I couldn't agree with him more. I recall playing this for a wedding in college - an outdoor wedding - it had rained for several days prior - my endpin kept sinking in the mud - but those 8 little notes just kept on going . . .

Downloads & Dinosaurs

A typical Saturday morning conversation with the Frau over coffee . . .

C - I signed us up for a trial membership with Netflix yesterday.
F - Why? What's wrong with going to the video store?
C - It's cheaper, with far more choices, and more current choices. Besides, they have Picket Fences already.
F - Do they pay postage?
C - Yes, and no late fees.
F - I guess.
C - . . . and think of the gas we'll save not driving to the video store.
F - I'm already convinced. My sweetie would rather sit down and do anything at her computer rather than cleaning her desk.
C - Fine. So where are we going for breakfast?
F - Why don't you order it online?

Bumper Sticker Spirituality (aka BS)

Perhaps I've just gotten too cynical. The Frau suggests that some people are just trying to make things more "real" - "normal" - "everyday" - etc. for the uninitiated - even if it borders on triviality. I don't know - we hu-mans don't always do so well with our real, normal, everyday relationships, so I'm not sure I want to trivialize my spiritual relationship quite to that level. Thus, my abhorrance of what I fondly refer to as "Jesus is my boyfriend" music. I don't mind contemporary Christian music with lyrics that have some depth and integrity - just don't like the sappy, simpleminded stuff. Ok - this is chasing a rabbit I had no intention of chasing at this point. All I wanted to point out is some of the more notable BS I've observed of late.

Nothing will ever quite top the infamous sign, which was placed among a host of other political signs on a street corner in a small central Texas town. Actually, the "sign" was a cross, with a sign on it, that read (among the other "Bill Ted for Sheriff" and "Bobbi Jo for Country Clerk"):

Jesus - For Lord

Then, earlier in the summer, I saw a billboard in northern Oklahoma off of I-35 - yes, a LARGE billboard - and I could shoot myself for not writing it down exactly, but it read something like this (amidst a beautiful sailboat/lake illustration):

Ready to Go Boating?

Set Sail with Jesus!

And yesterday, right here in my (rather liberal) hometown, on the Missionary Outreach Center sign was the following:

This day is brought to you by Jesus.

I'll continue to post, and look forward to hearing from my friends, any particularly spectacular BS you might see in the future.

Summer Sloth

Ok, sloth is perhaps too harsh, but as my mother always delights in telling me, "if you had real job, you'd have to work in the summer - and holidays - and spring break." I don't know . . . I kind of think that after catching a couple of horny teenagers "practicing" the wrong art form in a practice room, I'm due for a little break.

The Frau and I have invested a good bit of time and money this year in making the new casita "ours," consequently, we have no money to go anywhere this summer. As the more ardent traveler of the two of us, I have surprised myself at my willingness to be more of a homebody this summer. I am loving working in the yard - not exactly slothful. And being able to curl up with a good book on a rainy day - ok, somewhat slothful. I can feel more virtuous when I'm reading about boy soldiers in Sierra Leone in "A Long Way Gone," but I've morphed into finally reading the Harry Potter series. I'm halfway through the second book, and I had to go to the gym to work out this a.m. to assuage my guilt. I'm also doing some schoolwork here and there - on my terms, though.

Staying put is giving me the opportunity to take part in a number of things I don't normally do - like have my carpal tunnel surgery (left wrist healing nicely, right wrist on deck for late July), schedule my overdue mammogram (always a joy), and "play" on the faculty softball team. Since my unfortunate bop-in-the-nose incident and 1st round of wrist surgery, I've been keeping score, but the doctor cleared me to start playing this week. If yet another tragedy strikes on the field, I may just burn my glove and call it a game. I'll keep you posted on that one.

Speaking of mammograms - someone close to me - who shall remain nameless (at her request) (like you won't figure this one out . . .) recently had her mammogram. She forgot and wore deodorant (a no-no for the uninitiated). She wiped that off, got squished, then proceeded to dress. She noticed a spray can in the changing room and thought, "how nice, they keep deodorant in here." She happily sprayed it on, only to realize it wasn't deodorant - but hairspray. Thus began the "de-application" process yet again. Typical mammogram - life saving, perhaps, but one humiliation after another. I'm sorry, gentlemen. While I'm sure the whole "bend over and cough" thing is less than underwhelming - at least you don't have to stick little BB's to it and have it smashed two different directions - with or without a heating pad.

But I digress. And it's my feeding time. And I'd really like to catch up with my friend, Mr. Potter. So I shall slothfully take your leave. For those of you who have "real" jobs, I wish I could say I'm sorry . . . :-)

Softball Spirituality

Sometimes God speaks to us in a still, small voice, and sometimes he/she slams us in the nose with a softball. I really don't think it's that hard to get my attention, but apparently I needed something a bit more firm than the "still, small voice" this week to grab my focus and slow me down.

I was already sheduled on Tuesday to have my left wrist operated on to relieve my carpal tunnel syndrome (or as a woman in my dad's church called it, "carnal tunnel"). So I was eager to play the first, and possibly only, game of the season with the faculty softball team on the Sunday preceding my "carnal correction." The Frau kept advising me not to play - just go and support - so as not to risk further damage to my wrist. Being the first-born know-it-all that I am, I saw no problem with playing, and vowed that I would take it easy. We got there early, and I started throwing the ball with some other early arrivers. . . .

I have to interject here that I REALLY love playing softball, and yet I haven't played in more years than I can identify. I played a lot as a kid - with the neighborhood kids, on church teams, and then came that fateful time that I tried out for the junior high team. I had been practicing over the weekend with my other friends who were trying out, and I was the power hitter of the bunch - the one everyone moves out into the field for. I was sure I was going to make a real bona fide team. I got to the first day of try-outs, came up to bat, my friends moved back, and I choked. I couldn't make contact with the ball to save my life - not even a foul ball. Needless to say, everyone's memory got very short, and no one recalled that just two or three days before I could really play. I didn't make the team, and I was scared everytime I came to bat in future years. Funny thing was, the first year of high school, we played softball in PE, I got up to bat and smacked a long ball, and the teacher asked me why I hadn't tried out for the high school team. I thought, if she only knew . . .

So back to our present-day game . . . Here I was - 46, and finally ready to face my fear. Indeed, I was ready to spit in the face of fear; to stand in the batter's box and laugh my loud hyena laugh in fear's general direction. But the game hadn't started, yet, and I thought I should make sure I could still throw and catch the ball before I got too brazen in the batter's box. Despite the carpal tunnel, I was making some beautiful throws and very adept catches. My confidence was up. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the "coach" was ready to call us together for some pre-game instructions. I decided to catch the one last ball heading my direction, and then join the rest of the group. There is a critical point in the reception of a ball - "soft" or otherwise - when one's attention should not be diverted toward one's future actions. This is when God spoke to me. Right in the nose - cut from my sunglasses, bleeding internally and externally, never to hear the coach's first 2 rules: 1) everybody have fun, and 2) nobody gets hurt.

Now my left wrist is wrapped from surgery, my nose is swollen, and my left eye is black. I will be on the bench this week, keeping score, waiting for God to speak to me again (more subtly, I hope) about when I will finally face my fear in the batter's box. In my convalescence this week, I continue to ponder whether God's message to me is:
1) Slow down, and finish one thing before starting another (this is often the Frau's message to me).
2) Keep your eye on ball, but only figuratively.
3) You weren't meant to play softball, stupid!

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!"

For Just Pennies a Day . . .

Remember the "old days" when semi-has-beens like Sally Struthers would do cable commercials reminding us that "for just pennies a day . . ." we could feed a starving child? To show how times have changed, just the other day the Frau and I caught a similar ad. Same format - same tug at the heart strings. We can now donate to save an abandoned animal. For just pennies a day. And it seemed to us a reasonable request. Wonder if we could get a pic and a letter from "our" adopted animal?

Please Read . . .

. . . my new favorite book by Jeannette Walls entitled, The Glass Castle. It is hardly your standard memoir. It hooks you from the very beginning, and reverberates within long after you finish the written text. I couldn't shake its hold on me for many days, and continue to wonder to what lengths people (especially my students) will go to conceal their true circumstances, or how much people have actually overcome (or denied) in their lives just to find "normal."

I'll do the book an injustice if I try to describe it in more detail. You will do yourself an injustice if you don't read it.

Frausims, III

The Frau came home from work and a training on enhancing communication in the workplace . . .

C - How was the training?
F - Actually, very interesting, and I swear I felt like I had just been having a conversation with you.
C - Really? How is that?
F - Well, we talked about how you have to communicate differently to people of this generation than ours. These kids don't like to use the phone except to "text" and they'd rather communicate with their friends on "Your Face."
C - You mean "My Space."
F - No. I mean YOUR - FACE.
C - You mean "Face Book."
F - Oh, I guess that's it - whatever they call it.

The woman makes me laugh until my bladder sends out an SOS. Which reminds me of another worthy comment from the Frau: "I hate it. I bump into the wall, and then I pee."

Growing up - growing older - it's all fun.

To Be, or Not to Be . . . Hmm

The students are talking. I'm not surprised, and in fact, had suspected it would occur at some point (if not already). But knowing it in fact as opposed to speculation gives it a whole new sense of reality. I'm actually surprised it is suddenly occupying so much of my thought time, but it is . . . So, I'll share with my friendly readers, and perhaps gain some insights to give me some equilibrium on the matter.

A few of my more perceptive students noticed a couple of years ago when I started wearing my wedding ring. I know this is true because one of the more "sensitive" ones also studies private voice with one of my oldest, dearest friends, and she mentioned it in a voice lesson. Thank goodness there is no such thing as voice teacher/client privilege! For it is this same student who brought up - with some degree of frustration - at her voice lesson this week that "everyone is talking about Doc." I won't go into a lot of detail at this point, but suffice it to say that she is struggling with the "talk," her loyalty to me, her faith upbringing, and whether or not it should really matter.

Now the noble part of me that stands occasionally on a pedestal proclaims - Great! Let these gentle young minds struggle with what they think might be wrong as it applies to someone they seem to respect and admire. This is great. This is why I've told the Frau that she shouldn't worry about going to things at school with me and being seen more frequently. "Let them wonder," I say.

Well, they are wondering, and the not so noble part of me - the part that enjoys a regular pay check and regular meals - says ever so softly, "I sure hope their wondering doesn't cost me my job." Reality tells me not to worry - I'm not the only gay faculty member in the school, and the school district even has a very high level administrator who is "in the family way." But we all have heard stories of people "moving on" for other reasons at the critical juncture when their orientation was discovered.

Now, dear friends, the previous paragraph is just me acknowledging that I have fears, however minute. I've been claiming to be ready for a test - to "live out" my life, just as I grew up being taught to "live out" my faith. And frankly, I don't think there should be any disparity between the two. It's time for the world - or at least my little microcosm of it - to be exposed to "normal" gay people - yes, and see a wedding ring that says I believe in the sanctity of a monogamous long-term relationship and it is not in conflict with the faith most of the students also know me to have. I'll keep you posted on this one. I'm at a convention for a few days, so I have some time to really reflect on this one. I feel quite sure that the answer is . . . "To Be."

Frauisms, Part II

The Frau has a few issues with royalty, thus the following clarifications:

• "King Kamehameha" - aka the Royal Turtle Sundae at Sheridans Frozen Custard
• "King and I" - aka the King and Prince Resort on St. Simons Island, Georgia

Frauisms . . .

It is not uncommon in our house to hear the Frau say, "Put the thingy-ding in the watch-a-ma-call-it," and, ironically, I often know exactly to what she refers. When I'm unable to translate, however, I ask her to "use her words." While clarity should ensue, this often requires a whole new level of interpretation. So, my small gift to humanity on this day after Valentine's Day is a beginner's lexicon of Frauisms (with her permission, of course).

• "In the vasectomy" = in the vicinity
• "Ruby Tuesday Morning" = may be used interchangeably to refer to the restaurant - Ruby Tuesday - or the discount store - Tuesday Morning.
• "Barnes & Noble" = while used identify the actual bookstore, it can also mean we need Brummel & Brown (the butter substitute)
• "Jarlic" = refers to the minced fresh garlic that is sold in a jar
• "Cluboard" = refers to a closet that has been converted to a cupboard
• "Barocko" = refers to Barak Obama
• "Chocolate Viagra" = fudge ganache
• "Gestapo" = refers to a favorite Mexican restaurant actually called Ixtapa
• "Pork & Barrell" = refers to our favorite liquor store, the CORK & Barrell
• "Cork & Barrell" = not to be confused with the liquor store, this refers to the restaurant, the CRACKER Barrell

This in no way concludes our lexicon, but I will close the book for now. Fear not, there will most certainly be more to come.

Happy Holidays

This has turned out to be one of the most restful Christmas seasons I have experienced in years. All of my musician friends, in particular, understand that we often don't begin our holiday "rest" until after the holidays are over. Fortunately, my school December program was rather late in the month, and conflicted with other obligations I usually have during the same time period (Symphony Chorus "Magic of Christmas" concerts and church choir). So . . . I was "assisted" in my early resolution to quit over extending myself. Add to that, the Frau and I decided not to travel this season, so I've had some very peaceful days in the new home.

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were almost like "the old days" - in that my sister and her fiance, joined my mother, me and the Frau at my mother's church for Christmas Eve services. Since the "sis" and I both attended that church during college (in our pre-Episcopalian days), it was rather like being "home for the holidays." And I think our mother enjoyed not having to attend services alone. We then had Christmas morning opening presents with the kids altogether the next day - and that hasn't happened in years. Getting together at the holidays has of late been more like a progressive dinner and gift giving operation.
The Puppinator was even invited for the weekend, so everyone was nestled all snug in their beds, so to speak. Here's hoping that you and yours have had, or will have, some semblance of "sabbath" during your holidays. Happy holidays!
Cinzia, the Frau & the Puppinator

Scars

My friend and former student, Nathan, has always challenged me to think. With my entry into "blogdom," he continues to do that as I now regularly read his "speciallimitededition." Many times he just makes me laugh with such comments as "I'm gonna polka my eyes out" (all we who have worn contacts have been there). But the blog that has been haunting me of late is one he wrote a couple of weeks ago equating his own spiritual struggle with the novel by Alex Gardner entitled The Beach (I heartily recommend a link and a read). He quotes the end of the book where the main character says:

As for me, I’m fine. I have bad dreams…I play video games, I smoke a little dope.
I got my thousand-yard stare. I carry a lot of scars.
I like the way that sounds.
I carry a lot of scars.

I haven't been able to shake those lines . . . or Nathan's analogy to his own life. After ruminating about it for days, I finally realized it is because it struck a rather familiar chord.

I suspect we all carry a lot of scars - the difference is that some people are more willing to examine theirs than others. Nathan questions some of his scarring experiences as moments when he and the community with whom he identified became less than Christlike. What little insight I have to offer is that it is the inability of members in his fellow community to recognize their scars who exhibited less than a Christlike image.

Having been through a few more of those "scarring" and questioning life moments, I have felt the futility that Nathan has felt, but tempering it with age and experience, I have come to view these times (and scars) as passages for growth, rather than evidence of some sort of failure. It is the self-aware internal auditor that begins to view those scars as the heiroglyphics which mark the progress of one's personal journey. Some of these "passages" are longer and more tedious - even depressing - than others. But the caveat is that in ignoring scars, I fear we seek a moral certainty that is far more damaging. At the other end of each passage I have found myself stronger, more accepting, more certain of God's love, and less certain that there is only one way to experience that love. Do I seek to be more Christlike? Absolutely. And I seem to recall that Jesus became frustrated with members of his "community," that he had to spend some time in the "wilderness," and that ultimately, he carried a lot of scars. A lot of scars.
Amen.

Time, Dollars & Sense

I hit my 46th birthday earlier this month, and assuming I make it to 90 (which might be a stretch), I suppose this means I'm starting down the backside of the proverbial "hill." Perhaps it would be better to say that I'm commencing with the second, and wiser, half of my life. At least, I hope it's a bit wiser.

I visited with my shrink a few weeks ago to talk about my weight, and why, in spite of all the positive strides and benefits in my life in the past few years, I can't seem to curb this one self-destructive streak. As is her custom, she quickly carved out the bigger picture for me, of which weight was just the primary symptom. Money management not being one of my strong suits, imagine how thrilled I was for her to attach monetary value to how I manage my time . . . "You need to evaluate how you are spending your time dollars . . ." Damn her for always making sense.

Actually, I thank her, as that pearl of perspective has cast me on a course of enriching, and perhaps saving, my life. (And no, although I sometimes feel like one, I don't believe she has cast her pearl before a swine!)

I've spent a majority of my time dollars in the first half of my life trying to overachieve and live up to the image I thought everyone expected of me. At times, I think I believed I was trying to please myself, but as the years have gone on, that line between pleasing others and pleasing myself has gotten somewhat blurry. And with that blurred vision, I sought identity in my so-called accomplishments. For my under-40 friends, let me assure you that this does not a happy person make. It is possible that some of my u-40 friends have learned this lesson already, and I'm just a late bloomer, having discovered the joy of a significant other somewhat late in life. The life of a single person does seem to provoke this external search for identity - at least in my case.

Old habits are hard for old folks to break, though. And even after being blessed with a reason to come home, I haven't said "no" as frequently as I should. As I heard a political comedian say a few weeks ago, "just because you CAN, doesn't mean you SHOULD." I have had a bad habit of agreeing to take on responsibilities because I can do them WELL, but not because I ENJOY doing them. And the identity that accepting them has given me is the increasing opportunity to be asked to do MORE things I don't particularly enjoy. Go figure.

Consequently, . . . u-4o friends, listen closely, I have "accomplished" the following:

• "opportunities" to be in charge of multiple things that no-one else cares to take on (not even for the extra money involved)
• little if any extra time for such productive things as regular physical exercise and nutritious meal planning
• chest pains - probably due to stress (see above), unhealthy living (see above), and GERD, but the results of the stress test I took today and the trip to the hospital yesterday should confirm or deny this
• less time with the Frau, the garden, and my books - three of my great joys in life (and where I would prefer to spend ALL of my time dollars - and which don't give me chest pain)

So . . . I am reassessing and reinvesting as the second half of my life commences - and I'd like to enjoy ALL of the second half. I'm giving up "opportunities" and the extra income that comes with them. I'm establishing a baseline for my health, and with my new found time dollars I will reinvest in some healthy life habits. I am anticipating spending lavishly on my three great joys, including FINALLY reading a book given to me almost six years ago that, ironically, I have "wanted" to read but haven't had "time" entitled: Sabbath: Restoring the Sacred Rhythm of Rest (by Wayne Muller). It just makes sense.
Amen.

Lavender Lane

The Frau and I bought a new home a couple of months ago, and Lavender Lane is the moniker one of our friends has given our street. It is a bit ironic - we found a house we loved when we least expected it, sold our house to the first people to look at it, and now we live directly across the street from some dear friends from church - an older female couple who have been together for 24 years. Next door to them is another female couple - about our age - who have been together about as long as we. I think there are another two couples around the corner and down the street, but we don't really know them. Here on Lavender Lane, though, we feel really normal, accepted, not "alternative." It also helps that LL is nestled in the center of the only Democratic stronghold in our state, but I digress.

Lavender Lane represents, for me at least, another milestone in our relationship (there were days during and following the move I could have called it a Hysterical Marker, but that's another story). This isn't a house that belonged to one or the other of us prior to our meeting, but it is the home that we have chosen to build (or at least redecorate and repair) together. It has only memories of our shared relationship, and the promise of what our future holds together in this place. I truly feel like I'm coming "home" to "my family" everytime I drive through the neighborhood and into the driveway.

One of our other great milestones was when we got married in one of the few places where it was actually legal - Vancouver, British Columbia ("O Canada . . ."). It meant a lot to us to have a legal and public acknowledgement of what we are to each other. The road to that milestone had its humor, as well. We had to purchase a marriage license in Chinatown from the Jack Chow insurance agency, which was not far from the Sing-A-Long Salon . . . Our "witnesses" were a concierge and a bellman. But it was legal.

I know my beloved spouse would like to have a ceremony here in the States - so we can celebrate with family and friends. And I know she must marvel at my reticence. I have marveled at my reticence. I counter that maybe we can do that to celebrate our 5th or 10th anniversary - but I think it sounds hollow. I think I might have finally pinpointed my hesitation, though. I don't want a ceremony - another milestone, if you will - to be less real than what I feel for her. I don't want anyone saying we're "pretending" to be a family, or mocking a ceremony as a "pale substitute." I keep hoping the day will come - sooner - that will allow us to publicly acknowledge, in our place of worship, and legally in our country of residence, the commitment we have already pledged to one another. It will be as REAL as our commitment, and it will be legal. And THAT will be the true celebration.
Amen.

Deep and Wide

Remember that cute little Sunday School song? And its spiritual depth was only enhanced by the subsequent verses where one began to delete words and hum (Hmmm and wide, Hmmm and wide, there's a fountain flowing, Hmm and wide . . . ). Sort of the sacred alternative to B-I-N-G-O. I often wonder if I had grown up Epsicopalian rather than Southern Baptist if I would have tragically missed learning this little tome . . .? But I digress.

The purpose of the title of this post is that it came to mind as the most succinct reason I could conjure up as to why I started this little blog. My Frau and I were discussing this new little adventure, and I was having one heck of a time explaining the attraction.

"What ever happened to picking up the phone, writing a letter, or even e-mail?"
"Well . . . it gives you an opportunity to communicate with friends you don't see every day - share daily or more frequent ponderings or happenings that you might not normally share in a typical phone call."
"But why do so many people have to know about everything we do?"
"Well . . . it's not really about everything we do . . ."
And so the conversation continued. Point of Reference - the Frau doesn't enjoy typing or most things about computers, for that matter. And to be honest, I had similar questions before I joined the club, as it were. So it caused me to ponder a bit - and that's when it hit me . . .

Deep and Wide . . .
Writing has always been a source for working through matters of import, emotional turmoil, and occasionally to amuse myself with witticisms only I (and a few demented friends) can appreciate. And I tend to write better when I know I'll have an audience (regardless of how small it might be). So it occurred to me that my hope in starting this blog was simply:

To explore becoming more intellectually Deep . . .
And rant about my ever renewable attempts to become less physically Wide . . .

Perhaps one of these days, I can retitle things . . . Deep and Hmmm, Deep and Hmmm . . . .
Amen.

March . . .

Who would have thought a short novel written as a Civil War diary could be so timely? I'm about halfway through this little gem by Geraldine Brooks which details the cognitive dissonance of "Mr. March" - the father of the "Little Women" in Louisa May Alcott's novel by the same name. An Abolitionist and pacifist, March finds himself at war, both with the South and with himself. One can't help but recall Peter indignantly stating that he could never betray Christ, and finding himself in just such a position only hours later. March is written much like a journal that includes portions of sanitized letters to his wife and girls. I just reached a chapter that begins by debating the difference between courage and cowardice, and his struggle with these two words is illuminated in the following paragraph. I know a President of a large country who needs read this . . . (or have it read to him . . . I'm not sure he reads):

"Who is the brave man-he who feels no fear? If so, then bravery is but a polite term for a mind devoid of rationality and imagination. The brave man, the real hero, quakes with terror, sweats, feels his very bowels betray him, and in spite of this moves forward to do the act he dreads. And yet I do not think it heroic to march into fields of fire, whipped on one's way only by fear of being called craven. Sometimes, true courage requires inaction; that one sit at home while war rages, if by doing so one satisfies the quiet voice of honorable conscience." [March - Geraldine Brooks - Penguin Books - 2005, p. 168]

Forget it (reading it to "W") - the words are way too big for him to understand, and the ideas are even bigger . . . But YOU should read it.

Story Corp Hits Paydirt

Link and listen to this NPR gem, "Like Being 19." Maybe one day *we* can do it in the "right order." Or maybe we've got the right order - in spite of those who would say otherwise.

I AM Your Frontal Lobe . . .

"Bless their hearts . . ." (a euphemism for "aren't they stupid?") - you have to love high schoolers - particularly the more right brained ones that participate in the arts. Their frontal lobes may not be developed, causing them to do and say stupidly impulsive things without considering the consequences, but that creative right brain does keep their sense of humor lively. A few of the braver (and smarter) ones even chuckle at my more subtle, albeit caustic, jokes on occasion. I tell them regularly that "I am your frontal lobe . . ." and responsible for keeping them focused on the task at hand so that they won't pay the un-soundly consequences later. [I know - "un-soundly" - so I'm a choral director who admires e. e. cummings' ability to create words to suit one's purpose - do feel free to try this at home.]

I find myself so busy laboring over their lobes, I sometimes forget to let my own frontal lobe communicate with my lips. Following an especially stimulating choral workshop with Simon C. (and my friends know of whom I speak), who scared the hell out of them when he actually expected them to act like choral musicians and not lobeless high schoolers, my students and I shared one of those "special" moments. The workshop was great (from my perspective) and provided some wonderful teaching moments in the Monday debrief that followed the weekend experience. I let the students do most of the talking - some of them expressing greater insight than I often give them credit for possessing. Occasionally, I provided a little "clarity," as it were. Perhaps I was overcome with a pedagogical high from the fact that the students were actually exercising a bit of metagcognition about the experience . . . (insert scarey music here). I opened my mouth, and feeling particularly witty and metaphorical (and completely forgetting the lobeless and lascivious nature of my high school audience) commented, "Mr. C does indeed run a bit of a tighter ship than I do, but I certainly enjoyed riding his ship for awhile." My students are comfortable with me - this was obvious from the tears of laughter streaming down their lascivious little faces.

Like my friend, Jacques, I think I should have a contest to identify the word that best describes when a seemingly innocuous comment manages to annihilate any future "teaching moments."
Amen.