It's About Love

One of the things I like most about singing, and about teaching others how to sing is digging into the creative, interpretive side of performing that comes after the rudimentary learning of notes and rhythms, diction and breathings spots, and how to handle the tricky technical troubles that always seem to pop up at inopportune times.  My students are never too pleased when I give them "that look" across the piano and say, "Alright now... what is this song about?"  Most of the time they tell me they know, and then they struggle to put a sentence or two together without falling into that vague no-mans land explanation known as "It's about love."

In all fairness, it's a harder exercise than it sounds, and I tell them so.  Some songs come gift-wrapped with characters, a back story and a conclusion already in place.  Even though there is less digging required for these songs, it is still necessary to know the background.  What happened in the story to bring us to the point of this song?  Who sings it?  Why do they sing it? To whom to do they sing it?  What happens as a result?  Any student who goes to the trouble of answering these questions has a wealth of information they can use as a foundation for interpretation.

Other songs don't have such easy answers.  Some songs don't really tell a story.  Others have no discernible cast of characters.  Sometimes the poetry is confusing, or sparse, or from a time or location entirely foreign to us (Sanskrit, I'm talking to YOU), or seemingly silly to our sophisticated 21st century sensibilities.  As difficult as these songs are, they are some that I like the best, maybe just for the challenge.  Anybody can learn a song, but to really know a song, you have to discover the underlying message that is enhanced or obscured by melody, rhythm, harmony and text.  In a nutshell, the challenge comes in first accepting a song for whatever it is, and then learning to love it on its own level.  And that little nutshell represents a great deal time and thought and maturity.

Songs are a lot like people.  Or is it that people are a lot like songs?  While we spend our time on this earth we all have a story to tell.  Some are obvious.  Some are easier to understand.  Some are shared ready-or-not and come gift-wrapped with a bullet point list of accomplishments and lessons learned.  Others are more difficult to discern.  But despite the challenges, when we take the time to listen and learn, we are so much richer in our own lives.

There really aren't enough words to express how worthwhile it is for us to take the time to really know someone's story.  Thankfully, there are songs.

Listen carefully.
Consider thoughtfully.
Share freely.

And when someone asks you what the song is about, just tell them "it's about love."
You won't be wrong.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Being a creature of rather severe habit, I boot up my computer in a very neurotically exacting organized fashion.  Email first, work program second, web browser third, IM programs fourth.  Even within my web browser there is a particular order from which I never stray:  Blog. Gmail. Facebook. RSS Reader. Twitter. I was extremely happy when the web browsers recognized my OCD dedication to order and allowed me to drag and reorder tabs, saving me the trauma of having to close everything down and start over again should something blip out unexpectedly. Because I absolutely, positively would do it (and let's face it, still do it), every single time.

Since the delightful day of May 27, 2010, I have opened up my blog and said hello to the same beautiful white peony that bloomed this past spring.  Unfortunately, "Hello peony, you sure are pretty" slowly morphed into "Yeah, flower, I know I really should get off my butt and write something."  Who knew that flowers were so good at heaping the guilt?  But as usual, I had a million things to do and a thousand excuses to go with them, and so my beautiful peony got to live at the top of my blog page for a long, LONG time.

At least it was something pretty and not something embarrassing.

Now the flowers are long gone, and we are barreling into November and December, pondering what it would be like to take a long winter's nap, if only our bosses or children or spouses or family or friends or social calendars or Internet farms would let us.  But despite the fact that even the insanity is overwhelmed by the crazy, one activity I don't want to neglect is participating in the November NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month).  I'd hate to miss the opportunity of adding another pretty button to my collection, and who knows?   Maybe my multi-month hiatus wasn't so much a matter of me being a great big slacker (which of course, I was), but was, in fact, a chance for me to gather a few more stories to tell over the next thirty days.

 So sit back and enjoy. 
 Ready or not, here I come.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Being a creature of rather severe habit, I boot up my computer in a very neurotically exacting organized fashion.  Email first, work program second, web browser third, IM programs fourth.  Even within my web browser there is a particular order from which I never stray:  Blog. Gmail. Facebook. RSS Reader. Twitter. I was extremely happy when the web browsers recognized my OCD dedication to order and allowed me to drag and reorder tabs, saving me the trauma of having to close everything down and start over again should something blip out unexpectedly. Because I absolutely, positively would do it (and let's face it, still do it), every single time.

Since the delightful day of May 27, 2010, I have opened up my blog and said hello to the same beautiful white peony that bloomed this past spring.  Unfortunately, "Hello peony, you sure are pretty" slowly morphed into "Yeah, flower, I know I really should get off my butt and write something."  Who knew that flowers were so good at heaping the guilt?  But as usual, I had a million things to do and a thousand excuses to go with them, and so my beautiful peony got to live at the top of my blog page for a long, LONG time.

At least it was something pretty and not something embarrassing.

Now the flowers are long gone, and we are barreling into November and December, pondering what it would be like to take a long winter's nap, if only our bosses or children or spouses or family or friends or social calendars or Internet farms would let us.  But despite the fact that even the insanity is overwhelmed by the crazy, one activity I don't want to neglect is participating in the November NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month).  I'd hate to miss the opportunity of adding another pretty button to my collection, and who knows?   Maybe my multi-month hiatus wasn't so much a matter of me being a great big slacker (which of course, I was), but was, in fact, a chance for me to gather a few more stories to tell over the next thirty days.

 So sit back and enjoy. 
 Ready or not, here I come.

Global Blooming

If you were ever curious about global warming, all you would have to do is look in my front yard.  Although I don't have any polar bears floating by on rapidly melting ice floes, I have flowers and trees far ahead of their bloom time; so much so that I wonder if there will be anything left come August.

Trees that didn't leaf out until May were going great-gusto in early April.  The columbines and lilacs are finishing up and the peonies and roses have geared up to take over the show.  Last night as I was cleaning out flower beds I noticed  one over-achieving black-eyed Susan that was thinking about blooming.  In May.  In Michigan.

I'm always very grateful for the pretty, yet a little worried at the accelerated time-frame.  Maybe if we all decided to take a walk instead of taking a drive, we could slow down Mother Nature's clock and stop and smell the roses at the same time.  It would be a win-win situation all the way around, I think.

"Look at the trees, look at the birds, look at the clouds, look at the stars...

and if you have eyes you will be able to see that the whole existence is joyful.

Everything is simply happy.  Trees are happy for no reason;

they are not going to become prime ministers or presidents 

and they are not going to become rich and they will never have any bank balance.

Look at the flowers -- for no reason.

It is simply unbelievable how happy flowers are."  ~~Osho

"Some people worry that artificial intelligence will make us feel inferior,

but then, anybody in his right mind should have an inferiority complex

every time he looks at a flower."  ~~Alan C. Kay

"Nobody sees a flower, really; it is so small.  

We haven't time, and to see takes time --

like to have a friend takes time." ~~Georgia O'Keeffe

Mila, the garden supervisor.

"The problem with cats is they get the exact same look on their face

whether they see a moth or an axe-murderer."  ~~Paula Poundstone

Global Blooming

If you were ever curious about global warming, all you would have to do is look in my front yard.  Although I don't have any polar bears floating by on rapidly melting ice floes, I have flowers and trees far ahead of their bloom time; so much so that I wonder if there will be anything left come August.

Trees that didn't leaf out until May were going great-gusto in early April.  The columbines and lilacs are finishing up and the peonies and roses have geared up to take over the show.  Last night as I was cleaning out flower beds I noticed  one over-achieving black-eyed Susan that was thinking about blooming.  In May.  In Michigan.

I'm always very grateful for the pretty, yet a little worried at the accelerated time-frame.  Maybe if we all decided to take a walk instead of taking a drive, we could slow down Mother Nature's clock and stop and smell the roses at the same time.  It would be a win-win situation all the way around, I think.

"Look at the trees, look at the birds, look at the clouds, look at the stars...

and if you have eyes you will be able to see that the whole existence is joyful.

Everything is simply happy.  Trees are happy for no reason;

they are not going to become prime ministers or presidents 

and they are not going to become rich and they will never have any bank balance.

Look at the flowers -- for no reason.

It is simply unbelievable how happy flowers are."  ~~Osho

"Some people worry that artificial intelligence will make us feel inferior,

but then, anybody in his right mind should have an inferiority complex

every time he looks at a flower."  ~~Alan C. Kay

"Nobody sees a flower, really; it is so small.  

We haven't time, and to see takes time --

like to have a friend takes time." ~~Georgia O'Keeffe

Mila, the garden supervisor.

"The problem with cats is they get the exact same look on their face

whether they see a moth or an axe-murderer."  ~~Paula Poundstone

The Great 48

One of my birthday cards this year had Fisher-Price 

"little people" on the front, and it said,

"I'm 'this many' years old."

Another year has come and gone and today marks year number 48.  It's not a "milestone" birthday, but there are many days when I'm just as happy to be anything, as long as it isn't past-tense.  This morning, as I was walking to the car, TeenTuna asked me how old I was, and without thinking, I answered her.  She said, "So, you're not 27 anymore?"  I said I guessed not, and chalked up my truthful answer to a combination not caring and the time of day, which was a tender 6:15 am.

You'll notice I didn't say anything about growing up or being mature.

To this day, I still sometimes wonder when I'll feel like a grown-up.  My age tells me I'm a legal adult, my teenager tells me I'm a parent, and my monthly bills tell me I'm obligated to pay what I owe.  All of those things, individually and combined, tell me that I'm a grown-up.  I accept it, but I don't feel it.

Oh sure, I can play the part, especially when it comes to parenting.  I know I must be responsible, protective, authoritative, and yes, even dictatorial.  ESPECIALLY DICTATORIAL (caps-lock, bold, leaned-over).  I make the rules, I enforce the rules, and I reward and punish accordingly. Based on that alone, you'd think I'd feel like a grown-up.  But I don't.


In all honestly, I'm not exactly losing sleep over my apparent deficiency, and I'm guessing that nobody else notices it (or cares) besides me.  But I do wonder, am I alone out here?  Did everyone my age progress emotionally, physically and spiritually to the Kingdom of Middle Age, while I was out playing on the swings?

Sometimes I envy those who knew what they wanted to be when they grew up, and then went out and did it.  Or who can name a favorite book, or movie, or color, or song.  It seems so decisive.  It seems so grown-up.  My dilemma is that I want to learn everything and do everything and be everything and choose everything.  That sounds like I'm flaky and unable to commit.

But really, the way I prefer to spin it, is that I'm decidedly non-decisive.  Plans are important and goals are a good thing, but I prefer broad horizons to narrow channels.  After 48 years I've learned there are so many more things for me to learn, books to read, songs to sing, flowers to plant, foods to try, and places to travel.  As an rational, realistic grown-up, I know I won't get to them all.  But the child inside me is really excited about the journey.

Here's to 48 more years of possibilities.
Ready. Set. Wander.

The Great 48

One of my birthday cards this year had Fisher-Price 

"little people" on the front, and it said,

"I'm 'this many' years old."

Another year has come and gone and today marks year number 48.  It's not a "milestone" birthday, but there are many days when I'm just as happy to be anything, as long as it isn't past-tense.  This morning, as I was walking to the car, TeenTuna asked me how old I was, and without thinking, I answered her.  She said, "So, you're not 27 anymore?"  I said I guessed not, and chalked up my truthful answer to a combination not caring and the time of day, which was a tender 6:15 am.

You'll notice I didn't say anything about growing up or being mature.

To this day, I still sometimes wonder when I'll feel like a grown-up.  My age tells me I'm a legal adult, my teenager tells me I'm a parent, and my monthly bills tell me I'm obligated to pay what I owe.  All of those things, individually and combined, tell me that I'm a grown-up.  I accept it, but I don't feel it.

Oh sure, I can play the part, especially when it comes to parenting.  I know I must be responsible, protective, authoritative, and yes, even dictatorial.  ESPECIALLY DICTATORIAL (caps-lock, bold, leaned-over).  I make the rules, I enforce the rules, and I reward and punish accordingly. Based on that alone, you'd think I'd feel like a grown-up.  But I don't.


In all honestly, I'm not exactly losing sleep over my apparent deficiency, and I'm guessing that nobody else notices it (or cares) besides me.  But I do wonder, am I alone out here?  Did everyone my age progress emotionally, physically and spiritually to the Kingdom of Middle Age, while I was out playing on the swings?

Sometimes I envy those who knew what they wanted to be when they grew up, and then went out and did it.  Or who can name a favorite book, or movie, or color, or song.  It seems so decisive.  It seems so grown-up.  My dilemma is that I want to learn everything and do everything and be everything and choose everything.  That sounds like I'm flaky and unable to commit.

But really, the way I prefer to spin it, is that I'm decidedly non-decisive.  Plans are important and goals are a good thing, but I prefer broad horizons to narrow channels.  After 48 years I've learned there are so many more things for me to learn, books to read, songs to sing, flowers to plant, foods to try, and places to travel.  As an rational, realistic grown-up, I know I won't get to them all.  But the child inside me is really excited about the journey.

Here's to 48 more years of possibilities.
Ready. Set. Wander.

Garden Party

Now that the snows have melted and the rains have stopped, it's been a good time to get the old hands dirty and work outside.  To tend to a garden is such a romantic notion: sitting quietly in the grass with a big floppy hat, a small metal bucket that holds matching garden tools and a well-loved pair of gloves.  Meanwhile the bees visit flower after flower and the butterflies flitter-flutter merrily in the sunshine.

My gardening experience is vastly different.  I garden with whatever beat up gloves I can find, no hat (hat hair), skunky tennis shoes and a shovel.  There's nothing genteel about it.  It's more like commando gardening.

"You can bury a lot of troubles digging in the dirt."  

Small, picky gardening is not for me.  I admire the weeds that so skillfully intertwine themselves around individual plant stems.  But I just don't have time to untangle each and every one, so sometimes the baby gets thrown out with the bath water, horticulturally speaking.  Luckily, GramTuna enjoys hunting down weeds stem by stem and root by root, so I pick up my shovel and walk to the big patches of mess, leaving the intricate work to her.

This patch has shovel written all over it.

"Earth laughs in flower."-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Whether you are tending to- or battling with- a garden, they are very versatile and provide something for everybody.  Do you like mysteries?  Gardening is for you.  Flowers show up in the strangest places.  Take this little guy.  I know sometimes we are pressed for space, but I am quite certain we did NOT plant anything in a window well.  Will we move it?  Oh probably.  Well, maybe.  It doesn't look half bad, though, does it?

Sometimes flowers pick themselves up and walk somewhere else, sometimes they invite a bunch of their friends over for an extended stay.  Sometimes they just up and leave, without ever saying goodbye.  On the one hand, it's best not to get too attached, but then again, something else might show up in its place, or you can buy another one to replace it.  But be warned:  stubbornness in gardening will not always be rewarded.  After three or four or ten tries, if the plant isn't going to grow, it's time to move on.  Stupid Foxgloves.

"A weed is only a misplaced plant."

And then, there are weeds.  Oh, the weeds.  The weeds, everywhere the weeds.  The dandelions, the thistles, the Creeping Charlie.  The weeds you pulled yesterday, root and all, that show up a few days later.  The weeds that poke you, the weeds that blow their seeds all over kingdom come, the weeds that just wait for you to turn your back and then SPROING!  You see, sentimental weed quote or not, weeds actually try to impress you.  Maybe it is their stealth or their cunningness.  Maybe it is a pretty flower waving above stems of killer prickers.  Maybe it is their killer cuteness as they are clutched in the chubby hands of a three-year old who wants to pick flowers for mommy.

OK--that is killer cute and nobody can hate on dandelions in the chubby hands of a three-year old who wants to pick flowers for mommy.  But weeds, my shovel and I say you're still annoying.





Flowers are an army of amazingness.  They come in an infinite number of colors and shapes and sizes and there is always something new to add to the family.  If you plan it right, something will be blooming all the time, beginning with the earliest crocuses peeking out from the melting snow.  Although the crocus, daffodils and tulips have come and gone, we are full of later spring flowers.

Trillium

Columbine

Azalea

Forget-me-nots

Commando gardening may be a bit brutal, but the results are pretty damn cool.  And who knows, once my shovel and I put some hurt on the more unruly parts of the garden, we'll have even more friends to sit and enjoy as the bees and butterflies frolic.

Maybe I'll even buy a floppy hat.

As if.

Garden Party

Now that the snows have melted and the rains have stopped, it's been a good time to get the old hands dirty and work outside.  To tend to a garden is such a romantic notion: sitting quietly in the grass with a big floppy hat, a small metal bucket that holds matching garden tools and a well-loved pair of gloves.  Meanwhile the bees visit flower after flower and the butterflies flitter-flutter merrily in the sunshine.

My gardening experience is vastly different.  I garden with whatever beat up gloves I can find, no hat (hat hair), skunky tennis shoes and a shovel.  There's nothing genteel about it.  It's more like commando gardening.

"You can bury a lot of troubles digging in the dirt."  

Small, picky gardening is not for me.  I admire the weeds that so skillfully intertwine themselves around individual plant stems.  But I just don't have time to untangle each and every one, so sometimes the baby gets thrown out with the bath water, horticulturally speaking.  Luckily, GramTuna enjoys hunting down weeds stem by stem and root by root, so I pick up my shovel and walk to the big patches of mess, leaving the intricate work to her.

This patch has shovel written all over it.

"Earth laughs in flower."-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Whether you are tending to- or battling with- a garden, they are very versatile and provide something for everybody.  Do you like mysteries?  Gardening is for you.  Flowers show up in the strangest places.  Take this little guy.  I know sometimes we are pressed for space, but I am quite certain we did NOT plant anything in a window well.  Will we move it?  Oh probably.  Well, maybe.  It doesn't look half bad, though, does it?

Sometimes flowers pick themselves up and walk somewhere else, sometimes they invite a bunch of their friends over for an extended stay.  Sometimes they just up and leave, without ever saying goodbye.  On the one hand, it's best not to get too attached, but then again, something else might show up in its place, or you can buy another one to replace it.  But be warned:  stubbornness in gardening will not always be rewarded.  After three or four or ten tries, if the plant isn't going to grow, it's time to move on.  Stupid Foxgloves.

"A weed is only a misplaced plant."

And then, there are weeds.  Oh, the weeds.  The weeds, everywhere the weeds.  The dandelions, the thistles, the Creeping Charlie.  The weeds you pulled yesterday, root and all, that show up a few days later.  The weeds that poke you, the weeds that blow their seeds all over kingdom come, the weeds that just wait for you to turn your back and then SPROING!  You see, sentimental weed quote or not, weeds actually try to impress you.  Maybe it is their stealth or their cunningness.  Maybe it is a pretty flower waving above stems of killer prickers.  Maybe it is their killer cuteness as they are clutched in the chubby hands of a three-year old who wants to pick flowers for mommy.

OK--that is killer cute and nobody can hate on dandelions in the chubby hands of a three-year old who wants to pick flowers for mommy.  But weeds, my shovel and I say you're still annoying.





Flowers are an army of amazingness.  They come in an infinite number of colors and shapes and sizes and there is always something new to add to the family.  If you plan it right, something will be blooming all the time, beginning with the earliest crocuses peeking out from the melting snow.  Although the crocus, daffodils and tulips have come and gone, we are full of later spring flowers.

Trillium

Columbine

Azalea

Forget-me-nots

Commando gardening may be a bit brutal, but the results are pretty damn cool.  And who knows, once my shovel and I put some hurt on the more unruly parts of the garden, we'll have even more friends to sit and enjoy as the bees and butterflies frolic.

Maybe I'll even buy a floppy hat.

As if.

Eating Rainbows and Pooping Butterflies

On March 1st, I wrote:

Here's to a kinder, gentler March.  ReadySetGO.

Obviously I was high on Unicorn dust and fairy farts.

Eating Rainbows and Pooping Butterflies

On March 1st, I wrote:

Here's to a kinder, gentler March.  ReadySetGO.

Obviously I was high on Unicorn dust and fairy farts.