninety minutes of grace. Not only am I challenged to a new level of elegance by his musicianship, I was given the gift of his total engagement with and enjoyment of our work, of his profession. I asked him how many times he had played Don Giovanni. He smiled and mentioned that next season would be his last before retirement, and as we talked he spoke of his grandfather, who joined the Vienna Philharmonic in 1892, who played under Mahler and Strauss and who collaborated with Brahms.
A quick email check before rehearsal contained glowing reports of the eulogy and the piano solo. Outside my windows it was snowing hard, and I had to hurry downstairs. Behind me my boss gave the downbeat, and the orchestra thundered on all sides the music that will outlive us all.
dkz
Saturday, November 6, 2010
suck it up
Endlich zu Hause. At last I'm home, sick (thank you plane flight!), drinking tea, and hanging out with MtMn as he obsesses over his latest writing project. I'm happy. I'm down. I'm exhausted. I'm a headachy bandana tied to a big rope on parents' day at camp, I'm the sneezy meat in a lesson sandwich. I'm the in exquisite middle of the tug, the bite, blowing my nose, looking for a way out.
I admire and pity a man strange and dear to me. His turtleshell armor helps to cause the adversity that it enables him to endure. How unlike and like him I am, now and ever. I know the cold won't last, not the infection in my chest or the temperature in this new city. Yet even as my diamond mind breathes in patience, monkey shrieks and looks to pick the lock on the cage. Let me out, help me stay.
Long term projects are my specialty. I know I can hang in there, suck it up, stay strong. That's been my goal as long as I can remember. But is it right? Where is the strength that doesn't do violence?
More coughing rattles me like punishment. That's a crazy and cruel thought all by itself. My heart's soft enough, maybe it can still teach my mind.
Achoo.
dkz
I admire and pity a man strange and dear to me. His turtleshell armor helps to cause the adversity that it enables him to endure. How unlike and like him I am, now and ever. I know the cold won't last, not the infection in my chest or the temperature in this new city. Yet even as my diamond mind breathes in patience, monkey shrieks and looks to pick the lock on the cage. Let me out, help me stay.
Long term projects are my specialty. I know I can hang in there, suck it up, stay strong. That's been my goal as long as I can remember. But is it right? Where is the strength that doesn't do violence?
More coughing rattles me like punishment. That's a crazy and cruel thought all by itself. My heart's soft enough, maybe it can still teach my mind.
Achoo.
dkz
Sunday, October 17, 2010
loop
Vienna doesn't get the riot of fall color that either of us grew up with in the midwestern US. Only occasional bursts of dullish red and orange vary the tired yellow of the trees, fool's gold indeed, drained even further by the leaden skies. The air contains a warning edge that spurs me toward my bike; how many more Sundays before snow makes a ride impossible? I pump up my tires and pedal, legs and heart working against a variety of dragging weights.
North along the Donaukanal, I'm not paying attention to much. Bridge. Subway station. Riotously colored utility plant, yellow tree, yellow tree, yellow tree. Familiarity is turning this part of the ride invisible. I start to ascend a ramp that will take me across two bridges to the long island in the middle of the Danube. Over the water now, the wind is colder, bracing, and I lean into it gratefully, happy to push into something that pushes back. Lean men in tight spandex rush past me on their light bikes, and I pass a couple jogging and talking leisurely together, running as though the sun is shining. Cars drive past us on the long bridge.
On the island, the mist starts to organize itself toward rain, and no one's around on the long paths but long-haul bikers and runners plus the occasional practicing skier with poles and rollerskates. We smile at each other in an uncharacteristic way, a small congratulations for freezing together. The sky seems content to fall down on us slowly, one small drop at a time. Yellow tree, yellow tree, yellow tree. But then, a startling long canopy of yellow, burnished, lovely. From the heights of mid-island hills are expansive views of the admirable buildings of several centuries across the river on either side, big spired churches and hotels like ships and structures of glass reflecting the water and vice versa. The wind blows sharply, and the smell of the dying leaves struck by the new cold rain surprises me. The wind brings water from my eyes, my eyes take in the majestic city, my legs work at the bike pedals, my heart works.
Up another ramp onto another bridge, over the wide Donau. A barge of trash that says ГABAHA passes a barge of containers. The wind picks up, fighting the roar of traffic from the other side of the barrier. There is a collection of tiny houses and gardens at the west end of the bridge. A woman is covering some plants with a tarp, a man is bent over the open hood of a car. I steer into the Prater, right into some kind of race, people with numbers pinned to their raingear walking and running down the Hauptallee, rock music and laughter and tents and tables with water. There are suddenly families again, intrepid kids on tiny bikes, old people moving at a stately pace or jogging trim and clear-eyed, groups of parents and children or friends taking up leisurely amounts of space, insanely well-behaved Austrian dogs. Yellow tree, yellow tree, yellow tree.
The bridge back over the canal leads to some of the third district's prettiest houses, ornate balconies and turrets above a path suddenly ruddy. Die letzten roten Astern trag herbei. By the Urania, observe how the rain means business. I opt to stay by the water , under the bridges. My big and big-tired bike is good over the occasional cobblestones. My legs shiver under my wet sweatpants. The hydrofoils to Bratislava wait in vain for customers, and the sullen white-shirted waiters are smoking in the rain, scowling in unzipped jackets with the hoods pulled up. LESS! screams the graffiti on the Leopoldstadt side, big pictures of bloated red-white-blue zombies and an exploding globe. The Sunday morning exercisers in midtown wear Saturday night heavily as they pant past me, earbuds in place.
Friedensbrücke, last ramp, Glasergasse. I lock my bike in the rain and step into my warm house on slightly rubbery legs. The sky keeps slowly falling.
dkz
North along the Donaukanal, I'm not paying attention to much. Bridge. Subway station. Riotously colored utility plant, yellow tree, yellow tree, yellow tree. Familiarity is turning this part of the ride invisible. I start to ascend a ramp that will take me across two bridges to the long island in the middle of the Danube. Over the water now, the wind is colder, bracing, and I lean into it gratefully, happy to push into something that pushes back. Lean men in tight spandex rush past me on their light bikes, and I pass a couple jogging and talking leisurely together, running as though the sun is shining. Cars drive past us on the long bridge.
On the island, the mist starts to organize itself toward rain, and no one's around on the long paths but long-haul bikers and runners plus the occasional practicing skier with poles and rollerskates. We smile at each other in an uncharacteristic way, a small congratulations for freezing together. The sky seems content to fall down on us slowly, one small drop at a time. Yellow tree, yellow tree, yellow tree. But then, a startling long canopy of yellow, burnished, lovely. From the heights of mid-island hills are expansive views of the admirable buildings of several centuries across the river on either side, big spired churches and hotels like ships and structures of glass reflecting the water and vice versa. The wind blows sharply, and the smell of the dying leaves struck by the new cold rain surprises me. The wind brings water from my eyes, my eyes take in the majestic city, my legs work at the bike pedals, my heart works.
Up another ramp onto another bridge, over the wide Donau. A barge of trash that says ГABAHA passes a barge of containers. The wind picks up, fighting the roar of traffic from the other side of the barrier. There is a collection of tiny houses and gardens at the west end of the bridge. A woman is covering some plants with a tarp, a man is bent over the open hood of a car. I steer into the Prater, right into some kind of race, people with numbers pinned to their raingear walking and running down the Hauptallee, rock music and laughter and tents and tables with water. There are suddenly families again, intrepid kids on tiny bikes, old people moving at a stately pace or jogging trim and clear-eyed, groups of parents and children or friends taking up leisurely amounts of space, insanely well-behaved Austrian dogs. Yellow tree, yellow tree, yellow tree.
The bridge back over the canal leads to some of the third district's prettiest houses, ornate balconies and turrets above a path suddenly ruddy. Die letzten roten Astern trag herbei. By the Urania, observe how the rain means business. I opt to stay by the water , under the bridges. My big and big-tired bike is good over the occasional cobblestones. My legs shiver under my wet sweatpants. The hydrofoils to Bratislava wait in vain for customers, and the sullen white-shirted waiters are smoking in the rain, scowling in unzipped jackets with the hoods pulled up. LESS! screams the graffiti on the Leopoldstadt side, big pictures of bloated red-white-blue zombies and an exploding globe. The Sunday morning exercisers in midtown wear Saturday night heavily as they pant past me, earbuds in place.
Friedensbrücke, last ramp, Glasergasse. I lock my bike in the rain and step into my warm house on slightly rubbery legs. The sky keeps slowly falling.
dkz
Thursday, June 24, 2010
summer school
So the unexpected thing that happened was this: I got nervous. After we unpacked here in Chicago, after the first good night's sleep post-Austria, after all the agenda items were checked off the list and vacation had begun, I got nervous. I watched the US soccer team win their group and those two tennis guys play all damn day and felt the whole time like a hamster was sitting directly on my adrenal glands. Yeah, I know, solar plexus, seat of personal power, indicator of uncertainty, und so weiter. GOT it - except that perhaps I don't exactly, as I notice my breath not quite making it down into my belly.
The other feature of yesterday was a lot of blog discussion on the nature of teaching and learning, all inspired by news of the evil super-capitalist movement in Texas that is turning student evaluations into employee evaluations. I've spent a lot of time thinking about the greatest teachers in my life and about how important it was for me to learn to turn myself over to them, even when they demanded ways of learning or behaviors that were not easy for me. Even when I disagreed. I was not naturally good at this, and now when I have a student that kicks or talks too much or contradicts me or does whatever he or she does to avoid walking a particular path, I have to smile - payback time! My way of handling this is gentler than some (I'm thinking of you, SDG. RIP and thank you for kicking me out of your studio, ya bastid - it was rough but right), but so often it's necessary to lead someone down an unexpected, undesired road. Very often. OK, always.
In trying to explain this, I've run into more than one skeptical reaction, even full dismissal. To some, such talk smells of guru worship, an abdication of personal power or responsibility. And fair enough - it's demonstrably possible to cross the line from saying yes all the time into, shall we say, over-agreement (bedding the teacher, ignoring the instincts that might keep you from physical harm). I was shocked the first time I saw a martial arts class of my husband's, where the only allowable response to the master was "yes, sir!" It violated everything in my little American heart. What if I don't want to? What if I'm too tired? What if I have a good reason?
It's just that none of us need to be taught what we already know. Fact accumulation is simpler than ever. Why do we go to teachers?
O wad some power the giftie gie us
to see oursels as other see us
Isn't that it? The shift in perspective, the chance to look from a different angle, the chance to find out what we are avoiding by announcing what we will not do? It's not that you, the student, have no idea of what you need...but you might not know it up in the front of your brain, you might not know how to find it, and hell, you might really not have the first clue.
Typing, I think of a thousand acceptances and a thousand refusals of exactly this gift, the journey out of my own head, my own comfort zone, my own well-disguised laziness, and I'm filled with gratitude for all my teachers, past and present. Today I'll go to the keyboard, get on the mat, all those things I burn to do and look to avoid. Because that's what we do. We know and we don't know, we see and we are blind, we want with all our hearts to reach to the new place and we lie back in comfort.
Watch your back, hamster.
dkz
The other feature of yesterday was a lot of blog discussion on the nature of teaching and learning, all inspired by news of the evil super-capitalist movement in Texas that is turning student evaluations into employee evaluations. I've spent a lot of time thinking about the greatest teachers in my life and about how important it was for me to learn to turn myself over to them, even when they demanded ways of learning or behaviors that were not easy for me. Even when I disagreed. I was not naturally good at this, and now when I have a student that kicks or talks too much or contradicts me or does whatever he or she does to avoid walking a particular path, I have to smile - payback time! My way of handling this is gentler than some (I'm thinking of you, SDG. RIP and thank you for kicking me out of your studio, ya bastid - it was rough but right), but so often it's necessary to lead someone down an unexpected, undesired road. Very often. OK, always.
In trying to explain this, I've run into more than one skeptical reaction, even full dismissal. To some, such talk smells of guru worship, an abdication of personal power or responsibility. And fair enough - it's demonstrably possible to cross the line from saying yes all the time into, shall we say, over-agreement (bedding the teacher, ignoring the instincts that might keep you from physical harm). I was shocked the first time I saw a martial arts class of my husband's, where the only allowable response to the master was "yes, sir!" It violated everything in my little American heart. What if I don't want to? What if I'm too tired? What if I have a good reason?
It's just that none of us need to be taught what we already know. Fact accumulation is simpler than ever. Why do we go to teachers?
O wad some power the giftie gie us
to see oursels as other see us
Isn't that it? The shift in perspective, the chance to look from a different angle, the chance to find out what we are avoiding by announcing what we will not do? It's not that you, the student, have no idea of what you need...but you might not know it up in the front of your brain, you might not know how to find it, and hell, you might really not have the first clue.
Typing, I think of a thousand acceptances and a thousand refusals of exactly this gift, the journey out of my own head, my own comfort zone, my own well-disguised laziness, and I'm filled with gratitude for all my teachers, past and present. Today I'll go to the keyboard, get on the mat, all those things I burn to do and look to avoid. Because that's what we do. We know and we don't know, we see and we are blind, we want with all our hearts to reach to the new place and we lie back in comfort.
Watch your back, hamster.
dkz
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Close call
Yesterday evening, the end of a long week, was a weird salad of satisfaction and sorrow. Wonderful conversations with husband (who is finishing an important stonework goal on our house) and with sister and nephew (who reported on a new piano and their plans to visit Vienna) brought me joy even as they underlined the distance I'm choosing to put between myself and home. When will I see that beautiful Texas house again? What about the growing nieces and nephews, my siblings, my parents, my friends?
I went out to the Internet cafe, watched some World Cup, made a blog entry and answered mail, and went back to the hotel. Celebrating football fans sang far into the night. This morning, underslept and sad, I thought about canceling the two appointments I had made. One was a professional thing which could easily be handled over the phone, and one was a lovely new acquaintance, an expat who would have totally understood the situation.
But I didn't.
I didn't, and so I didn't miss the train ride into the bucolic small town, and I didn't miss watching the blue-green foothills getting taller. I didn't miss the great homemade coffee or the friendly Weimaraner. I didn't miss the mind-blowing room with more than two dozen harpischords and fortepianos in various states of restoration, and I didn't miss the chance to play them, and I didn't miss looking at the beautiful antique furniture and finding out where to hunt for it. I didn't miss the adorable restaurant (that opened in a former butcher's whose name was Tomasch and so the new owners simply changed the letters around on the sign and named their place "Stomach") and I didn't miss the yellow gazpacho and the asparagus torte and the brilliant conversation. I didn't miss the gelato or the several miles of walking through the cooler but still sunny streets.
There is so much that I do miss, and will. But I'm so, so glad that I got up this morning and opened the door.
dkz
I went out to the Internet cafe, watched some World Cup, made a blog entry and answered mail, and went back to the hotel. Celebrating football fans sang far into the night. This morning, underslept and sad, I thought about canceling the two appointments I had made. One was a professional thing which could easily be handled over the phone, and one was a lovely new acquaintance, an expat who would have totally understood the situation.
But I didn't.
I didn't, and so I didn't miss the train ride into the bucolic small town, and I didn't miss watching the blue-green foothills getting taller. I didn't miss the great homemade coffee or the friendly Weimaraner. I didn't miss the mind-blowing room with more than two dozen harpischords and fortepianos in various states of restoration, and I didn't miss the chance to play them, and I didn't miss looking at the beautiful antique furniture and finding out where to hunt for it. I didn't miss the adorable restaurant (that opened in a former butcher's whose name was Tomasch and so the new owners simply changed the letters around on the sign and named their place "Stomach") and I didn't miss the yellow gazpacho and the asparagus torte and the brilliant conversation. I didn't miss the gelato or the several miles of walking through the cooler but still sunny streets.
There is so much that I do miss, and will. But I'm so, so glad that I got up this morning and opened the door.
dkz
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
from Chimpan-A to Chimpan-Zee
P was attacked at approximately 3:30 this morning by the dreaded Monkey Mind.
Oh, I was an excellent wife, full of empathy for his distracted state. For about a minute. Then somehow it was seven AM, and only one of us had slept. Now over the last few months I have envied my husband, who would slumber the night away while my brain made random lists and tried to scare me with various foreign language scenarios. Now, down to one job, my brain is beginning to check out successfully for eight hours at a time, and my mate finds himself goaded into wakefulness and stumbling across our rental cabin for a glass of water and some online poker.
Pictures of the reason for this will follow when we get back to Houston, and a happy reason it is: the trusses for the roof went up yesterday, and the silhouette of a real house is suddenly there for everyone to see. It is thrilling! This house has gone from a pencil sketch to the library to the architect and engineer to the builder to reality, and P made it all happen. It's truly the work of a lifetime.
And the closer it gets, the realer it becomes - the more questions arise. More details, more unconsidered problems, more creative ideas, more worries. More's the chance that, instead of simply rolling over at 3:30, you'll completely break the surface of sleep's great lake and start wondering where to put the kitchen island.
I don't wish more sleeplessness on my dear P, but it was nice this bleary morning to give him a shoulder as he has given me so often. Man, is it hard to let the chatter go. It feels so busy, so connected, so much like work.
Sigh. Living the questions. Big times.
dkz
Oh, I was an excellent wife, full of empathy for his distracted state. For about a minute. Then somehow it was seven AM, and only one of us had slept. Now over the last few months I have envied my husband, who would slumber the night away while my brain made random lists and tried to scare me with various foreign language scenarios. Now, down to one job, my brain is beginning to check out successfully for eight hours at a time, and my mate finds himself goaded into wakefulness and stumbling across our rental cabin for a glass of water and some online poker.
Pictures of the reason for this will follow when we get back to Houston, and a happy reason it is: the trusses for the roof went up yesterday, and the silhouette of a real house is suddenly there for everyone to see. It is thrilling! This house has gone from a pencil sketch to the library to the architect and engineer to the builder to reality, and P made it all happen. It's truly the work of a lifetime.
And the closer it gets, the realer it becomes - the more questions arise. More details, more unconsidered problems, more creative ideas, more worries. More's the chance that, instead of simply rolling over at 3:30, you'll completely break the surface of sleep's great lake and start wondering where to put the kitchen island.
I don't wish more sleeplessness on my dear P, but it was nice this bleary morning to give him a shoulder as he has given me so often. Man, is it hard to let the chatter go. It feels so busy, so connected, so much like work.
Sigh. Living the questions. Big times.
dkz
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
chain, chain, chain
I'm leaving Facebook at the end of the week. Let me admit up front that I know this might be temporary. All I know is that, after months of digging on my big, far-flung, loose community of FB friends (and after urging loads of people to join!), I'm suddenly struck to the heart by how it all encourages and supports my laziest self.
Am I truly "keeping in touch"? Is it really enough just to log on, make random ironic or loving comments, occasionally send a message? Am I not simply turning FB on as though it's the 24-hour AllMyFriends channel, accepting whatever happens to be on at the time?
Then again, is now the right time to promise myself that I will work harder at keeping contact with my friends? Should I not be thankful for the FB hub and for how much it fills in for me, for real human effort?
I have no answers. Maybe the passive nature of it is only bugging me because I am contemplating losing my dad and am at the front of a huge relocation - in other words, maybe I just need to get over myself. Maybe I'm just sticking my head in the sand, overwhelmed by how big life is and how much love has come my way in the last weeks.
Or maybe I'm hungry for something that's really missing, squinting my eyes after what's vanishing.
dkz
Am I truly "keeping in touch"? Is it really enough just to log on, make random ironic or loving comments, occasionally send a message? Am I not simply turning FB on as though it's the 24-hour AllMyFriends channel, accepting whatever happens to be on at the time?
Then again, is now the right time to promise myself that I will work harder at keeping contact with my friends? Should I not be thankful for the FB hub and for how much it fills in for me, for real human effort?
I have no answers. Maybe the passive nature of it is only bugging me because I am contemplating losing my dad and am at the front of a huge relocation - in other words, maybe I just need to get over myself. Maybe I'm just sticking my head in the sand, overwhelmed by how big life is and how much love has come my way in the last weeks.
Or maybe I'm hungry for something that's really missing, squinting my eyes after what's vanishing.
dkz
Monday, May 24, 2010
learning to count in the Hill Country
One donkey in my front yard.
Two avocados in the guac.
Three naps.
Four pillows.
Five minutes of rain.
Six huge granite stones at the base of the wall.
Seven wasps at least in that nest.
Eight emails from Vienna to read...tomorrow.
Nine thank-you cards completed.
Ten fleeting moments of complete blankness.
Tomorrow I'm shooting for eleven.
dkz
Two avocados in the guac.
Three naps.
Four pillows.
Five minutes of rain.
Six huge granite stones at the base of the wall.
Seven wasps at least in that nest.
Eight emails from Vienna to read...tomorrow.
Nine thank-you cards completed.
Ten fleeting moments of complete blankness.
Tomorrow I'm shooting for eleven.
dkz
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Back to the future.
Home after months away.
Overgrown garden, weedchoked pond, surprising oregano. A friend's unexpected gift: six neatly tied bags of yard waste.
My husband's saxophone practice, veggies and hummus on the table, good wine, old mail. An approaching hurricane.
In our wake: concerts, recitals, an opera, great work with dear friends, the end of an era, dreams and plans.
Life on earth measurably better, palpably shorter.
I still don't know what this page is for.
dkz
Overgrown garden, weedchoked pond, surprising oregano. A friend's unexpected gift: six neatly tied bags of yard waste.
My husband's saxophone practice, veggies and hummus on the table, good wine, old mail. An approaching hurricane.
In our wake: concerts, recitals, an opera, great work with dear friends, the end of an era, dreams and plans.
Life on earth measurably better, palpably shorter.
I still don't know what this page is for.
dkz
Monday, July 7, 2008
garden state
Family connections left behind, for now, in favor of professional ones. What a blessed, infuriating, bittersweet and sweet time we had, joined to all of these intimate strangers, faces giving away the blood family, the rest of us volunteers hanging around the edges. Different people standing before different doors, several journeys already begun privately. Confidences shared, grievances aired, breeze shot. Leaving just in time. In an ivy-covered town now for a few teaching days, helping people string breath, words, and tone together as though the universe could be held fast by such connections. But that's a crazy idea...
dkz
dkz
Friday, July 4, 2008
home on the range
I am near several Great Lakes, celebrating holiday and family milestones with an extended group of inlaws. Last night saw (as does every night involving a reunion of these far-flung brothers) a massive poker game, which featured home-brewed beer, fierce competition, and several iPods on shuffle. I was struck by the wide-ranging tastes of this group (five men ages seventeen through forty-nine, varying levels of education, one professional musician, two former high school band members, one church choir singer, and one who proclaims himself tone deaf). We heard the Mozart Requiem, Esperanza Spalding, Hank Williams, Mars Volta, Radiohead, Soundgarden, Chris Whitley, Lucinda Williams, Frank Sinatra, Maria Callas, on and on. Today we'll gather for a completely typical Independence Day celebration, brats and beens and sparklers, which is to say that there's nothing particularly spectacular about the general musical taste of this family.
People are smart! People are interested in many kinds of musical expression and are touched by many things! Why does there seem to be a disconnect between this obvious truth and the workings of the music business?
Often I find myself frustrated by a culture that seems too lazy to leave its own house, divorced from the magic of gathering in a special place for a special purpose. Last night I found myself blind on the other side of the elephant, wondering how it is possible to underestimate ourselves so deeply.
ps...if you have not heard the above mentioned Ms. Spalding, "run", do not "walk", to the nearest "place" where you can get your hands on her music.
dkz
People are smart! People are interested in many kinds of musical expression and are touched by many things! Why does there seem to be a disconnect between this obvious truth and the workings of the music business?
Often I find myself frustrated by a culture that seems too lazy to leave its own house, divorced from the magic of gathering in a special place for a special purpose. Last night I found myself blind on the other side of the elephant, wondering how it is possible to underestimate ourselves so deeply.
ps...if you have not heard the above mentioned Ms. Spalding, "run", do not "walk", to the nearest "place" where you can get your hands on her music.
dkz
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Chateleine
I spent twelve years of my life sitting in a hole in the floor. Okay, that wasn't the only place I hung out. I also whiled away certain hours sitting on benches (piano and park), chairs, sofas, floors, carpets, and grass. I nestled my ample frame into cars, airplanes, trains, tents, and one particularly fabulous canoe. There were notable achievements as well in the fields of standing and walking. So it's not like my life was limited.
My chosen spot, however, was aptly named: prompter's box, or simply, "the box" (that's what the cool kids said). Small and airless, it contained secrets. Gifts, sometimes - no, often, given and received. Inside, I was isolated, powerful, alone, necessary, anonymous, helpful, invisible...but that may have all been my imagination, which had plenty of time to run wild in the mostly boring hours. That said, I sat on the mountaintop a few times in that dusty closet; when I climbed out, its narrowness surprised me.
I never expected to be a prompter in an opera house, and I don't miss doing it, but it was a special privilege. With it came a secret, a surprise, a gift - the possibility of deep relationship. My relationship with music came easy, but that with other musicians - other people - has always been a trickier proposition, intimate and overwhelming. To climb down the rabbit hole with the words and music of genius, my friends all around me (above and below, on stage and in the orchestra pit), and to wait in attendance to see who might need a cue (a word, a note, a smile, a calm breath) was to experience quiet, focus, and connection for the first time. Eventually I could hardly wait to get out of that tiny space, but I had to go in to get out.
Thanks, you odd, exacting, dying profession.
dkz
My chosen spot, however, was aptly named: prompter's box, or simply, "the box" (that's what the cool kids said). Small and airless, it contained secrets. Gifts, sometimes - no, often, given and received. Inside, I was isolated, powerful, alone, necessary, anonymous, helpful, invisible...but that may have all been my imagination, which had plenty of time to run wild in the mostly boring hours. That said, I sat on the mountaintop a few times in that dusty closet; when I climbed out, its narrowness surprised me.
I never expected to be a prompter in an opera house, and I don't miss doing it, but it was a special privilege. With it came a secret, a surprise, a gift - the possibility of deep relationship. My relationship with music came easy, but that with other musicians - other people - has always been a trickier proposition, intimate and overwhelming. To climb down the rabbit hole with the words and music of genius, my friends all around me (above and below, on stage and in the orchestra pit), and to wait in attendance to see who might need a cue (a word, a note, a smile, a calm breath) was to experience quiet, focus, and connection for the first time. Eventually I could hardly wait to get out of that tiny space, but I had to go in to get out.
Thanks, you odd, exacting, dying profession.
dkz
Sunday, June 1, 2008
In with the good air...
My mom saved someone's life in church last week. When Pastor Tim paused in the sermon to say kindly, "is there a doctor or other medical professional with us today?" and Mom looked around hoping for someone else's raised hand, there was only enough time for most people to put the situation together before she was moving away, calm white head floating down the aisle above the seated congregants (old neighbors, new residents, denizens of my hometown strange and familiar). The elderly lady was slumped back in the first pew, unresponsive, and the church staff was looking for the defibrillator and realizing that no one really knew how to use it. Mom bent over the still woman and gently (no preamble, no announcement) sighed two quick breaths into her open, slack mouth. She told me later that these are called "rescue breaths", and that she was glad that if it had to be someone that it was this prim, neat woman. The eyelids of that lady's sweet, fragile face fluttered open, and suddenly she was sitting up. "I'm OK," she whispered, and soon the EMTs were there and the pastor resumed talking, and everyone sat with what had just happened (not happened) as easily as possible in church, at home, in the place I knew as my first theater.
People (have/will always) come together to try and explain this life to themselves and each other. They listen and breathe together in various spaces, at various times, with varying degrees of agreement and intention. Sometimes they save each other's lives, or at least wake each other up. Sometimes they change the course of what seems inevitable. It doesn't always happen in a way that seems very theatrical. When technique is beautifully at an actor's disposal, what she does can be so simple that you can almost forget about it a few minutes later, as though a dead woman has not just opened her eyes.
The thing I should admit from the start is that I believe in theater, in theaters, and in the miracles that happen there. I believe that, attending, we can save each other's lives.
dkz
People (have/will always) come together to try and explain this life to themselves and each other. They listen and breathe together in various spaces, at various times, with varying degrees of agreement and intention. Sometimes they save each other's lives, or at least wake each other up. Sometimes they change the course of what seems inevitable. It doesn't always happen in a way that seems very theatrical. When technique is beautifully at an actor's disposal, what she does can be so simple that you can almost forget about it a few minutes later, as though a dead woman has not just opened her eyes.
The thing I should admit from the start is that I believe in theater, in theaters, and in the miracles that happen there. I believe that, attending, we can save each other's lives.
dkz
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