Overdue England

This week in Cambridge has been a truly memorable one.  But perhaps for fear that I might not remember it I feel the need to record as much as possible in these remaining hours on the train, in the airport, before heading back to the impersonal chaotic rush of America and New York.  I wish it would be possible to capture both the nature of some of the events as well as the characteristics that made them so valuable.

After staying at my friend's London apartment, I rode the tube with her to the Liverpool station to catch a train to Cambridge.  It was another journey through the greens and towns of English countryside, pulling into a station that has by now become somewhat familiar.  I took a cab to Wolfson college to meet with Andrew for lunch before a quick practice on my borrowed cello and a spot of rehearsal.  Jet lagged, we hurried to a talk given by Nicholas Cook, a musicologist who was speaking about the life of Samuel Coolridge-Taylor, a black English composer of the late 19th century.  Afterwards we met some of Andrew's peers, old and introductory in the lobby.  Divvying up people to cars, I shared a cozy half hour drive to Ely with our hostess of the evening, Professor Hawkins, and two other graduate students from the Centre for Music and Science.  

When we arrived, we entered her large but cozy kitchen and joined about a dozen others in a dinner of borscht, vegetarian chili, salad, homemade focaccia, wine, and conversation. This was one of the Professor's occasional CMS parties, gatherings, which I gathered, that change in nature throughout the year, sometimes in her large beautiful garden with a frisbee, sometimes cuddling in the kitchen around her warm stove.

We headed home by train and stayed that evening with friends, working in the morning and going in to town for some errands, closing the bank account, checking the graduation garb.  And the rest of the day was catch-up, practicing more in the afternoon, having dinner with friends in the dining hall.  For me it was meeting the hands and faces of names I had known for a long time, and greeting again ones that I had warmly met before.

That evening we with stayed with a very good friend, a significant member of Wolfson College and musical life in Cambridge, the director of choirs, a real mentor in life for Andrew and many others. Warm, personal, and professional she exhibits the qualities that make the community in Cambridge so special.  The following morning we slept quite late (still in another time zone), enjoyed a long relaxed, full breakfast in her cozy kitchen and started the day with a rehearsal of the Brahms songs for our recital in her living room.

Andrew's family had arrived from their journeys elsewhere in England and we met with them in their hotel that afternoon, before walking to our Wolfson College lodgings.  We quickly showered and changed into formal wear (meaning a robe for Andrew) in preparation for Burns night.  But before this, we headed to a short talk on the evolution of musical capacity in humans (complete with drinks beforehand, customary, I presume) given by a professor on sabbatical from Peabody Conservatory.  

And then Burns night.  This was one of the big anticipations of the visit to Cambridge.  Every year at this time, Cambridge and many other places in the UK celebrate the birthday of Scotland's national poet, Robert Burns.  It includes a very formal dinner with several traditional toasts, and a ceillidh (traditional Scottish folk dancing).  Beforehand we all waited in the Combination Room, served white wine and orange juice, until the gong sounded and everyone became silent gathering to proceed into the dining hall.  Once they were standing behind their seats,  the bagpiper began, and some of the honored guests (one for whom I happened to be the partner, and therefore included) lined up behind his droning pipes, and he and Andrew's supervisor, Professor Cross (a Scotsman in full Scottish regalia for the evening) proceeded us through the dining hall of standing people to our seats at the head.  Prof. Cross spoke a Gaelic poem and we were seated.  

The tables were lined with white linen and candles, and many glasses and silverware for all the dining and drinking that would unfold over the course of the evening.  The wine came several times, as did the whisky for the toasts.  The first course was a vegetable barley soup and dinner roll, and shortly after this, the bagpipes began again and we rose as the bagpiper led a procession to our front table followed by the chef carrying the haggis on a platter and two servants with bottles of whiskey on either side.  The bagpiper handed a large ritual knife to Professor Cross, which he laid on the table.  He spoke in Gaelic the Ode to Haggis, a traditional Scottish poem, and at the appropriate moment, picked up the knife and sliced through the skin holding it together.  

Burns and his poetry is famous for womanizing and as such, one of the toasts is a Toast to the Lassies, which traditionally includes jokes about women and sexual innuendo.  Somehow, perhaps through reluctance on the part of others, perhaps through a subtle sense of humor on the part of Prof. Cross, this honor fell to Andrew.  And so for the past week he had been studying other toasts online, brainstorming ideas which might be appropriate both for the occasion but also to his own natural reticence in such discourse.  So after Prof. Cross's Toast to the Immortal Memory (of Burns) a reflective speech on his life and political importance for Scotland, an American Andrew delivered a very well-received and humored toast.  

There was then a dessert of fruit crumble and dessert wine and Highland coffee.  After being well-alcoholed, the bagpiper led us down the stairs to the club room where a small band was waiting to lead us through a series of dances.  It is a wonderful thing to dance in a group of people, a great way to meet others with breathless smiles, to memorize movements and to coordinate them with others, weaving in and out of each other's arms, creating patterns on the floors.  There are some things from other cultures that I wish were more prominent in my own, and this is definitely one of them.

It was a late night, and the next morning, Saturday was an early one as we met with Andrew's family for breakfast at their hotel on the river Cam.  We then walked over to the college for a reception (opportunity for the praelector (Master of Ceremonies for the college) to check everyone's gowns and for everyone to drink sparkling wine) and preceded to a full lunch of carrot fennel soup, roast vegetables with feta in a crunchy pastry crust, and apple crumble pie with vanilla sauce, all paired with a French white wine, freely flowing and conversation with the president of the college who sat along with us, a man knighted for his historical work. 

The graduates and their families (only five at this time of year) all processed through the town to the Senate House, where family waited in line outside and the honorees got in their lines.  I'd heard a great deal about the Cambridge graduation ceremony and it didn't disappoint.  Like the formal dinner, no pictures or electronic devises were allowed.  We filed into a few wood benches along the sides of the Senate Building, and college by college the graduates were announced, in Latin they were presented, each touching the finger of their praelector, and coming forward to kneel in front of the deputy chancellor, hands clasped and their degree conferred upon them.

Despite being in Latin and following a format that hasn't changed in 200 years, the structure allowed for those who did not want the trinity blessing, or to kneel.  Why was it still in Latin?  Will that ever change?  Latin is often considered an elite language of the academics, but perhaps one day it will be completely archaic, will not mean anything but to those who specially study it.  It is something reserved for ritual, a space that is beyond a meaning into which we can literally tap.  

Following the short ceremony, everyone stood on the lawn for pictures because it is one of the only times that you can (stand on the lawn), and then Andrew returned the graduation garb and we headed back to the hotel for tea (a tiered tray of scones, desserts, and sandwiches included).  A walk around town, stopping into the Eagle pub where apparently one evening, Watson and Crick had a drink and came up with the idea of DNA, and finished the evening with Chinese food.

Sunday was recital day.  It often happens that Andrew and I schedule these recitals and are rushed in our practice and rehearsal; graduation week, full of family and friendly reunions is not the most opportune time for isolating oneself for practice.  And yet we were excited about this program: Martinu 3rd Cello Sonata, three Brahms songs with mezzo-soprano, and Brahms 2nd Cello Sonata.  It was a fun program, and the audience, full of friends of Andrew gave us their attention and respect, which allowed us to return it to them, regardless of pitfalls along the way.  It was an encouraging recital, very well-received and an impetus for creating further performance opportunities together.

As part of the incredible graciousness of this community, a member of the Wolfsom choir and her husband invited everyone to their home for drinks and snacks and so we were able to mingle with more of the community, meeting more warm faces and getting to know others better and better.  

And to round off the evening, we went to a curry place, to enjoy the famously delicious curry of England which was indeed delicious.  One more evening at Lyn's lovely home and off quickly to do some chores in town, return the cello to its owner in London, and arriving at an airport, waiting for a delayed flight to snowy New York.

This week has taught me more about the importance of community, about the importance of ritual, and the importance of gratitude.  This is a small town, and everyone seems very grateful to all that everyone else does.  Everyone seems willing to extend a hand, to help, and all seem to think that they are appreciated more than they give.  

And before this week, I think I had doubted the importance of returning tho Cambridge for such a short archaic service.  Surely the most importance thing is the work that goes into a doctorate, not the formal wear, and the ritual.  But having the whole family together to recognize the endeavor of this work and learning seemed to crown, in a way, that work and curiosity alone cannot do.  It was a proud moment for Andrew's parents and significant that they could partake in the accomplishment.  Several of his other family members were able to come as well, and this contributed to the feeling of support, as if to say, This matters, this is an important thing to have done.  A heartfelt congratulations.  

Monastic New York

When I visited Korea last year, I remember going to a monastery for a meditation lesson and listening to a visiting monk speak about monastery life.  He said something that rang true even for my non-monastic life at the time, that living in close quarters with the same group of people forces the ego to bump against the walls of others, prohibits one from hiding from oneself.  This element of the monastery is a way for individuals to come to greater self-knowing.

I am such a young teacher in New York.  I teach with others and I hear their ideas, I practice with students who have very experienced teachers and I lead them through their teacher's guiding.  I am in close pedagogical quarters with others.

There is growth there.  New York is a sort of monastery, but not one in which all have agreed to common rules.  Each person interprets their position in this metropolis in a different way and sees their trajectory in a different light.  But everyone is in a tight network of others.  There are so many people in New York, and while one can hide in the numbers in the subway or on the street, this is not the reality of life.  There is no hiding here.

New York shaves and sculpts its occupants.  It is a busy, bustling retreat of sorts for any occupation.  Although here, the ego may be inflated as easily as it may be shaved.  But there is no hiding.  We live in a city of closeness, of people all around us.

Knowing (England)

I've been on a lot of people movers today.  Subways, trains, airplanes, tubes and now I'm in the apartment of a person I've known since kindergarten, grown up and married, who lives with her husband in one of the many row houses in London, England, on one of the few little hills that are here.

Flying in, I got to see the green pastures that are so idiosyncratic to this country.  And taking the train in to London, the many row houses, all alike within each grouping, all similar between, and yet unique.  The universally accepted idea of shared walls, narrow stairwells, small rooms, mirror layouts to your neighbor.  They are functional, quaint.  

I'm struck by how English everything is.  I have seen pictures of England, heard English people speak, seen it in movies, seen it stereotyped, known it from history, and even have memories, some very personal of being here.  But none of those things is actually being here.  They are all reference points, shadows, illusions of this place.  It is not a lived experience on a day to day basis for me.

Being here, it is incredible (and incredible that it should be so) that everything is so English.  This is a real place that exists in the utmost of sincerity.  The bricks, the sidewalks, the sights and sounds and the feel of it are a real thing.  Even having been here, I do not know its reality unless I am actually here.

But then, how can one judge if that is ever really true?  How many other things do I know by experience, by reference, by acquired knowledge that might amaze me in the flesh?  Do I know the people I know?  Do I know music?  Do I know dancing, and light, and touch?  Love?  

Seeing a student....

Seeing a student can be a practice in seeing oneself, or seeing any other person for that matter.  To see a student is to see possibility, to see what is there beyond the present.  We don't often look at ourselves or the people around us in this regard.  We are framed, built on identities which we hold dear to ourselves, or laugh about, or try to hide.  We see others as framed entities, easy to put into boxes as being one way or another.  But to see a student and to be sincerely interested in the learning of that student, is to see something that isn't there, and to have trust that it can be there.  The trust part is just as invaluable as the vision.  I don't think they can be separated.  To believe that something is possible requires imagination and faith, and a plan to put them together.

To see another person in this way is as close as I can imagine to what love might be.  Yes, we can love one another for what we understand, for seeing something in another person that we value, something which is compatible, which makes sense to us.  But on another level, beyond the characteristics of personality and ability, attributes like beauty and intelligence, we can become open to any person, to see their humanity and greet them with acceptance, or at the very least, open interest.  Perhaps we can learn from them, or they will want to learn from us.  Or perhaps there is no desire for exchange and it cannot be forced and learning and loving can happen elsewhere.  But we can still be open to the possibility that such a relationship can develop.  I think this in itself–the ability to be open to this relationship–can be learned, perhaps can be taught.

To teach formally is a practice in seeing oneself and the people in one's life as changeable, flawed, growing, learning individuals.  From the inside, being with oneself minute to minute, it can be hard to see growth as we take steps back and try to push ourselves forward.  But from the outside, something slightly more punctuated, we can see the progress of student, checking in with them on a regular basis, seeing them change over the years with guidance.  We can celebrate their victories as our own, not only for the content of what we have taught, but for the ability of people to grow and learn.  It is a gift to be able to have such a relationship with other people, a guide for oneself of what can be possible elsewhere in life.

E.M.

Over the course of my cello life, I have realized many challenges.  Intonation, focus, memory, nerves, bowing.  We had our recital in Harlem and while we had some fun demonstrations for the parents and group pieces, I also had all of the students play a solo.  And for several of them, this was the first time they had ever performed.

It's such an unusual thing to do and the fact that it is a little scary means that it is easy to forget what an incredible privilege and opportunity it is.  One of the girls in my class is extremely sweet and soft-spoken, but with an incredibly scattered focus.  Sometimes I've felt I needed to remind her that she is playing the cello.  In my mind, I had thought she might need some support to get through her Twinkle.  In her last through run-throughs her hand was way off (she said today in our warm-up reflection that something she had learned about the cello is that there are different notes), and she kept playing the middle section three times, though not always so clearly.

But in the recital today it was nearly perfect.  Her best performance yet.  The pressure of the moment brought her into focus, and when she stood up for her bow I saw her smile so delightedly.  It was another moment, like yesterday's, a realization of a possibility, of growth.

I can relate to her focus.  I can relate to the power of performance and the thrill that it brings to be so focused.  It's exciting to be sharing this with someone.

One Small Step

Running from one thing to another.  Dress rehearsal for our recital tomorrow at the Harlem school to midtown to observe pre-Twinkle Suzuki class.  From controlling my cat herd to watching five calm 5-year-olds with their parents touch the bow to the string for the first time in class.  The look on one girl's was a one of the happiest things I have ever seen.  The magic of doing something impossible.  Does that ever happen again as an adult?  It seems like we are supposed to have a pretty good idea of the possible and the impossible by now.  Apparently she thought the same.  That such possibility exists in this world.  Magic is real.  We can do something we have never been able to do before.

Herd of Cats

There is nothing like a recital to make people want to run away.  It's amazing how impossible a cat becomes to hold when they know it's bath time.  Maybe this is what needs to be taught at this point.  Claims of not being able to be there, of switching pieces last minute, of not realizing what is expected.  Some perhaps just got distracted in all the other academic demands that are being asked of them during this testing time.  I sympathize at the same time that I realize I have to be as demanding. But with love.  Tomorrow to go through their pieces again and give feedback, hopefully getting them closer to trusting that they can do it.

Practicing and Money

Rainy days in New York.  I can't get enough of them.  Especially when they are on a nothing-to-do Sunday.

Yesterday two significant things happened besides going to Roosevelt Island.  I recorded my expenses and income from the past two months and I started serious practice for the upcoming recital that Andrew and I will be doing in two weeks in Cambridge.  In a need to augment the program, we've suddenly added another piece from our repertoire, the Brahms F Major sonata, and suddenly this performance has become a true performance, not such a tack-on to the graduation trip that it originally was.

The connection between these two and the place where I currently am in teaching and such has suggested that it may be time to do more to be a cellist again.  Firstly to make money, but secondly, to acknowledge that this is something that I do, an identity that I have cultivated over my life time.  These past few months have been the first period in my life where I have had the choice of taking a break from being a cellist and oddly enough it wasn't until yesterday, as I was enjoying a earnest practice session, that I realized this about my life so far.

Japan broke apart a lot of the momentum of my life, which was appreciated.  We get going on a path, a way of thinking and doing, and keep going and going without having a chance to step back and see what we are doing.  Japan interrupted a lot that.  But not cello.  There has been little to do this, even these past few months haven't really done it but they have suggested it.

I could be looking at completely different careers right now, but nothing else has seemed appealing and I haven't really thought about it switching or going back to school for another career.  Teaching seems magical to me, something I want to be able to do really well.  And playing is a lot of fun when it is on my own terms.  As I go through this time in New York, I hope to get closer and closer to this balance.

$2.75 On the Town

You don't have to spend money on fancy cocktails to hit the town in New York.  This evening's date was a bus ride to Astoria, Queens and then a walk to Roosevelt Island, one of the eeriest places I've encountered in New York.  We were surprised to see the uniform residence buildings, the streets sparsely dotted with people, the rats along the river walkway.  Who lives here, inconveniently connected to the bustle on the other side of the half rivers on either side, luxurious in solitude and quiet?

At the end of the road on the island was a subway stop.  We entered, still on the transfer fare from our bus ride, and descended and descended to the platform for the underwater jot to Manhattan.  People and more people to get home, from our misty 2.75 excursion.

Marta

In my Dalcroze class there has been a brave attendee, a film artist interested in gesture and therefore curious about the class from a perspective quite different from all the musicians who are enrolled.  Over the past few months we've become class friends.  Despite her complete lack of musical experience, she has been a fun musical friend and I've enjoyed talking to her in the elevator and during the breaks.

But today was her last class and oddly enough, that means the end for us.  There's really no reason to ever see her again.  But somehow in New York this just seems so natural.  People come and go and we essentially said this to one another tonight.  It was good to meet you, best wishes.  Perhaps I'll find her at an art show one day.  Or just happen onto the same subway car.  That would be pretty surprising and also pretty cool.

Return to New York

More and more I'm becoming immersed in New York again.  Aggressively crossing cross walks, responding to last minute requests, walking heavily, and yet not as much as before the break.  In the past two weeks I remembered the importance of family, something that seems too round to fit into the New York box of life.  This is the place of careers, of being all you can be and all that the world around you wants you to be.  It's a fun game to play, but seeing that it is a game lightens my step a little.  At least in these first few days back.  I'm sure it will try to seep in, again.

I'm also remembering how rewarding it is to teach, even as it is also challenging.  I had the opportunity to sub for a Suzuki Pre-Twinkle class which is normally taught by a Suzuki master teacher and in the anticipation and release of this opportunity, grew as a teacher.  And I am having a similar experience at the school.  The accordion opens and closes and breathes more and more easily.  I realized in a moment on the subway train today that I think I can become a great teacher, but also realized how far I have until I get there.  So many hours are needed of looking and listening to a student, and wondering how to communicate a thought or a concept and then connecting the two: potential to actual, being that link.

This is my life in New York right now.  Teaching and walking the streets of large buildings in crowds of people that have important things to do, that care greatly or are forced to care greatly about their world.  And it's wonderful to be back, at least for the time being.

Bidden or Unbidden

It is something of a tradition that we find a cabin in California to spend New Year's with friends.  Only an hour away is Julien, California, a small town in the rolling mountains of ranches and agriculture in the southern part of the state.  This is Steinbeck's land; the brown dry hills cast purple shadows in the setting sun, the wide expanses are home to ranging cattle and horses, orange and grapefruit farms, winding roads with produce stands, and here in Julien, apple pies and cider.  

This last week we have been in San Diego, with another group of family members and dogs.  And yesterday we celebrated New Year's Eve with a short morning Tae Kwon Do before a lunch with extended family and the drive out to the cabin.  In a closing moment of silence, I reflected on the space, the identity, the time that has been covered in this year.  Another language, another currency, another way of interacting with the people I love, a different balance of finding satisfaction in life.  

And now 2016 has begun and it is a time to reflect on what may be coming in the future.  What will this year bring?  It is still yesterday's tomorrow, just like every other day.  The future is a continuation of many things in the past.  It seems that I will be filling in an outline that I have been constructing for many years this year.  There has been so much shifting around for so long; building happens in many different ways.   

The cabin is beautiful.  We watched the sky from the deck to bring in the new year, and I saw a shooting star.  I awoke early in the morning to see a rim of pink light creeping up behind the bare mountains, putting the night sky still filled with stars gently to bed. 

We have celebrated a day like every other day, hidden as another year, royal with friends and the beauty of our natural world.  These things are always here, rising and falling, soft and warm, glowing around us.