Poems of Prayers

Dear God,

I know we don't really talk anymore.  
Correction:  I don't really talk anymore.  
I just haven't had the heart to do it.  
I know you're there.  
And I know that you know that I know that you're there.  
I'm just...tired of the whole thing.  

Someone told me it's ok to say and feel that.  
Someone else told me that it shows a lack of faith.  

I think that second person is wrong.  

Me.


Dear God,

Sometimes I feel that I love you but I don't like you.  
Sometimes you're too hard for me to handle.  

Someone told me it's ok to say and feel that.  
Someone else told me they were praying for my soul because of it. 

I appreciate all the prayer I can get, but I think that second person's motives are a bit misguided.  

Me.


Dear God,

I really don't want to say anything to you right now.  
You know what's going on in here, anyway.  
I appreciate you toughing it out with me, though, and I love you for it.  
But for now, all I'm capable of is throwing some random thoughts in your general direction.  

Someone told me it's ok to say and feel that.  
Someone else told me it wasn't enough and that's why I couldn't hear you like I used to.

I think that second person is wrong.  
I know you're there.
I just choose not to listen.
Maybe I should try to spend a little more time with that second person, anyway.  

Me.

Middle Night Musings

Sometimes I do some of my best thinking at night.  And by "at night" I mean between the hours of 2 am and 6 am.  The middle of the night, really, or Middle Night, as I like to call it.  It has more of a poetic and less pathetic ring to it.  

So here I am in the Middle Night, after being up for 2 or 3 hours.  I spent the time trying to think positive thoughts because I wanted to avoid a repeat of the ginormous black widow spider dream I had the night before.  It's my own personal version of the "chase" dream, being stalked by a big, hard-shelled black arachnid with a red hourglass on its forehead...but I digress.  The Middle Night is also the time I end up wrestling with my biggest demons, for whatever reason.  Perhaps being surrounded by darkness makes the mind, though tired, vivid with imagination.  Or maybe it's the fatigue itself that chases away rational thought.  Whatever it is, it's annoying.  But tonight, for once, my musings were dispassionate and lucid.  

These days I am calling myself a "concert organist", well, because I am.  I do not currently have a faculty position at a college or conservatory (mostly by choice) and I've retreated from the church music world enough that it just doesn't seem  truthful anymore to label myself as a church musician as my primary professional identity.  It's also an unconscious yet conscious way to distance myself from the stress of the past 2 years or so.  But as a musician, I find it difficult to label myself as anything else but a musician.  It's not just a part of who I am, but a guiding force behind my identity.  And not just because of the beauty of music itself, but because of what it represents - life.  Life in all its ups and downs, in all its beauty and ugliness.  Music is an expression of that up and down beauty and ugliness, and music as a process is an expression of the process we call life.  At least, that's how I see it.

But here's my revelation.  For the past year I've been trying, for the life of me, to figure out how a life that was built on all the "right" principles, with the "right" spirit, and with the obligatory blood, sweat, and tears could be so quickly taken - stolen - from underneath you.  It's not as if we weren't all paying attention.  But yet, it happened.  Perhaps it's happened to you at some point, too.  It made me think:

"Well, perhaps you weren't as happy as you thought you were."

"Perhaps it wasn't as good as you thought it was."

And here's the kicker - "Perhaps YOU aren't as good as you thought you were."

Once you start down that road, you begin doubt yourself and everything that makes you what you are.  In essence, you erase yourself out of existence.  And it's not out of self pity.  It's just dispassionate, rational thought, really.  Or so you think.    

Oh, Nicole, this is so depressing, you say.  But hang on, here's the good part.  I think that "extraordinary life", that "mountaintop experience", or whatever you call that thing that you strive for - that shining goal in the distance you raise all your standards in expectation of is actually a very fragile thing.  It's not a solid fortress built on top of an impenetrable mountainside made from years of study and experience.  It's a small, shining, crystalline sphere of hope and imagination floating just above our reach that is as bright as the hottest sun but as fragile as the tiniest, thinnest sliver of ice.  It takes the whole of our very souls to keep it suspended in mid air for that period of time for which it lives.  But it only takes the clench of one or two or three fists to shatter it to pieces.  We could attempt to build an impenetrable wall around it, but that would only shield us from bathing in those beautiful rays.  We could only share with those we think of as "safe" enough to get near it, but then it would lose some if its brilliance.  

I know there is truth in this, but it's a frustrating truth.  Why is something that took so much time and effort to build so freaking fragile?  It doesn't seem to make much sense, but I feel in the depth of my soul that it is true.  The mistake we make - well, the mistake I made - is that I only saw one very fragile crystalline sphere in my future, when in fact there are an infinite number floating around the ether - floating around our imaginations just waiting to be thought into existence.  We just tend to get sidetracked and put on blinders when the one right in front of us starts to form, and then we can't even see the forest of possibilities that still lie around us.  

This, of course, does not lessen the pain watching the first one smash to pieces.  But it does give me a little hope - more than a little hope - that this very brilliant, very virulent, very overwhelming, very fragile sphere of hope and happiness and imagination can be created.  Again.  But different, this time.

Now - back to the spiders...

Are You There God? It's Me, Nicole

I was a big Judy Blume fan growing up as a kid. In fact, I was a big book fan, period. (Still am, but I think now you'd call it a book junkie.)  We used to have Book Fairs at our elementary school - remember those?  They would pass out those small, newspaper circular-like catalogs of delight where I could gleefully plot the direction in which my imagination would be turned. I remember the unbelievable freedom I felt while shopping for those books. Book Fairs were the only instances I can remember as a child where my parents never restricted how much I could buy. The sky was the limit, and I was usually that kid who came home carrying her books in one of the boxes they were shipped in. On Book Fair days we could be picked up by our parents instead of taking the bus home, and I remember waiting with glee in the school cafeteria, staring out the big windows for the familiar car. I spent  the whole ride home wishing my mother would drive faster so I could choose the first book to be read. Once home, I would drop my bookbag full of homework just inside the door (which to my father's annoyance made the most effective doorstop when he tried come in after work) and plop myself and my box on the end of the couch and choose. And then I would read. And read. And read.  Boy, do I miss that kind of excitement.

"Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret" was one of the many, many books I read as a child. It was about a young girl who grew up with a Christian mother and a Jewish father and was searching for a single truth for herself.  I actually did not remember that part of it until I Googled it earlier - it was the title itself that popped into my head.  It got stuck there as I pondered my own search to find God "again". Over the past several months I've had a number if conversations with many different people of all ages about faith and belief and just about everything that intersects with those things.  And do you know what the one common denominator is?  Doubt. Doubt about many things. The very existence of God, or the existence of any God, for that matter. The value of faith communities. The transparency of organized religion.  The validity of the doctrines and practices of different denominations. The genuineness of "devout" Christians and Christian leaders. And it seems that underneath that doubt lies the other common denominator- fear.

Now, Nicole, you say, you can't have two common denominators!!!  That may be true, but where you find one you usually find the other. And the truth us, fear and doubt are two very human responses that we are so often told are signs of weakness and lack of true commitment when it comes to faith. And you know what?  That's just crap. We all have our own fears and doubts in life, and in my own life the exploration of these doubts and fears have led to some pretty extraordinary discoveries about God, faith, and myself. The key for me has always been to not allow myself to be paralyzed by doubt and fear, but to find a way to work through them to the other side. And don't get me wrong - it doesn't always work out.  I don't always "work on it", and I often end up wrestling with the same stupid demons over and over again.  I have found myself lying awake at night wondering if God was really up there anyway, and did it really matter if I did the right thing even though no one would ever see only to wake up in the morning wondering what in the world I ate the night before that brought such ridiculous thoughts to my head.  And while I've never really been afraid of death, per se, I know that when I'm pondering these things in the middle of the night I am terrified that when the time does come that I will die alone. And then morning comes and I roll my eyes at myself and move on.  Maybe I should work on my "middle of the night madness" next...

I refuse to believe this makes me less faithful, or even any less strong. It makes me human. I am not perfect, and I never want to be. I want to become the person I was meant to be by living into the potential that has been built into my soul. I know that God put that potential there and gave me the tools to achieve it. I just don't always see it or have the patience to look for it.  But hey, that's my struggle. Being faithful doesn't mean being perfect.  So every once in a while I will stare into the ceiling lit by the occasional light of the moon, notice with disgust the spots I missed with the paintbrush, and say, "Are you there, God? It's me, Nicole."  Hopefully those times are few and far between.  But despite the doubts that may be momentarily running through my head, I can take some assurance in the fact that I still crave to have the conversation and that God is still listening.

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!

Kill all the organs!

Today, like many of my colleagues, I came across a ridiculous op-ed piece in the Boston Globe called "Save the church! (kill the organs)" - you can read it here.  Needless to say, blood began to boil.  Tempers flared.  Eyes rolled.  Some might say we are an overly sensitive bunch, we organists, but the truth is we are tired of being the Whipping Boy (or Girl) for those lamenting the decline in attendance on Sunday mornings (or Saturday evenings).  My first response was to repost the article on Facebook, of course, accompanied by a snarky comment about the author of the piece.  Maybe that wasn't fair, but as my older brothers used to say - don't dish it out if you can't take it.    

Here's the deal: there are MANY, MANY, MANY reasons why attendance is down across the country.  Do the research.  You can no more say it's the music than you can say it's the horrible taste of the communion wine.  But if we are really going to face the issue, we as church musicians must take some of the heat.  The truth is, there are MANY, MANY, MANY worship services out there that are led with poorly played, poorly chosen music.  It's just the truth.  And again, there are MANY, MANY, MANY reasons for this.  Such as:

There aren't enough well-trained organists/musicians available, so churches are forced to use unqualified people.

The pay is horrendous, so those who are well trained don't/can't take the positions where they are needed most.

The instruments are horrible and not well-maintained, which in turn does not encourage the congregation to sing well.

The leadership - lay or clergy - do not put enough emphasis on the quality of the liturgy.

The clergy and the musician for some reason can't play well together in the sandbox - doesn't matter who threw sand in who's eyes first - so the liturgy and the community suffers.

SOMEONE is lazy.  

The congregation/clergy/musician/whoever doesn't care about quality - they only want to entertain or be entertained.

Not enough time is allotted in the musician's schedule for service preparation.

The clergy has never received enough/proper training in liturgy and music.

The musician and clergy do not respect each other.

And perhaps the most important - The leadership/clergy and musician are not on the same page regarding the vision for the liturgy and the community.


Now, I will probably get blasted by some of my colleagues for saying these things, but sometimes it IS our fault as the musicians.  Perhaps not as individuals, but as a collective group.  Let me tell you a story:  Many years ago (and I mean, a lot) a workshop addressing the professional concerns of organists was held as part of a larger conference.  Luminaries in the field were invited to be a part of a panel discussion to answer questions and give guidance and advice out of their vast knowledge and experience.  Someone brought up the issue of compensation, and the difficulties many organists had when it came to being paid a fair wage and how much more difficult it was to get a raise while working for a church.  Discussion ensued, and one particular panel person said something to the effect of, "Well, before we even discuss getting a raise, we have to be sure that we are working hard enough and playing well enough to even deserve it."  Well children, after that comment there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth.  The nerve of someone even intimating that an organist wasn't deserving!  Said luminary was not invited to speak on such topics again.  

The truth shall set you free, peeps.  If we are not going to be honest about our abilities and our work, there really is no hope for the profession.  There will always be many levels of playing in the organ world - this is true of every instrument.  But we have to agree to some sort of minimum standard for playing in public as professionals.  And I don't mean Carnegie Hall levels - I'm talking about playing with accuracy, musicality, and sensitivity to the text at a BARE minimum.  We all have to be willing to go get coached or take lessons or whatever is needed when we come across some sort of issue we cannot overcome.  And as employers, churches should be more than willing to chip in towards this type of continuing education.  If they aren't, then they are getting what they pay for.  

The church also needs to start being honest about what it wants.  Different strokes for different folks, as the saying goes.  If a congregation has decided that they want nothing but contemporary Christian music, then stop looking for musicians from The Peabody Conservatory of Music.  If it is your intention to maintain a high quality music program that has been established since the 19th century with professional musicians and a world-class instrument, don't hire Susie Q. from down the street who has only taken 6 organ lessons.  The common denominator is this:  whatever you want, hire qualified people and treat them like professionals, not jukeboxes.  Need help discerning what's lacking or what's needed?  Consult with your musician as a fellow colleague and professional and rely on their experience.  If you don't have one, try your local AGO or college/university organ professor.  You'd be surprised at the resources that may be available to you.  

And the same goes for musicians.  If you believe at the center of your being that the music in a worship service should be of the highest standard and quality possible, don't work for a church or clergy person who admittedly thinks music is not important.  Or work to find some common ground you can both agree upon.  If you can't stand traditional church music, don't disrespect the liturgy and all those celebrating it by slopping your way through hymns every week.  Treat the instrument and the music with the respect they deserve as a tools and vehicles for worship.  We are obligated to be at our best whenever we sit at the bench.  Otherwise, we can kiss our profession goodbye, and it will be no one's fault but our own.