restingmotion

Now I Get It.

A long time ago, when I was 16, I had back surgery for scoliosis.  My scoliosis was very bad, and I am grateful, even though what was state-of-the-art 40 years ago might now be considered somewhat crude. 

Following my recovery from that surgery, my surgeon told me that I must take 3 walks of about 1/2 mile every day for the rest of my life.  I remember asking if I could take 1 longer walk instead, and he told me no, that the effects would not be the same.  For a year or two I followed his directive.  Then I started varying my walks and becoming inconsistent.  Often I only took one long walk per day.  When George became ill, I gradually stopped doing even that. 

 

This year one of my goals has been to walk more.  Mostly I simply want to be stronger, but I was also frustrated at not being able to manage some steep hiking in the fall, and I want to be able to do as much as I can.  I'd like to be able to take at least short hikes on uneven and even steep terrain.  I'd like to ride my bike again.  Walking, on both paved and unpaved terrain seemed like a good start.  I already had a fitbit and I started using it again.  Through March and into early April I managed to average between 70,000 and 84,000 steps every week, but I did not manage 10k everyday.  Each week there would be a day  I simply was too stiff and sore and tired to move, but I didn't worry about it because my totals were good.

 

Then I realized that I needed to be more consistent, and perhaps also more moderate in my approach.  In the last two weeks I have managed to walk 10k everyday.  And although my weekly totals have been lower, I have actually felt better, and find myself doing more.  I have also finally understood what Dr. Dixon meant 41 years ago, when he told me that three short walks were better than one long one.  I don't mind a long walk.  In fact I enjoy it.  But I can't take one long hike in the morning, and then just do routine tasks and walking for the rest of the day, unless I am spending the day on my feet moving around (ie walking).  7k or 8k early and then only 2k - 3k later doesn't work.   I can finesse an actual midday walk because I don't tend to sit for hours on end, but whatever I do, I must take a walk in the evening, after dinner, and that walk must be at least 1/2 mile but preferably more, which really is not all that long, but it is more than just down to the end of my street and back. 

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I suspect that these two things, a morning walk and an evening walk are the critical points, at least for me, and possibly for others in the bad back, aging or arthritic camps.  The timing of walks may be even more critical than number of steps overall in that we all have days where we can do more and days where we can do less.  In the meantime I'll keep up my steps and I am planning a few more ambitious walks/hikes.  Once I feel more secure with that, I'll tackle the bike.

 

The small silver llama figurines were my grandmothes.  They live on the shelf below my tv and make me smile, although I see that they need polishing again.  And yes, it is worth having silver objects out where they can be seen, even if it means polishing them occasionally.

 

The Uplifting Effects of Allowing Oneself to Grumble

Grumble, grumble, grumble.  Sometimes minor annoyances seem to take on a life of their own.  It is not that they can't be resolved, its not even that they even ruin your day.  Sometimes, when too many things come undone, one simply wants to grumble.

 

 

 

My knees hurt. They have hurt for a week.  No actually, only my left knee has been painful for a week, my right knee just started acting up yesterday.  I barely got my 10,000 steps in, but I did; 10,012 to be exact.  10k steps is a pretty low-activity day, but I've done worse, far worse.

 

The fluorescent lights in the kitchen are not working.  I don't like them, but they are there, and the kitchen is dark without them,  I bought new fluorescent tubes.  Then I had to buy a 6-foot ladder so I could reach the fixture to replace them,  I don't know how I managed to move from New York with two step-ladders and without our previous 6-footer, which was far better made than the one I bought yesterday.  But there you have it.  The past is the past.  No point in fretting over it.

 

Before my back surgery I was afraid to climb up on ladders as my balance was very poor.  In fact I am still pretty nervous about ladders.  But up I went anyway, and I'm glad I did.  I replaced all four bulbs and the fixture still doesn't work.  It must be either the ballast or something in the switch.  Time for professional help, which is timely as the bulbs in the ceiling fixture in the master bedroom just burnt out again, for the second time in less than 60 days.  It uses halogen bulbs that are none too cheap.  Something is wrong there as well.  How convenient that my electrical issues have so conveniently aligned their petty revolts.

 

 

One of the master bathroom sinks detached from the cabinet.  It was an undermount sink that was apparently simply glued to the granite, which I am not convinced is correct, but which nonetheless needs repair.  Moises was standing next to it on the counter when it fell.  Needless to say, he was a bit startled.  I located the company that installed it originally, and am now waiting for them to email me the contract I need to sign before they will agree to come out to fix it.  And waiting....  If I don't hear from them by this afternoon I will have to call them again.  In the meantime, I am using the other sink, the one I continue to think of as "George's sink" even though I am well aware he will not return to reclaim it.  Whatever happens, the master bedroom and bath with return to normal and there will be both light and water. 

 

And very simple pleasures, like putting a puzzle to rights, take on a joy that far exceeds the effort involved.  One of these days my grandson will figure this puzzle out, and he will be amazed at how simple, and obvious it was all along.  And I will lose the pleasure of watching him trying to sort it out, and the pleasure of putting it back to rights.

 

 

Overall I am feeling far more hopeful, despite my grumbling.  Or is it because of my grumbling?  They are all minor things, these annoyances.  Yes, there is always much to do.  Yes, things always go wrong or break or change in some unanticipated way.  But I am growing stronger, and not just in my ability to do things, but in my ability to not do, to go with the flow.  What will be done will be done, and what is not, well, its ability to annoy me will fade with time.

 

 

 

 

 

On Weeding Out and Celebrating Blossoms

Roses and azaleas in the front yard:

 

There was a period of a few weeks from the end of March through the first half of April where I committed myself to too many disparate things and I felt a little scattered.  Some of those projects were things I really wanted to do, and others were things I agreed to just because I was available.  Oh wait, maybe I wasn't really available, or maybe I shouldn't have been available.    It seems a bit of recalibration and sorting is in order.

 

 

 

In the midst of all this busyness, a person whom I hope will become a friend, made a comment that brought me up short and set me to thinking.  My interpretation of the comment was not at all the way it was intended, but it was what I needed to hear at the moment for it brought me up short and made me realize that I have been drifting along on autopilot, and although I realize, and say, that I am doing well, and am finally at a point where I can focus on myself, I have actually been rather bad at exactly that.

 

 

Two weeks from today will be the 3rd anniversary of George's death.  10 weeks from today will be my 58th birthday.  In many ways I've gotten my focus back, my energy back, and my ability to be at home by myself with little risk of falling into the slough of despond.  And yet, I haven't quite accepted that priority of self yet.  There are things I want to pursue, things that make me happy, things that mesh with my gifts, talents, and inclinations, but I haven't always given myself permission to put myself first, to honor those gifts, to honor those needs.  For a couple of years after George's death I needed to busy; I needed to be busy outside of myself, and I became very good at keeping myself occupied.  Too occupied in fact.  Too occupied with stuff that was really not the best use of my time and interests, too occupied with stuff that kept me from doing what I really need and want to do.

 

 

So I've been engaged in a bit of spring cleaning:  physically, mentally, and emotionally.  I am in the process of pulling out of a few things that aren't right for me, and I've put out feelers toward some projects that are better uses of my skills and interests. It is a good process, but sometimes a rocky one, and hence I've been a bit inconsistent here on this blog.  Well, I've been a bit inconsistent overall. 

 

 

 

One problem I've noticed is that once I give myself permission to set aside time for myself, for the things I want to do, I have to actually figure out what those things may be.  It is a process of discovery, a process that yields occasionally surprising results.  Something that, at a distance, seemed like a precious flower proves only to be a weed.  Sometimes weeds prove to be the most beautiful flowers. It appears to be a slow process, but I am learning. 

 

 

In the meantime I am in the garden again.  At this point this involves mostly weeding, digging and grunt work.  I am behind schedule. As you can see if you look closely, weeds still rule.   The garden is not where I hoped it would be, I will not plant everything I hoped to plant.  I missed an opportunity by occupying myself elsewhere, and yet at the same time, I have learned that some things I thought would be difficult are easier on my back than I had presumed.  This has lead to dreams of grandeur and future gardens, although at this point there is really no evidence that I can keep up with the garden I have.  But we shall grow together this garden and I, through whatever mis-steps and surprises come our way.

Thoughts on Reading

It seems like ages since I have done a book post.  Well, truthfully it seems like I haven't really been reading at all, even though, in fact, I have.  But my approach has been scattered, as it seems much of life has been the last few weeks.  I miss that sense of focus.

 

To that end, I finally finished reading Kissinger: The Idealist 1923-1968.  It is a stunning book, and I read most of it in a concentrated and thoughtful way, at least until I got to 1968, when I put it aside.  This was not really intentional.  It was more that my life was scattered, and therefore my mind was scattered, and Kissinger simply eluded my ability to concentrate.  It was only in the last few days that I was able to return to the book and read the concluding chapters.

 

I highly recommend this book if one is at all interested in  20th century history or US foreign policy, regardless of what one may think of Kissinger himself.  It seems that he is a person about whom many people hold very strong views, opinions that often seem to veer into extremes.  It is my experience that such views often say as much, or more, about the opinion holder as about the object of said opinion.  But it is also true that we want to simplify, to make things clear and easy on our minds and consciences, and humans are rarely that simple.  So I maintain my stance.  Regardless of what you think about Kissinger, understanding his role in US foreign policy is critical in understanding who we are, as a country involved in foreign policy, today. Ferguson's aim in writing this, the first volume of Kissinger's biography, is in helping the reader understand how Henry Kissinger developed into the person he became.  And, like each of us, that process was not necessarily straightforward and was shaped by the world in which he lived and the people and events he encountered.  This book then, is not merely a biography of a man, but of a time, an age, if you will, and the beliefs, biases, and mindset that shaped and defined that age.  As such it is a book about history, about what happened, and what didn't happen, and therefore it is a book that can make us uncomfortable because, like all good history, it leads us to question our basic assumptions.

 

Darn it!  Would that we could all be simple.  Would that there could be a straightforward narrative, and we could imagine that we are marching on a steady path toward the best possible destiny.

 

 In the same way that our opinions about other people often reflect our own mindset more than anything else, so too for books.  I loved this book.  But the reasons I loved this book are probably more reflective of my own interests and biases than they are indicative of the subject matter, or the writing (which is good).  I loved this book for its sense of historicity, something very dear to my heart.  Perhaps this is simply because I am the daughter of a historian, and I did absorb something from my childhood, even though, at the time, I often rebelled at studying history.  I loved this book because of its focus on the time, on the milieu, on the idea, seemingly shared by both the author and Kissinger himself, that history is not just about facts and dates, and not just about what happened, although what happened is important.  But why something happened is also important.  What assumptions were made?  Why were certain decisions made?  What else could have happened?  Why didn't it?  History is about what happened, but like humans in general, our history is not simple.  Although what happened may be more important than what didn't happen, we need to be aware that what happened was not, usually is not, a given, and that at any given time there is usually more than one potential outcome.  Even more, the outcome that occurs may not have been the best outcome in the long-term sense, but it is the outcome that will be remembered.  If we don't understand this, we cannot understand history, and if we cannot understand history, and see our own history and accept it for all its goods and all its flaws, we cannot understand ourselves. 

 

And of course, if we do not at least attempt to understand ourselves, what hope is there? 

 

Scattered Thoughts on Saturday Morning

The knockout roses in the yard have been throwing out a few scattered blossoms.  It seems early, but I am attempting to cast my fretting-cap into the wind and simply enjoy.

 

The last of the "Meet the Candidate" luncheons was held on Thursday.  As usual, it was lovely, and I very much enjoyed meeting the conductor for this week's symphony performance.  The luncheon was held in a stunning mid-century modern house in South Knoxville, and as we were driven up the steep, narrow,  and winding gravel driveway I could not help but think of my former home in Hyde Park.  The weather is better in Knoxville, but I don't miss my driveway at all.  Seeing the house however did spark a few moments of almost-regret.  There were many similarities between this house and my former house, and some differences too, but the similarities were enough to spark memories.  After all, for a long time I had simply assumed that the Hyde Park house was my forever-home, and there had been a brief moment of insanity, shortly after George's death, when, discovering that the Hyde Park house was back on the market, I had considered buying it and moving back. 

 

As I said, it was madness, and I am grateful that I did not succumb.  I'm not convinced that I believe in forever homes anymore, if I ever really did.  What I loved was the home we made together, not the place itself.  I suppose that is what I see as key.  Places are just places.  It is not that they are unimportant, but they are considerably less important than people.  Home is with the person or people you cherish, and who cherish(es) you in return. The Hyde Park house was our home together; but it was home because I shared it with the person I loved and who loved me.   It cannot be my home now.  It would be a shadow house, built on memory and death.  I don't mean George's death by that, but death to the spirit, the way defining oneself by the past tends to close the door on possibilities and therefore on life. 

 

The luncheon house reminded me that I can't really do strict mid century again. I probably never could.  It was George's house and George's style.  Accommodations were made, as in all relationships.  I suppose, since I was young when I married, and the house came with the husband, I've always assumed it was my style as well.  And of course there are aspects of mid-century design I like, but not a whole house.  I am far too eclectic.  And I want deeply cushy chairs that I can curl up in cat-like.  There you have it.

 

 Thursday I met the conductor.  Last night I attended the symphony.  The performance was fabulous. 

 

I've been feeling badly about not yet reviewing the Knoxville Symphony performance at Big Ears, and it does still plague me.  It was a fabulous concert, and the orchestra got good reviews in the national press.  Since that concert I have been thinking the orchestra should be doing more work like the pieces they performed that evening.  We have an excellent orchestra, with talented and sensitive musicians, artists who are willing and capable of find the beauty in the new as well as the familiar. At big ears, I had been blown away.  In the Dessner, the orchestra perfectly balanced the fine tension between sweetness and severity in the piece, and Phillip Glass' Cello Concerto #2, was stunning, performed with what I can only describe as a sense of delightful joy.  That may not have been what the musicians felt as they were playing, but it was what the audience, or this member of the audience, experienced.  It is easy to overplay the Glass, to make it too severe, and rob it of joy.  That performance created the perfect meeting of modern and classical, minimalism and lush romanticism. It appealed to the head, but also to the heart, and there were moments when I was brought to tears, and a moment in the fourth movement when I could not avoid the chill the music brought down my spine.

 

And yet, in a way I got my wish.  It seems to me that this week's concert had everything one could wish for.  The lush beauty of Dvorak; Elgar's Enigma Variations, stunningly, and movingly performed; and a new work, Adam Schoenberg's Finding Rothko.   In Finding Rothko, the orchestra reproduced that sense of music as something that creates a living space, a space you are invited to inhabit.  The orchestra pulled it off beautifully two weeks previously with John Luther Adam's Become Ocean; a performance in which one could hear and feel the waves, feel the water rising around you, filled with power, and powerlessness, and even serenity.  Finding Rothko was similarity well performed.  Like a Rothko painting, except with music instead of color, one is drawn into the experience through subtle layering of sound and musical shading.  The performance was almost like inhabiting a Rothko painting, like a vivid color experience of the same intense feelings that are engendered when one inhabits a Rothko space, such as the Rothko Chapel in Houston.  Stunning. 

Carried Away by Simple Joys

I was enveloped in the scent of narcissi as I walked to the mailbox yesterday evening.  I had just arrived home after a fairly long day and the sheer pleasure of the wafting perfume and the beauty of the blossoms surrounded me in comfort.  Narcissus Sir Winston Churchill is one of my favorites, and I intentionally planted them precisely there, next to the front walk and around the mailbox, where I could enjoy their heady fragrance daily.

The joys of the garden, the joys of music, the pleasure of living in the moment, any moment, be it brief or prolonged.  These joys are such precious gifts.  And often these, the most valuable gifts, are composed of the simplest things:  a flower, a song.  That intense pleasure of that moment in the garden reminded me of the pleasures of listening to music, of attending the Big Ears Festival, and other concerts as well; but it also reminded me that those pleasures are not always intellectual, or meditative, or even perception-altering or life-changing.  Often a simple song is all that is needed to still our racing thoughts for only a moment, to bring us to the present.

 

There were a lot of simple pleasures at the Big Ears Festival as well.  Not everything was challenging or meditative.  Saturday evening there was a lovely set by Lambchop, filled with Kurt Wagner's lyrical wit, and graceful, if occasionally convolutedly poetic storytelling.  The concert was even more enjoyable because it was exactly what I would hope for and was not at all surprising.  But perhaps that enjoyment was amplified by the perspective-shifting set they performed with Yo La Tengo the previous evening, a set in which Wagner and Kaplan traded roles on occasion, singing each other's songs, an act that rendered those songs simultaneously familiar and unexpected. 

 

The Lambchop/Yo La Tengo concert followed a concert by Andrew Bird, another musician with whom I was only familiar through recordings.  Bird performed quite a few songs from his new album, which based on this concert appears to be far more personal, with a little less of the distance I perceived in earlier albums, in which Bird seemed to occupy the role of occasionally tortured but basically world-weary observer of life.  Nonetheless, the songs were beautiful, and listening to the band live really showcased their fabulous musicianship, although I found the volume of the performance actually distracted from the songs themselves.  But I think I am in the minority in that opinion, and the concert was enjoyable regardless.

 

After Lambchop on Saturday night there was a performance by Sam Amidon, Nico Muhly, and Nadia Sirota, which was pretty much new territory for me.  I am a great admirer of Muhly, but was mostly familiar with his classical work.  The concert brought a new perspective, as well as introduced me to Amidon's fabulous fiddling and wonderful renditions of both traditional and more modern folksongs.. Sirota, too, was fabulous, and there is always a sweet spot in my heart for solo viola. It proved to be a fairly intimate performance that showcased the strengths and differences in the work of three very different musicians but who also worked well together as an ensemble.  The three seemed to capture that magical junction where difference comes together in unity of sound, and where distinct and separate pieces are pulled together into a coherent whole, while at the same time maintaining something of an effortless feel of spontaneity.  Not an easy feat to pull off.  

 

In fact, I was reminded of this concert when I noticed these red hunter tulips poking up in the midst of this perrenial.  The plants are different, the colors shouldn't go together, and don't really, and yet together they have a charm that is not really captured in this photograph -- there are subtleties and harmonies that I can't capture on film, just as live music, and the interactions of the musicians, creates its own space, a space that can be unexpectedly beautiful.

 

I suppose however, the performance that resonated the most, that reminded me that I do in fact need to turn off that constant voice in my head on occasion and just let the music be present in all its joy, was the Kamasi Washington concert late Saturday night.  Or was it early Sunday morning?  Technically it was the latter.  And I had gone home, cooked shrimp for coffee hour after church on Sunday, and even managed an hour's nap before returning downtown for the 12:30 AM concert. I was both wired and exhausted, more than ready to just float on Washington's simply joyously good-natured groove.  I don't really have the words to write about jazz.  But no other words were really needed.  Sometimes you just don't want to have to think.  Sometimes you simply need to be carried away.

 

 

Big Ears Saturday Morning: Crippled Symmetry

I have not forgotten Big Ears.  Nor did I really intend to drag my reflections out quite so long, although I should have anticipated that looking at my calendar.  At times I seem to suffer from a disconnect from reality, at least in terms of what I think I can do.  I knew the first two weeks of April were incredibly chaotic, and my rational, organized self would set the pace, reminding me to slow down and just get through these two weeks.  But my exuberant self still continued to believe it could do everything, including write, a task that requires some quiet, some peace, a certain absence of running about.  Obviously the running-about team is winning this race, and so I must beg your forgiveness for my far too rambling words and scattered attentions.

 

Yet, I continue to think about the music; it continues to haunt my dreams.  Still, I want to write.  And therefore since I started at the end, I shall continue to work backwards, exploring the meandering paths of musical memory, which is of course influenced by things that have been heard, or have happened since.  I suppose the only way to avoid that confluence of events and thoughts would be to write immediately, and then to preserve those thoughts, inviolate.  But of course life doesn't happen that way. We are always evolving, our thoughts and memories always shifting in the sands of experience.

 

In many ways, my contemplative frame of mind on Sunday, and my willingness to release myself into the more meditative aspects of Inuksuit, was probably primed by what had gone before, particularly the Saturday morning performance of Morton Feldman's Crippled Symmetry, and the ongoing performance of John Luther Adams' Veils and Vespers, in the same performance space, the sanctuary of a former church, appropriately named "The Sancturary" on the big ears schedule.

 

Before attending Big Ears, if you had asked me to compare the music of  Feldman and John Luther Adams, I would have said they were nothing alike.  Adams' music seems focused on nature, evocative of the earth, whereas I somehow have always thought of Feldman as a composer with a very urban sensibility. But of course this is merely surface illusion; both composers use sound in a very precise way to create a specific musical experience.   Feldman and Adams both create worlds with sound.  One does not so much listen to the music as enter into it and begin to inhabit its space.  Given my own contemplative inclinations, these works seemed to take on a certain meditative qualities, qualities that were amplified by the peaceful setting, truly a sanctuary of both space and sound.

 

Crippled Symmetry is written for piano, flute and percussion.  If contemporary critics of Mozart could complain that his music had "too many notes", the opposite could be said of this particular piece.  The notes are few, but they are precisely arranged and very well modulated, sometimes simultaneously, at other times seemingly slightly off, but with such minute gradations of tonal color and subdued dynamics, that they seemed to flow together in a way that felt simultaneously simple and yet complex, slowly meditative, and quite beautiful. 

 

The music began quietly,  with a series of soft, seemingly symmetrical statements that softly, tentatively even, appear to be seeking  some kind of harmonious union that never quite materializes.  Somehow, although there were nothing that I would classify as "nature-sounds" in the music,  I imagined myself lying in a field on hot July afternoon, letting my mind float in the heat, hearing the periodic sounds of insects and birds.  I felt the stillness, the occasional sounds, much like the occasional bird, or locust or the buzzing of a fly, seemingly separate and yet in concert.  I felt my breathing slow, assuming that luxurious laziness of a summer afternoon, the sounds lulling me into its own world.  Slowly, my breathe would align itself to the pace of the music, tune itself to the chirps and rings.  For  breathe or two I could maintain the illusion of symmetry, of perfection attained.  But of course Feldman does not allow that.  And in fact nature's harmony is not our harmony, and our impulses are not always so easily aligned.

 

About 2/3 of the way through the piece people were beginning to leave so that they could go to the next concert.  I briefly interrupted my reverie, in an attempt to decide if I should go or stay.  I knew that my next choice, Mary Halvorson, would fill up, and if I did not leave, it would be unlikely that I would get in, and yet I felt pulled into the performance.  I felt as if something would be lost if I left at that point and decided to stay. And although my understanding was correct, and I did not hear Mary Halvorson, I have no regrets.

 

At some point soon after that brief interruption in my attention, there was a subtle shift in the sound, a fracture line almost, perceptible, but only barely so.  It seemed faint and distance, as if I could not quite put my finger on it, like a subtle shift in the barometric pressure, a subtle tremor, so faint that one could easily convince oneself that it did not in fact occur, a niggling little voice in the back of the head that one can easily push aside, except that its memory lingers, subtly altering one's perceptions.  Then, before you are even certain you have heard anything at all, that controlled rhythmic music, the slow sustained phrasing, that attempted coming together returns. Perhaps it was but a dream after all, a trick of the mind.  But wait, there has been a shift; that almost-symmetry that was present before has become ever so slightly more dissonate.  It is more difficult to find that yearned-for unity of breath and sound.  The percussion becomes slightly more insistent, the flute slightly more shrill. 

 

There is a growing sense of unease listening to this music, and yet I cannot quite pinpoint the source of the disturbance.  In many ways the specific pattern of notes, the pacing of the music, seems the same; and yet it is increasingly obvious that it is not.  There is more echoing, the modulation has shifted, the sustained notes wobble slightly, just enough to reflect off each other without finding any harmonious synchronization. The precision of the pacing, the sustained holding of a note, so exact and measured, adds to the depth, and just as this precision once yearned for harmony, that attempted harmony now seems to be falling away, fractured.   The piece ends in what seems to be simply a vibration or a ringing, like a tingle of unease running up one's spine.  Impossible to ignore.  Impossible to forget.  It was a work of incredible manipulation of sound, of beauty, silence and space, and of human emotion, if one was willing to slow enough to lean into it.

 

After leaving The Sanctuary, I walked back up Gay street thinking I would attempt to hear Mary Halvorson, but I stopped frequently to take pictures, to let my mind wander.  As anticipated, it was a lost cause.  I stood in line for half an hour, and got within 10 people of the door, but alas there was less than 10 minutes left to the concert at that point.  Had I walked faster, the outcome would have been different.  Others who left at the same time as I were admitted, but perhaps I was best left to my thoughts. I abandoned the line and wandered back to the former First Christian Church, where I had begun, and where my car was parked.  I stepped inside for a while, to hear a part of John Luther Adams' Veils and Vespers, another piece of profoundly meditative music, perfectly pairing sound and place to create a meditative space I can only describe as holy.  But I did not stay, and I regret not returning.  Busyness had resumed its control of my mind, and I needed to get home to walk the dog before my evening music marathon.

 

 

 

 

Opening Landscapes

I bought a CD of Inuksuit.  I haven't listened to it yet.  Oddly, when the CD arrived, my interest in listening turned toward disinclination rather than anticipation  I am sure that will change with time.  At the moment I am still thinking about Big Ears in general, about the music of John Luther Adams, and how it shaped the flow of music across the weekend, even though in many ways there was no obviously evident theme or genre dominating the schedule.  I am still thinking about that closing concert, and the ways it has sharpened my perceptions of the sounds around me. 

 

I also think about my own experience of that music, of the sharp contrast, dichotomy almost, in the music as heard.  Just as I mentioned that the musicians were part of an ensemble, playing a prescribed piece of music, and also soloists, reacting to their environment, so too was the listener.  This listener in particular, a listener prone to introspection, a listener prone to philosophizing,  is still processing some of the implications of that experience.   I mentioned that contrast between parts of the music, at times gentle and caressing, at times terrifying, as experienced sitting still with eyes closed, but also the contrasting experience of listening as part of a crowd, a crowd of families, of people joyously following the music around the grounds, of children laughing, of mothers blowing bubbles with their infants.  This contrast, of the music as an experience in and of itself, and of the experience of listening to the music in this specific setting, is still settling in with me.  I am not saying there is a right way, or a wrong way to listen.  In fact, probably all ways are necessary.  There is always more to what is going on in life than what we see or experience, there is always more to see or hear if we are willing to open our eyes or ears.  And yet, there is also almost always less as well.  And this too is part of the human story.  We float through life, blowing bubbles, crying, walking, sometimes listening, sometimes not, sometimes preoccupied, at other time open, sometimes growing, sometimes resting.  And the story the world has to tell, the music, will be different each time.  I am sure, had my grandson been able to join me at Ijams last Sunday, my experience of Inuksuit would have been very different, and yet every bit as enjoyable, filled with a different kind of excitement.

 

And in some ways that sense of contrast, of adventure and of balance flowed through the weekend as well.  Adams was the composer in residence and in many ways the experience of the weekend flowed outward from, and around that music, in overlapping waves, waves that sometimes flowed together into broader patterns and at other times came crashing into each other, almost cancelling each other out.  So too my experience of Big Ears.  I attended both more and less than I had anticipated.  I missed what were probably some of the most interesting, perhaps the most challenging or avant-garde performances, and yet I saw and heard what I needed to see and hear, and am content.  

 

Something changed before I attended any concerts, something that altered how I experienced the weekend, and for that I am grateful,  But all change brings with it some break down of structures and the safety of routines, and I am still processing the aftermath of that change, and how the music played into it.  The change was simple.  I could stand for a concert.   I could stand for an hour or two without back pain, and this allowed me to go to different concerts than I had been able to attend the previous year.  I could also walk.  I had been walking, had been pushing myself to walk, taking two medium to longish walks a day.  But until just a few days before Big Ears Weekend, last week really, my walking has always been shaped by low back pain.  I would walk until I had to push through the pain, then I would walk a little further, and then I would have to stop.  When I would hit that wall of pain I would still have to pause, to remind myself how to swing my hips when I walked, how to roll through the stride, because my body would freeze up, and despite 22 months of practice, granted not as focused as it could have been, without concentrated attention I would revert to marionette-like movement, movement that would actually make me worse rather than better.   Then I would collapse in pain induced exhaustion until I was ready to push forward again.

 

Then, suddenly, I could walk.   Suddenly I could stand.   I was simultaneously more energetic and more exhausted.  Muscles I apparently hadn't used properly in years would rise up in protest even after short walks, but tired muscles recover fast, faster than I ever recovered from bouts of sciatic pain.   I can't actually explain the repercussions of this change, but they have been profound, and all encompassing.    With better movement, with less pain, I have greater energy, greater focus.   At the same time all my routines have been up-ended.  Yes, I still have bits of back pain.  Yes, planting is still hard.  But pain has lost some of its control over my mind, over my body, over my energy, frankly a control I am not even sure I was aware of until it was gone.

 

And all of this change, all of this energy, and exhaustion hit me at the same time as this fabulous music festival.  There were things I missed because I was too tired to come downtown.  And yet I heard more than I would have been able to hear a mere week earlier.  And this excitement also filled the weekend and undoubtedly altered my perceptions.  My choices were no longer limited by pain.  My personal landscape had altered, and in a way this altered my perceptions of the landscape of the festival, a festival that was in some ways shaped by the landscapes John Luther Adams creates with his music.  But that is one of the really cool things about Big Ears.  There is so much, and you can make of it what you will, fall into rabbit holes of your own making, and let your ears grow as big as you wish, or not.

 

I intended to write about Saturday's concerts today.  But alas this post is already far to long.  I hope you will bear with me.

Sunday in the Quarry

Walking across the almost empty parking lot at my church on Sunday morning, I heard the birds singing and thought for a moment that they almost sounded like the opening notes of John Luther Adams' Inuksuit.  That I heard music was not surprising.  I hear music everyday, hear music in the every day sounds and noises that shape and reflect life around me.  That I thought of Inuskuit was also not surprising, as I was on my way to Ijams nature preserve to hear exactly that, John Luther Adams' Inuksuit, the concluding event of Big Ears Festival 2016.

 

And so I entered the grounds in that continued reflective mood.  The sun was warm, the air was crisp, the crowd good hearted and cheerful.  It was a perfect spring day, perhaps a little cool, but I am inclined to prefer things a bit on the cool side.   I found a spot for waiting and settled in listening to the overlapping melodies of children playing, conversations, birdsong, and the muted comingling of new leaves rustling in the wind blurred by footsteps and blankets swooshing.  In this its own symphony, one could have missed the opening of Inuskuit, except of course it was introduced, so that we were primed for that soft and subtle beginning.  I closed my eyes and listened, the soft sounds becoming more frequent, more enveloping.  The occasional whoosh crossed my aural threshold:  wind? the sound of a car on the road? No, that wouldn't be it... or would it? An airplane passes overhead.  A child's giggle mixes with the tinkling and the whooshing, and it becomes difficult to distinguish between the place and the music, or the way the place and the music dance together, to create a separate space.

 

The songs become richer, enveloping.  The air is filled with song, or is it noise? No it is song, and it reminds me of that  joyous cacophony that greets me in the hour before sunrise each morning, the air filled with the sounds of birds and crickets, chirps and hums, chatters and tweets.  Eyes closed, the sun on your face, the sounds of joyous song surrounding you, you feel at peace.

 

Until...

A wall of screeching, roaring, thundering noise assaults you.  Stunned, you are overwhelmed by an urge to flee, to run for cover. Your heart leaps in terror and you open your eyes only to see the startled looks of those around you and remember that you are safe, that the sun is shining and the air is soft.  Children pause, wide eyed, then laugh and continue on, listening for the specific sounds, pointing, marveling. The world is not coming to an end.  But you are no longer comfortable.   Close your eyes again and you have gone from idyllic mother nature to the fury of nature, fierce and terrifying.  A child nearby whimpers, and inwardly you cry out in sympathy.  You must battle your own conflicting emotions, the almost instinctual, visceral fear, and the calm voice of reason in your head, the voice that keeps repeating that it is only music, and you are, indeed, safe.   Open your eyes.  Safe, yes.  The world goes on, and we watch it, secure.  Or are we?

 

Close your eyes again. Is this what a trapped animal feels like?  You hear a shrill whirring noise, like the screech of a siren, or is the shrieking vortex of the wind?  You no longer know the difference.  Is this nature's fury? or the fury man has wrought?  Is that distant rumbling thunder? Or is it the rumbling of bulldozers come to destroy your verdant home into acres of concrete.  As you continue to sit, eyes closed, the music washing over you, the chill in he air becomes more noticeable.  You imagine nature reshaping the earth, uprooting trees,  creating mountains, and you imagine man uprooting trees, reshaping the earth, creating cities, and you quiver in terror as those very trees that were your home, those very cities that were your home, are shattered in the wind. 

 

You open your eyes, and the sound is the same yet different.  People are gathered 'round.  Some are quiet and still, others talking, children are playing guessing games, trying to find the sources of the various sounds.  Eyes open, the disconnect is more obvious, vision rules.  You see a musician playing the drums, you hear the echoes of sound off the rocks, off the water.  Shimmering and distant.  The leaves of the tree next to you still rustle gently in the breeze.

 

And then it fades.  The thunder grows more distant.  Occasionally you hear a softer whoosh; occasionally you hear a single note, a song about to be reborn. You close your eyes again and your pulse stills.  Your own breath becomes softer and the songs become more clear.  Beauty has reclaimed the earth, is reclaiming the earth, will reclaim the earth. 

 

And you open your eyes.  It is a sunny day in April, a bit cool.  People chatter and laugh, gathering themselves and their families together.  There is a sense of awe in the air, of shared awareness. You walk back to your car and you notice, perhaps more closely than when you arrived, the tender green leaves, some nascent, some still tightly curled, others slowly unfurling their soft delicate skin to toward the sun.  You cup an embryonic leaf gently in your hand and feel the softness, knowing that in a couple of days it will be crisp and green. And you give thanks for the safety of your life even as you also beg forgiveness for all the harm that you, that we, that the collective we that is the species we call humans, has done to this earth, even as you know that we will continue to simultaneously treasure beauty and cause harm, sometimes intentionally, but not always, in our own struggle to survive.  You recognize that this too is the true nature of our existence, of existence at all.  We all just want to get by, to survive, but we also all seek transcendence.  And yet there can be no transcendence without terror, even though we can only stand the weight of that terror for a short time, even though we can only stand the joy of transcendence for a short time. 

 

And you are reminded of those sentries, the inuksuit, standing watch, reminding us of how small indeed we are against the forces of the world.  Solitary and alone.  One of the marvels of the musical piece called Inuksuit is that each of the musicians is part of a group, but each is also a solitary figure, a soloist performing a prescribed thing, but in concert with other soloists and with the environment around him or her; acting and reacting.  The music draws our attention to the kind of polyphonous harmony that surrounds us every day, in which we often unwittingly participate, a harmony to which we are often all too oblivious.  The music asks us to slow, to consider, to hear....and to heed.