Last Full Day in New York

This was it, the final last day in New York.  I went for a run before the incredible heat and humidity hit, or at least before it got worse.  I ran through Riverside Park, past the field where I've done Tae Kwon Do, and to the beautiful garden that I've loved seeing so many times in the morning

And went home and again, packing, packing, cleaning, organizing and packing.   And then we decided to go to Andrew's favorite restaurant, Cafe China, via a long walk through Morningside and Central Parks.  From 118th on the Upper West Side, to 37th East of Fifth Avenue.  We saw hot birds panting, people lying in the shade and in the sun, every living thing was as quiet and still as possible, save for a few children that hadn't yet learned to be miserable when it's so hot.

We exited Central Park and walked along Fifth Avenue, seeing all the window displays, and soaking in the gusts of air conditioning from opened doors as we walked by.

And then finally Cafe China, for a nice lunch.  We walked over to Times Square to catch MTA home.  Various errands here and there, but managed to catch the last light of the sun setting over the Hudson River.  Our last sunset in New York.

Final Gig (They All Saw a Cat)

This morning was my final gig in New York, and my last hugs to some of my favorite students that came to see it.  It was also goodbye to some of my colleagues and friends.  And now we have a horizon of packing and loading and driving, and new, new, new.  Soon I will have to return Manhattan......

Breathing Away

I woke up this morning with a new kind of realization about the coming move, that it means not only leaving behind people, but also this city.  I don't take advantage of all the walks and museums, and parks that I could, but knowing that they are there is a somehow comforting.  A person could be thinking in any language, something unrepeatable happening at any moment in any square inch of the city.  It's condensed living, potent and powerful and often overbearing.  And to be able to step away from it, ever so slightly, allows the breath it needs to become wonderful and humane.  Would it be possible to have both?

Rehearsals and Boxes

I happened to be on the same train as my friend and fellow musician this morning and after meeting on the other side of the turn style, we went up the 66th St. subway stairs together.  After walking half a block, a young voice got our attention, asking us if we went to Juilliard.  No, my friend had, but we were headed to a rehearsal a block away.  But that was enough.  Her mother an orchestra teacher from Georgia, asked if her daughter could have a picture with us.  She had beautiful red hair, and apparently plays the accordion and piano, and maybe sings.  They were looking for an opera singer next, probably a bit harder to identify unless you have the right nose for those things.....

Across the street we entered the LDS Church on 65th St and made our way upstairs for our exciting rehearsal.  The flute player has been smuggling coffee in for these morning rehearsals.  We admire her self-assuredness, something unbreakable, neither capable of injury or sanctity, but unapologetically and transparently offering.

Rehearsal for 2.5 hours, cleaning things, understanding more of the piece and the people playing it, bringing greater clarity to the new work based on a beautiful children's book.   And following that, a creative composition that will be created by the audience at the performance.

Strawberries, a walk to the edge of Central Park with a Brooklyn friend that I don't get to see enough (because it takes 1-2 hours to get to Brooklyn), and then a return home to pack and email potential participants in the next chapter of life.  The boxes are piling up, the cabinets are opening, the closets are spilling out, the book shelves are becoming more vacant and lonely.

Goodbye to Westport

Another last day, this one in Westport.  Although it was an ending, today was a novel teaching experience for me, one that I hope will dovetail into the next chapter of my life.

And afterwards I visited the home of a wonderful student and family, was treated to freshly cut mango, and enjoyed a long lesson with her on scales.  I spoke with her mother about Indian cooking, and how much I've loved working with her and her daughter.

And then the sunset on the train ride home, which I only glimpsed as I crammed in score study for a piece that I'm rehearsing tomorrow.  It's been a good few days of score study for the sake of teaching and playing.

Tomorrow, my final final lessons.

Late June

After the last two moves being overseas, this is going to be a piece of cake.  We finally started today, a week away from departure.  We could have easily put it off for a few more days.

More pressing are the things I need to be doing to be ready for the week.  The lesson plans for Dalcroze-inspired classes, the score study for a friend's new composition, and then another piece that I haven't even cracked yet.  It will all happen, and all of it is very exciting.  It's an exciting week to be alive.

And despite the planning and packing that needs to be done, I couldn't turn down an invitation to join Andrew for an evening run along the river and through Riverside Park.  What a beautiful time this is.

Walking in Small Towns

I'm in the beautiful old German town of Bethlehem, PA for a 3-day Suzuki workshop.  After dinner this evening, I went for a walk on the brick sidewalks, in the untamed green coming up through the cracks and over the fences, guarding the centuries old buildings.  I walked through Lexinginton, KY my first home away from home, and I walked through Madison, WI, my second and slightly more distant one.  I remembered the expansiveness of finally living in a different city, the curiosity of finding all its nooks and crannies and quirks.  And how quiet it was.  

Walking felt like stepping out of a cocoon that had been holding me in place and molding me.  Freedom maybe, but discomfort, too.  Without the constraints of a city and millions of people, what's to keep me from drifting away in a place like this?  When I moved to those smaller towns 10 years ago, I was happily drifting, and happy to be taken away on some new adventure.  And now, for some reason, I have this adult idea that I should be building something, and I'm busying myself with searching for the materials.

 I'm curious to make a move to a place similar from my past, and yet for the time that I've covered, now very different.  I walked to the edge of a park, found the local library, ventured to peak at the Japanese Serenity Garden.  Perhaps that curiosity is still there, just a little stretching needed in a bigger space.  

In Real Life...

In real life, I played a house concert last night and failed to accurately reckon with the amount of rehearsal needed for my particular combination of composition and colleague.  I've grown so used to playing with my husband and I guess I learned what an asset that familiarity is.  I've also grown over-confident in my abilities in chamber music and reading under pressure.

In short, it was not a satisfying performance, for me or for the audience.  In prescient anticipation of it (why didn't I listen to the hints I was sending myself??),  I catalogued ambivalent performances as more odious than the accounting class I once took.  In fact, I had a hard time coming up with anything more uncomfortable.  Maybe poorly timed flatulence in an elevator is the most accurate comparison.

It was passible, but not enjoyable and certainly not the transcendent message that Beethoven deserved it to be.  Luckily, I've done those performances.  They are in me.  And I've done far worse, they are there, too.  It's a reality check and as much as I hate bad performances, I love reality checks.  So things balance out.

But in my dreams last night, I lost my value.  The various narratives and juxtapositions converged on an underlying nagging feeling that ate away at my self-esteem.  And as much as I hate bad dreams, I appreciate when there can be clarity in their origin.  Rarely is this so, but given real life, it was there.

It's left me wondering what value a life has or can have.  And this is especially poignant as I cast off from a life of co-dependence with my students and venture into an unknown network of new possibilities.   What is valuable in a person?  Is it in what they give, or share, or do, or collect?  What gives a person greater value?  And maybe most perplexing at the moment:  what motivates the search?

Stepping away from students here has also led me to reflect on the nature of the bonds that are created between people.  As a teacher, do I need or want my students to need me?   The practical part of me says no, and in fact I'm thrilled when students are reading and start to learn things more independently.  I try to get them to hear concerts, watch videos, play in ensembles, go to workshops, and programs, so that they can learn things from other people- it's less work that way!  But on the other hand, realizing that I will not be needed anymore is surprisingly difficult to accept.  Do I still have value if I'm not needed?  And in creating these bonds and relationships, have I been planting an impure element of dependence?   Or is that another way of looking at trust?  Where would our relationships be without it?  When things dissolve, sometimes I think they do so unevenly, and the residues emerge in interesting way.

In real life, the weather has been warm and dry, although humid, and my days have been fairly open.  I've ventured to the huge soccer field in Riverside Park at 106th Street to do Tae Kwon Do.  I try to get there before late afternoon, because around 3:30, the individuals, and pairs, and groups of soccer players (and baseball, and football....) start to pepper it more densely.  I dodged a soccer ball from a nearby group many times today, and by the time I started to close my workout, there were several dozen spread out on the field, and probably half as many balls flying all over the place.  I did my final stretches and sat for the final breathing and reflection, but after a minute or so, opened my eyes.  It was partly for safety, but as I sat there I realized that I could stare straight ahead at a small speck in the field, and still see all the balls bouncing around me.  The one I had been dodging flew by again, and again, and needed no reaction.  None of them did.

The real world spun around and remained unmoved.  

Morning Run in Morningside Park

It's been a long time since I've done my morning run through Morningside Park.  It's a great run for winters, when the sun comes up a little later, rising over the east side of Manhattan.  So the summer shadows this morning were very disorienting, nearly perpendicular to the last time I saw their slanted angle.  Where is the sun, what time and planet were we on?  The sun didn't even rise from the east, it seemed to emerge from the north.

I awoke from a dream of sleeping in a silver-dewed canopy of trees.  Another world, beckoning me to get up, to start the day, to worry about the needed worries of the coming two weeks.  There is much ahead.  With or without me the tulips became primrose bushes, loyal gardeners pulled hoses and carts stacked with gallon water jugs to perpetuate the preferred growths.  One season to another, one early hour to a later one, with or without me, until my eyes are open and making it real.

Goodbye to Charlotte

Another long day of teaching and checking off goodbyes.  Some are very hard to believe, but they are happening bit by bit.  The unpeeling progresses.

One of my students gave me a picture of her practicing.  She is absorbed in her space, surrounded by sheets of music that are falling off the sofa on which she's sitting.  In the time that I have known her she has grown so much, both as a person and as a musician.  She is coming to own this space, it is growing in her and through her, something still young, but which I think will be unstoppable very soon.

It's so powerful to be a part of this.  Teaching is an art in which I can see great pleasure in being virtuosic.  I have so much to learn, and am so thankful for my students for being so patient and respectful of me.  Thank you.

Genera of Perfection

A variety of perfect day: low 70s, sunny with intermittent clouds, a slight breeze.  One students in the morning, a committed Tae Kwon Do practice on the field, a long walk in the park with a friend and mentor, practice session, a potluck dinner with extraordinarily well-balanced and delicious offerings.
Tomorrow another variety, and perhaps another the day after.  Counting down the hours on this order of perfection.

Last Day of Lessons at Westport (and other endings)

We've hosted, and dined out, and been hosted, and overall eaten very well.  And the week is rolling on into next week and the week after....

Goodbyes are passing beneath us like railroad ties.   One rung and then another and another and the momentum is moving along along along.

Lessons like any other, trying to move up the ladder one more step and then another, trying to get closer to touching heaven and helping others find their footing along the way.  We are there together, breathing together, miles and countries and likely years or lifetimes apart.  There are no goodbyes.  Our presence changes little from what it was or will be.

It's so easy to lose track of the days when reflection abuts the future.  Such a strange time of measuring.  Quantities of lessons, of evenings, of people, of dollars per mile, of dinners, of cards, of truck footage, of elevator rides, of bottles of wine unconsumed.

It's hypnotizing and beautiful to see so many souls gathered in one packaged epoch of life, soon to be departed and viewed as a single sparkling galaxy of the past.

Lunch and Lessons

We are walking statues among walking statues.  Sometimes we must squint at those familiar friends in the distance, sometimes we feel the eyelashes of a new acquaintance upon us.

How do we walk among ourselves?  Are we open to those we see?  Do we move closer, or shy away?  Or are we pulled and pushed by a current that only vaguely resembles reason?  Perhaps it wears a deceptive dye.  Perhaps we are actually dancing on our own two feet, flying with our own wings.

Orchestral Perspectives

Roughly 150 years ago a Polish Prince decided to compose a mass and called it, "Mass in F."  He had hoped to bring it to America, but sadly fell ill and it never made it.  Until now.....

Tonight's concert was the first performance of the piece in New York, orchestrated from the original organ score for a small ensemble.

But what to do with those squirrelly sextuplets in the 5th movement?  They move along so quickly, voraciously devouring B-flat minor and everything around it.  The searching spotlight, scanned each member, the timpanist, the bassist, the trumpet, the horn, and fell upon.....the poor bassoon.  An extremely accomplished musician, she was certainly up for the task, but in the middle of so many projects, the unending string of deedledeeedleees was just really not fun.

So she called me, and we devised a plan of passing off the unwanteds, hopefully in a beautiful graceful arch.  We cut and pasted the measures, practiced in and outside of rehearsal, and things were going to be ok.

But somehow in the concert, there was confusion about which measures belonged to whom.  It seems that she had penciled and repenciled so many times, that the "play here" and the "don't play here" all fell together.  Some measure left hanging.

It's funny to be on the leaving side of things, to have nothing I need to prove in this group or to these people because I'm not climbing anywhere here.  To make a mistake is not terribly troubling.  And it is noticeably easier to be compassionate to those around me because of this security.  I'm willing to take a risk, to work it through.  And it is so natural to let things fall away and dissipate.  Again, there is nothing to lose.  I'm leaving.  This is the last gig, things will be forgotten.

And the funny thing is, that is always the case.  Yes, it matters to play well overall, but the stress and insecurity that result in orchestral musicians is fanatic and eats away at some of the more important parts of music making- the people we are sharing it with.  It's a fortunate thing to be able to have this perspective.  And also to have been able to play with this great group of people.

Bidden or Unbidden

The sound of the orchestra and the chorus seemed to echo all the way to China.  The huge arches went up as though past the Himalayas, the hard stone reflecting all it was given.  Surely it was impossible that Times Square was less than a block away; the reality of its existence denied our seemingly infinite expansion.  How can a church this huge be "tucked" away, hidden under all the lights, obscured by scaffolding?  And yet it is, and so many others are the same in this city.  It is an undeniable and strange quality of New York, that churches maintain pockets of peace and sanctity, in plain sight, but hidden from the pace of quick footsteps, myopic smart phones, hurried and important schedules.  Their doors are magical portals to other worlds, squeezed within all the other things that are New York.

Meetings

There is a lot of joy in being able to introduce two people that I care about to one another.  I woke up this morning excited that I would get to introduce two of my students that live far away from one another.  They both had to travel over an hour to get here and then again to get home, but from different directions, so no wonder they've never met!  Any day that I get to teach either one is exciting, but both of them, one after another, was a real treat.  

Last Lessons (I)

Today was the first in a series of last lessons.  Last, the end, no more.  For some, we've put it off and will have a last lesson in the not so distant future.  But it's coming.

There are so many waves of realization, of adjustment, of acceptance, of appreciation especially as we have to say goodbye.  To see a face, to interact with a body, to hear a voice, a sound, a way of moving, and to honor it as a human being, unique and beautiful, worthy of love.  To kiss every moment as we release it to the next.

Anniversary Weekend

It's been 1 year since we got married and this weekend we went away for a wonderful 24 hours, a suspension in responsibilities and routines.  And I came home, took a shower, and answered a knock on the door to find a student that didn't realize we didn't have a lesson.  They come from Queens, so.....

Life has a way of asking so much.  How flexible should we be?  On what level?  How many points do I have to spend in a day, in an hour, in a minute?

The air was green, we lay in an open field by the river, watching a peregrine falcon circle above, ate pie and ice cream, had a nice dinner as the sunset on the Hudson River.  This morning we woke up and enjoyed the breakfast part of our BnB, went for a long hike with lots of other suspiciously New York City people, and collapsed on a train ride home.

It doesn't matter what it is, what is done, how the time is spent.  I feel so lucky to be able to spend it with this person.

Behind the Scenes

It was loud and chaotic and hot and sweaty in the downstairs gym/cafeteria.  Upstairs the first group was slowly, too slowly, getting set at the front of the church to play.  Up there is was cool, and calm, and the sounds of strings and applause.  But down below the kids were chasing each other with their bows and violins, jumping over cellos, stealing water bottles and throwing them.

Slowly, too slowly, one group got called to go up, and there were fewer kids; and then another; and then finally the last, the performance wending its way through the smell of wax and stale incense.  I found a place in the middle of the cool stone pillars and listened as the whole group played Twinkle Variations together.  The sounds echoed and got lost, the beat blurred, but how miraculous these young beings, all together, playing together.  Who could remember that space downstairs, where minds and bodies begged for freedom?   Here, the sound echoing to heaven in the tall arches, without the baggage mere minutes before.  

The Gift of Giving (A.B.)

It's hard to imagine a greater gift than to have someone share with you what you've given.  Maybe the clearest way to receive this is through words.  But sometimes we have to listen more carefully and creatively to hear that this is so.  I imagine that a teacher can receive this in seeing it in their students, in their students' students.  Or parents seeing it in their child's accomplishments, and even just their traits which they pass along because they love them.

So much is possible.  The world is bigger than we imagine.

Remains of the Day

So much time planning and preparing.  When will I get up, to do what things, and in what order that they will all be done?  When, how, what will I eat for the day?  How will we move our things?  Will we travel this summer, where?  What will I do next year?  How should I introduce 3-octave scales?  And vibrato?  What is best for this child?  How are we shaping their future?

And what remains at the end of the day, as we return home, as we say goodbye?

Tired with no more plans for the evening but to get to bed.  Travel gerrymandering takes 3 swipes just to get home, one for an error, completely unplanned.  And yet, it's ok.  It's ok.

The planning and preparing have led us to this point, and now we have nowhere, nowhen, left to plan.  We are spinning in circles, breathing the time, and so often it seems that our fingertips just miss one another as we spin off into another cycle, landing in another world of disorder waiting for us to shed our blind light.

Back and Forth 6 Swipe Day

Swipe #1: 116th to 66th.  For a rehearsal of Mozart g minor piano quartet and Beethoven A Major Cello Sonata.  We meet at the pianist's condo, on the 27th floor of One Lincoln Plaza.  The walls are either bookshelves or sliding door mirrors which gives the effect of the space continuing on forever, out beyond the elevated view.  We are rehearsing for a house concert there, an event which is half celebration of our pianist's birthday (20 years ago she joined the Lyric Chamber Music Society at the age of 58--her hint to us) and half a way for the director of a music program where I teach to meet people, a development evening of sorts.  Our pianist has just written a novel, about a little girl whose magic power is music.  She started playing the piano in earnest in her 40s.  In short, she's another inspiring model of aging well.

Swipe #2:  66th to 116th even though I hadn't planned to go home for lunch, I was dismissed earlier than expected from the Beethoven rehearsal (I was tired, too) and made use of the time to practice piano and half-heartedly answer emails.

Swipe #3:  116th to 66th  Seeing a pattern?  Lessons at Kaufman Center.  4 of them.  Discovering the importance of focus as a thing to teach, of posture, of awareness, of asking questions.  Said goodbye to the last student I had yet to tell.  Two penultimate heartbreaks, brothers with some magical power.

Swipe #4:  M104 Bus where I texted the parents of the student I had just told, scheduled some lessons, and wrote up all the lessons I had just taught, and sat next to.....I don't know how many people.  They come and go and it's easy not to notice if I'm alone or accommodating another's space.

Swipe #5.  116th to 59th, Columbus Circle.  Tonight was one of two nights of Manhattanhenge, and the only one I could get to.  There were a lot of clouds and people, but I read my book in a small "park" on 56th and 7th.

Swipe #6:  59th to 116th.  Home, but really.

Running the Flowers

The flowers this early morning at the garden at 93rd St. in Riverside Park were so miraculous.  I woke up early, way too early for the recoup in sleep that I had hoped to gain, but there they were, waiting.  Roses, irises, peonies, everything so beautiful and glorious on this cloudy day, with no competition.  This is one of the things I love in New York, one of those things that isn't in a tourist guide book, because its beauty extends beyond a few days, a week, or a month.  Every morning that I manage to visit it, it's different.  It's alive and changing, and so is the world around it.

A sense of wonder.  I ran around it once, and then in reverse, and then again, waiting for that sense to fade with all the many angles that a garden can exude.  Fading with multiple journeys around and around.

I'm grateful to have this beautiful, tangible thing to exhaust, even if only for a morning before it must be renewed.  If only there were some way to run laps around years, around people, around music and art, around thoughts that come and go.

Return to New York

And now suddenly back in rainy New York; as though the heat wave never happened, as though I skipped from one cool spring day to the next, no orange moon above a Midwestern city, no empty streets with lonely traffic lights, no gathering of souls to open one another, no dining al fresco with only bikers going by.

Back to this city, still in a haze of living within questions and not answers, of saying excuse me, of being happy despite sitting in the last row of the plane, in a window seat without a window, in a chair that cannot recline.  Where is my entitlement?  How did it dissipate in the flat wide streets of emptiness?  Shouldn't I be demanding something better?  Is it safe to let down my guard?

But here I am, for another month and change.  Piecing together wrapping up. Closing in on the concept of space, and otherwise.

Believing in Change

Regardless of the number of transitions that I experience--seasons, locations, circadian rhythms---I'm always amazed at how things can change so fully.  Being at this conference, meeting and re-meeting old colleagues, opening up new possibilities in the way we think about teaching, and importantly for me, the way that I think about my future, has been reaffirming.  Once again I realize that there are many ways to live, and that can be true across cultures and lives, but also within one life.  To teach is to believe that change is possible.  I'm not sure I can live deeply enough with that idea, for my students, or for myself.

Things of Beauty Everywhere

Back in the Midwest for a Suzuki conference.  Retaining walls, calm wide streets, green interspersed everywhere.  After a run this morning, I noticed more things, perhaps out of want for things to notice.  The puddles, the insignia on certain buildings, the way the walk signs count down in no notable manner, but just the way that they do.  It was an old familiar feeling, of seeing a boring world full of wonder.  Maybe it's something I inherited and love from my mother, who grew up in a small town in Ohio.  Things of beauty everywhere.

And it's something that I think is lacking in New York, but also what makes New York special and wonderful in itself.  Things are never incredible there.  People can do any number of things, look any number of ways, say, act, however they want, and no one will bat an eye.  There is history and beautiful buildings and parks everywhere.  There are celebrities and talented no names playing on the sidewalks for change.  Any night of the week has dozens of options for excellent entertainment, education, dining.  There is no superlative in New York.  It's all dazzling and radiant, and easy to have glazed eyes in the lights.

The Midwest is admittedly boring, but maybe it pulls something out of the beholder that makes it special in a way.  Well, we'll see....

Finding new teachers

It's been years since I've broken up with someone and had to experience the mix of retreat, of gently pushing off, of hoping for another's happiness, while at the same time selfishly wishing for my own.  How big is the bigger picture?  Or the biggest one?  

Sundays Fundays

I had so many fun interactions today.  It's just the way Sundays are.  From games that heighten students' sense of awareness, to "mouse horses,"  to giggles about all the things that have to be ready before starting, to "EXTREME FINGERTIPS!" to water and fish themes permeating Lightly Row, every child is a new adventure and game.  I love seeing kids get excited about music, being rewarded by playing a duet, motivated by music in  various different ways.  And they are learning and growing through it, too.  And so am I!  Sundays are fundays, and now that I've finally figured this out, they are over.

I guess I'll just gloat on this until I have to leave my next routine, only to newly discover its own hidden gems.

My friends, it has been wonderful.  So much love to you, I will see you all soon, again.

Saturday before Sunday

Scurrying through midtown on a drizzling day, dancing with the tourists at the base of the Empire State Building, getting sucked into a mediocre Japanese restaurant by a promoter with menus on the corner, and enjoying the sights and sounds and poetic ambiguity of the MTA.

Tomorrow is my last official Sunday of lessons, the day of the week that used to be such a burden and now has become the pinnacle of the week,  regardless of the energy it requires.   Luckily, endings are often not so black and white, and for most of these students, we will have meetings in the coming weeks.  More Goodbyes dodged for the time being.

Celebrating Young Artists

My questions concern how to find the human soul in the human body, and how to share the process of  that discovery with another so that they may do the same.  My guides are those that are growing and needing to be fed, that pull something from me which quenches us all.  My mentors are the love that binds families and time, and exists in a magnitude unimaginable, yet completely possible, within and without my skin.

I am filled with the life that fills me.  Grateful, undeserving, so alive, and for it, wanting more.

May Time

There's a song by Mozart called May Time.  It's in compound meter and has an upbeat, which means there are a number of levels in teaching it.  It's important to feel all the subdivisions, but it's also important to feel the big beats.  This evening my student had mastered all 6 "beats" nodding his head for every one.  What is this song about?  It's lulling sway, gently flowing.....the beauty of May and the blooming of spring....

"Allergies," he said.

April may be the cruelest month, but May is not without it's complications.

I worked with his nodding, eventually putting my hand on the back of his head, moving it up and down, not to the subdivision but to the beat, saying, "Play head, play head, play head, head...." oh so musically with the song.  He got it to the point of a Pirate's Jaunt, which is maybe a little bit closer to the glory of spring.  As we laughed at this game, we forgot about the frustrations of extensions from the early part of the lesson, and winter melted into spring.

The privilege of swimming in a world I know

In my fingers, in my hips, in my lungs, and in my lips, are all the pieces that I've ever touched, all the people that I've ever played,  all the words I've ever walked.  They are a part of the fabric that continues, to cut through time, in the space in which I move.  What a privilege to be cut of my own, woven of what I have been, endless landscape ahead, with nothing to cross, nothing to knot, nothing to need.

Some ways of loving

I feel like a love hoarder.  It's hard to leave connections that would seem to be able to grow for years. I see that possibility and potential in the people who will miss me, in the way they express it.  There is a sadness that I can't help but wish to remedy.  I'm just not always sure who is the source and who is reflecting it.

But love can grow in other ways, with other people.  Trusting that it can and will is another way to love.  Allowing it to be with another, is also a way to love.  Letting go can be yet another way.

Blue Group

It doesn't get easier.  Everyday is a new goodbye.  Today's was group class.  Last year I taught 4 every week, and this year there was only one, a group of four 3rd-5th graders, beautiful people.  I thought about various lesson plans this morning, but in the end, let them take the lead.  And after several games, and solos, we somehow finished with my favorite closing, French Folk Song.  We stood up to take a bow, and I thanked them for the year, and behind several comments of gratitude, I hid that I loved them, until I couldn't hide it anymore, and let myself say it to them without holding.

Exchanges

I was on another crepuscular bus ride to the LaGuardia Terminal.  Early morning, the breaking, cracking, of day, and I was wedged within that miraculous event of turning earth.  And I was writing in a very New York-style way, bluetooth keyboard and smart phone, piled on my stuffed all-in-one-carry-on backpack.  As the sun pulled apart night, I could feel the leaving that is coming for me in less than two months.

After living here for nearly three years, I recently discovered another truth about the feeling of New York.  If only there were a German word I could conjure.  That feeling, just before entering a turnstile to the subway, or turning the corner to catch the bus, of hustling for fear of just barely missing it, of seeing it, hearing it drive away.  What if I enter the turnstile to discover that the last train just left and I have to wait 9 minutes.  Woe is me!

But trains are always leaving the station, buses are driving away without me.  I'm missing them constantly.

The bus I was on went through Harlem, and at the St. Nicholas and 125th St. stop a deluge of people got on, likely just off the A or C trains.  Middle of Harlem; Spanish, and English, and silent tired faces.

It's another exchange.  And there are so many that we have to make.   Being one place, going to another, transferring from a train to a bus, from work to home, from one life to another.  The trains are always coming and going.  Sometimes I'm there to catch them, and sometimes I'm still walking.  Sometimes I'm nowhere near them in mind or body, but will still call upon their service.  When does an exchange begin, and when does it end?  I have been leaving and arriving forever.

Sunset in Idyllwild

It's the beginning of the new year, which means a cabin with Andrew's friends in the California semi-wilderness.  This year we are in Idyllwild.  

We took a trail this afternoon, a little too late thanks to lingering in the night before and in the morning of the new year.  We lingered on the trail as well, meandering, the sun moving its course, and not deciding to turn around, we finally got to our goal, Suicide Rock, at sunset.  It was beautiful, my camera no longer working.  We were there quickly and quickly started our descent, hoping it would take less than the two hours it took us to get there.  Streaks of red shot though the trees, both deep and incendiary.  Had I been able, there would still be no way to have captured it.  

We made it down alive.  There really was very little danger.  But it means holding the memory of that transient state between light and dark a little longer in my mind, feeling fading come faster than I had wanted, recognizing the years in a single year, and a single year's turning in a single day, and all the seconds that breath in a sunset.