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.

Sunday waxing...

I’m waxing philosophical today.  Throwing some vague thoughts into the air.  It’s where I am today.  I hope after you read you will share your thoughts and we can have some interesting conversations…

In the last month I’ve been reading a lot of materials on community – what it means to be a community, how to form an authentic community, why community fails, etc.  The one common denominator seems to be the willingness of those inside the community to be open and true, and their willingness to be committed to each other.  No matter what your purpose is – spiritual, recreational, athletic, charity – if the people within the community are not committed to each other and committed to making the relationship work, the community will fail.  The goal of the community may succeed (raising money for a shelter, winning a sporting competition, etc), but the community itself is a failure.  I find that fascinating in some ways, and I’m sure we can all cite examples of it.

What’s your point, Nicole?  Well, we are at a very interesting place in history.  Times are a’ changing, but people are not.  One only has to look through the annals of history to see that we are making the same choices as a human race we have made for centuries, good and bad and in the middle.  I know we like to think of ourselves as more civilized, rational, and thoughtful people than our ancestors, but so did the ancient Romans and look what happened to them.  I don’t claim to be an expert on any particular area of life, except music perhaps, but I can speak with a fair amount of experiential authority on the Church.  I stress “experiential".  I don’t claim to know everything, but my lifetime of participation, study of, teaching about and being a part of the fabric of the institution makes me wonder if it is one of those communities that is bound to fail.  On the verge of failure, in fact.  Many, many, many books are being written on the subject, including one I am reading now – we can talk about that when I’m done with it.  It would seem that many of the mainline denominations are structured in such a way that their main goal is the survival of the institution, not the institution's ideals.  And the church is not alone in this – educational institutions are in a similar situation.  How many colleges and universities are still practicing the educational and altruistic ideals of their founders?  How many choices have they made over the years to keep the doors open that, in the long run, go against the mission of educating their students? 

The Church does this with alarming frequency, as do educational institutions, corporate America, the government…need I go on???  They create systems of governance and polity to protect “the integrity of the institution” while tying the hands of those doing the work inside it.  They create rules and regulations, such as how much each individual congregation should give to the larger parent organization, that are blatantly out of line with the teachings they profess to the world as being a pathway to greater spiritual oneness with their Creator as they understand that Presence to be.  And they do this in the name of the institution, which in truth has become their God.  And there lies the problem.

Once an institution becomes more important than the people inside it, the community as it was created and the purpose of that community has failed.  The original mission becomes hidden and the people inside fall prey to buying into the system to protect their livelihoods and futures, forgetting why there are there in the first place – to become one with each other.   Can anyone cite the reasons why The United States became a nation?  Are we still living into those ideals of freedom?  Do we even know why our churches exist?  If you examine their mission statements, do their ministries and programming live into that mission in ALL that they do?  What are the original purposes of our universities and colleges?  Do we see that purpose in the students?

In my life, it seems that the only community that has remained “true to its purpose” has been my community of friends and family.  This has not always been a smooth journey either, but I can honestly say that we know why we are together.  Because we love each other.  Don't always know why, but we do.  We know why sometimes we cannot stand each other and yet put up with it any way – because we’ve learned to forgive.  And that takes a lot of practice, but we are willing to do the work to make it happen.  For me, I believe that the successes of my “personal communities” come from the ideals we’ve learned in our shared faith, which includes learning how to be in community with those who are not in our community of faith.  I don’t believe in only being friends with people who believe the same things I do.  It’s a boring way to live, and you’ll never learn the truths of life if you only stick with the folks who know the same things you do.  What if you were all wrong?  We often are.

Where are you going with this, Nicole? Not quite sure, actually. A few days ago I wrote a Dr. Suessian poem on Facebook about leaving the Episcopal Church. Forever. Of course, the minute you say “forever” you realize that at some point in life you will have to eat those words, and they won’t be covered in chocolate when you do. But I am considering taking an extended sabbatical from the institutional church. This creates a myriad of issues because, duh, I’m an organist and that’s how I make my money. And in the end that’s where I my heart is and where I found a purpose. But I got issues, as they say on tv. I would love to say that I'm living for my art (!) but unfortunately for me, eating is one of my favorite activities, and art will buy me Ramen Noodles, not cassoulet wtih a nice bold red to accompany it. Life is to be enjoyed, not endured. As an artist and a person of faith I’ve committed to living a life dedicated to the truth of my art and the truth of my faith, and baby, it just ain’t there. For me. I am not bashing or trying to ruin the fulfilling world many of you have created for yourselves. I am happy for the people who have found true community and can proclaim it from the mountaintops. Do your thing. But for me, and perhaps a bunch of you…maybe that truth is just dead. For now. And that, friends, is something worth wrestling with.

Let’s wrestle together – it’s much more fun.  Tell me what you’re thinking.

Don’t look down!

I first heard the text below – don’t look yet! – and its accompanying tune from the ELW hymnal while listening to one of my most admired friends and colleagues play for a streamed chapel service online.  I first met him in the early days of grad school at Eastman – another of my newly found friends TOLD me that I was going to a service of Lessons and Carols at a Lutheran church in town.  I didn’t have a choice, I was going.  I said, well, ok.  I wasn’t really expecting much, but I was in for the surprise of my life.  I had never heard such hymn playing.  During the service I found myself singing as hard as I could, almost yelling the text at times, and I even found myself starting to belt out in chest voice so I could sing louder as I was encouraged to add fervor to the words by his improvisations.  It was a life changing experience, and my own hymn playing changed forever.  After that evening I never missed one Lessons and Carols service at that church, and after I graduated I made it a point to return for them when my schedule permitted, even through crazy snow storms.  It became a yearly pilgrimage for all of us who became close during those days.

Back to today’s music and text – don’t look!  I must admit that I did not know and could not hear the hymn text as I was first listening to it.  Nevertheless, I was completely taken by his rendition of it.  For a brief few moments, the world stopped and my mind quit running in its familiar, infuriating  circles.  There was nothing left but those few, heart-wrenching moments of musical pain.  Those of you who love Brahms will understand that statement. This particular colleague has the most incredible gift of improvisation coupled with a deep maturity and understanding of spiritual texts that I have never encountered again.   Before you read the text below, take a moment or two to listen for yourself – it begins around the 15:20 mark. 

Mystery Hymn

What did you think?  Maybe you weren’t moved by it all – that’s ok, too.  For myself, I listened to the hymn over and over again.  After I finally looked up the text, I was not surprised to see that my friend had once again conveyed the feeling and meaning of the text though the music.  I LOVE the deep, dark textures he coaxed out of the organ – VERY Brahmsy.  I did not have to see the words as I listened – I felt them. 

What went through my head?  Believe it or not, my thoughts immediately went to the importance of the sacrifices we make for the people we love.  The importance of completely pouring ourselves out for the sake of the ones around us, to the point of being completely empty ourselves.  Helping loved ones as they are held hostage in the prisons of their own grief and pain.  In my experience I have found that when I truly committed to this path, it was disturbingly easy.  And the emptiness that follows wasn’t apparent until there was no turning back from the path I had chosen.  I gave beyond my reserve, going deeper with every dark turn.  As painful as this was, and as large as a wound it created, if I had the opportunity I would not change the course I had chosen because I know this is why we’ve been given to each other.  This is why we have been given the gift of family, friendship, community and love.  I need not worry about what happens to me when I am blessed enough to have people around me who will do the same – that is the gift of God within all of us, and for me, the true definition of freedom.

And now, the text of the hymn, which was written by Susan Palo Cherwien.  I was amazed when I read the text and found how much it complemented the thoughts that were inspired by the music.  I owe that to my incredibly talented colleague. 

In deepest night, in darkest days, 

When harps are hung, no songs we raise,

when silence must suffice as praise, 

yet sounding in us quietly 

there is the song of God.

When friend was lost, when love deceived, 

dear Jesus wept, God was bereaved;

with us in our grief God grieves, 

and round about us mournfully 

there are the tears of God.

When through the waters winds our path, 

around us pain, around us death:

deep calls to deep, a saving breath, 

and found beside us faithfully 

there is the love of God.

Thanks be to God for the gift of music.

What I’m Giving Up For Lent

For the first time in 18 years I will not spend this particular day preparing for our entrance into Lent, which has always been my favorite season of the church year along with Advent.  Why do I love it?  Because it is full of symbolism, mystery and anticipation.  I love prophetic scriptures and the metaphorical stories and parables Jesus often tells to the disciples in the New Testament.  They rarely understand a word he says, which is always comical.  I can just imagine the exasperated look on his face after telling them something of dire importance which is met with the same blank stare I often saw on my students’ faces in class after asking them a question.  I’m sure there was more than one occasion where he said to God, “Really, Lord?  These are the chosen ones?  This is all I’ve got to work with???”  


Even though we think we know what we are anticipating – the coming of Easter and whatever that means for you – there is always the possibility of the unexpected if you set yourself up for it.  How Is that so, you ask?  By choosing whatever Lenten discipline is best for you.  Even if you are not a Christian, taking advantage of a 40 day period of reflection and discipline could lead to some meaningful changes or epiphanies in your life.  Other religions have similar practices and spiritual pilgrimages.  Ben and I had dinner with some new friends a few weeks ago and we had a fascinating conversation with a couple from India about some of their spiritual goals.  The different religions of the world have a lot to offer each other in their spiritual practices – why not explore them and see what’s there?  


My Christian friends (and no doubt my father, the retired AME minister) are probably raising their eyebrows right now and wondering what I’ve been smoking in Minnesota for the past 3 days.  Why nothing, of course – just that crisp, clean Midwestern air, with a little bit of Malt-O-Meal fumes mixed in.  If my Aunt were still alive she’d be on her way to my house right now, Bible in hand, doily on head, ready to cleanse my mind and soul from wayward thoughts (praise Him!), and there would surely be a lot of whooping and hollering going on.  


No, I’m not giving up Christianity, or delving into some vague, foggy new-age spiritual practice.   I’m just thinking.  Ruminating.  I’ve been blessed over the last 15 years or so to be immersed by the life-giving traditions of Lutheran and Anglican theology and liturgy, and I’m not giving them up for the world.  I’m just letting them simmer for a bit.  Putting the pot on the back burner of the stove – not forgotten by any means – but occasionally stirring, letting interesting aromas waft about in anticipation of some particularly yummy concoction.  No idea what it will be, but it will a meal I’ll feed off of for some time, I'm sure.  


This is all very vague, Nicole, you’re saying.  Maybe you need some more sleep (most definitely).  Maybe the cabin of that airplane you’re on isn’t quite pressurized right and you’re not getting enough oxygen (doubt it).  Maybe you actually need to start smoking something (I’ve thought about it…just kidding). I do think there are times when we can’t get what we’ve normally got from the places we normally get them from.  Then we just have to make it up as we go along for a while.  Wander around without having to make any real decisions until the moment is right.  There’s nothing wrong with that, as long as you don’t wander around for too long – then you just end up lost.  But I’m not too worried about that, with all those eyebrow-raising friends and family around.  I’m sure someone will smack me in the head with a Bible, a Prayer Book, or a Large Catechism eventually (the Small one just might not be enough).  


So, what am I giving up for Lent?  I’m giving up Lent – the Lent as I have known it for the bulk of my life.  Not because there is anything wrong with it – no bashing of Christian practices here.  As much as I had come to depend on and look forward to the familiar patterns of liturgy, worship, and observances, I find that I am even more looking forward to forging my own way through the season.  Every year I say to myself that I will read this or that book and I never do it, so I’m not even going to pretend this year.  What I am going to do is dabble.  Peruse the web for different materials.  Visit other people’s blogs and writing – a little Lenten voyeurism, if you will.  A good friend of mine has an excellent blog that I follow – visit his posting for Ash Wednesday here.  He has suggested a number of ideas and resources for exploring the season and exploring ourselves.  I’m going definitely going to check them out – don’t know if I’ll actually follow any of them.  I won’t commit to commit this year – just can’t do that right now.  But I’ll see what’s out there.  If you’ve found something good, please share it below – you never know what can be sparked from one good idea…


Happy Lenting!

“What a world, what a world…”

I am now on “the other side” of my Kansas recital, sitting in the airport in Detroit, completely exhausted from the experience, but pleased.  I’ve found myself thinking several times about how incredibly blessed I am to be able to do what I love for a living – make music.  You have to love it, because the pay scale is severely disproportionate to the amount of work involved, but who cares?  Well, we all care, of course, but the experience of meeting new people, new instruments and throwing yourself into the music make up for it.  Most of the time.  And it certainly did this time.  


The trip began as a typical (well, maybe not this year) morning in February does in Cleveland – with a snow storm.  I always say to people who are afraid of flying that your chances of dying on the way to the airport are probably much greater than your chances of going down on the plane.  That little factoid just doesn’t seem to help for some reason.  Thankfully, my flight was uneventful.  As I was sitting in the plane at the Akron-Canton airport, I marveled how bleak and unremarkable the landscape was.  It was a blustery, winter mess out there – no colors to be seen except white and gray and very few buildings or landmarks around.  We could have been sitting in any airport in Anytown, USA.  I said my usual prayer as we took off – Lord, please let the flight be safe but if you’re going to take me make it quick – and was thankful later on for a safe journey.  AND I was lucky enough NOT to be the person whose luggage fell apart.  I tried really hard not to laugh when the busted suitcase went riding around the belt with a pair of gray “tighty-whiteys” hanging of the side.  And even funnier (but not really, I know) to see their owner running around the belt trying to catch it.


During the flight I pondered what a blessing flying really was.  You are literally and figuratively removed from your life as you know it.  And there’s no point in worrying about anything while you’re in the air because you can’t do anything about whatever it is you’re worrying about.  A priceless opportunity to just sit back and enjoy the scenery and dream amidst the clouds.  A life without dreams is a life without a future.  Dreaming is so important – we all need something positive to look forward to, something or some experience we can share with the people who mean the most to us.  I don’t consider it a coincidence that some of the darkest times of my adult life I eventually came to the realization that I had stopped dreaming, stopped hoping for the future, and was just reacting to whatever was happening in the present.  Or just standing and staring at it in shock.  


I rented a car once I arrive in Kansas City, forgoing the extra insurance the nice young man tried to sell me because they were going to get an inch of snow on Monday.  I assured him I was an expert snow driver – I lived in upstate New York for 2 years for crying out loud, and now I live in Cleveland, which isn’t much better.  He said it wasn’t me he was worried about.  


I asked, “Do they do a good job with plowing here?”  
“No, not really.”  
“Oh.  Do you normally get a lot of snow?”  
“No, this will be the first time this season.”  
“Ah,”   
(brief pause)
“Are you sure you don’t want the insurance, ma’am?  It’s just mayhem here when it snows.  MAYHEM.”  


I almost laughed out loud at him – mayhem for an inch of snow?  Please.  I wish I could explain the look on his face – a mixture of horror and “lady you’re crazy if you don’t get the extra insurance.”  And you should have seen the sorry snow brush they left in the car - thin, untreated wood for a handle that almost broke while I was brushing the inch of the windshield.  Better than nothing!  In the end, I rolled out of the lot and got myself on to the highway without incident, happily going along once I realized that driving under 75 miles an hour was not acceptable no matter what the speed limit says.  I had a passing moment of panic when I thought I had chosen a car without a cup holder, but found it hidden in the dash.  If there’s no space for Joe, there’s no space for me – I’ve got priorities, you know.  I arrived at the hotel without incident.  The hotel was great, especially once that Christian Youth Conference group checked out.  Loud and obnoxious, and not because they love Jesus.  


I’d been looking forward to this recital so much because the organ is fantastic, the hall is fantastic, and the instrument is kept in damn near perfect condition compared to many.  There is no fun in any performance when you have to wrestle the instrument into submission in order to get an acceptable palate of sound.  Meeting an unfamiliar instrument always involves a bit of shock, a bit of temporary disorientation until your mind and ear finally adjust to what’s going on around you.  For me that happened about 6 hours before the recital when I finally said to myself, “there it is!”  The challenge with this instrument is the enormous scope of sound coming out of the organ and the lingering sonority as it swirls around the room.  It’s incredibly beautiful, but incredibly disorienting at first.  It’s a little crazy to put your hands on the keyboard and not be able to hear note #3 because note #2 is in the way, and so on.  You just have to trust that it’s there, and that every note after that will be exactly where you put it because that’s the way you practiced it.  As an organist, you must learn to do this – you are wielding so much sound around that room and if you don’t know how to handle it, you end up with a big, fat mess.  And THAT is not incredibly beautiful.  I am so accustomed to playing in the dry, useless acoustic that is so common in many American churches and concert halls where every note is almost too clear.  Finally, my approach to this particular instrument was, “stop trying so hard and just do what you know how to do”.   If only I could learn to live the rest of my life that way.  


After a couple of days of non-stop practice, score study, and rest, the recital was played, and I have to say that it wasn’t horrible!  On the Nicole Scale of Performances that’s pretty good.  I managed to stay focused and in control while enjoying the music and the experience at the same time – it’s a lot to juggle.  There is nothing more thrilling that the sound of an organ, especially in such a wonderful acoustic, and the feeling of power and control that comes with knowing that you are creating it.  Yeah, it’s a little narcissistic, but let me have my moment.  We have to enjoy every little guilty pleasure we get in life that is not illegal, immoral or supremely unhealthy.  I love what I do.  There may be a day that comes when I can no longer do it, so I’m going to squeeze all the life out of it I possibly can.  


Work hard, play hard – it’s the only way to live.