Scores That Tell Stories

I've had the Grieg score above for 20 years, probably.  And it looks like it’s been through a war – the front cover is attached with scotch tape and the back cover has been missing for years.  It’s dirty, used and abused, and the funny thing is I haven’t played most of the pieces in it.  I’m sure most people would say, “Nicole, you should take better care of your scores!” 

But when I look at that book, I see stories – I see my life.  I see practicing my mother’s old spinet piano when I was first started taking lessons, reading from the manuscript paper my first teacher used to write musical examples for me.  I see the “Dozen a Day” exercise books with the dancing stick figures at the beginning of every exercise.  I see my sister and me trading spots at the piano, one sister dancing while the other sister played.  I see hurriedly throwing the books into a haphazard pile into my music bag – black with treble clefs on it (wouldn't be caught dead with that now).  I see train rides to Bryn Mawr to the piano lessons which I learned to hate in the end, sitting on the aging orange plasticky seats on the Septa train cars.  I see the beautiful, colonial mansion of the Conservatory where I took those lessons, with its antique furniture and wallpaper waiting for me as I walked through the back parking lots from the station.  I can smell the air in that house; I can hear the creak of the old wood floors. 

I can remember buying every piano score that I own, and I can remember every occasion for buying them.  A flood of images sweep through my mind as I think about rifling through file drawers for slim Heller scores, sliding the smooth, sleek Chopin volumes off the shelf.  They smelled so new, so promising.  In those pages was my future, my imagination brought to life.  Everything I could imagine could become real in those notes, and I remember when I brought every single one of those books into my life.

Except that Grieg.  Perhaps it was a “borrowed” score from my teacher that I never returned.  And she certainly wouldn't want it back when she saw its stained, dog-eared pages.  But that’s what makes it mine.  Including the squashed, dead spider between two of the pages, tracing my glorious relationship with those gross creatures back through the years (I was always too afraid to touch its dead body to scrape it off the page).  Perhaps it seems weird to tell your life story through a pile of books – a pile of work tools, really – but the thought brings a smile.  And as I think about what I want in the new year, what I will grasp as part of my life, I close my eyes and find myself in the aisles of that music store with a thick score in my hands, fanning the pages as the notes run across the page just waiting for me to catch them.  And just that quickly, my imagination encounters the future once more.

And that is a blessing.     

Searching for The Truth

“He felt that the truth was about to reveal itself, and yet it was disconcerting.”  

Detective Harry Bosch

I am always reading some book or another.  Well, in truth, I’m always “listening” to some book or series of books on my IPhone.  I’ve been cycling through Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch novels about a gritty homicide detective based in Los Angeles/Hollywood.  Good stuff, if you like police dramas and detective stories.  But dark stuff, as well.  Bosch considers finding murderers his calling – his vocation – and his only concern is finding the truth, no matter what the cost.  And sometimes that cost is his own soul.  

I’ve never had any interest in being a cop, but the law has always fascinated me.  Ever since I was a kid I wanted to be a lawyer.  I imagine it stemmed from going to work with my mother who worked for a court reporter at the Federal Courthouse in downtown Philadelphia.  601 Market Street.  I can still remember the address more than 20 years later, and if you want to hop on a train with me from the Berwyn station on the Main Line outside of Philadelphia I could take you right there without missing a step.  It was within spitting distance of Ben Franklin’s house, Betsy Ross’s house, the Liberty Bell and Independence Mall.  You could smell history in the air mixed with the exhaust from Septa buses and the aroma of hot dogs and pretzels out of the stands on the street corners.  I loved being downtown in the hustle and bustle, especially during the holidays.  We used to buy purses (we called the pocketbooks out east) and socks from the vendors who set up outside the mall, and there was a jewelry lady on a corner close by where we always stopped to look at earrings.  And of course, it wouldn’t be a trip to the city without some strange man opening a trench coat lined with toothbrushes and other personal toiletry items to sell.  “Just keep walking and don’t look at them,” my mother would always say.  And that’s how I learned to survive in the city without being pegged as a tourist.  

I loved going to work with her – riding the train with all the men and women in suits clutching their briefcases; watching the women fast-walk in their gleaming white sneakers (high heels hidden in their briefcases, of course); going through the metal detector at the courthouse where the security guards all knew my mother because of the hours she worked – a lot of nights – and the flower she wore in her hair.  That kind of fashion faux pas was acceptable in the 70’s and 80’s, and in those days the metal detector did not object to the small pair of scissors in her purse which she used to clutch in her hand when walking to the train station late at night.  She was city-tough and beautiful to boot.

One of the things I loved and remembered most was the food eaten on these trips.  (You see?  Even then I loved food.)  We always got off the train at Market East, the last stop on the R5 line into downtown.  This dumped you out into The Gallery - the mall where I once got separated from my mother while shopping on Christmas Eve, and she not only had my brother and sister posted on the second floor so they could scan the crowd for me but also had the police on the lookout.  I can’t imagine how freaked out she was.  Of course, I was walking around without a worry from store to store, and even though I couldn’t find my mother I knew my grandmother was waiting in the train station for us to finish.  I had actually stopped to sit with her for a few seconds before I went back out into the mall to look for my mom.  Of course, when I was found by my brother and sister who screamed, “There she is!” from the second floor loud enough for Jesus to hear it, I got the angry, “Where were you???” yell from my mother which no doubt masked the building fear underneath.  But I digress.

When the weather was bad, you could walk from the Gallery through a small, indoor food market, then past a few decorative windows that looked into fabled downtown department stores like Abram and Strauss as you entered into another smaller mall/office building called the Mellon Independence Center.  This was a bit more posh and served a lot of the business people through its restaurants – the obligatory Au Bon Pain and Dunkin Donuts, plus a number of other small “mom and pop” type stands where you could get a quick lunch and/or breakfast to go on your way to the office.  These little shops opened up into a large, atrium of gray and black marble with many small tables and a baby grand piano keep people occupied while they munched.  I loved this place.  But work waits for no one.  We would take the escalator upstairs and walk out the front doors onto Market Street.  From here, the courthouse was just on the next block over.  But first, a stop on 7th street at the first stand to grab a fruit salad for lunch.  Yum.  But enough about food.

The federal courthouse was perhaps not the most imposing building in the city, but you felt the importance of it as you walked in the doors.  This was the place where Cosa Nostra was put on trial, for crying out loud.  The hallowed halls of history and justice.  There were 3 or 4 revolving doors at the entrance of the tall, brick building which turned you out into a large, dark foyer with several escalators up to the main lobby area.  The ceilings were impossibly high, and as a small person you felt as if you were walking into a temple of sorts.  And in a way, I believe that’s what these places are supposed to be – a temple for the truth.  

Any attorney reading this is probably laughing their socks off at this point.  And perhaps those of you out there that have been involved in any legal action are laughing as well.  But I do believe that in its essence, the practice of law and the legal system are about the search for The Truth.  In reality, it seems the proper definition would be that they are the search for A Truth - perhaps not The Truth - that those involved in the argument can agree upon or must be forced to accept.  Perhaps even a shade of The Truth, or in some cases a complete reconstruction of it.  But underneath it all there is still the quest for the actual truth and I believe that there are still a few faithful seekers out there who haven’t given up the quest.

Why are you talking about these things in the middle of Advent, Nicole?  Well, because I think those of us who are seeking something – some name it as God, some as inner peace, some as spirituality – are actually seeking The Truth, not A Truth.  And The Truth is a hard thing to find and define, whether it is the truth of a human situation or the spiritual truth of our existence.  And while Advent (and Lent, for that matter) is a season of waiting and preparation, it is also a season of seeking, just as three “Wise Men” sought the birth of a small, defenseless child in the middle of a desert.  Think of how ridiculous and impossible a task that was – ridiculous and impossible without a ridiculous and impossible faith to guide them to The Truth which they knew in their hearts they would find.     

The journey to The Truth is an impossible journey.  And at times a ridiculous one.  But a necessary one, all the same.  And at some point we have to come to the realization that when we find the truth, we are most likely incapable of understanding it and accepting it because it is JUST TOO BIG for us, even though it may seem so small and so simple.  And that is indeed disconcerting.  But we keep seeking, just the same.  I think it’s built into our DNA.  We can only live in darkness for so long until it begins to cost us our souls.  Without a soul, we are only a slave to the darkness that has overtaken us.  And that is why we keep trudging through the desert to find and wrestle with that impossible, ridiculous, small, and defenseless Truth. 

Rediscovering the mysteries

As much as I usually complain about winter, the truth is I love this time of year.  There's something about the sparkle of snowflakes in the crisp, fresh air; the crunch of frozen snow underneath your boots, full of thick fur to keep your feet warm; the promise of a warm mug of a steaming, yummy smelling beverage just waiting to be made at home.  Of course, over the years I've learned to add a little something-something to that hot beverage to make it even smoother...we'll just call it Adult Hot Chocolate.  But I digress...there seems to be magic in the air, no matter what tradition you follow.  Everyone is full of expectation of something, even if it's only the next snow storm.

As the picture above intimates,  it's Decorating Time.  I sort of dread it every year - the dragging of the tree (all fakey-fakey here) and the lugging of the oh-so-cheeky red and green tote bins full of decorations from the attic.  And for the last few years I've been more and more grateful for my neurotic sense of organization when I open the bins and find the boxes of ornaments neatly tucked in together like Legos, the loose tinsel used like packing material to protect the ornaments floating free without boxes.  Genius, I tell you.    

This year was the best, though.  The whole downstairs is FINALLY painted and repaired (well, for the most part) and the deep, red and gold of the living room walls seems like a perfect accompaniment to the festive cheer of George (!), our prelit Christmas Tree.  

I love him. 

The best part of decorating this year was opening the mysteriously heavy Christmas tins I found in the bins.  I couldn't for the life of me remember what was in them.

Every year it seems we are gifted with these little tins filled with edible holiday cheer (LOVE that kind of holiday cheer!) and every year I hate the thought of throwing the tins away.  And I don't.  And every year we end up with a bigger and bigger collection of containers that can really only be used once a year.  A few years ago I found the best solution - more ornament boxes!!!  All the small, flat ornaments that for some reason have no package are carefully wrapped in wax paper and cotton balls and snugly put to bed in their favorite Christmas tin.  Most of these ornaments are some of our most treasured gifts from friends, many of them handmade.  And I'm not one of those people who remembers what kind of ornaments they have hidden up in the attic (what was for breakfast this morning???) so it was truly a surprise to open those tins and rediscover the generosity within them.    

All this preparation and excitement for a day that seems to come and go in the blink of an eye!  It reminds me of prepping for a recital - hours and hours of practicing for a little over an hour of REALLY hard work, and who knows what's going to happen in the end?  Trust me, sometimes no one is more surprised than I when the notes come out of the instrument.  But the more I think about it, living through this time of year is a very similar process.  Advent is all about waiting and preparing - but for who knows what?  We think we know - the birth of Christ, silly!  But part of what we are waiting for is the mysterious birth of unknown treasures in the upcoming year - the treasures of the world to come.  The new surprises under the "trees" that grow into our lives.  The rediscovering of the old memories we've neatly packed up into the "tins" in our brains that get opened year after year when we meet for our ritual celebrations of birthdays, holidays, and plain old partying for no reason.  So much to look forward to!  

But we all know that all the "surprises" won't be good ones - in fact, there are probably some things which won't be surprises at all and will be painful to endure.  And sometimes the memories suck - we all have those, so there's no need to elaborate.  But the hope and anticipation of all the good that WILL be coming our way is a part of the magic of the season of Advent and can transform our lives, IF we allow it.  What potential these few weeks have!  The potential of the world to come - a world that will be changed forever because of what at the time seemed like a small, insignificant event that continues to ripple throughout the generations.  And what a shame if we miss seeing this potential in the hustle and bustle and craziness of all that preparation.  Don't get me wrong - the party never happens without that busy-body, Martha.  She's always painted as the heavy, but who will be the first to complain if there's no cheese and crackers to go with the wine???  But we can't forget to spend a little time with free-spiriting, free-wheeling Mary along the way.  Because the party is just no fun without her, and she's probably the sister that keeps a little flask of something-something hiding in the corner...

Happy Advent!