Music Theory, Dating, and the Hokey Pokey

We’ve heard it so many times it begins to sound trite and perfunctory – “Art reflects life.” But it does. It really does. And sometimes in the most theoretical sense.

Today was the day to talk to my AP Music Theory class about harmonic function, progression and retrogression, tension and release, tendency and resolution.  Don’t let the terminology intimidate you. If you are breathing, you understand every bit of this at some seminal level. You have most certainly experienced it.  There are actions we take, and decisions we make in this life that move us forward on our personal journey. This forward motion is not without tension and release, and sometimes we experience a brief retrogression before making progress again. Most often, it is the tension itself that moves us forward to resolution.  Harmony in music merely reflects that. It is, perhaps, why certain works of musical art move us so intensely and seem to mirror emotions we can’t quite articulate in mere words. I saw that side of the lesson with fresh eyes after moving through recent personal experiences of consonance and dissonance.

I find myself single and exploring the dating scene again. Again? It’s probably more accurate to say that my “journey” has never included an extensive “dating scene,” so at 53 I still have some new things learn. Nevertheless, I recently found myself exploring a new relationship.  It didn’t pan out, but that isn’t the real story here. The real story is that consonance and beauty may be stable, but they don’t always move us forward. And tension and dissonance may prove uncomfortable, and even painful, but if we listen for those tendency tones, they are driving us actively toward resolution and progress.

The progress I made and the resolution I found in my foray into a potential new relationship was not what I expected at all. But the tension and dissonance in the progression caused me to peel away some layers of protection, look at myself and strength of personhood in a new way, and ultimately walk away from the relationship feeling like I had learned much through the pain and difficulty of navigating some new waters. And the most positive part of the process has been that I’m not trying to wrap myself back up in those layers I peeled away.  The resulting new song has its own kind of stability that I am seeing impact my relationships with my closest friends, my students, and frankly, myself. Rather than regressing, I’m finding a kinder, gentler person that I like being around.

It would seem that in that process of opening myself up to another human being –  vulnerable, and risking hurt –  I learned far more about me than I did about dating, and perhaps that really is what harmonic progression (and the hokey pokey) is all about.

 

Looking Back, Living Forward

In the time my blog has been idle since late February, you could say I've been busy. March and April are always busy months for a high school choir director - preparing and performing in various festivals/competitions/assessments and getting ready for end of year concerts and commencement. It's enough to keep any sane person's plate full. I, however, decided to turn March and April into a freaking buffet.  

March 8, the Frau and I picked up our periodic discussion of downsizing, the headaches of home maintenance - we own an older home with "character" and the character is starting to cost us - and the amount of drive time I have to work (about 45-50 minutes). Usually, the discussion drifts to exploring where we want to ultimately retire, with me looking for employment in those areas, and us making one final move to a warm climate and a maintenance free and downsized home. Different stars were in alignment on March 8, though, and we went into search mode.  The morning of March 9 we sat down in our respective recliners with our Mac Books and started searching for town homes and luxury apartments closer to my school.  We visited some of these that afternoon and the following day, and on the evening of March 10, signed a lease on a luxury apartment 15 minutes from my school.  We put the house on the market on March 11, took possession of the apartment on March 18 and spent my spring break moving, sold the house two weeks later, and close the sale a week from tomorrow. Throw in a garage sale and numerous car trips full of the dregs that just seem to grow when one is moving out, and you could say we had multiple "full plates" over the past few weeks.

Yes, things have been crazy, but we are about to finally settle into some sort of normalcy, love our new place, and both of us are looking forward to more time together, more time writing, and less windshield time for me. Which leads me to the focus of this, and possibly the next few postings. Moving and downsizing resulted in me looking back at lots of "treasures" - not all of which needed to be saved, but which certainly brought back many fond people memories - and lots of "I told you so" moments.

"I told you so" #1: I have always been a photo hound, and in the days of print film I spent hundreds of dollars on hundreds of pictures everywhere I traveled. My mother would always comment, "there are no people in this picture!" I scoffed at her and marveled at the artistry of my photos of major landmarks all over Europe. As I went through tubs of loose pictures and unopened photo albums, I discovered that the majority of the pictures I wanted to save had (yes, Mom, you were right again) people in them. Its the people that made those memories and landmarks special for me.

"I told you so" #2: The Frau has been telling me for years that I need to go through and sort all my old photos and I might find some of the ones I've been searching for through the years.  Two years ago, when my oldest friend, Robert, and I both turned 50, I wanted to put together a Shutterfly book of the experiences we have shared since we were in 4th grade, into junior high and high school, college, and a few European travel trips.  Our parents were good friends, as well, and I had no doubt I would come up with plenty of fodder for the book.  Robert's birthday came and went with no such book, because I simply couldn't find but  4-5 pictures of us. I could recall specific pictures, but I couldn't locate them. During the whirlwind that has been the past two months, Robert lost his mom. Only days before the funeral I had finally found the missing pictures (and more that I had forgotten I had) in the process of packing and moving. I was able to put the book together - two years late, but probably at a much more appreciated time. The book, you see, was framed by a picture of the birthday card we had been sending back and forth, with extra notes stapled inside, since 1974. We got the idea from his mom who had done something similar with a close friend of hers for many, many years. 

Regardless the chaos and frenetic nature of the past few weeks, the journey through forgotten photos has been a welcome calm of reflection, even while the rest of my life is moving forward in an exciting new direction.

Some Things Just Can't Be Explained

My ongoing dialogue about the existence of God continues with my oldest friend, and while I maintain that the more I know, the more I realize I don’t know, and while I enjoy any conversation that encourages me to think and question what I believe, I continue to rest assured about the existence of God. And here is just one reason why.  

In the past few weeks I’ve had the opportunity to be a part of several significant music making experiences. This is one of the perks of having chosen a profession that I love and that gives to me far more joy than frustration. As a result, I’ve been lucky enough to experience unexplainable welling of emotion in several instances in recent days. In some cases I was moved by text as enhanced by music, in others by the simple joy of watching young people actually capturing the meaning and joy of what they were singing—as they sang it.

While in New York with some of my students who were participating in the Honors Performance Series National Honor Choir, under the direction of Dr. Eph Ehly, I found myself brought very close to tears of joy during not one, but two different rehearsals of Dan Forrest’s gorgeous setting of  You Are the Music.  Amy Lowell’s poem, which grounds the work, is moving in its text, but gains its power from Forrest’s setting of the lyrics to music.  Were I to simply read the poem, I would no doubt be moved, but not to the heart-rending depths that occurred from hearing this text sung—and understood and experienced—by almost 300 talented high school students from all over the country.

‘Tis you that are the music, not your song.

The song is but a door which, op’ning wide,

Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,

Your spirit’s harmony, which clear and strong

Sings but of you.

Throughout your whole life long

Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide,

This perfect beauty.

Waves within a tide, 

Or single notes amid a glorious throng.

The song of earth has many different chords; 

many moods and many tones,

Yet always ocean.

So is this one music,

with a thousand cadences.

– Listening by Amy Lowell

A couple of weeks later, I was back in Kansas listening to the Kansas All State Choir rehearse under the direction of Dr. Edith Copely. These talented kids were exploring the gamut of human emotion in the various selections they were preparing, and they were realizing some powerful musical and emotional moments. I shared one of those “in my gut” moments when I am moved and so glad I am a part of this profession as they sang How Can I Keep From Singing arranged by Taylor Davis, and Tides of Ocean by Matthew Orlovich. Because of near blizzard conditions in Wichita, these young singers had been fighting staggered arrivals of members of the choir, and the stress of getting there themselves.  Dr. Copely, however, managed what could have been an untenable situation, guiding them to some incredible musical moments to which they followed willingly and received their just reward.

I’m not a publicly emotional person as a rule.  Perhaps this is why music is an important part of my life, because it gives voice and expression to emotions that I am loathe to express openly in any other way. What is it about music that gives it the ability to reach to our very depths and extract the very feeling that has been suppressed and craves outward expression?  What is that overwhelming wave of feeling that conjures up goose bumps (or “chicken skin” or chills, depending on your geographic locale) almost to the point of weeping or laughter?  I can’t explain it, anymore than I can explain God’s existence.  But I can’t deny the power of it.  And how could something that powerfully moving not have some divine Creator as its author?

My life flows on in endless song;

Above earth’s lamentation,

I hear the sweet, tho’ far-off hymn

That hails a new creation;

Thro’ all the tumult and the strife

I hear the music ringing;

It finds an echo in my soul —

How can I keep from singing?

What tho’ my joys and comforts die?

The Lord my Saviour liveth;

What tho’ the darkness gather round?

Songs in the night he giveth.

No storm can shake my inmost calm

While to that refuge clinging;

Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth,

How can I keep from singing?

I lift my eyes; the cloud grows thin;

I see the blue above it;

And day by day this pathway smooths,

Since first I learned to love it;

The peace of Christ makes fresh my heart,

A fountain ever springing;

All things are mine since I am his —

How can I keep from singing?

– Robert Lowry

Road to Emmaus

For as long as I can remember, Robert Zünd's painting of a resurrected Christ on the road to the town of Emmaus with two unsuspecting followers hung in my dad's church office. These disciples thought Jesus had died, and didn't recognize him when he joined them on the road and shared dinner with them later. My dad passed away 10 years ago this month, and I'm not sure what my mother did with that painting.  

I have my eyes on a new work of art these days, though - also a "road to Emmaus." You see, I have a new little friend named Emmaus. He just celebrated his first birthday this past weekend, and I wonder if the many people there to help him celebrate were aware of the presence of Christ in his life.  I've been captivated by him for the past year, and the journey he is on with his adoptive parents. I don't know when I have seen a happier and more loved little boy. Every time I see a new picture of him, I smile and my spirits are lifted. I have seen an amazing transformation in his parents as they now see their world through the lens of the love they have for this precious boy.  

Although I have spent the last couple of posts confessing some doubts and dissonance in my own faith journey, I find that witnessing the simple and sincere love that is expressed in Emmaus' family is one of the greatest reminders of why I cling to my faith in spite of doubt. When I'm feeling a bit like I'm wandering in a desert (perhaps of my own making), God brings a work of art, like Emmaus and his family, into my view and reminds me that the God of Love is still with me.  And if a picture is worth a thousand words, then I can't believe you won't see God's all encompassing and non-judgmental Love in the images of Emmaus -  and his dads.

If Looks Could Kill . . .

I went to jail on Good Friday.

No, seriously, I went to jail. The Frau and I hauled my cello over to the Women's Correctional Facility and played for two Good Friday services - one in the medium/maximum section, and one in the minimum security section. As the Frau (who used to be a police sergeant) always reminds me, criminals rarely look like they are someone who would kill you. And while there were a few "rough" looking folks there (especially in the medium/maximum section), most were just nice, friendly ladies that made you think - what in the world did they do to end up here?

During the second service in the minimum security area, I actually had an accompanist. One of the inmates was a very accomplished pianist - a young Asian girl who was clearly very intelligent and friendly, in addition to her musical talent. Again, I wondered, what did she do? And memories of a rather tragic story kept tugging at me. But I'm in the MINIMUM security area. The chaplain introduced us and told me she had gone to a high school in a neighboring affluent district. We quickly established some folks that we knew in common. And that nagging memory resurfaced. Could there be two Asian girls from the same high school, the same age, who were talented pianists in the same prison? And if so, how could a sweet young girl like this, who didn't look like she would hurt a fly, have stabbed her mother to death? And if it was, indeed, her - how did she end up in the minimum security area? This girl did not have the look or the attitude of a killer.

But it was the same girl.

Playing for a Good Friday service - where we read scripture reminding us that Jesus was crucified in between two thieves. Poignant doesn't begin to describe the setting.

I found out a few more details later. There had apparently been a lot of abuse in her family, and while she was tried as an adult, and I don't mean to excuse the crime, even the prosecutor who fought to try her as an adult apparently had some compassion regarding her family situation. The final sentence and plea agreement attest to this. And she did start out in the maximum security section and "worked" her way into the minimum area. I can only imagine what those first months or years were like for her as a 17 year old.

I could have sworn she told me she was 23. But I have been so drawn to this girl's story that I googled what information I could find on her trial, and I don't see how she could be older than 20. In fact, based on her sentence, she will probably be released when she is around 23. So I either misunderstood (likely), or she is so focused on her release time that she finds herself thinking she is 23 . . .

I can't stop thinking about her.

Neat

Here I sit, preparing to go to the annual city tree lighting ceremony where the choir kids will sing their cold little hearts out for 15 minutes or so in the requisite parade of city choirs. As often happens, there is a new custodian cleaning the choir room today. She's a nice older lady of Hispanic descent. She just came back to my office to ask me what the word "involvement" meant and how to pronounce it correctly. She showed me that she had seen the word on a poster in the classroom that connects different words to the various letters in the word "CHOIR". I explained what involvement meant as best I could - equating it to participation in the classroom activities. She seemed happy to understand, then asked me to make sure she was pronouncing the other words correctly - Cooperation, Harmony, Opportunity, Involvement, Responsibility. She even wrote the word - "involvement" - on a piece of paper that was destined for the trash. I wanted to say to her, "Lady, you 'get it.' You aren't just mechanically doing your job. You are truly involved in your environment and in taking responsible advantage of the opportunity to broaden the knowledge of your surroundings." That poster has been hanging in the choir room for two or three years now. She's the first person to acknowledge she has really seen it. We never know who we are teaching - or who is teaching us. I think that's kind of neat.

Pizza or Soup? ("It's Not What You Think")

It was time for lunch at school on Friday, and I had a can of microwave soup in my office, yet I was toying with heading out to the school cafeteria for a slice of pizza. It seemed such a harmless choice - impacting little other than my caloric intake for the day. But . . . it's not what you think.

I opted for the soup - put the can in my office microwave and proceeded to search for a spoon. I found one on my desk, but it was a touch sticky, so in the interest of good hygiene I decided to head around the corner to the practice room that conveniently has a sink in it, to wash said sticky spoon. Harmless - yes? No . . . it's not what you think.

I unlocked the practice room door and turned on the light, in innocent pursuit of a clean spoon. Suddenly, bodies were flying and scooting about. The young lady (and I use that term quite loosely) grabbed for her shorts to replace them on her body, while the young man jumped up to a chair pulling his shorts up with him. He was, unfortunately (for both of us), unaware that his little johnny jump-up was still up and peeking out of his still unfastened shorts - although "johnny" was wearing a "rain coat." Among the many protestations I heard from the couple as I said, "Let's go" (which apparently, they already had), the most ridiculous was . . . "it's not what you think!"