To a 6-year-old in Westport, CT

How wonderful, the light that falls on buildings at sunset and crowns them with a glory more than they are. Grace can fall at anytime and how wonderful when it does, something to celebrate.  And sometimes it falls from places below, rising from dissent, from suffering, from decay, from insecurity and frustration.  

A child's vulnerability in a group class today was a gift to me.  He started to cry when he made a mistake in Song of the Wind and couldn't get back on to join us.  And the same in Go Tell Aunt Rhody.  His mother told me that he had played them perfectly that morning, and it was frustrating to him that even though we gave it another go for him, that he couldn't get them all the way through.  He is a slower paced individual, not quick to speak or react.  The option of getting back on is perhaps not so available to him as it is to others.  His frustration was probably more than any of us can know, totally worthy of the tears his mother told him not to shed.  But today in particular I noticed his beautiful intonation, and I told him this after class, as he was trying to pull himself together.  "We've been working on that," his mother said, grateful for the comment.  And he paused a second in his sobbing, his breath still taking him in a despairing direction.  

It can be so hard to see our beauty.  To see the things that are loved about us.  This child has no idea how much he is loved.  I can see his frustration, I can see his mother's concern, perhaps her own insecurity in his behavior and how it reflects upon her, and in those things, they are so lovable.  Perhaps it is their concern for perfection, their seeking of love in something, be it another person, be it in an ability, or in an ability to simply be able to play with other people.  But there is a light that shines on them.  And it is a lesson to me, that in times when I do not feel worthy, there is also a light upon me, and every person that lives.  

Sunset Under the Brooklyn Bridge

An evening under the Brooklyn Bridge.....

The Dentist's Office

When I finally got the receptionist's attention at the dentist's office, I told her I was there for a 12 o'clock appointment.  "Andrea?  I have here that you were at 11."   Hmmmm....I was pretty sure it was 12.  I had immediately written it in my calendar the week before and don't usually mistake this sort of thing.  But unfortunately I had denied the printed appointment confirmation receipt the week before, and so couldn't show her anything.  But I was pretty sure.  She called back for a dental assistant to come help address the issue.

During our conversation another man walked up and started talking to her, perhaps not realizing she was occupied.  She seemed to recognize him.  "T, you're late.  No your appointment was at 11:30, not 12.  No, you're late."

"You can go ahead and take a seat,"  she said to me.  "I've called for the assistant."

Most of the seats were full.  It was more full than last week when I came for a cleaning, but it was a similar scene.  The TV was turned up, showing local news (people being interviewed about how hot it was), people were talking full voice.  Especially present were the voices of the mothers scolding their children for minimal offenses, being out of their seat, or just being too squirmy.  And when yelling didn't work, there were potato chips to appease.  I don't think there was another white person there.  

After about 10 minutes the assistant that I'd met the week before came out and asked if I could come back at 4.  I really couldn't.  He offered another time next week.  Based on my experience the week before–having had a 10am appointment and not being seen until 11 and then not being finished until 12:30–I explained I could do that time, but it would really have to be that time and I'd need to be done about an hour afterwards.  He looked down and walked back to check another possibility, that being too much to assume.  So we settled for a time, earlier in the morning,  when the chances of the office being overwhelmed would be less.

It has been enlightening to be in the middle of the Medicaid system.  I was in one office, and even gave a urine sample before being kicked out because my insurance was not accepted there.  In another dentist's office, I learned that I had been assigned a different primary dentist (how was I supposed to know this?) and that unless it was an emergency, insurance would not cover that visit (the receptionist tried to convince me this wasn't the case because their office would just bill later, after the date when my new preferred primary dentist (them) went into effect–I didn't bite).  It's incredible how much time it takes to take care of oneself in this system, to figure things out, and my issues are incredibly minimal.  Who can give up a day of their lives to sit in a clinic waiting room, and then do it again when it was the wrong place, or with kids, or to find out in the end that they have to pay a ton of money because no one told them they weren't covered there?  It's ridiculous that this is what healthcare is in our country.

Or at least for a certain population.  Insurance issues are issues at any level.  But the amount of waiting, the quality of care (in my check-up, the water cleaner was leaking water everywhere, the floss was so course it wouldn't go between my teeth, and a giant horsefly visited us several times), and the personal treatment (were I not a white person I wonder if I would have had a chance to set up a new appointment with the assistant, unlike the man who was unarguably late) are incredible.

To walk into one of these clinics is to look through a window at the systemic issues of a certain type of living and care, one that is not actually my own.  My background is incredibly privileged, and it is through that lens that I see these things and know that they don't have to be this way.  The treatment of one's self, one's children, and others.

Likely there will be a day when my income is stabilized and I can afford to sign up for a different health insurance, one that is covered at different places.  It may not be that far off that I am kicked out of this current system, deemed a different worthy than to be a part of it.  And maybe then I will forget what it is, growing comfortable in the lack of these offenses, enjoying the gentle muzak and running water and screens of fish floating in corral reefs that will consume a new way of living.  Perhaps I will think of these offenses–which to me, not being pervasive in other aspects of my life, are minor annoyances–and think how I could have possibly lived that way.  My lifestyle will shield me from these discomforts and make me think them impossible to live with.

But there is no end to wanting more.  Seeking greater and greater comfort is an exercise in retreat.  To look the other way is to blind oneself.  But as I grow up, into the privileged class that I am and will likely settled, I have to ask myself, where do my choices cross with others' inability to choose?   What power do I have to share the perspective that I know from my upbringing?  Where is my potency, seeing this, and yet being so far removed?  

Our Neighbor

My doorbell rang today and it was our elderly Indian neighbor.  She had come to me because neither her landline nor her cell phone was working and she was hoping to use my phone to get in touch with Time Warner Cable and Verizon to figure out what was going on.  She got some half answers and so left with the intention of unplugging and replugging her landline to see if that would work, and going to the Verizon store to speak with them in person.  Neither of which seemed definite solutions.

So when I returned home today, I visited her to make sure everything was ok.  She answered, so happy to see me, saying that she had been planning to come over to tell me everything was fine.  She welcomed me into her apartment, bright with light from the setting sun over the Hudson River, and had me sit down.  She talked about the phone issues and how everything was now ok, she showed me a device that she can carry that brings her a button away from medical help should she need it, and we exchanged names and numbers for the future.  All of this was relief.

She wrote "Dr." in front of her name with her telephone number and I verbally noticed it.  I had actually already heard from an elevator partner one evening that she was a doctor, and an incredible woman, and how he was going to interview this great aunt of his (was that the relation?) for an article her was writing.  "Yeah, you should really get to know her," he had said.

I took what prompt I could and got terrific results. She gave me a good outline of her life and travels from India to the rest of the world and back, interested in education (the topic of her doctorate), studying and teaching at great universities, and finally coming to live in New York.

She's invited me to come with her to Flushing, Queens, where apparently there is an Indian temple that she would like to show me.

I only have so much time to live in New York and I realize that the summer is a good opportunity to take advantage of it.  What things can I see and do here, what are all the many things that people from around the world come to do?  But what an incredible opportunity, to be a part of someone's life in this way and to learn from her in the middle of the summer.

Governor's Island (and Strand)

Another day of tourism:  Governor's Island followed followed Strand bookstore (18 miles of books!).  The island was so peaceful, that by the end of my hour there, I was anxious to catch the ferry back to Manhattan.  There were so few people, I think especially because it was a weekday.  And the many deserted buildings made it feel even more like a ghost town, a place from the past.  But for the hour plus that I was there, it was great to see the art work that has been set up, the interactive adult play gym and whatnot, and chill on some hammocks.  Never would have thought that public hammocks were within a 10 mile radius of my home, but in New York, I think everything is here, somewhere, if you know where to look.....

there are many hammocks on Governor's Island
they are hidden in little groves surrounded by wildflower
in the distance is the Statue of Liberty

empty houses, everything was empty
they have signs for different artistic or craft organizations
which are probably open on the weekends

a junkyard for children,
among the many construction sites on the island.......

at work......

a deserted mini-golf course
and a work of art around a tree
open field 

Manhattan across the way

taken as I departed, looming storm in the background

Japan State of Mind

There are a lot of things to remind me of Japan these past few days.  Last's night's Beethoven 9 of course reminded me of the 10,000 voice performance HPAC did of it every year.  Simply running my fingers through it with a new conductor and in a new space was as novel as it was familiar.

And then this afternoon I joined a friend for a Japanese film.  She is slightly older and grew up in Japan as the child of missionaries there.  She has helped me find things Japanese in New York, not least of all the Japan Society and it's annual film festival which is happening right now.  As we sat in the audience before the show, she shared that she had loved the festival last year because it's like being back in Japan.  Before the movie began, the film's composer Ryuichi Sakamoto (who is apparently the John Williams of Japanese film) gave a short introduction from the stage.  Watching  him bow to the other hostess was wonderful enough, but as the film began I understood what my friend had been saying.  Even though this film was set in post-WWII, it still took me back to Japan.  The way people moved, the way they use their space, the language and timing, even the slightly overly dramatized style of the movie was very Japanese.  And the story–about a mother who is visited by the ghost of her son who was killed in the Nagasaki bombing–depicted an aspect of Japan's personal history in a way that would have been hard for an American director to emulate.  As an American in Japan, I did not have an intuition about the war and post war years.  I have an idea of the fronts that the American's fought during that war, and the horrors they encountered (albeit even this is marginal), but Japan's perspective and idiosyncratic suffering is not something I could have grasped.

But in another sense I am returned to Japan in the solitude that I now find myself.  Alone for this month of July I have a space that is familiar from the time I lived in Japan.  I went to the park this morning, at mid-day to do a Tae Kwon Do workout, and halfway through a man rode his bike onto the grassy spot where I was, put out a towel and started sunbathing.   He watched me for a bit, and then started interjecting questions, and then suggestions, and I suddenly found myself getting a lesson in boxing.  I was reminded of my Karate lesson by the river in Japan, another time when I had time and space to allow myself to listen to an unbidden teacher.

Yesterday I went down to some of the art galleries in Chelsea and checked out the pier.  And today, after seeing the film, I decided to walk the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset.  It felt like impromptu trips to Kyoto and Osaka.  On the train at one point one group of people was speaking Italian, another sign language.  Like Japan, it seems it might even be possible to go through a day with speaking no English!  And now, I'm sitting and writing in the silent space around me.

It is precious to be alone, and it precious to be with another.  And I think it is a challenge to do either well.  Solitude can become loneliness, companionship can become distraction.  And after a year of companionship I am returning to this familiar space again, but also, again, in a new way.

some of the apartments in Chelsea (wearing my tourist eyes)

Chelsea Pier 

Memorial Concert for Orlando Victims

This past week I've been playing in a volunteer pick-up orchestra that culminated in a concert this evening as a memorial for the victims of the Orlando shooting.  I signed up for the concert partly because it was a memorial, but also largely because it was great repertoire and it is fun to play with people and meet others.

Upon arriving to the first rehearsal on Tuesday I found that there was only one second violin, two first violins (one of whom is primarily a violist), and not even one of each wind instrument (forget the brass).  People had trouble counting basic rhythms, coming in on time, even starting at the same place was an issue.  More than we could chew:  Beethoven 9 and three additional pieces (Corigliano Elegy, Copland Quiet City, and Barber Adagio).  But the cello section were cool people and the most reliable section in terms of attendance of any other, and I had a friend in the violins.  I had made a commitment and I had no intention of backing out of it.

It has been interesting to be a part of such a project.  I know this music very well.  I've played in orchestras before and this is a different league.  And yet, apart from worrying about how the conductor was handling his time (we've spent 2 hours and 50 minutes on one movement of one piece and the concert is tomorrow????) and the sheer fact of having to be controlled and rehearsed by a conductor, the transgressions of my fellow musicians bothered me far less than it has in the past.  Things were out of tune and wildly (excitedly) not together.

But there was a sense of solidarity in the chaos that was really refreshing.  No pretension, just working through it to make it happen. And few musical choices were dictated.  Bowings were free, as well as many other aspects of the music.  Everyone was just clinging to get through.

Maybe there could have been another way, but the fact that we were unpaid meant that people chose when to come to rehearsal, that there was no librarian, or personnel manager.  It was a mess.  But it was done because people felt it needed to be.  The experience has made me rethink what it means for something to be "musical."  As a trained musician this was entirely unmusical.  Anything that I have learned about expectations in a rehearsal and in playing and listening was broken.  But there was something there that is often missing from professional experiences which definitely could be considered musical in a human sense.  There was a need and a love to do this from some people.  And from others there was a commitment and camaraderie untied to monetary gain.  It was a wonderful program (first half music composed by openly gay American composers, second half, Beethoven's call for unity), and it was truly offered as a gift.  It was beyond our ability but people were there of their own accord.

It is a strange thing to make a living doing something I love.  The same is true for teaching.  What is my vocation?  It is a common question:  what do you do?  How is that something other than what I am?  I am me, here I am, doing and living.  I think money can separate us from ourselves.  Work must be something we wouldn't do otherwise.  Almost by definition.  What a world would that be, of people living and doing with no other motivation?

It was an interesting and strangely wonderful experience.

More than we are

This morning I met with a Tae Kwon Do partner, as I do fairly often, for a  7am workout.  Last night he got in from Italy, where goes every few months to visit his family in Vicenza.  I suppose the jet lag would be in his favor for such an early start to the day, but beyond that he seemed newly invigorated.  Something about going home, seeing certain friends and family, maybe even speaking in his native tongue, or seeing a familiar landscape of mountains and sky.  I don't know what the experience fully was for him, but I saw him refreshed and open in a new way.  Having recently returned from a home not even that far away nor that different, I can appreciate the new perspective it can offer.

People are so many parts to them, and specific circumstances or situations can lead to a very subtle expression.  Sometimes it isn't even that subtle.  Yes we are who we are, but we also take on the color around us.  Not to do so is generally considered unhealthy, being out of touch with reality.  It is a fine line between visionary and unstable.

To see someone living differently inside their own skin is a very special thing.  And to feel that way from within, is a very special thing.  There is an ecstatic feeling to being jet-lagged, to being out of place and yet being grounded in oneself.  The senses have separated from the body in some many odd ways seeing new things, tasting, smelling, touching, feeling in new ways. Sometimes a journey can peel away the clutter surrounding us, dusting off the cobwebs of habits and expectations.

In the day to day it can be hard to see ourselves in the midst of the clutter that accrues.  And it can be just as hard to see others.  What is the breadth and depth of possibility that we each hold?  What does it take to explore this for ourselves and how can we better see and listen so as to be open to another's possibilities?  What a gift we can give to one another to realize and respect this potential.  We are more than we are.

No Place, But Home

After spending a week in Cincinnati, I enjoyed a descent along the New York City skyline.  I remember coming down from the sky after being in Japan, seeing America come closer and closer, reaching out beyond the plane to touch it with my eyes and memories and expectations.  It is never the same to return to a place.

It was wonderful to be home.  There was a settled feeling, and the whole family was together, sometimes just breathing in the same room, no one saying anything.  I think all of us, unspoken though it was, were incredibly grateful to be together.

Waiting on the platform to take the train back into the city, the wind ripped the wide leaves of a bush in the train yard, gently but mercilessly in and out of the bright sunlight.  There are so many stories to enter and leave.

And now I'm back in this city, which is such a beautiful and exciting place to be.  Returning was not the same as leaving, or returning before, or coming for the first time.  It was so good to be home.