"Don't look back!" - learning to ride without training wheels...

The Vause Family, minus 1
(My oldest brother Milton was a PRO at getting out of these things...)
circa ???? 

Remember the first time you learned how to ride your bike without the training wheels? That memory just flashed in my head today. We lived closed to the bottom of a street that was a pretty decent sized hill, so as an older kid riding down it was a lot of fun. But it was also a dead end with flowing traffic at the "T" at the bottom of the hill. This, of course, let to a lot of exciting afternoons when the chain suddenly came of the those old bikes with "back pedal" brakes. 

I have a vivid memory of my dad teaching me how to ride without the training wheels. I remember the bike - it was pink and white with an enormous, cushy, pink seat. Streamers burst forth from the end of the handle bars, whipping in the wind like loose hair when you rode fast. Those same streamers eventually got pulled out of course, and the open end of those handle bars became perfect little homes for spiders, which eventually led to my jumping of the bike mid-ride upon discovery, sending it crashing to the ground to be scarred by the asphalt. You know my love for spiders. The pedals were not smooth, but had those jagged-ragged edges that gripped into the soles of your shoes and ripped the skin off the back of your leg when you're weren't paying attention. I don't think any toy we played with when we were younger would be deemed "safe" enough for the soft-skinned children of today...

But we digress. Riding your bike was always such a freeing activity. When we were small, we were only allowed to ride laps around the driveway. It seemed so big at the time, but now that I think about it you could barely fit two cars in it, and at the end of the driveway was a short but steep hill into the back yard. I remember an unintentional kamikaze run with an Evil Knievel 3-wheeler down that hill that ended in poison ivy and tragedy. But that story is for another day. Back to these training wheels - I would ride my laps around the driveway with my sister (4 years younger), and finally realized one day that I was not really using the training wheels anymore. In fact, I had stopped using the right one weeks before when it broke off, and was getting pretty adept at leaning to one side and sort-a-kind-a riding on the left one. But it was time. My dad took out a screwdriver from the ugly, smelly, yellow tool box in the trunk of his car and set the remaining training wheel free. I now remind you that we lived on a BIG HILL, and no one can learn to ride well-balanced while struggling to climb a hill. Guess who was going to be pushed down the hill? Of course, I had not figured this out yet but the moment was near.

I got on the bike, all excited and a-quiver. I remember my dad kept yelling, "Don't look back - look straight ahead!" Why? This didn't compute at first, but we all KNOW what was coming. We started off slowly down the remainder of the hill, and I could feel my dad's hands on the back of my bike. Yeah baby, we're flying now! I felt the wind in my face, and my heart raced. I was doing it! But even though I could feel the pressure of his hands on the bike, I still had to keep looking back to make sure he was still there.

"Don't look back!"

And then the pressure was gone. Oh my God - is he insane??? I can't ride this bike by myself!  But I could. It was all me. I actually remember making a choice in my mind at the time - I could freak out knowing I wasn't being helped, look back and fall and scrape myself to bits, and then not accept responsibility for the fall because I hadn't a clue what I was doing but instead blame the fall on my father for not holding on. That is always choice number one for a kid. Or I could concentrate, pedal faster (because faster is always better on a bike) and keep riding down the hill. Usually when it boils down to a choice between pain or no pain - whether you're a kid or adult - we choice the no pain route. And that's what I did. At least, I think I did, because I really have no recollection of the rest of the ride. Maybe I crashed into a parked car and knocked myself out - who knows? But I do know that I learned to ride my bike that day, and I declared that It Was Good.

Life can be quite a bit like that. We are more than willing to try new things when we know that The Parent is going to hold on to the back of The Bike while we ride. I'll volunteer for that new project at work because I know my Mentor on the Job will be there to help me in the end, and if necessary, keep me from making an ass of myself. I'll work for that Parent Company with all the infrastructure and money to keep my little pet project afloat, because I know if I get into trouble, I can ask for additional employees, barter for more money at budget time, or simply supply the necessary reports to prove to Parent Boss that The Cool New Bike Idea was good, but failed because the market said it was going to fail.

But if you really want to fly in life, if you really want to race down that hill, streamers flying, you have to be willing to do it without those hands on the back of that enormous, cushy, pink seat. And sometimes there's not even anyone there to tell you "Don't look back!" You have to take the chance that the chain is going to pop right off that bike frame and hope that you've got enough rubber on the bottom of your shoes to do a Barney Rubble stop before you either ride into traffic or careen down that steep embankment into the Doyle & McDonnell Inc building at the end of the street. Neither ending would be positive, mind you, but don't you remember as a kid thinking to yourself, "There's no way I'm going to crash, and even if I do it's going to be wicked sweet"? When did we become such wusses and start going down hills riding the brakes???

I'll tell you when - when scrapes and bruises became permanent scars with permanent memories burned into our brains. Sometimes the memory of the pain is so much more worse than the event itself, and we let that memory take over and change the person we know ourselves to be. Evil Knievel becomes The Boy in the Plastic Bubble, and the only time we take a chance down a hill is when we're playing with our Wii.

Bruises and scars tell stories - we all have them. Some of the stories are good, some are bad, but they always tell stories of a life that was lived. The good thing is that all scars heal, if we tend to them properly. IF WE TEND TO THEM PROPERLY. This means different things for different people, of course, and sometimes the hard part is figuring out what the proper treatment is. I've got a few big ones myself, and it's time to stop pulling the scabs off (yes, I was one of THOSE kids). It's time to heal. I miss that girl who rode like a crazy person down hills. I'm gonna go find her.

Because tomorrow, I'm buying streamers.

Meeting each other in the middle, featuring everyone's favorite Bach piece (well, not mine...)

Play me!

I love playing chamber music, and collaborative performances in general. I think it's because of performers like the one above, Anner Bylsma - what a dream it would be to play with such a talented musician. I think chamber music is the ultimate form of communication between human beings. Words need not be spoken; I can hear and understand intent based on the speed of the bow, the intensity of sound, or the ever-so-subtle gesture before the music begins. Reading these cues is incredibly important, and can make or break a performance. Sometimes this collaboration is an affirming experience. A few months ago I played a duo recital with a friend from graduate school. We've played several recitals together, which always requires an enormous amount of time at the instrument. At some point during our work we always say, "It's so nice to play with someone who has the same training." Why do we say this? Because a lot of our instincts are similar, as is the way in which we approach problem solving. In "music-speak" this means it's easier to match articulations. We approach different styles with a similar knowledge and understanding. When we disagree (and we do), it's easier to understand the other person's point of view. Most of the time.

Sometimes the experience is challenging, especially when playing with musicians with a completely different outlook on playing and interpretation. Believe it or not, this would perfectly explain my husband and me. We met in music school when I was a piano major and he was a cellist. I began playing with his piano trio in my sophomore year, and inevitably, I became his accompanist. Funny, how that words. The interesting this is that even though we clearly got along well as people we COMPLETELY disagreed on many musical ideas. We fought over Brahms, Prokovief and Beethoven with fervor, baby. While sometimes annoying, this challenged my perceptions of compositions, forced me to explain my viewpoint and to stand firm on my decisions. Character building, really. In the end, we had to meet in the middle and make the best decision for what the music demanded. Sometimes we chose one person's way or the other, and sometimes we came up with something completely different. It's what made the process both fun and meaningful.

That's just one of the many examples of how music is an illustration of life. There are an infinite number of view points on any given subject. The process of discussing them with others can be affirming or challenging, or a little of both. Or neither, I suppose. Today I was chatting via email with a friend about the unfortunate propensity for communities (we were speaking in particular about church, but it applies to others) to be either left leaning or right leaning; liberal or conservative; traditional or modern. We are always forcing people to choose. Why do we do this? I'm sure we've all seen the studies saying that people are naturally attracted to those who are more like themselves, although there are people who purposeful choose to surround themselves with people who are nothing like them. Which one of these people are you? Perhaps you have one foot in both category, or you dance back and forth in between.

This idea plays a huge part in society today in politics, religion, and just about everything else we do. Are we afraid to be alone in our thoughts, or do we simply have in intense need for homogeneous community? Do we enjoy making fun of or persecuting people who aren't like us, thereby making ourselves feel better about who we are, or are we simply afraid that we will be laughed at? Or do we just not care?

I have a rather diverse group of close friends and family - Christian, libertarian, responsible, gay, those who believe in God but can't stand religion, liberal, straight, Jewish, independent, irresponsible, intelligent, conservative, no common sense whatsoever...those are a lot of adjectives, but I actually I have few very close friends and an average size family. They are all just a mix of those things. I purposefully left out ethnicity or color because I could care less. A friend is a friend and a jerk is a jerk, no matter what color they are. Do I love the company and conversation of like minded individuals? You betcha. But as a musician, I MUST surround myself with different ideas or the music suffers. If I listen to the same recording over and over again, when I try to play that particular piece all I will hear in my mind is that one rendition, and it will be almost impossible for me to form my own interpretation.

The same goes with other aspects of life. If I only surround myself with people just like me, I will deny myself growth in ways I cannot possibly imagine. How can I form my own opinion if I only listen to the same idiots over and over again? And let's face, it, everybody's an idiot for at least a short period of time. And yet we can only take so much of someone we disagree with who refuses to acknowledge any way of thinking except their own. The real key in this, I think, is learning how to listen to other people. I don't have to agree with you. I don't even have to like what you're saying. But we could at least afford each other the dignity and respect of being treated like someone who has some value. In the grand scheme of things, that's really not too much to ask. Sometimes we believe in something so fiercely that any compromise of our position feels like a compromise of our ideals and sometimes even a compromise of who we truly are. Does this mean that I cannot stand firmly beside someone else who feels the exact opposite and respect them? Something to ponder and strive for. While thinking on these things through the day, I ran across a blog post by Rachel Evans - a great writer - about exactly the same idea called Liberal Christianity, Conservative Christianity, and the Caught-In-Between. If you'd like, you can read it here.

The divisions in today's society are, frankly, nauseating. For me, music seems to be the only place I feel I can be myself and communicate with freedom and abandon. Too bad I play an instrument most of the modern world has no interest in hearing. But that's ok, too -there's still some hope for that. In the end, it's not the instrument that's most important, but the music. If we could all get over ourselves enough to let the message come before the messenger, perhaps we'd live in a much better world.

Up bow, down bow, hook then ricochet...whatever floats your boat. Just say something worth hearing, then put your bow down and listen to me, too.

Now, play the same piece as above, played by the same performer in a later recording, but in a totally different interpretation:

My date with Joel

Let's "listen in" on a recent text conversation:

Johnie (my brother):  Whatchu upto?

Me: Not much.  Went to see Joel Osteen last nite with a friend for kicks.

Johnie: Who's that?  Was it any good?

Me:  Google him.  And no, it wasn't.

Johnie: That sucks but at least you got out.

(some time passes as he Googles)

Johnie:  Televangelist??? Thought it had something to do with music at first.

Me: We were curious to see the set up.  What type of people went, how the reacted, etc.  Pretty tame crowd, really, compared to some of the stuff we grew up with.

Johnie: What?  No hollering, jumping, and fainting?  Have they no Holy Ghost? (this is a joke, people)

Me:  Lmao.  I thought I'd break out into some tongues just to get them going.

Johnie:  That's more like it.

And through the magic of makeup, he looks just like he does on television - disgustingly white teeth, perfect hair, and all.  

But not as tall as you'd imagine.  

Yeah, I went to go see Joel. If you don't know who that is, go on his website here. I know, I know, I can hear you all saying, "Are you insane???"  and  "Don't you have better things to do on a Friday night???" and "Who are you, and what have you done with Nicole Keller???"  But I was really just curious.  And I find this kind of "research" fun, believe it or not.  I know I'm weird.  But I've had a myriad of different worship experiences in my life, as demonstrated by my text above.  I really have been to A LOT of services where there was hollering, jumping, fainting, and yes, speaking in tongues - but not by me, rest assured.  I have played and attended numerous Catholic masses here in the states; a funeral mass in Spanish of a friend's grandmother in Venezuela (an interesting story, really, being surprised by the open coffin in the living room at the wake); Catholic masses in Germany; both run of the mill and rather extraordinary Methodist, Lutheran and Episcopal services; tent revivals; some pretty exciting and pretty boring Baptist excursions; wild times with the Church of God in Christ (they are just crazy); a few interesting non-denominational gatherings.  But I've never been to a crusade-like gathering in an arena.  I would imagine that it's a peculiarly American "worship" experience - and I say "worship" because, well, even though many would have qualified it as worship I would not.  But that doesn't mean that it wasn't incredibly valid and powerful for some.  

So, this was more like a research experiment for us.  And no, I don't think it's offensive to visit different worship services for this purpose.  We never pretended to be or believe anything.  We just watched and listened, beginning with the walk from the parking lot to the arena.  And I immediately surmised that I was WAY overdressed.  I wore a typical sundress I would normally wear on a Sunday morning underneath my vestments - it was hot, after all.  Kind of a silky material to dress it up a little, but definitely not silk.  Most everyone else was wearing shorts, jeans, or other extremely casual attire, like matching t-shirts with the name of their church on it.  There were a few that were more dressed up, like me, or even more so.  But VERY few.  I guess I'm a little out of touch with the modern, hip, church-going crowd, but I gotta be me.

We arrived a little early with the intention of getting dinner at the arena.  Michael Symons has a burger joint there, so we decided to feast on some good eats instead of hot dogs.  As we're walking around, I notice that the crowd is fairly homogeneous in many respects - mostly white and probably 90% middle class and lower. Not many cleanly pressed, nice suits paired with expensive shoes and finer handbags, or trendy outfits or designer gear for that matter.  Mostly jeans, a few khakis, and shorts paired with a shirt with some sort of logo on it, or jeans and a semi-casual blouse. Normal clothes, normal people. You get the idea. And the dress code went downhill from there, and by that I mean seemingly inappropriate for a night of Christian revelry. Saw a few pairs of stilettos, some sparkly tops that would have blinded you at disco night, and a few tight-tight-tight sheath dresses. I know we are supposed to "come as we are", but should we really look like we're going clubbing when we're going to worship Jesus? Maybe Jesus likes a little leg, or maybe I'm just too old fashioned.  But these were in the minority, anyway.

I was surprised to see a fair number of people there over the age of, let's say, 55.  I say this because it would seem that Joel and his lovely wife, Victoria speak to a younger crowd, especially young families.  But everyone needs a little encouragement at times, a little positive reinforcement.  And that's what it seemed like that evening was all about.  It was a gigantic pep rally based on the power of positive thinking with a Christian influence.  And there's nothing wrong with this, people.  This night in particular was not marketed, at least from what I saw, as an official worship service.  That being said, I would say it was a worship experience for most people there, but you know what?  I don't think most people really make that distinction outside of the more liturgical traditions and the traditional churches in general.  We can't and shouldn't judge people and events based on the way we do things cause it's just not fair.  

So, we go to our seats as the evening begins.  A man with platinum hair comes out to the podium, welcomes the crowd, and proceeds to talk about various books and other paraphernalia.  It was a bit difficult to make out what he was saying because the talking in the arena only reduced to a polite din.  This clearly was not Joel, which is why they were here, and what this man was saying was not what was going to change their lives this evening.  However, all were polite and clapped and laughed in the appropriate places.  The band had already set up on the stage and were ready to get started (and yes, I dreaded this).  There were panels and screens on the back of the stage with different light and graphic affects.  There was an enormous screen at the back of the stage that broadcast a large picture of the speaker's upper body, and the enormous scoreboard cube hanging from the ceiling did the same on all four sides.  Some of you will probably freak out at this use of technology, but in all fairness, in a space like that you HAVE to do this, or else you will spend the entire night watching a tiny little ant of a man on a boring little stage.  And I don't care what kind of production it is - no one wants to see that.  

The show started with the band revving themselves up musically, and the singers bounded on to the stage.  Then they sang the Star-Spangled Banner, with some graphics of Old Glory in the background.  Huh?  I thought tonight was about God.  We all stood up, reluctantly so, it seemed for some, while the national anthem was sung with some semi-country harmonization by the three singers - who were very good, by the way.  And the band was tight, with a good brass section.  Joel and his wife finally came out, and we were treated to two and half hours of inspirational speeches interjected with biblical stories about believing in yourself (because God wants you to), never giving up hope (because God believes in you), and living a life were you "don't complain about what you don't have, but use the talent you do have" (because God has great things in store for you).  The speeches were alternated by music from the band, which at times included Joel's son and daughter on guitar and vocals, respectively.  Everything seemed genuine and natural, and I didn't detect even one ounce of "slick" that I would normally expect from a televangelist, and trust me, I've seen enough fakery in the pulpit to write a manual.  This was a seemingly nice family who clearly believed in what they were saying.

And you know what?  Nothing they said was wrong.  

Am I commending Joel Osteen to the masses - no way.  Am I suggesting that we all eschew our normal Sunday worship and get hooked to Lakewood Church with surround sound every week - not in your wildest dreams.  For me, the whole thing felt light and superficial.  But not wrong or misleading.    I just have greater needs and expectations.  I was surprised, however, that during the whole presentation, Jesus wasn't given any real attention until the "altar call" at the end, which is where we decided the night was over for us.  Joel, his wife, and his mother talked about God quite a bit.  And nothing they said offended my stodgy, old-fashioned, religious sensibilities.  EXCEPT when Joel said, "God doesn't want talented people.  He wants people with a little bit of talent so he can make them into extraordinary people."  Oh.  That's news to me.  I thought God wanted everyone.  

I know Joel (in this new era, we are all on a first name basis) was speaking to a particular group of people - people who are looking for a positive ray of light.  A reason to continue to hope.  Someone who will never cease telling them that they have worth.  And you know what?  That's what we are all looking for at some point in our lives.  My question is this - why aren't people finding that support within the communities of "mainstream" Christian churches?  I'll be the first one to say that in my work and studies I do not believe this to be the function of the ekklesia.  But it most certainly is the function of a loving, supportive, Christian community.  So where have we gone wrong?

The Christian Church needs to stop fighting within itself and wake up.  People need community, and they've given up on the mainstream denominations because they do nothing but crucify each other publicly for their own gain.  And after what I've experienced and witnessed in the last year, for one evening Joel Osteen was a blessed relief.

Knee-high by the Fourth of July!

Independence Hall, Philadelphia

Happy Fourth, everyone!

I was fortunate to have grown up near the "birthplace of our nation", Philadelphia. Our house was a 15 minute drive from what I consider one of the nation's treasures - Valley Forge National Park. I have many fond memories of school field trips to see the historic monuments and learning about our struggle for freedom as a nation. 

National Memorial Arch, Valley Forge

As an adult, I have come to understand that the battle was also one of conscience and the importance of obeying your conscience instead of an unjust authority. That guiding principle runs like life-blood through American history. We are not a perfect nation by any stretch of the imagination - no such thing exists. Our quest for freedom and equality is ripe with stories of cruelty and unfairness alongside stories of generosity and strength. That is part of our humanity, and we will always struggle with these forces. But the important point is that we continue to struggle, acting as our conscience dictates, to live and fight for our ideals as free human beings.

City Hall, Philadelphia

I hope you can enjoy this wonderful day of freedom with your family!

Check out this interesting video which includes a commentary on how the Declaration of Independence inspired others and a dramatic reading of this incredible document.

The Creed, Part I: Credo in unum deum; and stay out of that grape juice!

Play Me!

This recording is from Bach's B Minor Mass.  Much of the work was composed in 1733, but not finished in its completed form as we know it until the 1740's. Bach, a devout Lutheran, presented part of the work to Augustus III, the King of Poland and Elector of Saxony, a Catholic, to petition for a court title.  Ah, the necessity of making a living despite one's faith or denominational leanings is an age old challenge...but I digress.  I picked this particular music because of the dance-like, celebratory music Bach used - a very different feeling than one normally gets when listening to congregations "recite" the creed during worship.  After all, worship is supposed to be a celebration, is it not???

Credo in unum Deum

I believe in one God

I’ve told you before that I grew up as a PK – a Preacher’s Kid.  And yes, we were the stereotypical preacher’s kids, my two brothers, my sister, and I.  We HATED church.  It didn’t help that church lasted 2 hours, with my dad’s sermons being good for at least 30-45 minutes.  At least he was a good preacher.  If we were really unlucky, there may have been an afternoon service with a guest church joining us, and sometimes Lord help us, an evening service on top of it.  Praise Jesus.  Lots of music.  Lots of praying.  Lots of boredom for us.  We did everything we could to punish my father for making us go – sullen faces, bad attitude, sulking in the back pew.  Of course, this did not faze him in the least.  It only made him more annoyed, which only meant we were in more trouble for our misdeeds in the end.  Like the times when we would sneak out the back door of the church basement and go to Turkey Hill, the local convenience store.  Or like the time I took my dad’s keys from his office and attempted to drive his car in the church parking lot, which was actually just a grassy area across the street from the church.  Or the time when we were so hungry/thirsty/bored we drank the grape juice in the church fridge, which of course was the communion “wine”.  I think we only drank it out of his travel communion kit once.  Sorry dad.  


These were normal things for Preacher’s Kids to do.  I think.  And yet, despite all that time during church when we were trying so hard not to pay attention, all the important things sunk in.  I saw the faith of the adults around us in difficult times when fathers were non-existent and children became addicted to drugs.  I saw the joy of faith through the high-energy worship services (which we also found annoying) and the celebration of prayers answered through the healing of bodies, minds and spirits.  I knew there was a God because I felt his presence every week despite my lack of enthusiasm.  I believed in that God because, well, the concept of atheism and agnosticism were completely foreign to us.  God and faith were a part of our everyday culture.  And I believed God was indeed all powerful, because life was not always easy, but there was always a way out.  All these things were proof enough to me.      


Did you know that in the original Greek a creed was called sumbolon – a fragment or piece of a broken object which verified a person's identity when placed with the remaining part?  What an interesting way to ponder the meaning of what a creed truly is.  I grew up in the AME Church (African Methodist Episcopal – very much modeled after the United Methodist tradition) and was very unfamiliar with the structure and theology of the churches I have spent most of my professional career in – the Episcopals and the Lutherans, for the most part.  We only had communion on the first Sunday of every month.  A dreaded experience for us kids because it made the service way longer, but I didn’t realize until just a few years ago that the liturgy we used is almost identical to the Rite I service out of the Book of Common Prayer.  Talk about coming full circle and putting all the pieces together.  Those very first fragments of tradition in the AME church formed the pillars of my faith.  And the first pillar of that faith is that I believe in one particular God. Not many gods that may be attributed to different things like the earth, the wind, or the sea. Not one of the many gods of worshiped by a multitude of cultures across the globe. But the God as understood in the Hebrew and Christian scriptures. Even this simple statement seems to be up for debate today. Is Allah the same God? Are some of the other spiritual "entities" described by modern theologians and philosophers manifestations of the God of Israel? In the end, does it really matter? I think so, if we are to truly understand who this particular Being is, and what this God intended for his creation. Understanding why we were created - out of love - and in whose image we were created - in the image of God - is the gateway for us to determine how we are to live our lives. This doesn't mean we will all look and act the same like a race of robotic, rule followers. It means that the same spark of life, the same inspiration is at the root and heart of all our works. 


To me, a creed on its own does not reflect the complete identity of a faith or a faithful person.  What is the other half of the sumbolon,  you ask?  Not a blanket or thoughtless acceptance of the ideas within the creed, as some seem to think.  I believe it is the pursuit to discover what the ideas or truths, as you take them, within the creed are pointing towards.  In essence, discovering who God is.  And that is a lifelong pursuit as God reveals himself to us in different ways every day.   


I believe in God - this seems like the easiest part of the creed to swallow; the simplest statement of faith that we can all agree upon. And yet in modern theology, even this basic statement seems to be up for debate within the Christian faith.  Sometimes I do ponder the idea of an infinite Being, something that has neither a beginning or an end, and whether or not I can really wrap my mind around that idea. But I don't need to prove that - I can accept that there are things I will never understand. Sometimes I do wonder whether or not God manifested himself to other cultures through their religions. I suppose it is possible, but in all honesty I don't know enough about them to make that call. And if in the end our job is to show Christ to others then I don't need to dispute those ideas.  It does not change who Jesus is. I can't change people, and I certainly can't change people's hearts. That's God's work, not mine. I can only show them who I am, and hope they can see past the craziness that is me and see God. And, perhaps, they will want to know more.