Compassionate apple seeds

I just returned from participating in the final day of the Seeds of Compassion conference, held here in Seattle. I had the opportunity to perform Beethoven’s Ode to Joy with an assembly of over 500 other musicians from all walks of life. While I am not a musician in any sense other than the rank amateur, I have made music my whole life, singing myself to sleep as a child (something Little One does as well), in choirs as a teen and young woman, and now as a violinist in an orchestra. There is a joy comes from the pure emotion that music conveys (I’m fine at weddings and funerals until the music starts) together with the exhilaration of creating so much more together than we can singly.

The convergence of a positive mindset and the desire to make music together was irresistible to me and the other musicians on stage today (and the many who were wait listed-no room at the inn, or the bleachers in this case.) But I took away more than the deep thoughts and incredible energy of the illustrious panel (I want to take Bishop Tutu home with me so Little One will have a good playmate. I think they'd both enjoy it.): individual connections.

As I boarded the bus to rehearsal, I heard a man singing, "seid umschlungen (be embraced)" with the score in his lap and ear buds playing the part. It was an old colleague, who interviewed with Darling Husband at least ten years ago, mellowed with age. We walked to the basketball arena together, where I met up with what appeared to be almost the entire second violin section from the Microsoft Orchestra. All around me, people were running into former colleagues and friends, and making new acquaintances.

The energetic organizers directed traffic well, and I ended up in the top tier with scores of sopranos, many from the Seattle Symphony Chorus, but others just there for fun like me. The redhead next to me reminded me of my friend Patti and was kind enough to laugh at my jokes. her baby girl was in the row behind me.

A baritone caught up with me as I walked to the bus after rehearsal, and, clearly worried about a woman walking alone at night, offered me a lift. I declined, but it turns out he had nothing to worry about, as a violinist and two baritones were already at the freeway station. It turns out one works on the programming language inside the products Darling Husband works on.

I found myself seated next to a different woman for the performance, an interior designer who sings in a jazz quartet, off to Istanbul the next day, full of stress and unable to turn her phone off. She was glad to have made time, and I could feel her relax as the morning unfolded.

There was the Seattle Symphony horn player named David, who walked with me part of the way to the bus, having parked in a friend's driveway a few blocks away. He shared his life dream with me, acknowledging that even if the horn isn't that dream, it's not a bad gig at all.

Oh, and there was also the Dalai and Tutu, the latter who won my heart when he snuck back in after his official departure to listen to us sing.

On my way out, I noticed something about the tables with the mountains of box lunches: people had opened them up, leaving what they didn't want there for others. I was reminded of the company meeting where Darling Husband was dismayed to see mountains of uneaten items in the trash.

I don't know who left me that lovely red apple, but together with the other seeds sown, it saw me home.

Bus karma

I’d love to write about our chock-filled Saturday, but a wave of exhaustion overwhelms me when I even look at the calendar. Suffice it to say we were all so tired that the single event we had planned for Sunday would have been easy to blow off.

Number One Son and I had tickets to the Youth Symphony concert downtown. I love Benaroya Hall; its open spaces, cushy seats and soaring glass art help heal my weary soul. But spending time idling in a line of cars to get in and out of the parking garage undoes much of the good, so we’ve taken to riding the bus. In the past, it has been less than soothing, trying to comprehend the Byzantine routes and fare schedules, but yesterday we hit pay dirt.

The bus was, amazingly, on time, but waited for the fellow who had to dash from the transit center across the freeway. Our driver was far from the public transit stereotype: positively cordial, welcoming each person, helpful and knowledgeable. The bus moved smoothly, not lurching and throwing standing passengers. I found myself relaxing.

Unsure of which cross street we needed, Number One took it upon himself to ask: Superdriver informed us to get off a block later, so the two blocks to Benaroya would be downhill—that’s what he did, he said. We arrived in good spirits and early, so we treated ourselves to a couple of toasty peppermint hot chocolates before the downbeat.

The concert itself was wonderful: I continue to be impressed and inspired by the kids and the organization. The new Musical Director, Stephen Rogers Radcliffe, first caught my attention not for his pro-wrestler shoulders, but his musing to parents. Here was a seemingly mainstream voice telling people to buy their kids a violin instead of a computer—it’s better for their brains and social development. Clearly, he takes his own advice: I noted that there was no podium between him and the musicians, as he conducted Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique from memory. I also noted that he assigned the program notes to various musicians. Bravo.

As the finale “ends with a moan” (Schoenberg), he let the sound go, never actually cutting off his musicians. We all breathe a collective sigh and head out into the chill evening, our souls cleansed by Tchaikovsky’s catharsis. As we arrive at the bus stop to catch the 5:01, a clock chimes the hour. After twenty minutes of watching each others’ breath, a bus finally arrives. We merge onto a clogged freeway, and the driver comes on over the loudspeaker: sorry for being so late, and that the bus is so full and traffic is so bad. When we arrive at your stop, please feel free to disembark using both the back and front doors. And don’t worry about the fare this evening, folks.

Lower the bar

Number One Son will be playing with the Seattle Youth Symphonette for a third year. Make no bones, he is not pleased and tears were shed. He had hoped to advance to the Debut Orchestra, but his audition didn’t stand up to the stiff competition. It is a difficult thing to not be able to protect him from this kind of pain, but I know this is the kind of life experience that will give him an opportunity to grow. The adults in his life have made it amply clear that just giving up is not an option. So he will play, and we will make sure he has many opportunities to play in chamber groups and solo as well.

And then I read a couple of newspaper articles: one about airlines’ miserable on-time performance and this morning’s offering about the FDA’s newest labeling proposal. If airplanes are coming in late, we simply make the day 30 minutes longer (how many times have you wished you could do that!) so that the company doesn’t get dinged when the Federal statistics come out at the end of the quarter. And yes, these same airlines have to raise fares to pay for it, sorry.

And now the FDA is looking into whether symbols on the front of labels will make people pay attention to what they eat, thus ending the obesity epidemic. I know that common sense isn’t the government’s strong suit, but this is utterly ridiculous. If people really want to loose weight, the label is the least of their worries. It takes far more effort to eat consciously than is exerted in turning the package over to read the nutritional information. Right now, these symbols can be found on things like diet Pepsi and baked potato chips. I would propose the radical suggestion of reserving “smart spots” or green lights for wholly unprocessed foods, but I’m afraid my comments would fall on deaf ears. And of course, the whole label smokescreen does not address the issue of consuming fewer calories.

That’s right, when they fail, the answer is to lower expectations. But this does not apply here. Where I live, if we don’t get what we want, it means we have to work harder. So I’ll be driving my kid to rehearsal every Saturday morning. If you’d like to see the results of hard work, tickets are available at http://syso.org/. And you don’t need to lower your expectations: the cello section will be sounding pretty darn good.

Happy returns

When I was a little girl, my birthday party was always a pool party. In Redding, it was a given that it would be sunny and hot – hot meaning over 100 degrees to locals – on any given August day. My friends and I would splash in our doughboy pool, eat ice cream cake, and open presents, and then dive in for more. One year, pressed for a new twist on ice cream, my mother tried baked Alaska instead of the requisite Baskin-Robbins ice cream cake. The next year we went back to tradition.

The summer of my 21^st birthday, I was working fulltime in a yogurt shop kitchen and doing two musicals. When my friends and co-workers heard I was turning 21, they all said they would take me out for my birthday. My calendar cleared, I got up, cleaned house, showered and sat back, waiting for the phone to ring. My mother did call with a greeting (she had given me my beloved Cuisinart a few weeks before) and an off-key serenade, but otherwise, the phone remained eerily silent. I read a bit, watched some TV, and took myself to bed, disappointed.

Today dawned grey and cool, and the paper reminds us that this is normal August weather for the Pacific Northwest. I note with mild alarm that the leaves on a few vine maples are already turning red around the edges. Summer, seemingly endless when I was young, is now slowly but surely losing its grip, foreshadowing autumn. I too have changed, growing toward realizing that I’m much more likely to get something if I ask for it. So last night, I set out a Cravings Place mix and a pan before I took off to a board meeting, and lo, a birthday cake magically appeared this morning. I also have a date with Number One Son to attend the Seattle Chamber Music Festival tonight – they were kind enough to schedule Joshua Roman for my birthday. The phone has rung a few times as well, some with everyday kinds of calls, some with birthday greetings. And all appreciated.

Lento

The envelope with all our season tickets is empty. It’s not only the school year that is winding down; like all arts organizations, the assortment of orchestras that Number One Son and I play in are either preparing or have presented their final performance of the season. In practical terms, that means a lot of logistical planning, trying to make sure performers get to their call and audiences make it to curtain time.

Last weekend was a schedule-bursting combination of all-day Waldorf Sixth Grade Medieval Games (archery, jousting and the like) and the final concert of the Seattle Youth Symphony. We also had tickets for Seattle Shakespeare Company’s School for Scandal, Little One had an invitation to see Everyone Knows what a Dragon Looks Like, and a Number One Son had a cello lesson, which served to fill any breathing room.

I had spent a few days last week reading up on feeding oneself well on a budget, a reaction to hearing that the Governor of Oregon was going to try to feed himself on the amount allowed by food stamps in his state. The irony of this was not lost as I produced my credit card to pay for the first of four restaurant meals Friday afternoon. Piatti provided the setting for a leisurely al fresco lunch with the other field-tripping Momma, Wilde Rover in Kirkland was the scene for our pre-theatre supper (I had salmon salad at both: the Irish pub’s meager, vinegary offering paled next to the well-executed Italian version). Saturday was a combination of Trader Joe’s munchies eaten at a picnic table in Ravenna Park and a garlicky plate (or two) at Nikos Gyros down the road from the cello teacher’s.

By Sunday, I simply wasn’t hungry anymore and Number One Son was looking tired. We grabbed a quick bite before his final concert and headed to Seattle once more (we’d take the bus but for the cello…). Concert behind us, hot sun above, we drove up the ramp of the parking garage, headed for home. But the boys were hungry and not looking forward to sweltering on the ride home (did I mention that our old car has no air conditioning?). Straight instead of left, up the Ave to the Burger and Kabob Hut for milkshakes.

We slurp our way happily home, and as we approach our off ramp, we note a semi pulled over on the freeway shoulder. It is stacked high with huge cardboard containers of watermelons from points south. I think of how the heat made us swelter the day before when we were stuck in traffic, and I think of the route they must have taken, nearly the full length of Interstate 5, through my old home town of Redding, where cars routinely overheat from the blast furnace temperatures of the North Valley. The truck driver has clearly missed the exit for the Safeway distribution center, and the watermelons will have to drive a few more miles to reach their penultimate destination. I resolve to wait a few more weeks before indulging.

Our sixth grade string ensemble (of which I am a member, being an honorary sixth grader) is going to be performing the Jig from Holst’s St. Paul Suite on Friday. It’s a lively piece, packed with intricate harmonies. One of the ways we rehearse is to slow it down to about one-half tempo and play very softly. This allows us to really listen to each other, to really hear the music. When we speed up again, all the pieces fit together better. If we neglect this exercise or aren’t conscious throughout, the result is not nearly as satisfying.

Yesterday afternoon, with the sky painted Northwest grey once again, I put on some music, and put together a pot of soup. Bacon and lentils and barley and kale, simmering slowly for a few hours. A pan of fresh cornbread and some sweet butter, and a bowlful of fresh sugar peas from the school garden. We slow down to really live, so that when we speed up, the pieces fit together better. If we neglect this exercise or aren’t conscious throughout, the result is not nearly as satisfying.