The gift of imperfection

Play Me!

My favorite cellist is Rostropovich - Slava!  Well duh, you say.  He is one of the greatest of all time.  The conductor Seiji Ozawa said in a video about Rostropovich that perhaps because of him he believed in God.  What a statement!  But one of the main reasons I like his playing is because it's not perfect.  It's inspired.  It's gutsy.  It's stunningly beautiful.  It's risky.  There's no one else like him.  But if you listen to enough of his recordings you can find a moment or two of, shall we say, humanity, amongst all the divine that comes from his bow.  In fact, the first phrase he plays in the video above isn't really in tune at all.  Rostropovich plays with such incredible beauty and force of will that no one really cares.  Except conservatory music students, of course, who are famous for pointing out flaws as small and insignificant as the ripped hem of recital dress.  Hey - we train them to be critical of everything as part of their learning process.  They eventually learn to tame that skill into what it needs to be.  Well, some of them learn, and the rest are constantly disappointed because no one plays it as perfectly as they hear it in their minds.  


And that, friends, is where we miss the point of it all.  Art - music in this case - is life.  And neither music nor life is about perfection.  It's about the journey to perfection, a voyage to a destination which we freely admit there is no hope of ever arriving.  That fact that we never arrive is what makes us continue to travel.  Or the fact that there was that ONE time when we got sooooo close that we have to take to the road again, retrace our steps, and try to make it back there.  Here's an example: several years ago I played Franz Liszt's "Ad nos ad salutarem undam" on a recital at the Methuen Memorial Music Hall outside of Boston.  A beast of a work.  The organ at Methuen is a FANTASTIC choice for this piece - lots of wonderful color and power in a room encased in marble, beautiful sculptures and an acoustic that made it impossible to play too short.  Everywhere you look there was beauty, and the sound of the instrument wafted through the air like expensive perfume.  I remember preparing for that recital - it was the middle of the summer, BLAZING hot, and because the hall was a historic building there was no air conditioning.  The piece itself is a good 25 minutes long, so it required long practice sessions to get to know the instrument and find the right sounds that would give voice to what Liszt really wanted.  I still remember that concert.  It was an insanely hot night in July and I sweat completely through my outfit.  Gross.  But the Liszt was fantastic.  Those of you who know me know how rare it is for me to say that about my own playing.  It wasn't perfect, but the intent was there.  The fire was there.  And when required, the tenderness was also there.  All the imperfections of the performance (and I don't mean wrong notes) made it mine.  I read a quote once from a writer who said something like, "I don't like writing, but I like having written."  Ah, there is so much truth in that.  That feeling after a successful recital cannot be matched by anything.  The feeling during the recital, well, some of those are moments I really don't need back.  


My husband and I live in an older house built in 1929 with plaster walls and lots of other character one associates with older houses.  It also needs all the repairs one associates with old houses.  The house has started to settle since we waterproofed the basement, so there are some cracks in the plaster in places, and separation between walls and ceiling in other places.  One particular wall was really bad - the fireplace wall - because the chimney gets pushed around in the wind and moves the wall attached to it.  I just finished repairing some of the plaster and then painting the walls.  And you know what?  That one wall looks like crap.  It could be worse, but when all the lights are on and you look at the right angle you can see every bump and lump.  It looks like parasitic aliens writhing beneath the skin of an unfortunate human host. My husband says it looks like an impressionist painting.  You know what I say?  Fantastic.  Maybe I'll just mount a big empty frame on the wall and call it "Study in Red".  


Life is not perfect.  Thank God, because we'd all have to kill ourselves from the disappointment.  It's those imperfect moments that make us who we are, that give us the character that make us "us".  In this day of worshipping false perfection (plastic surgery, designer kids, pure bred dogs because they have to have a certain eye color), perhaps this is a difficult concept to understand. We hate seeing imperfection in others, especially our leaders, professors, politicians, priests and mentors, because it points to the imperfections in ourselves and damn it, we just don't want to admit they exist.  And we certainly don't want the rest of the world to see them.  When we see that imperfection, we crucify the person they come from, especially if they are in the spotlight.  Why do we continue to do this when we know it is destructive to the entire fabric of humanity?


I think music is one of the ways that art heals the world.  Watch the cool video below about the life of Rostropovich - it's long, but listen to it in the background while you clean or something.  It's proof to me that music is an imperfect process designed to create perfection in an imperfect world.  Our only job is to acknowledge the miracle and allow it to bring us joy.  


I think life itself is an imperfect process designed to create the perfection of joy for others in a world that is designed to tear us apart.  Don't take that to mean that I think the whole world is horrible - not true.  I just think it's the people in the world, in our own little worlds, that make life good.  Great even.  Fantastic sometimes.  And on occasion, inspired.

Spinning something great from a small kernel of truth...

Play and read:

The video above is perhaps one of the most sublime moments in Bach's Passion According to St. John, followed by one of the most dramatic moments from the work. Let's take the beginning of the "scene" which comes after the drama of the arrest, crucifixion and death of Jesus. Listen to the very simple cello line accompanied by continuo (organ). Believe it or not, this entire 4 1/2 minute aria is spun from the first 15 seconds of music you hear. Bach uses a simple orchestration underneath the gentle, lilting voice of the "Soul", the bass soloist. The Soul is having a conversation with Jesus.

Mein teurer Heiland, laß dich fragen,

My beloved Savior, let me ask you,

da du nunmehr ans Kreuz geschlagen und selbst gesagt: Es ist vollbracht,

since you have now been nailed to the cross and said yourself: It is accomplished,

The choir gently comments with a familiar text and tune in Bach's time:

Jesu, der du warest tot, 

Jesus, you were dead,

lebest nun ohn Ende, 

you live now for ever,

The Soul inquires about what has taken place and the meaning of it all. The music turns darker with the first query:

bin ich vom Sterben frei gemacht? 

am I from death made free? 

Kann ich durch deine Pein und Sterben das Himmelreich ererben? 

Can I through your pain and death inherit the kingdom of heaven?

The choir responds with:

in der letzten Todesnot 

in the final agony of death

nirgend mich hinwende 

nowhere else I turn

In these days of medical miracles and medicines, it's easy for us to overlook how painful death was for most people at the time this was written in the 18th century. Every day life was hard enough for commoners, and even the simplest malady, like an infected tooth or a simple cold, could turn into a life-threatening catastrophe that could not be soothed with morphine or other chemical assistance. Families were forced to sit in horror while loved ones died horrible, painful deaths. Both the fear and welcome of death was tangible, which makes the many texts we read about "sweet death" and looking forward to the "freedom" of death more understandable. People often relied on their faith to give them assurance that once their earthly journey had ended, another would begin free of pain and fear.

The music takes a turn to brighter tones when the Soul then asks the larger question, giving particular emphasis on the word, "Erlösung" (redeemed):

Ist aller Welt Erlösung da? 

Is all the world redeemed?

And the choir responds:

als zu dir, der mich versühnt, 

but to you , who have redeemed me,

O du lieber Herre! 

O my dear Lord,

The conversation ends as the soul answers his own question. Notice how Bach gives particular emphasis to the word "Schmerzen" (pain):

Du kannst vor Schmerzen zwar nichts sagen; 

You cannot speak for pain;

doch neigest du das Haupt und sprichst stillschweigend: ja 

but you bow your head and silently say : yes!

The choir affirms the Soul's thoughts with:

Gib mir nur, was du verdient, 

give me only what you have won,

mehr ich nicht begehre! 

more I could not want!

What strikes me about this particular recording is the bass, Stephen McLeod. He strikes the perfect tone of humility and innocence in his interpretation, which, ironically, takes an enormous amount of maturity in a musician.  The aria is a very difficult one to sing, but he sings it with incredible simplicity.  I encourage you to check out some of his other work - a fantastic artist.

The final part of the recording includes the dramatic telling of the rending of the temple curtain in two, the earthquake, and the opening of graves after the death of Christ. Definitely take the time to watch the video as the musicians play. Bach gives us drama in the words and in the physical music making. 

This drama accompanies the next thoughts well. I encountered the following a few places on the Internet this week:

First, I laughed.  Then I thought, well, I bet this makes some people pretty angry - but why?  In the context in which I read this, it was not a joke - whoever wrote it was serious.  How sad it is that there are a large number of people who can characterize their encounter with Christianity as spoken above.  I would imagine the dramatic scene of the earthquake and bodies rising from the grave as told in the Gospel of John is just proof of how unstable we crazy Christians really are.  Bodies rising from the grave???  Give me a break - bring on the zombies!  Well, okay.  I suppose that may be a little hard to swallow.  But hey, why not believe in the existence of a little supernatural power?  There are plenty of people out there who believe that there are healing powers in crystals, or that positive thinking can actually change the chemical makeup of our bodies enough so that we could heal ourselves.  Why can't we then believe that there is a Power that created ALL these things that is capable of doing anything, even raising the dead?  

This weekend I was in on a conversation with a couple of people who admitted to leaving the institutional church (Catholic and Protestant).  They had either gone to church as children and fallen away as adults, or had never been exposed to a faith community of any kind and were now searching for ritual and mysticism in their lives.  Guess what?  They weren't finding it in the institutional church.  

Here's the happy truth - many of the things "seekers" are looking for - ritual, mystery and a place to explore the greater questions of life - can all be found within the Christian faith.  The sad, sad truth is that many Christians don't know enough about their faith to help people "seekers" find what they are looking for.  We beat them over the head with dogma, shove them into a box with literalism, belittle them with legalism, or confuse the hell out of them with new age theology that is explained with big words and fuzzy ideas that are impossible to understand.  No wonder they "seek" somewhere else.  This isn't true everywhere, of course.  There are churches and communities out there who manage to bridge the gap of traditionalism, mysticism, and relevance (a word I hate in regards to the church, but it seems to resonate with many people) and attract those who are seekers AND those who found what they are looking for years ago.  But I don't think these places are the majority.

In my understanding of the Christians faith, the core of the faith is love personified in the teachings and sacrifice of Jesus.   Why can't we just take that simple idea - love - and create an incredible bond of community and purpose?   There's certainly nothing wrong with traditional dogma or new ideas (hey - I love a good creed to chew on) but sometimes we get so lost in our ruminating and codifying and conceptualizing that we forget the kernel of truth from which all our ideas are spun.  And when we can't even agree on what that kernel of truth is, well then, we have an even greater problem.

Enter stage left: The Modern Church.

Come, friends, help me wail...

A musical reflection in observance of Holy Week - listen while you read....

It all begins with a slow heartbeat - a pulsating rhythm emanating from the depths of the crowd, accompanying a slow, mournful melody. The wailing begins.  The ritual wailing for lost loved ones is as old a part of the human culture as storytelling itself. Although in modern times, we consider ourselves "too civilized", and too much in control of our emotions to let the mourns come forth.

Voices join from all sides of the earth. No words can be deciphered, just the tuneful moans of the gathered. A slow, inevitable crescendo of wails reaches its climax and finally, we hear words we can understand:

Kommt, ihr Töchter, helft mir klagen! 

Come, you daughters, help me lament!

These new voices rise in their fervor, deep pain fueling their energy. Their friends look on, knowing that their own time is coming to join in the story. The same words are repeated like a litany for the missing, a liturgy for the lost.

Sehet!      Wen? 

Behold!      Whom? 

Den Bräutigam. 

The Bridegroom.

Seht ihn!          Wie? 

Behold him!     How? 

Als wie ein Lamm! 

As a lamb. 

The second group finally enters, slowly drawn into the story like late comers to the scene.  They are invited in by the first group who shouts, "Behold!"  The invitation is to observe, to listen to the story, to take it all in.  As the music continues to drive and weave and layer upon  itself, the world breaks open by a third voice - the sound of innocence.  This third voice sings a well known melody to the listener:

O Lamm Gottes, unschuldig 

O guiltless Lamb of God,

Am Stamm des Kreuzes geschlachtet, 

Slaughtered on the stem of the cross,

This is sung while the two groups continue to dialogue with each other on what and who will be seen, and how we are to understand it.  The simple, innocent melody pulls the listener out of their reverie, wedding the new sounds to a more familiar understanding.  The listener is now part of the drama.  

The instruments take over briefly before the choruses again pick up their song:

Sehet!       Was?  

Behold!       What? 

Seht die Geduld. 

Behold his patience.

And the third voice sings:

Allzeit erfunden geduldig, 

Always found patient,

Wiewohl du warest verachtet. 

Although you were despised.

The groups shout back and forth to each other, searching and tossing about with shouts of:

Seht!              Wohin? 

Behold!          Where? 

Auf unsre Schuld.

In our guilt. 

All the while, the third voice sings:

All Sünd hast du getragen, 

All sin have you carried, 

Sonst müssten wir verzagen. 

Else we must have despaired. 

And finally, the true climax begins, building and growing towards an inevitable ending, every voice on earth gradually merging as one as they sing:

Sehet ihn aus Lieb und Huld 

Behold Him, out of love and graciousness, 

Holz zum Kreuze selber tragen!

Himself carrying the wood of the cross.

The third voice soars above the wailing crowd:

Erbarm dich unser, o Jesu, o Jesu! 

Have mercy upon us, O Jesus, O Jesus!

So begins The Passion According to St. Matthew as interpreted by Johann Sebastian Bach, the dramatist, the great storyteller. When most people think of Bach, those aren't the words that come to mind. They think "academic", or "stoic", and even, "taxing". But no other work is so full of drama, action and excitement (of a kind) than his St. Matthew. Is it long? Lord yes. But "stoic" and "staid" it is not. Bach has set the work for double chorus, double orchestra, soloists, and a cast of characters taken straight from the New Testament. 

 The two choruses function much as Greek choruses did, in that they serve as on lookers and witnesses who comment on the actions taking place before them.  They also play the part of the crowds, the high priests, and the disciples.  Their texts are taken from both the Gospel of Matthew and traditional chorale texts.  In reality, the chorus is us, the listener, as we would be witnessing the drama.  Bach, in his genius, has placed us inside the story.   

The story is told by the Evangelist, Matthew. This tenor role narrates the story from beginning to end, setting each scene and bridging the gap from one to the next. This is one of the most difficult musical roles for a tenor to play. Pacing is everything.  Not only is it difficult to sing, but it is impossible to sing well without completely immersing oneself into the role with a full understanding of who Matthew was and an acceptance of the burden of telling such a tale. We also encounter Peter, Judas, Pontius Pilate, Pilate's wife, a few high priests, 2 servant girls, two witnesses, and 4 soloists who comment on the story through their arias.  And finally there is Jesus, whose words are always surrounded by a halo of sound played by the string instruments.

 The orchestra has all the usual suspects - violins, violas, cellos, basses, flutes, oboes, and organ. He also asks for a Viola da Gamba, Oboes da Caccia and Oboes d'Amore. These extra "colors" play an important role in painting a picture of incredible depth and emotion. Bach uses his instruments much like an artist uses different colors of paint - creating  darkness and light by using the natural traits of each instrument accordingly, including the voices.  

This work is full of tragedy and theater, if you know how to look for it. And there's the issue - most non-musically trained people are so far removed from the gestures and language of the Baroque era that much is lost. But when we take a closer look at the work, we find so much in common with modern music and modern sensibilities. And as a statement of Bach's personal faith, it takes on staggering proportions.

Next week, Baldwin-Wallace College will present its annual Bach Festival with the St. Matthew Passion as its principal work.  Click here to find more information about the performances.  The vocal soloists are truly magnificent.  The orchestra is comprised of students, faculty and professionals (including myself), and the choruses are completely comprised of students.  The Festival is an incredibly learning experience for the students and an incredible musical experience for the listener.  I hope you will join us!

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain...

Ah, Holy Week. Among my church musician friends we often refer to this week as Hell Week, with any reference to it followed by a string of somewhat unsavory, irreverent, but humorous jokes and comments. My favorite was always the following exchange I heard between two colleagues: 

A: Good luck this week. I hope you survive it all. 

B:  Well, we know who won't!

A bit sacrilegious? Sure. But it's really just a stress reliever. So much preparation, blood, sweat and tears go into Holy Week services, only to be left up to the somewhat unpredictable attendance and performances of volunteer choirs, instrumentalists, and strung out clergy. I remember one year I actually cried over a misbehaving copy machine which I thereafter gave the nickname "Lucifer".  But everything always comes together in the end, and most of the time we look back on Holy Week with an enormous amount of gratitude and incredulity as we say to ourselves, "I can't believe it all came together as planned." Only by the grace of God. 

Secretly, though, we love it. At least, I do. Holy Week is my favorite week of the year, and my most fulfilling times as a church musicians were the ones I spent at Christ Church in Hudson where we celebrated a different liturgy every night - Evensong, Holy Eucharist with Healing, Taize with an indoor garden and incense, Maundy Thursday with footwashing, Good Friday with a sung Gospel, Easter Vigil with an enormous bonfire, Easter morning with brass quintets made up of Cleveland Orchestra members...I always felt so privileged to be a part of the team that executed those liturgies. There is no better feeling than that exhaustion after it's all over - you've got nothing left, but every bit of energy you spent was worth it because you were taking part in something that was so much larger than yourself. I have vivid memories of sitting in that dark church during the vigil, listening to Old Testament lessons and prophecies by candlelight and the light of a full moon coming through the church windows - I wouldn't give those memories up for the world.  

Remember that scene in "The Wizard of Oz" when Dorothy and her friends are quaking before the thunderous voice of Oz and her little dog Toto runs and opens the curtain, unveiling the rather diminutive presence of the true puppet master?  I thought of that scene during the Palm Sunday liturgy I attended.  Where on earth did you go to church, Nicole?  Trust me, it wasn't as bizarre as it sounds, although I've heard worse things during Holy Week liturgies...but that's for another post.   This year, for the first time in 19 years, I sat on the other side of the altar - you know, in the pews with the rest of the normal people. The liturgy itself was a good one, although I admit I was preoccupied during most of it.  At the end we heard a reflection on the drama of the crucifixion of Christ. I've heard so many of these over the years - many of them long, complex and overly taxing, with a few excellent exceptions. This was one of those exceptions. The reflection centered around the rending of the curtain in the temple after Jesus died. The priest explained that according to Jewish custom at the time, the curtain or veil represented God's presence in the midst of his people and served to separate God's presence in the Holy of Holies from those gathered to worship. Also, in the Catholic tradition the tabernacle (a box-like vessel used to house the reserve sacrament) used to have a veil within it. Kind of like a Mini-Me version of a Temple (sorry - I couldn't resist).  

The priest went on to explain that the tearing of the temple veil after Jesus' death was a symbol that the separation between God and his people was no more.  Well, there's your Easter sermon right there - we can all go home now and skip the rest of the week!  I found this hugely significant on a number of levels. First, the idea that a simple curtain could separate the presence of God from the world is somewhat ridiculous, but of course, we accept metaphor and symbolism as a daily part of our lives. And we often let the small things in our lives separate us from those things that are most important.  What really struck me was the idea that at any single moment in time, a veil could be removed from our eyes and we would see things as they really are.  In the case of the temple curtain, we see that God in the midst of us, tangible and easy to access without an intermediary. But I also thought of those times in our lives when the "veil" is removed and we see the world for what it really is - those moments when we lose our innocence, so to speak. Sometimes when the curtain is ripped away we can actually see God, and the pain of the journey seems to have purpose, or we can at least see some hope in the future. Sometimes the only thing we see behind the curtain is the dull, gray truth and reality of the world we live in, sharp edges and all. We focus so much on that "truth" that we fail to see God in the midst of it. And the more we focus on the sharp edged, gray reality of the world the bigger and more ominous it becomes and the more obscure the presence of God is until he appears to disappear completely.  Then we sometimes wonder whether he was really there in the first place.  

If you listen to most atheists, they will tell you that religion and/or faith is like "the little man behind the curtain", and that The Church is just a puppet master out to control the masses and brainwash anyone without enough intelligence to know any better.  I suppose there are plenty moments in history to support that idea, and what I see today in The Church certainly makes me shudder in disgust.  So, what is the reality?  Where is the truth?  Is God really inside all that mess?  I've been asking that question a lot recently, and I don't have an answer yet.  Questions seem to lead to more questions.  In the end, I suppose the answers aren't as important as the willingness to continue asking.  

In a way I suppose we all experience our own "Holy Week" within the course of our lives - the defining moments that make us who we are, that reveal our future and our purpose.  Sometimes these experiences last a hell of a lot longer than a week, and always seem to be preceded by being stripped bare emotionally and spiritually - isn't there another way???  But perhaps those painful moments are when we are closest to God.  So close, in fact, that we cannot see him.  We are so busy looking at all the crap around us that we miss The Presence right beside us, within us. And that is, indeed, a Holy Time.

Hojotoho! Heiaha! Heiaha!

For best results, click on the YouTube link below and listen while you read:

Ah, the battle cry of Brünhilde at the beginning of Act 2 of Wganer's Die Walküre - what a way to begin!

That was me today. I'm not kidding. That was the song playing in my head when I went into battle...in the basement. Except I wasn't armed with a sharp spear. Feast your eyes on my weapon:

Yes, that is soap. Irish Spring, to be exact. And it cut like buttah.

What in the world are you doing, Nicole???!!!

Why, I'm slaying spiders, of course.

Well, not really slaying, but ridding my world of those horrible, evil, denizens of Satan. That's my little nickname for them. I even made up a song. But I won't sing it for you, for now that I have laid the trap to slay them, I will not acknowledge their presence in the universe.

Last night I went down into the basement to do some laundry. As I reached the bottom of the stairs I saw an ENORMOUS black spider on the opposite wall. Of course, I yelled, "OH, GROSS!" But there was no one there to hear me. Then I looked to my left and saw ANOTHER one close to the ceiling on another wall. ENORMOUS. I could feel my blood pressure instantly rise. I was out of breath. "Oh my God oh my God oh my God," I kept saying. Then I said to myself, "Get a grip, Nicole. They are nowhere near you. They are just big bugs." Yeah. Big bugs. My mother always told me that those spiders weren't even thinking about me. Probably true, but that didn't change the fact that I felt like I was the next victim in a horror movie.

Would you believe that I actually started to shake? Then I thought to myself, "Nicole, you are being completely ridiculous." I looked at them for another moment and made myself say, "they're just big bugs, they're just big bugs" over and over again, then went to the laundry room to QUICKLY throw some clothes in. And oh God they were still there when I came out. I ran upstairs and slammed the door. Out of sight, out of mind. But I refused to use the downstairs bathroom directly across from the basement door. I did check a little later to see if there was an army of them crawling up the walls towards the basement door. I was totally prepared for it. There weren't any, of course, and I managed to actually survive the night.

Nicole, you are insane. Why, yes, I am. Well, not really - I just have an irrational fear of spiders. I don't even like seeing the word. It makes me feel like I'm going to puke. Although, I have improved much over the years. I used to scream and run from the room when I saw one. Now I just yell, "Oh, GROSS!" and my husband knows exactly what that means. In grad school some nice mama spider decided that my new car was the place to lay her nasty little nest, and for years I had to deal with those horrible gray little beasts in my car. I was terrified to drive at night. I even recklessly pulled over on the side of East Avenue in Rochester late one night after hanging with friends because they started walking up the inside of my windshield. Ugh. I feel sick just thinking about it.

But today I was ready for battle! Armed with a sure-fire way to drive them out of the house, I made my preparations. The materials had been purchased, and I sharpened my sword as I divided my arachno-kryptonite for dispersion. Ok, it wasn't really a sword, it was a butter knife but that just doesn't have the same ring to it. When all was ready, I began my journey. WOTAN - TO THE BASEMENT!

I approached to door quietly, as not to tip the evil creatures to my presence. I slowly eased the door open, then stepped back quickly, just in case they were waiting right inside the door. You think I'm kidding? Keep reading. Once I checked the walls for the enemy, I slowly tread down the stairs, the aroma from the arachno-kryptonite giving me courage as I descended into the bowels of hell. That stuff is strong, man. I approached the bottom of the stairs and slowly looked around, checking the walls. Nothing yet - but wait! There's a small black one on the wall - that makes 3 for crying out loud!!! Of course we all know if there's 1, there are 2, and if there are 2, well, there are lots. But let's not think about that. I crept forward, the arachno-kryptonite working it's magic. The air was pungent with it's strength. I carefully placed the magical lumps in strategic places. Hell, I put it everywhere. In ever window sill. On every ledge I could reach without putting my finger into a dark crevice. And I was exultant, crying, "Hojotoho! Heiaha! Heiaha!" On the inside, of course.

Did I go overboard? You betcha. Will the hubby be happy when he comes home and finds little pieces of Irish Spring all over the house? Doubtful. And do you think he'll comply when I ask him to put one in the far window sill in the basement because I was too chicken to go over there in broad daylight? You bet your boots. Because I'll give him that look that says I-know-it's-neurotic-and-probably-won't-work-but-your-crazy-wife-will-feel-better-if-you-do-it and he'll give in. He learned what that look meant early in our marriage and realized that life was easier if, on this occasion, you just went with the Nicole Logic, as he calls it. 


But now I feel free, baby. Even the bee that was buzzing behind the curtain in the living room seemed to drop dead when I put the arachno-kryptonite in the corner of the window sill. Mission accomplished. Onto the next battle...

Wait, why is there a bee in my house???!!!!  WOTAN -  TO ARMS!

Life on the Blue Ridge Parkway

This week we are visiting friends in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.  Go ahead, all you Carolinians, get your oohs and ahhs out while you have the chance.  It would seem that anyone that has lived or spent a great deal of time in North Carolina (which includes a bulk of our friends) are attached to it in a similar way Texans are attached to Texas.  Except the Carolinians are a little less neurotic about it.  But only a little. 

I love the east coast.  I know we're not on the coast right now, but it's closer than Cleveland.  I grew up in suburban Philadelphia - the "Main Line" as they call it, in a town called Berwyn.  Strong Welsh name, and there are many around there.  We lived about 20 minutes from Valley Forge National Park and you could just smell the history in the air.  Not to mention the vestiges of the beginning of our country at Independence Mall downtown, Betsy Ross' house, and the Schuylkill River, which was probably a lot less dirty and smelly than it is now.  And the pièce de résistance - the Rocky Statue at the Art Museum.  True history in art at its best.  That's Philly, for ya.  So, coming to North Carolina brings me a little closer to my roots - east and south.  Both sides of may family are from the south.  The DEEP south.  More about that later, though... 

It's been a week of fun, relaxation, and a little bit of work.  Fun and relaxation from all the card playing, drinking responsibly but not necessarily in moderation (which means we didn't leave the house) and playing with boisterous youngsters.  Not in that order.  And I must say, there is something to be said for being woken up every morning by the quiet stare and heavy breathing of a 2 year-old with a stuffed up nose and a cute smile...good stuff.  The work is fun in its own way - we are staying with my organ duo partner, and the timing is perfect to take a gander through a few scores before our recital at the end of April in Columbus, Ohio.  Four-hand organ work is fun but all that clef changing, octave jumping, and stop pulling leaves you cross-eyed in no time.

Yesterday we took a ride on the Blue Ridge Parkway on our way to see Blowing Rock.  Cute town. Very Thomas Kinkade-y.  Take that for whatever you want.  I had a picture in my mind for what I was expecting on the Parkway and it did not disappoint, including some spectacular mountain views.  It's still winter here in North Carolina - ha! 60 degrees today - so our journey was a fairly solitary one.  I wondered what it would be like to live up here in the mountains, seemingly far away from the rest of the universe with no promise of a cell phone signal for miles.  I know a few people who would just kill for such an existence.  I think I would last about 2 or 3 days...then there would be issues.  I am a stimulus junkie.  Don't get me wrong - nature here is incredibly stimulating.   Beautiful and astonishing and breathtaking.  You could almost feel the quiet all around you.  And I can only imagine the beauty of the stars at night - nothing like our dimmed view from the city lights.  But I can only stand listening to the sound of my own heart beat coupled with the crazy thoughts in my own head for so long.  Just imagine what would be coming out on this blog then...

My "perfect" Blue Ridge Parkway would like just like the real one.  Except the little turn-off streets you occasionally come upon would lead to a thriving metropolis that is magically hidden behind one of the many mountain peaks instead of winding pathways leading to unknown places...that's stimulation for the imagination right there.  The perfect Stephen King novel in the making.  But living in the mountains with the city at your fingertips...oh yeah, and throw in a beach or two around the next mountain and life would be perfection.  All the material one needs for stimulus without the expense of plane fare.  Surely, places like this exist...
  

Can't you just smell that salty sea air from the sea???

“I see dead people…” The Sixth Sense

You remember that scene in the movie, The Sixth Sense.  Malcolm Crowe (played by Bruce Willis) and Cole Sear (scary kid actor) were sitting in the bedroom, the air so cold you could almost see their breath. 

“I see dead people,” the kid said. 

I remember the chill that went up my spine when I first saw that scene.  My husband claimed to predict the twist in the movie but I sure didn’t (if you haven’t seen it, I won’t ruin it for you).  Of course, any child or adult, for that matter, who claims to see dead people walking around every day must surely have some mental affliction.  But I would disagree.  We see dead people all the time.  We see them on television, we see them on YouTube, and we see them alive and well in our memories.  You can’t escape them.

Death has played such a prominent role in our culture in the past several weeks with the death of pop star Whitney Houston (used to love her when I was kid, before she went to the Dark Side and married Bobby Brown) and the horrendous shootings at the school in Chardon, Ohio – 15 minutes from my house.   The faces of those unfortunate children are displayed on our television screens almost every hour of the day, it seems. 

We see dead people.

There are both positives and negatives to the 24 hour news cycle we “enjoy”.  Historic events around the world are delivered to our homes within a moment’s notice of their occurrence.  Ridiculous little factoids about ridiculous people are blasted into our living rooms with seemingly equal importance.  But in situations like the tragedy in Chardon, we come to know the poor victims of these shootings and other horrific events as if they were our next door neighbors. 

I can’t imagine how the families of those students cope with the constant coverage.  I remember thinking of this when Whitney Houston died – I immediately thought of her daughter, Bobbi Kristina.  I remember some news reporters saying she looked “wasted” at the funeral.  Well, duh, her mother was dead!  Idiots. 

My mother also died suddenly at the age of 48.  I’ll never forget the details around it.  It was Monday, January 30, 1995.  I was a sophomore in college and had just returned to my dorm room after a choir rehearsal and saw that I had a message on my phone.  It was one of those phones where you had to stare at the red light until your eyeballs dried out to tell if it was blinking at all because it was so fast.  Just one message that day, and I was excited because I rarely had one.  I listened, and I was surprised to hear my paternal grandmother’s voice in her slow, Southern drawl.

“Nicole, this is Nana, your mother’s very sick, call home right away.”  Click.

Red flags went off everywhere because 1) my mother and paternal grandmother weren't exactly the best of friends so I couldn’t figure out why she was making the call and 2) my mother never got “very sick”.  My stomach immediately started to jump, and my body went into heightened-awareness mode.  I called my dad and he told me my mother was in the hospital, unconscious, and that he had arranged a flight for me because I needed to come home right away.  Ok, now this is serious.  Last minute flights cost serious money, and we didn’t have any.  This was doubly bizarre because the people of my family live FOREVER, with a few fluky exceptions.  Both my maternal great grandparents lived well into their 90’s, and my paternal grandfather lived well into his 70’s at least, I believe.  Both grandmothers were still alive and kicking in their 70’s at the time and my maternal grandfather died of a heart attack in his 50’s – a rare occurrence in my family.  My mother’s brother died tragically in a fire when I was in 5^th grade – I believe he was only 43.  But in general, we just hang on forever, getting more ornery and stubborn as the years go by, eventually succumbing to some stroke-like malady or pneumonia from the complications of some stroke-like malady.  Little did I know, another fluky exception was on its way. 

After a few phone calls to the siblings, I learned that my mother had collapsed while my father was out, and he returned to the house to find her.  She’d suffered from a brain aneurism, and never regained consciousness.  I travelled home that same evening to Philadelphia, and by the time Wednesday rolled around we made the decisions to take her off life support – there was no hope. 

These memories always come flooding back after hearing of the sudden, tragic death of people far too young to die.  I can only imagine that poor teenager, Bobbi Kristina, constantly having to see pictures, videos and the sound of her mother’s voice all around her.  I wondered if that made it easier or more difficult – I did not dream of my mother for many months after her death and I craved it like you wouldn’t believe.  When I finally did dream of her, it was more of a nightmare-like scenario – she was slowly walking down the main highway by our house at night and I kept calling to her but she wouldn’t respond.  Just my brain’s “creative” way of replaying those final scenes in the hospital.  Nice.

I can imagine the families in Chardon are also bombarded by having to relive the events – not that they could ever forget them.  I wonder how helpful it is to constantly be surrounded by activity, whether it be nosy reporters or supportive family and friends.  The company sometimes makes it easier.  In my experience, one of the worse times is after everyone leaves, and life “goes back to normal”.  But of course, there is no more normal for those poor families.  Life is forever changed, and they are stuck with having to figure out a way forward with the crushing weight of grief pressing down upon them. 

At my mother’s funeral my Godmother told me, “It doesn’t get better.  It gets easier.”  THAT is the gospel truth.  It doesn’t get better, because that person will always be gone.  But with time, the love and support from family and friends, and perhaps a little therapy and some helpful drugs on the side (legal ones!) it does get a little easier, little by little, until you finally learn how to cope with the jagged hole that is left in your life.  It never gets filled, but eventually your life begins to move again and the hole gets surrounded.  We step around it for a while, and sometimes we fall in it and have dig ourselves out.  But it’s always there, and you know what?  I wonder if that’s not a good thing. 

That paralyzing, stupefying pain that makes it seem impossible to will yourself to take the next breath is the polar opposite of that paralyzing, stupefying joy that causes you to catch your breath in surprise and wonder before you let it out in yelps of joy and laughter.  I think those two realities are different sides of the same coin.  The awesome magnitude of one deepens your appreciation of the other.  Not that one ever wants to appreciate pain, but pain is unavoidable, and often it is devastating.  Surely Lord, there is another way to learn appreciation!  I do think, though, that part of our job as human beings is to help people through the devastation.  Sometimes we do it by just being present, other times by doing something practical.  Sometimes people just need to be left alone.  In those times, we can help in absentia by offering all the prayers and good thoughts we can manage. 

As for those families in Chardon, and that whole community – they will need our prayers and support for a long time to come.  There are many vigils being held in various places in addition to opportunities to donate to funds to help defray the cost of the psychological support that will be needed for the community.  I hope we will all do whatever our parts are in the cause to support them and to support each other.  It’s far too easy to return to our “normal lives” after such tragedies because it’s just too painful to bear or too hard to understand why such things happen or because, hey, we’ve got our own lives to live.  But perhaps the most important thing we are supposed to learn from such an event is to be selfless in our love and support for each other, whether it be a time of paralyzing, stupefying pain or paralyzing, stupefying joy.  One of the best directions given by the Chardon law enforcement throughout this tragedy was “go home and hug your family.”  After these events, let’s do it every night, if we aren’t already.

Be good to one another.