counting time

Just listened to The Writer's Almanac, as much a part of my morning routine as tea. Today's segment marked the birthday of the famous composer and conductor Leonard Bernstein and included a poem, "Tin Ear," by Peter Schmitt. In it he remembers his childhood music teacher, and smiling at his admission to singing " in a key no one has ever heard," I was immediately transported back to high school and Mr. Messier.

Mr. M traveled between another town's school and ours each week to introduce our high school glee club to songs ranging from old spirituals to timeless standards. What came back to me like a bolt today was his tremendous compassion and obvious dedication to music and his merry band of singers. You see, I'd never learned to read music.

Maybe it was my persistence that won him over...or wore him down. As I remember it, the first time I tried out I couldn't fake following the little black marks on the song sheet. Pass. Yet the following year I showed up again and succeeded in spite of my still obvious lack. You see, I had a good voice and could follow whoever was next to me so that after one run-through I could manage not to embarrass myself or anyone else. I just initially used the score to direct my voice up or down and learn the lyrics while keeping an ear out for Cathy the alto next to me and my attention on Mr. M at the front. It's true.

I loved singing so much that of course I tried out for the orchestra. Why not? More amazing was that I got in!! I guess the safest place to put me was behind the bass drum, sharing that responsibility with another girl with the same first name. She could read music and I had pluck, what can I say? So we took turns. Mr. M must have figured that I couldn't get into too much trouble next to my friend Patty who played the snare drum and good-naturedly kept me on track. Another friend Susie played a myriad of instruments including the triangle, which we have never let her forget, and thus our back row was complete. My cohorts were talented (and could read music), but together we were like kids in the rear of the movie theater to whom everything seemed funny. At least that's how I remember it. We had just way too much fun together and must have driven Mr. M crazy.

My most stellar performance was the initial rehearsal for commencement. Everyone tuned up and when Mr. M lowered his hand for us to start, I earnestly gave my all to "Pomp and Circumstance". I break up even now as I remember him stopping the entire orchestra to point out that I was playing the pivotal drum beat, to which the graduates would march into the auditorium, at half the tempo I should. (Did I mention that I couldn't read music?) At that rate the following year's class would have been ready to graduate before the current grads had made it to their seats...

You had to love someone who displayed that much forbearance and was so forgiving. He gave me some of my fondest -- and funniest -- memories of high school. I still can't read music, but because of Mr. M I can definitely count those times as some of my best.

in appreciation

I stumbled upon some unexpected news the other day. Jean Baker Miller, author of "Toward a New Psychology of Women", died recently and I found myself among the millions around the globe remembering and mourning the passing of this noted pioneer. I'd heard her speak a couple of times, but had first read and been inspired by her book in the seventies and came to admire her dedicated spirit and achievements including the Jean Baker Miller Training Institute at Wellesley Centers for Women at Wellesley College.

I revisited her book fifteen years after that first reading when I was working on an independent study at Lesley College (now Lesley University), and it still spoke to me, resonating with the truth of my own experience. I recall her saying that we often don't know how far we've come until we look back, reflecting upon our lives. Reflection made so much sense to me at midlife and dovetailed with my belief in the inherent power of personal reflective writing. I've relied on writing for rumination...speculation...discovery...and simple recognition of that which is meaningful to me and might otherwise go unnoticed. I suppose it allows me to both observe and author my life.

I keep thinking about Jean Baker Miller because the news of her death truly touched me. She was one who informed me when I was finding my way through the confounding world of corporations. Her words reached me thirty years ago as a young woman exploring who I was and where I fit in the world in general, and again years later when it was time for me to carve an uncharted path. I have her and others to thank for encouraging -- empowering -- me at both stages to make my own way. Sadly, however, I never wrote the thank-you note I'd intended to after hearing her speak. Unfinished business, words left unspoken. Sometimes the most meaningful writing gives voice to that which we've only been thinking. Because I missed my chance with Dr. Miller, I'm now contemplating who else deserves to hear my appreciation while there's still time.

double standard

Just visited someone else's blog and noticed that her last entry was in mid-June. I tried reloading the page, hitting links like mad thinking that I'd find a fresh, new, more recent posting. Nope. And then I began to make up stories...

She's a cancer survivor and makes no bones about sharing her (inner and outer) experiences whether cancer-related or not. Her entries are vividly life-related which is why I enjoy them so much. Soon after discovering her blog, I began to care about this woman and her journey. So now I'm concerned and haven't worked out how to say that there. Am I being superstitious or overly cautious? Words have power and I can't decide which ones to use.

Somehow I have this code that it's okay for me to drop out of sight -- cyber or otherwise -- for weeks and yet I automatically expect others to be right where I left them when I return. Hmm... Life happens and even though I dropped the thread of Appletini Times for a while, now I want to know that she's okay, busily living her life with the zest and courage I've seen so far.

Maybe the best and only thing is to ask the simple question How are you? That's all I really want to know, otherwise I'll continue to make up stories.