Our daughter Rebekah, who is in second grade, takes three after-school classes every week. On Monday there is violin; on Wednesday, Hebrew; and on Thursday, ballet. One of these classes connects her to a religious tradition going back three thousand years. Two of them are pretty well pointless.
Thus starts Mark Oppenheimer's article, Stop Forcing Your Kids to Learn a Musical Instrument. The article is so full of faulty arguments, it seems not worth responding to. What's the point? The author completely misses the point. Yet I feel compelled to respond.
The first part of my response is borrowed from Randy Pausch’s Last Lecture: Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams. If you haven't watched the video, find an hour and a half that you can sit down and watch it.
Perhaps the most important point that Pausch makes is about head-fakes:
the other thing about football is we send our kids out to play football or soccer or swimming or whatever it is, and it’s the first example of what I’m going to call a head fake, or indirect learning. We actually don’t want our kids to learn football. I mean, yeah, it’s really nice that I have a wonderful three-point stance and that I know how to do a chop block and all this kind of stuff. But we send our kids out to learn much more important things. Teamwork, sportsmanship, perseverance, etcetera, etcetera. And these kinds of head fake learning are absolutely important. And you should keep your eye out for them because they’re everywhere.
Besides talking about perseverance, he talks a lot about the importance of learning fundamentals.
Fundamentals, fundamentals, fundamentals. You’ve got to get the fundamentals down because otherwise the fancy stuff isn’t going to work. And the other Jim Graham story I have is there was one practice where he just rode me all practice. You’re doing this wrong, you’re doing this wrong, go back and do it again, you owe me, you’re doing push-ups after practice. And when it was all over, one of the other assistant coaches came over and said, yeah, Coach Graham rode you pretty hard, didn’t he? I said, yeah. He said, that’s a good thing. He said, when you’re screwing up and nobody’s saying anything to you anymore, that means they gave up. And that’s a lesson that stuck with me my whole life. Is that when you see yourself doing something badly and nobody’s bothering to tell you anymore, that’s a very bad place to be. Your critics are your ones telling you they still love you and care.
Another great video is Benjamin Zander's Ted Talk about The transformative power of classical music. It is a shorter video that stands pretty well on its own.
When i was a kid, I took music lessons. They were important to me, but I wasn't supported at home in them, and never practiced as much as I should have. I still regret that. So, I strongly encouraged my kids to play music. It has stuck with them and I'd encourage you to listen to some of the music my middle daughter has written and performed.
She also wrote about book about the creative process, Don't Make Art, Just Make Something. Making something is what allows you to practice the fundamentals and learn the indirect lessons that Randy Pausch talks about.
Yet there is more, there is the existential question of what's the point. Recently, I've been making jam. As a kid, my mother made jam. It preserved the fruits of summer. It fed the family. Yet it was also a creative endeavor. Creativity. It brings meaning to life. My jam making is a tribute to my mother. It is about creativity. It is about being connected to my past, to something bigger than simply myself.
A friend from high school is a widowed artist in the Berkshires. The other day, she posted on Facebook.
There is a freshness to the morning as dove blue light slips through the spaces in the venetian blinds. The big black cat, Kit, has come in for his breakfast, and the smaller black and white cat, Lily, has sniffed Kit as her good morning ritual, taken a few bites of her food, and now disappeared to a private nap place. Kit has gone back outside to check his territories. He will later rest on the back porch until I get home from teaching all day. Their life is simple, and mine is, too.
That's the point. The simple life of a cat, of an artist. It is part of the indirect lessons. It reminded me of a great Zen story:
A man traveling across a field encountered a tiger. He fled, the tiger after him. Coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine and swung himself down over the edge. The tiger sniffed at him from above. Trembling, the man looked down to where, far below, another tiger was waiting to eat him. Only the vine sustained him.
Two mice, one white and one black, little by little started to gnaw away the vine. The man saw a luscious strawberry near him. Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other. How sweet it tasted!
Last Sunday, Kim took Fiona to her guitar lesson at the same school that Rebekah is studying violin at. I will take Fiona to her next lesson, and I will enjoy the strawberry, the simple life of cats and friends. I will enjoy feeling the connectedness between me, Fiona, Miranda, my mother, and everyone who struggles to create, through music, movement, and whatever other ways the spirit moves. I know that there will be times when encouraging Fiona's creativity will be a challenge, yet that too will be a simple strawberry.
I think that's the point.
Summer's almost over, and I'm crying, but I don't know why…
For years, the most common lyric that I would start my writing with was the beginning of The Circle Game; thinking back on my own childhood as I dreamed about the future for my own children. But of late, Cheryl Wheeler's song, "Summer's Almost Over" seems to be my starting place.
It is noon in Woodbridge. Kim and Fiona are at the barn. I was going to get up and go to church. Then, I'd do some minor chores around the house and maybe go for a swim. Summer's almost over, but there are still opportunities for a good swim.
Last night, my mouth was a little sore. I'm not sure what it was, but it was something like having a blister from eating burning pizza, exempt it was in the back left part of my mouth next to the molars instead of up front where the incisors would first meet the hot pizza.
There have been times when I get cankers and half my mouth would be in pain, and it had a little bit of a feeling like that as well.
I read a little bit more of The Blithedale Romance. It is providing me a broader perspective on Nathaniel Hawthorne, Zenobia and perhaps Margaret Fuller, as well as the whole transcendentalist milieu.
Last night The Saylor Foundation tweeted a link to my previous blog post about Blithedale, to which I asked, what role they could play in convening techno-transcendentalists and helping them find a Virtual Eldorado.
Then, I gargled and went to bed.
This morning, I felt worse. The pain in my mouth has spread and all my muscles, especially those in my back were sore and stiff. Some of that might have been from the time I spent yesterday cleaning the large jugs I will be using to make hard cider. The pets did not want me to sleep, at least not at the expense of them missing their normal breakfast time. I did manage to sleep a little later than usual, and after I fed them, I headed back to bed. I set the alarm for nine, figuring I could get up, take a quick shower, and head off to church. When the nine o'clock alarm sounded, I managed to make my way to the shower, but as I stood there, waiting for the water to warm, I was overcome by fatigue. Yes, I could power myself to church, perhaps fall asleep during the sermon and have difficulty muster more than a surly smile to friends at coffee hour. Or, I could make it a real day of rest and head back to bed.
Three hours later, when I finally got back up, I started reading through social media. I've been thinking a lot about how we use social media these days. Are the statuses we read brief headlines we forget? Do they reflect something bigger going on in our lives? How doe they all fit together? Is there some sort of collective unconsciousness tying them together?
I've been seeking to sew together social media interactions.
Yesterday, Kim posted pictures from the barn; dogs, sheep and horses. Big Fluffy Dogs posted pictures of dogs needing rescuing. Gentle Carousel posted pictures of their miniature therapy horses helping others.
Meanwhile, my sister had a big roast yesterday out in Pennsylvania. My wife and daughter, who were caring for several pigs at the barn couldn't make it, and it was too far for me to drive solo.
Umm Junaid Moebius has been posting, this Childhood Cancer Awareness month about the loss of her son to Neuroblastoma. She is a devout Muslim, grieving, praying, and going back to school. Meanwhile, Kate Audette is walking 26.2 miles today in the 25th Annual Boston Marathon Jimmy Fund Walk in memory of her son Kaiden who died of Medulloblastoma.
All of this in a week when we remembered Kim's mother's death after a battle with cancer fourteen years ago.
For several years, I've been reading a blog called Momspective. Today, Julie put up an incredibly powerful blog post, Let Me Tell You A Story About A Girl I Once Knew, And The Woman She’s Become. It is the story of a mom dealing with being bipolar, struggling to become sober, being raped, yet celebrating successes like two years of sobriety. It is a must read.
Also, Deirdre, a friend from high school was written about her grief at the loss of a close friend. She talks about Burroughs, Kerouac and the 'For Rent' sign at her late friends Victorian apartment.
My friend is gone, and in her honor I want every fool I know to get over it, and do better at the things she was good at: kindness, sensitivity, and empathy.
I think of Kim, Nur, Kate, Julie, and Deirdre, and perhaps, before I head back to bed to try and sleep off whatever is ailing me, it is best to use one final quote from William Golding's, Lord of the Flies to tie it all together:
Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise friend called Piggy.
After quitting his warm hearth in the city and riding through an April Nor'easter, Coverdale has arrived at Blithedale…
It was a long day, yesterday. Kim is up at Locket's Meadow, tending the animals while Kathleen and David get a little respite. I gnawed on part of a rotisserie chicken Kim had left behind as I put the next batch of canning jars in the dishwasher; one more batch of beach plum jam for the season.
As the dishwasher churned, I sat down and read a little more of The Blithedale Romance by Nathaniel Hawthorne. Blilthedale is utopian farm based on the transcendentalists utopian community, Brook Farm.
It seems that utopian agrarian communities come and go, often with a goal of changing the social norms of the day. At various times in my life, I've been approached about communal living, but it has never come about, and I suspect it is unlikely for me in the future.
I have focused on challenging social constructs, especially around race and gender, but I recognize that this is a massive undertaking that requires major changes to the systems we are all part of.
The dishwasher took a long time to finish, and by the time the canning jars were drying, it was too late to start the jam, so I read a little bit more and went to bed early.
This morning, I got up a little earlier than I would on a normal weekday, and made the last batch of beach plum jam. There was less juice left, so it was a smaller batch. Only six jars worth of jam. All in all, I have made 39 jars of beach plum jam this year. We'll see if I try some other jams or jellies.
On tap for today includes resuming my weekly dump runs. I haven't been recently because of vacation, and it will be a large run today. Hopefully, I can make time to start a couple batches of hard cider. It is that time of year again.
Then, in the afternoon, I will be gathering with a couple people to talk about big data in health care and finance. It will be a busy, if not restful day. And, at some point, I will check in on Kim and Fiona to see how they are doing and if I can work out a time to go give them a hand as well.
I wonder what we can learn from Coverdale and his trip to Blithedale as the new jam cools in the canning jars and I type on my laptop and prepare to publish my post online.
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Of late, I've been looking for something to engage my mind. I read posts from friends on Facebook; many which are good progressive screeds, but I grow weary of that. I see what's on television, in the movies, playing on the radio, or written in popular books and I am uninterested.
My thoughts turned to reading the great books. Maybe, I can work my way through the American writers. I try to find a thread to pull.
Massive Open Online Courses catch my interest. I've kicked around a few in the past and made it a little way through some of them, but get distracted. Perhaps, I can set aside an hour each night to explore MOOCs.
In my search, I stumbled across The Saylor Foundation and start looking at their offerings.
ENGL405: The American Renaissance catches my eye and I start reading The Romantic Period, 1820-1860: Essayists and Poets By Kathryn VanSpanckeren.
There are many great diversions along the way. It is not surprising that I get distracted and rarely finish a MOOC.
VanSpanckeren quotes Emerson's essay, The Poet
For all men live by truth, and stand in need of expression. In love, in art, in avarice, in politics, in labor, in games, we study to utter our painful secret. The man is only half himself, the other half is his expression.
I spend a little time reading, or perhaps re-reading some of that essay.
A little later on VanSpanckeren references The Blithedale Romance by Nathaniel Hawthorne which I download to my cellphone and start reading.
A number of Transcendentalists were … were involved in experimental utopian communities such as nearby Brook Farm (described in Hawthorne's The Blithedale Romance) and Fruitlands.
I read a little bit of The Blithedale Romance and then spend some time exploring online articles about Brook Farm.
Ah yes, to find a Brook Farm I could join.
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
Perhaps an online Brook Farm or Bloomsbury Circle. Miranda talks about wanting to start a salon, an artist colony, or something of the sort. Perhaps when I am "old and gray and full of sleep and nodding by the fire" I can find a corner in my daughter's salon.
But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
Yet perhaps, this Brook Farm, Bloomsbury Circle, Eldorado can by created online; a venue for the techno-transcendentalists.
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado!"
"I stand here ironing…"
Well, I wasn't ironing, I was making beach plum jelly as I reflected on my life. I remember taking a literature class in college, my senior year. Actually, I took a few. One was on Virginia Woolf. Another was something like a retrospective on feminist literature. It was from that class that I learned the work of Tillie Olsen. It was over three decades ago and I remember reading "I stand here ironing", but I'm not positive. Did Tillie Olsen come speak to my class, I think so, but I'm not sure.
My story is different from the mother in Tillie Olsen's story, but there are plenty of parallels. I've been through hard times and like the mother in the story, I wonder what I could have done differently as a parent when my first marriage fell apart.
It was the day after my wife's 47th birthday and the 14th anniversary of her mother's death. Kim, and our daughter Fiona were out at dinner with a friend, and I was home making jam.
I've been thinking a lot about societal constructs and gender roles. I was creating something special, yet transitory; another batch of beach jam. We will give it away as gifts, eat a little bit of it ourselves, and then, before another Labor Day roles around on Cape Cod, most of it will be gone.
The domestic arts. Throughout the ages, the fine arts and literary arts have been dominated by men while the domestic arts have been dominated by women. Should I submit my jam to a county fair? Maybe make a quilt some time? Challenge some of the old gender roles?
This year, my middle daughter wrote the book, "Don't' Make Art, Just Make Something". It is about not letting the word 'art' stop you from being creative. There is an art to making good beach plum jam. I'm not sure I've mastered that art yet, but I am making something, and that something, my friends tell me, is some really good jam.
Fourteen years ago, my wife's mother died, and the tears still reappear each year. My mother is more recently deceased. I'm coming up on the first year, and I find myself drifting more and more towards something between the dreams she had for me and my idealized memories of her.
As I stir the heating syrup, soon to be jam, I think of those days as a child when I would help her with jelly making and canning. It was part of my childhood, part of who I am now.
Seventeen jars of jam yesterday; sixteen more today. Another batch to be made. Then, I'll probably find some time to start a batch of hard cider.
And, in my spare time, I make space, here and there, to write. I feel no closer to my aspirations of literary grandeur than I did over three decades ago, studying in the shadows of some great writers.
But, at least I know I can make some good jam