Am I my brother's keeper?

When I was a smarty pants 12 year old pain in the rear, my mom asked me "Where is your sister?" My sister is three and a half years younger than I. At age 12 this seemed like an infinite chasm and I felt keenly the unjustness of having any responsibility for her whatsoever. "Am I my brother's keeper?" I replied, thinking that a Biblical quote would be reproof proof. My mom gave me a stern look. "The answer to that question is 'yes,'" she said.

And so it is. In the book of Genesis in the Bible God asks Cain, "Where is your brother Abel?" Cain has a slight problem here, he has just killed Abel out of jealousy and rage, those old excuses. So he answers the question with a question, "Am I my brother's keeper?" God, being God, is not fooled for even a minute and soon Cain is in some pretty hot water. Cain's failure to understand that he is indeed his brother's keeper is the root of his problem. A keeper loves those over whom he watches. He has their best interests at heart. He rejoices in their success and mourns with their sorrows. Think of a shepherd with his sheep. Or a dog or cat lover with his pets. We have become very good at being keepers of animals that we love.

Alas, we are less adept at being keepers of each other. As I watch the trial of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev unfold, I ask myself, "Who is his keeper?" The defense would have us believe that his older brother, Tamerlan, was his keeper, and did a poor job of it. In an attempt to save Dzhokhar's life they are arguing that Tamerlan did most of the dirty work, came up with the plan, stuffed Dzhokhar full of propaganda, and encouraged mindless devotion to his cause. This may or may not be true, I wouldn't know. One thing is certain, Dzhokhar needed a better keeper.

This brings to mind another great Bible story, this one in the New Testament. Once again someone asks a question, "Who is my neighbor?" and Jesus responds with a story about a kind man, who, although of a different race and a despised nationality, goes out of his way to save another man's life. He was a good keeper to a person with whom he had no prior relationship.

Johann Sebastian Bach summarized the situation perfectly in his beautiful cantata, "Ihr, die ihr euch von Christo nennet." The baritone recitative translates, in part, "We hear, indeed, what Love itself says: Whoever embraces his neighbor with mercy shall receive mercy as his judgment. However we heed this not at all! Our neighbor's sighs can still be heard." I don't know about you, but I am in need of mercy, from friends I have offended, from family members with whom I have been short-tempered, even from perfect strangers of whom I thought poorly.

As a part of humanity, we are all each other's keepers. I am Dzhokhar Tsarnaev's keeper, and so are you, and so is the farm hand in the trailer up the road, and so is my hairdresser, and so is the rest of mankind. And as his keepers, we need to let him live. If there is any chance at all that he could improve his life, make a positive contribution to the world no matter how small, redeem even marginally his terrible actions, then we need to give it to him. Let's have mercy, mercy for a boy who was poorly kept.

A young Dzhokhar Tsarnaev

No, Lucy, you canna do the show!

So says Ricky Ricardo, repeatedly, to his wife Lucy in the classic television show, I Love Lucy. Lucy considers herself to be talented and desires very much to be a part of her musician husband's nightclub act. Ricky, however, is quite aware of his wife's zany antics and refuses her requests. Appropriate scheming and hilarity always ensue, resulting in a most entertaining bit of TV.

In real life we are often told, "You canna do the show!" And it doesn't really matter how much we want it. Years ago I taught music at a small state university. We had a handful of talented music majors. The rest were in the program so we could fatten our ranks and justify the existence of a tiny music department. When I realized students were going deeply into debt for a useless degree, my conscience compelled me to speak. I told a new vocal performance major, "You should change majors. You will never work in the music profession. In fact, you will not be accepted into any graduate voice program." To my utter surprise, instead of expressing gratitude at my honesty, she burst into tears and said, "It's my right to major in whatever I want," then promptly went to the president of the university and complained about me. Two things were readily apparent; number one, one of us didn't understand the constitution very well, number two, the other one of us was going to have a very short academic career. You decide which was which.

Life doesn't owe us anything. We are fed a constant diet of feel-good platitudes, such as "Follow your dreams." Or "Do what you love." Or "If you want it, you can achieve it." There's certainly nothing wrong with dreaming. If you want to be an outstanding science teacher, good for you! But if you want to be the next Broadway star, great opera singer, comedian, or host of the Tonight Show, your chances of being told, "You canna do the show!" have become a near certainty. The odds are not in your favor, however talented you may be.

I have learned that it is a far, far better thing to follow life's path for you, love what you are given, and want what you have. For years my dream was to win the Pulitzer Prize for music. But life intervened. Instead of composing the next great symphony, I found myself composing songs for children, such as What a Girl! from my children's opera Tom Sawyer. Instead of winning the Pulitzer Prize I won "Parent Volunteer of the Year" for the Clovis, New Mexico school district. Instead of performing for hundreds at Carnegie Hall I taught hundreds of piano lessons in Fayetteville, North Carolina.

The 2014 Pulitzer Prize for Music went to John Luther Adams, a fine and accomplished composer. Have you heard of him? Hundreds of school children in Clovis have never heard of him, either. But they know Mrs. Duke, and they have sung her music, and will hopefully go on into adulthood loving music because of her work. Jamie Baum received the Guggenheim Award for music composition in 2014. Do you know her music? Dozens of piano students in Fayetteville don't, either. But they know Miss Charis and her passion for music and will hopefully share that passion with their children someday.

If you've been told, "You canna do the show!" let go and accept the new road. I have no Pulitzer Prize, but I still won.

Lucille Ball and Ricky Ricardo

Can I get some wabi-sabi with that?

I know this will come as a complete shock to many of you, but I am not perfect.  I can be vain, proud, foolish, and quite impatient with my fellow human kind.  I have many physical imperfections as well, scars, lumps, and all the stretch marks that accompany giving birth to three children.  I try hard, but mostly fail, at being more empathetic.  I eat healthy foods and run four days a week, but still weigh more than I did in college and will never achieve a thigh gap.  There are days that I arise, look at myself in the mirror, and ask, "What is so wrong with me?"

Nothing that a little wabi-sabi can't fix.  Wabi-sabi is the Japanese aesthetic that finds beauty in imperfection and accepts the natural cycles of decay and death.  Wabi-sabi acknowledges that cracks and crevices give character, that weathering and withering bring grace, that rust and rot are earned through life's experiences.  I find this idea refreshing, liberating even.  Our culture is consumed with a desperate hair dye and face lift fueled attempt to claim the fountain of youth.  What would happen if we chose to abandon that futile pursuit and instead embraced the imperfections of life?

Modest Petrovich Mussorgsky, born in 1839 in Russia, was a gifted, passionate composer of tremendous influence and stature.  Mussorgsky was introduced into the artistic life of St. Petersburg where he became a part of "The Mighty Five," a group of composers who were dedicated to celebrating and promoting Russian music.  Mussorgsky pursued this by composing music that embraced every day events in Russian life.  Listen to this charming Hopak, a popular Cossack dance.  Sadly Mussorgsky fell victim to the most terrible of Russian artistic cliches, alcoholism and poverty.  After years of steady decline in health, bouts of depression, extreme destitution, and alcoholic seizures, he died at the age of 42, leaving most of his compositions unfinished and unedited.

So what do we do with this imperfect man?  Do we bury his music in a trunk, saying, "Too bad it's not finished, but hey, not our fault, he was a drunken bum?"  Thankfully his friends realized his worth, flawed as he was, and saved his legacy.  Rimsky-Korsakov re-orchestrated and finished the ever-popular Night on Bald Mountain.  The opera Khovanshchina was finished and edited by Rimsky-Korsakov, Shostakovitch, Stravinsky, and Ravel.  And of course we all enjoy the superb Ravel orchestration of Pictures at an Exhibition.  Mussorgsky's great talent continues to inspire because his wise colleagues refused to throw away a broken human being.

It's time for me to go running.  I'm going to rejoice in every fumbling step, in every tired mile, in every twinge of my aging knee, that I have attained some character and grace and that my beauty lies not in being perfect, but in being one who has lived.

Having a hamburger for lunch?  Wouldn't you like some wabi-sabi with that?

Modest Mussorgsky

Wabi-sabi

I am not Charlie

I am not French.  I often don't understand satire.  I'm a terrible artist and I don't read or look at cartoons much.  I compose music but it's not remotely political or subversive.  I certainly haven't lost my life for a cause about which I feel strongly.  I am not Charlie.

In the wake of the recent tragedy in France I have read many opinions on the matter.  I've read that free speech is important, we should unite in defending it.  I agree.  I've read that we should respect other religions more.  I agree.  I've read that the Western world is waging a terrible war upon Muslims everywhere and we are deceiving ourselves if we think we are innocent.  I agree.  There seem to be no easy answers, no quick fix for these entrenched problems that divide us.  How can something as simple as a cartoon make any difference at all when hatred is so strong?

Arvo Pärt was born in Estonia in 1935 and thus grew up in the Soviet Union.  He played the oboe and percussion in the army band then went on to study composition at the Tallinn Conservatory.  Although he had artistic success, he soon became a target of the Soviet cultural police who did not appreciate his "avant-garde bourgeois music." The performance of his 1968 choral work Credo, which proclaims in the Latin text "I believe in Jesus Christ," outraged the atheist officials.  A huge scandal ensued.  Officers in the Estonian Philharmonic organization were fired.  The conductor Neeme Järvi only managed to hang onto his job because there was no one to replace him.  Pärt's commissions dried up and he found it difficult to work for the next eight years.

What's most compelling about this story is that the Credo itself was Pärt's commentary on hate, the very hate it spawned.  The piece opens with musical quotes from a famous prelude by Johann Sebastian Bach.  It is calm, serene, and lovely.  Then a wild cacophony of sound interrupts and nearly destroys the prelude.  But the peace is victorious and the prelude returns at the end.  As Pärt explains in an interview for the New York Times, "It was my deep conviction that the words of Christ, 'You have heard an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, but I say unto you, do not resist evil, go with love to your enemies,'  this was a theological musical form.  Love destroyed the hate:  Not destroyed, the hate collapsed itself when it met the love.  A convulsion."

I am an idealist.  I believe the arts; visual, theater, music, dance, literature, and yes, cartoons, can change the world.  And when the arts are combined with love, they become the most powerful tools we have.  I am not Charlie.  But I am a member of the human race, and as a member of that race I mourn the loss of any who die in a tragic and untimely way.  If you are a member of the human race (and Vulcans are welcome, too!), join me in going with love to our enemies.  Hate collapses when it meets love. Let's have a convulsion.

Arvo Pärt

Fifty Shades of...

In elementary school there were several posters on the cafeteria walls that announced "You Are What You Eat."  My friends and I found this hysterically funny.  Someone would eat a Twinkie and say, "Look, my arm's a Twinkie now!"  A boy named Johnny was the only kid who liked and ate the kale the school was so determined to serve us.  Everyone watched him carefully to find the first hints of green skin.  Now that I am older I appreciate what those posters were trying to teach us, that it matters very much what we put into our bodies.  But I think it matters even more what we put into our minds.  We are, indeed, what we read, watch, and listen to.

That's why I don't really care for chick flicks or chick lit.  I don't spend much time perusing books with characters named "Daphne Flowers" or "Ridge Stone."  Daphne, of course, is illustrated on the cover; her long "raven hair" tousled, her "violet eyes" brimming, her bodice overtly askew.  I always wish I could say to Daphne, "My dear, you should really go to college, pursue a career, and stop identifying yourself as some man's appendage.  Oh, and borrow my t-shirt."  I don't want to agree with Daphne, sympathize with her silly plight, or view the world through her lens.  I don't want to become Daphne. Therefore, I don't let her in.

So when trailers for Fifty Shades of Grey start popping up everywhere, I feel such discouragement.  Why are many women interested in this mindless pablum?  (And yes, this movie is targeted to women.  If any man sees this movie it will be because the woman in his life dragged him there.)  What aspect of Fifty Shades of Grey do they want to become?  Submissive?  Abused?  Depraved?  Consumed by the pursuit of sexual gratification?

"Hey," these women cry, "Don't be so serious.  It's just a movie.  It's just entertainment."

Wrong.  There is no such thing as "just entertainment."  Don't fool yourself. Since the dawn of mankind entertainment has been a powerful tool to shape the thoughts and actions of people.  Early cultures staged ritualistic dramas to teach beliefs, morals, and appropriate behavior.  In ancient Greece playwrights used satire and farce to successfully foment social change.  In the late 18th century the French playwright Pierre Beaumarchais wrote a trilogy of Figaro plays that was openly critical of aristocratic privilege.  The most revolutionary of the three plays, "The Marriage of Figaro," dealt with the privilege of "droit du seigneur," the right of the royalty to get "first dibs" with a servant's bride before the wedding night.  The court censor banned it.  King Louis XVI declared it would never be performed.  Marie Antoinette defied the order and soon the play was performed all over Paris, with great effect.  The French saw revolt, heard revolt, read revolt, and surprise, surprise, had a revolution.

O my fellow sisters (and brothers, too!) of the planet Earth, what do you want to become?  I can think of so many wonderful things I'd like to be; how about Fifty Shades of Creative?  Fifty Shades of Compassionate?  Fifty Shades of Healthy, Beautiful, Understanding, Wise, Educated?  Let us make a solemn vow to be anything, anything but Fifty Shades of Stupid.

Entertainment?

Beaumarchais

To be Beautiful is Human, to be Unique, Divine

Those of us of a certain age remember the "perfect 10." It was Bo Derek, running down the beach in an impossibly small bathing suite covering an impossibly perfect body.  The movie Ten was released before I was even a teenager, so I didn't watch it.  Yet the inescapable images were everywhere and managed to worm their way into my impressionable brain.  By the time I was 16 I was keenly aware that I was not a perfect 10.  But the reality that I would never be a perfect 10 had not dawned.  I still had such hopes.  I subscribed to Seventeen Magazine, devouring every make-up and fashion tip.  I roamed the mall with girlfriends, scouting for the latest styles.  Then I went to college and saw literally thousands of girls more beautiful than I, better clothed than I, more graceful, trendy, and hip then I.  It was enough to discourage the most determined fashionista.

Fortunately as I have matured my understanding of beauty has changed.  I once had a young piano student from a rather exotic ethnic background.  She had, by Western European standards, a large nose.  But her nose perfectly balanced her strong cheekbones and her dramatic, deep coloring.  She was beautiful.  After a month off from her lessons, she walked into my home one day with a different nose.  It was petite, trim, and turned up just the right amount at the tip.  At age 14 she succumbed to an impossible standard and had plastic surgery to "fix" her nose.  I went to bed that night nearly in tears, thinking that my stunning student was now quite ordinary.  I mourned the loss of an imperfect feature that made her unique, and therefore, beautiful.

Perhaps that is why I like the music of Sergei Prokofiev so much.  His compositions are flawed in many ways.  He can be sloppy with structure, monotonous with melodic development.  A critic reviewing a Prokofiev work in 1918 wrote, "Mr. Prokofiev's pieces have been contributions not to the art of music, but to national pathology and pharmacopoeia... They pursue no esthetic purpose, strive for no recognizable ideal, proclaim no means for increasing the expressive potency of music.  They are simply perverse.  They die the death of abortions." One of the most persistent Prokofiev criticisms is his orchestrations.  They are often called thin and amateurish.  Yet his orchestrations are the very thing I love most about his music.

Listen to this excerpt from the ballet Romeo and Juliet.  This is Juliet's death scene.  I can't conceive of a better depiction, and it is precisely the "thin" orchestration that creates the mood.  Soaring violins in octaves with flutes and clarinets, a lone horn counter melody in the background, this is epic, this is genius.  Prokofiev's greatest shortcoming gives him his expressive power.  And it is so very beautiful.

 I'm not a perfect 10.  My forehead is too high, my lips too thin, my chin too prominent.  Perhaps I am something even better, a perfect 47, if you will.  My many friends are perfect 32s, perfect 50s, perfect 64s,  We are all flawed.  Some of us might even be damaged.  But those little blots and smudges make us unique.  They make us who we are.  And we are beautiful.

Bo, A Perfect 10

Sergei, A Perfect 100

The fault in The Fault in Our Stars

I don't like The Fault in Our Stars.  I'm referring to the book.  I haven't seen the movie and I won't, since I didn't like the book and it doesn't have Spock.  I don't object to the author or plot.  I think John Green is a superlative writer and he tells an interesting story, which, although manipulative, is still rather touching.  My complaint is with the language that issues forth from the teenage protagonists' mouths.  "Colorful" might be one adjective for it, or "adult," or if my grandmother were here she might say, "uncouth!"  Whatever it's called, I don't like to hear it or read it, and I never use it.

I've heard the arguments; "That's how teenagers talk today.  Mr. Green was being realistic.  Those kids are dying a terrible death.  Their world stinks.  Profanity reflects that."  Hmm.  Maybe.  But I don't believe that a rotten world justifies or even requires rotten language.  In fact, if the world is truly so ugly, wouldn't beautiful language make it a little nicer place to be?

Heinrich Schütz would think so.  Schütz was born in 1585 in Germany to a family of innkeepers.  His musical talents were recognized early.  Accordingly he was sent to Venice to study composition, Venice being the most important city for composers at that time.  Upon his return to Germany he became the Kapellmeister (chapel master) for the Elector of Saxony in Dresden.  He was soon the preeminent composer in the area and was enjoying great success.  But life was not kind to Heinrich.  His beautiful wife whom he adored died after just 6 years of marriage, leaving him with two young daughters.  Then the Thirty Years' War descended upon central Europe, and madness reigned.  From 1618-1648 economic hardships, pillaging by soldiers, plagues, and anarchy were common.  Dresden suffered terrible deprivations.  Between 25-40% of the population of Germany died during this time.  Some communities lost two-thirds of their citizens.

And yet, Heinrich Schütz continued to compose exquisitely beautiful music.  Listen to Selig Sind die Toten (Blessed are the Dead).  Everything he produced during this brutal time praises his God and strives to elevate his gifts and talents to the highest.  Why didn't he succumb to the ugliness all around him and create something profane?

Words and music are powerful.  Ancient people understood this.  In the creation myths of Egypt, the sun, the earth, the moon, and all other objects came into being as Re spoke their name.  The Acoma people of New Mexico taught that two sisters sang a creation song to bring life to the earth.  The Samoans have a story about Tangaroa who spoke to a rock, bringing forth water, sky, maleness, femaleness, and ideas.  Christians believe that "in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God," and that "the morning stars sang together" at the creation.

Words and music create worlds.  Heinrich Schütz knew this, and I wish the youth in The Fault in Our Stars knew it as well.  If your world is crumbling under the weight of terrible things (and everyone's does, at some point) the relief, the peace, the hope you are seeking lies in beauty, not profanity. And if we all worked harder at sharing a little more beauty despite our circumstances, we could create a new world, a world that would bless us all.

Heinrich Schütz