I’m no scientist, so I have no expectations of ever really understanding the “butterfly effect” but thanks to Wikipedia and its ability to serve up intellectual morsels in bite sized portions, I can atleast get my mind around the idea that it proposes that the tiniest movement, even the flap of a tiny butterfly’s wing, can cause movement that will eventually build to the power of a hurricane. Wiki says, “In chaos theory, the butterfly effect is the sensitive dependence on initial conditions  in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state.”  Small changes, small actions in other words, effect big shifts. What interests me about this is that it means everything matters, that every action has a consequence, that everything is connected. Is the same true of the intent behind an action? Let’s say for a moment that it is. A ballerina’s pirouette then, with the intention of creating something artful, magnifies beauty in the world.  A single well placed note augments harmony. A kind word genuinely expressed can empower a movement for social change. 

Looking at my own path I can, in some cases, trace backwards from current day actualities to butterfly effects in the past. One, first look exchanged with a man led to marriage and to our wonderful son. One casual question led to a recording contract. One laugh led to a long running series. Believe me there were “bad” butterfly flaps as well.  A fearful inkling led to near financial ruin. A moment of haste led to a serious fall resulting in broken bones. There are more but I’ll leave it there. You get the idea. Naughty butterfly. 

Here comes the New Year and assuming that life can be propelled forward on ideas, I’m starting to ponder what sorts of butterfly flaps I’d like initiated? The list is long. What thought can I have, can any of us have that could somehow help lead to a betterment of the human condition? Could a moment of awareness or inspiration possibly set in motion a journey to higher ground as relates to our current societal malcontent? What encouragement might lead to empowering a scientist, an artist, a teacher? Call me a Pollyanna but suddenly the horizon seems bright. Change happens. Things shift. Dreams come true. Who knows what good we can, collectively, set into motion? Let’s find out. Think big and happy flapping!

I like to hike in the mountains and when I do one of the things that continually fascinates me are the visible roots of trees. Oft times, they have surfaced in unlikely places as they climb granite walls or seek alternate paths to sustenance. The intricacies of their interwoven tendrils can move sideways as if in a slow motion dance along dirt trails. Tenacity and inventiveness articulate their routes to needed nourishment in order to keep their tree going.  Maybe one of the reasons I’m drawn to their beauty is because they are an important life theme as in: to be rooted, grounded, sustained. Expressions such as “get to the root of a problem”, “grass roots”, “root something out” populate everyday speech.  We all see images of citizens being uprooted due to climate, poverty, war…all the ills we know.  We read reports of farmers abandoning their parched fields when their plants can no longer take root. We hear of whole communities seeking a place to put down new roots. Easier for some than for others. Perhaps to some degree we are all feeling a bit uprooted these days as new normals emerge in a constantly changing world. 

I recently had a birthday and I’ve decided to work metaphorically with the idea of roots during this spin around the sun. Having been somewhat uprooted ourselves over the last 20 months, my partner and I are exploring the idea of what it means and where it might be that we would set down our new roots. Daunting and exciting both as we look afresh at life’s parameters such as we experience them to be. For my roots, words like beauty, efficiency, simplicity, family, light, view and a connection to nature come strongly to mind. Also the desire for the all important dining room table around which we can come together and break bread tugs mightily at my heart. These random concepts feel like the beginning of tendrils that make for good trees. 

I like to think that in direct relation to how deep our roots go, we can grow in equal measure to touch the stars. Standing in front of a majestic forty plus foot pine tree the other day as it swayed and twisted in the wind, whose roots could be up to 75 deep, I felt this viscerally. It seemed to be in communion with the heavens. With that image in mind, our aim is to root in the good, root in the divine and then to watch our tree grow. Hold a good thought, will you? In the meanwhile, I wish you and yours a rootin’ tootin’ good time!

Mid winter, in anticipation of spring, I like to plant narcissus bulbs. It’s something my Mother used to do and come April, just when the world outside would have turned to brown slush, our home would be filled with sweet fragrances. It was a reminder of life’s promise of change as well as the promise of beauty yet to come.

Over the last few years, travel has kept me from this ritual but this winter…well, you know…suffice to say that being at home meant I could once again set bulbs up and so I did. Some went into containers with dirt, others into containers with rocks. Pleased with my work, I placed them variously around the house and awaited their certain bloom. Disaster struck, however, when the baby shoots started to come up blighted and the aroma of rot permeated the rooms.  Clearly I’d lost the touch and because seeing, not to mention smelling so immediately what happens when you put the potential for bloom in a toxic, wrong atmosphere I began to wonder about my own atmosphere.  What dirt is my own life planted in? Is it good? Does it blight a bud? Is it conducive to growth? Do we have a choice about the dirt we grow in? Can we make our own? Okay…thanks for coming down that rabbit hole with me…that was the bottom line question…what is the dirt, the atmosphere of thought from which my life springs? Sadly not sure I have an answer but I know I’d like my dirt to have the right nutrients, ones from which I can draw sustainable growth. 
Pondering what first “dirt” was or is for any of us, I guess the answer is the womb. Must’ve been nice. Everything needed at hand, other than the task of growing a body within the time allotted, no deadlines to meet.  I was lucky through my childhood as well to be potted in an atmosphere that was stable, stimulating and very loving. At some point though, it was up to me, up to all of us to create the dirt.  Looking back I can clearly see that I have not always done a good job at that…largely through neglect, squander, hubris but what about now, today? What is the mental atmosphere in which I chose to grow?

Dirt, I’ve just learned, has five components: Water, gas, organic matter, mineral (primary and sub) and microorganisms. Microorganisms are very cool. They host bacteria that have symbiotic nutrient exchanging relationships with plants. Not only bacteria but actinomycetes, fungi, algae, protozoa and viruses. Yuck but I’m going to take comfort in the notion that these “undesireables” (aka so called life mistakes) are essential for soil development.  In fact without them, soil dies.

Close on microorganism’s heels is organic matter…all the dead stuff that gets fed back in, in order to fortify dirt.  Negative and neutral chemicals therein influence soil’s ability to retain nutrients. In other words everything, successes and failures alike get fed back into the dirt as compost serving only, ultimately, to make the mixture more fertile. Phew.

 
I’m going to call the ingredient of gas for my dirt mixture, mental calm…as in unencumbered empty space, a stress free zone, a place from which to imagine unimpeded.  One of the things calm demands is a prevalence of rational thought. Tends to dampen worries, imagined disasters, etc. In the way that deep roots help soil recycle nutrients, going deep during passages of reflection that calm allows for, must surely promote growth. 

Primary minerals, I’ll translate into optimism. A pal used to counsel me to “Carry optimism around in your head like a merry tune.” Lord knows that’s easier to do some days than others but even the effort I have to think provides some of the necessary nutrients. Sub nutrients of optimism are plentiful…resilience, perseverance, hope, joy, etc.  I’d take any one of those to grow a dream with.  Perhaps for you as well but I feel those qualities fuel my willingness to take on new projects, to tackle creative endeavors and their necessary learning curves. 

Water, I’ll give to the key element of a connection to the Greater as guide, true north, reassurance, identity. Some would call that Mother Nature, others might call that God or Spirit…whatever the belief or articulation of same, a connection to what is bigger and unhampered by our day to day challenges of life is a crucial ingredient for my dirt recipe. Water is the great conductor, the assurance of the constancy of change. It purifies, renews and reanimates. It’s flow cuts canyons, moves mountains, reshapes and fortifies.  Water can carry us.

It’s a pretty simple atmosphere recipe really, one from which fragrant blossoms just might bloom. 

Growing up, Mom used to go to the Okura Hotel hair salon Saturday afternoons for her weekly coif. The Okura was an elegant hotel directly across the street from the US Embassy in Tokyo, the city where I was raised through the 60’s and into the 70’s. In other words through the height of the Cold War. I can only imagine the number of spies and double agents who had exchanges in it’s storied lobby through that era. I digress. The salon boasted a row of comfy professional chairs each staffed by a stunning, shibui toned kimono garbed stylist. At the far end of the row, was a chair set apart from the others that would be hidden behind a drawn curtain when special customers wanted privacy.  Wafts of punishing perm stink and the delight of aqua net hung heavily in the air. No customer left without a work of lacquered art piled on top of their heads.  Once every six weeks or so Mom would take me with her for a hair cut of my very own. It was always a special treat, very grown up but on a particular early spring Saturday in 1964, my outing to the Okura, a day when the curtain at the end was drawn, turned out to be a very special one. 

My hair cut complete and Mother’s coif yet underway, the proprietress who was usually far too busy to even say hello to a mere 8 year old approached and asked if I wanted to meet a princess? In hushed tones, she explained that the Queen of Saudi Arabia was behind the drawn curtain and she, like Mom, had brought her daughter along. With Mother’s permission I gladly accepted to be taken behind the curtain. 

Seated in the salon chair was a rather voluminous woman, elegant but dour I’d say and beside her in white organza, white tights and little girl pumps was her daughter.  I think we were each as surprised as the other to clap eyes on, in her case a mere civilian, in mine a fairytale princess. We were equally alien life forms to each other.

I have no recollection of what we said to through the translator on hand…pleasantries I suppose of how old we were? That I loved her dress…but the upshot after our Mothers spoke, was that the Princess would come to our house the following day for a play date.  

You cannot imagine the spit and polishing that went on, the raking of leaves, ironing and fretting from the moment we got home until the hour of Princess Faisal’s arrival.  I dressed my dollies for the occasion, put ribbons on the doggies, tea and cookies would be served. At the ready a good hour before she was to arrive I stood in nervous anticipation on the porch overlooking the driveway awaiting her arrival.  

With unrest brewing in Saudi Arabia, King Faisal my parents were informed by a US Embassy staff member who had somehow been made aware of this impending visit, had sent his first wife and their two daughters to Tokyo as a safety precaution.  (The King was indeed assassinated several years later.) They had been ensconced at the Okura for three months when we met. 

At last I could hear a car coming across the driveway gravel…not one but three shiny black sedans pulled to a stop below me.  Out poured black suited bodyguards from the first and third cars. Some scattered around the property, three stood guard at the middle car. After what seemed an interminable wait, the Princess emerged from her car. I bolted down the stairs to greet her and her entourage.  When she stepped across our threshold the body guards had discretely disappeared. It was only Mother and I who greeted Princess Faisal and her translator. I’m not sure my feet were even on the ground at that point.  She was shy, modest even, poised and curious. Her large black eyes took in my world through what lens I cannot  begin to imagine.  To her, our home must have looked like a pauper’s cottage. 

Tea was served and Mother excused herself leaving just the three of us, if you don’t count my dressed up dollies, to our “playdate.”  I don’t recall much of what we did together.  I remember asking her if she could sing a song she liked. She declined to do so explaining that she was not permitted to sing without her father’s permission. As she did so she held up the hand painted, diamond encrusted porcelain pendant to show me the portrait of her father that hung around her neck.  I remember in that rendering that he had a kindly face.  Over our month of knowing one another, on another playdate we daringly sat on the teeter totter in the back yard.  That was the only time I recall seeing her laugh and with abandon too. The Queen kindly permitted me to visit them at their sprawling Okura suite.  On one of these visits, the Queen told me they were to return soon to the Kingdom and asked if I might take an interest in going with them for a visit? She knew ofcourse that I would have to ask my parents but looking back now, I think how very modern it was of her to have first mentioned the possibility to me. Surely the instantaneous glee on my face had been an answer even before I’d blurted out an enthusiastic, “Yes!”

Things now moved very quickly. They were to leave in only a few days. I was certain my parents would accept this once in a life time invitation. I was already, mentally, packing my bag. To my utter dismay ,however, my parents forbad me to go.  Only later did I learn that they had sought counsel from the US Embassy on my possible travel. The Embassy had emphatically advised that I not go…stating that they could not ensure I would be seen nor heard from again were I to go.

Furious with my parents in only the way a spoiled eight year old can be, I stealed myself to bid adieu to my Princess, to my friend. Early the following evening, I was taken one last time to their suite. Things were bustling…papers, bags, body guards readying for what I’m sure was to be a private jet back to the Kingdom. Amidst this, the Queen was her serene self and taking me by the hand guided me for the first time into her private room. There on the floor, against the wall was a medium sized, wooden chest. She pointed to it and instructed the translator to open it and for me to choose three items contained therein as a remembrance. The heavy lid lifted to reveal a combination of loose jewels and gold coins that filled the casket to the brim. Sapphires, rubies, diamonds, emeralds..the lot.  The Queen stood over my left shoulder as I knelt down to make my selection.  Not wanting to appear too greedy, darn, I selected two gold coins. She asked if I was sure. I said “Yes” and the treasure chest was closed shut. I cannot imagine that twice in my life I will see such glittered bounty.

It was time now to say goodbye. My parents had arrived to collect me and to say their goodbyes. I wonder now what the look was, what the silent exchange of primal understanding between two mothers was in that moment? Princess Faisal and I hugged each other, probably for the first time knowing we would likely not see one another again. My parents and I exited the suite, I in pouty mourning. 

Years later my parents told me that the US Embassy had informed them that I was in grave danger of being kidnapped that night and so in an abundance of caution, they had posted MP’s at all the Okura exits. My folks had been coached on what to do, what would happen should an emergency arise. My loving parents had taken the brunt of my disappointment not wanting to complicate a fairytale memory with world politics in a heady time.

I wonder sometimes what life the Princess has led? What sort of education she was afforded, how many children she has, what heart aches she has had to heal from? I wonder if she remembers her time with a little American girl on the teeter totter?  I wonder if we will ever meet again? 

Out with the rat, in with the ox. “Year of” that is as here comes the New Year.  I wonder again what intentions to set for the coming trip around the sun? What goals matter, what vision quest, what resolutions, what dismissals? Dismissals I’m finding are so much easier at this stage of life. I pretty much say what I want, when I want, to whom I want and on occasion, let silence do its work. It’s not a perfect plan but it is one of the liberations of advancing in life that I’ve adopted. It is also a two way street.  For the most part I’ve come to cherish my friends’ blunt speak. Here’s an example. Me: “Do I look fat in this?” S/He: “Yup.” Me: “I can do a cartwheel!” He: “Nope. Not so much.”

Resolutions, goals…those can be more difficult to deal with. Where do you start the process of articulating them, of distilling their essence? One possibility is to follow the Japanese New Year’s tradition of tidying things up. Over December bills are paid, the house is cleaned, what needs tossing gets tossed, what issues can be faced are dealt with. Space in every sense of the word is cleared for the new. As the shift approaches trashy novels are put aside for deeper thoughts, deeper readings. The fridge is stocked for a clean diet. 

On New Year’s Eve day itself, ablutions be they hot spring soaks, cold plunges and the like are performed. Restored and reset perhaps that can be the place from which to discern goals. 

Resolutions though admirable are unrealistic for me. At least on cue at the stroke of the new year. Too ill disciplined, so rather than set my self up for failure I simply don’t make them. I know, chicken.  I do, however, set intentions. In the event putting them into writing helps manifest them, I’ll attempt to do so here and ask you to bear witness. 

First I need to take stock and clear out the old rat year. A recent NY Times article prompted its readers to sum up the year in one word. Mine was “tumultuous.” What with the closures of all nature, covid mortalities compounding the numbers of deaths, fiscal/political uncertainties I’m sure it has been a year of profound losses for all of us. I’d been living in NY, doing a play..all that ended. Concerts for the year cancelled. Six friends gone. Because my immediate family members have all remained healthy, because we have roofs over our heads, because my son is happy, because I have a remarkable life partner, my tumult falls I’m infinitely grateful to say into the realm of inconvenient and sad. The life that was, however, cannot be returned to. A new chapter has to be envisioned and built with considerations of what our new world looks like. 

I’ve read articles recently about corporations adjusting business models to accommodate consumers who, during the pandemic, have discovered that they’re happier with less. That’s cool. Less stuff, less noise. I’d like to incorporate that into the new year. 

Since we know now that a pandemic can happen, some consideration of this needs to go into being prepared should it happen again. 

Time is more precious now. I should use it more judiciously. 

Have adventures. 

So, my intention (gulp) for this new year will be about building the new normal, about building the new nest wherever that may be, about home and putting down roots from which adventures can be taken. My goal is for home to become a petrie dish for germinating the possible. I intend for this new chapter to be created to nurture health, to welcome family and friends, to be fertile ground for the expression of music and art.

Whatever our collective intentions and goals, perhaps we can all draw on our inner oxen over the coming twelve months to help accomplish what we’ve set out to do. Ox have qualities linked to physical and mental strength. They’re known to be hard workers and according to a Chinese zodiac blog, they are patient builders of their projects and dreams. So, goodbye Rat and all its mischief. Bring on the Ox. Let’s get to work. 

Its a mid week morning and I’ve completed my usual routine of reading the news, listening to voice mails, reading through texts and emails.  Over the last three days of this ritual, here are some of the things I’ve learned…

Over 300,000 dead and counting from Covid in the United States alone.  As reported to me by my favorite cousin, another cousin died last week. Yet another was told to get his papers in order as his health will not see him through the coming year.  I learned that my 93 year old friend’s daughter died. Just died, no pre-existing conditions. An acquaintance who was until one year ago vigorous and in the prime of her career is languishing with the horrors of ALS.  Her doting husband can but support, weep and watch.  A brilliant writer friend at the peak of his talents has entered hospice. A lifelong friend is dealing with cancer that is treatable but cancer none the less. A colleague and world renowned dancer/choreographer died suddenly in her sleep. A covid stricken friend is struggling on a ventilator. A middle-aged pal is at a moment of crisis as he looks at life and wonders where his life partner is? Where his house is? Where money for retirement is going to come from? He’s scared. A young friend in an hour of profound grief, is struggling to keep himself from suicide. Another young man, 24, battling cancer for his life. The sea churns. If you are the praying kind and if you have a moment, please offer up a prayers of light, particularly for these two young men. 

I reflect on all these recent and ongoing events whilst sitting in a sun filled Southern California breakfast nook that today overlooks a calm sea. There is food in my pantry, there are presents to be wrapped and put under the tree. In the obscene bounty of this privilege, I become keenly aware that the best of life could be snatched away in an instant and I ask by what thread of mercy am I spared in this moment from being plunged into an abyss? I think of when I muttered some frustration over opening an overly sealed new pair of scissors earlier this morning. Appalled at my hubris I cancel my grumpiness over the mundane and instead rejoice that there is a mundane at all. I wonder what paltry strength I could send, what lifting thought could pierce a friend’s struggle? More than that I wonder how the human spirit bears such devastations? I am in awe of those moments when I’ve witnessed a friend reach for flotsam and jetsam to stay afloat midst a life storm. When they’ve managed, by act of will and/or divine intervention, to change the energy, become unmesmerized by the apparent black hole of their surroundings and emerge one thought, one breath at a time into the light. 

The sea churns. It changes its own inner landscapes on a regular basis to create new realities, redesigned horizons, newly formed shorelines. I suppose if we can but choose to exist in the place of not knowing and can manage to breathe deeply within that space, if we allow ourselves to know we’re doing the best we can in that moment and the next, we can find grace enough to go with the churn, however painful. Particularly in this Christmas season of renewal I wish for all of us the grace to let go, the resilience to hang on, the joy of riding a perfect wave and smooth sailing on calm seas. 

A little over a decade ago it was my extreme good fortune to be hired to perform in a tribute to Ira Gershwin. Crafted by the very brilliant Rex Reed, produced by the equally brilliant Deborah Grace Winer, our merry band was to sing a roster of songs penned by Ira.  A fellow named Tedd Firth was to be our Music Director. I’d not heard of him, nor I’m sure he me…little did I know the day I turned up for my first rehearsal with Tedd that my life was about to change…for the better.  Nice guy, cheery, young enough to be my son and I’m going to say a bit bashful was also amongst my first impressions. Bashful that is until he set his hands to the piano keys. What unfolded was stunning.  He moved through the music like no pianist I’d heard. Facile, swift, surprising, smart…he didn’t just play a tune well, he electrified, illuminated and elevated it.  

Over the course of that production I got to see him take each singer on, molding the arrangements to each of our keys, styles, likes and quirks.  The result was an evening of musical dips and turns, heft and delights. The result was also that all of us wanted to be glued to his musical talents going forward. Fortunately for me I wormed my way into his busy schedule and since then I’ve had the life privilege of working with him on several concerts a year and (unabashed plug here), three CD’s.  

He’s an extremely disciplined person. Rehearsals are always jovial, always focused.  He arrives ready.  He moves with ease between solo performances and conducting multiple musicians.  On rare occasion after a show he’ll linger for one beer and one beer only.  More often than not he retires immediately and rises early for a run…no matter the weather….December in Michigan in a subzero blizzard/in an August Colorado swelter at 6000 feet above sea level.  With a punishing work and travel schedule, this is how he keeps body, soul and family together. He lives his priorities and is universally admired for doing so. 

There is not a time, be it rehearsal or performance but what I do not learn from him.  Such is his standard. He invites the music out of the singers he works with by following, by leading and always by inspiring.  He shows us what we are capable of.  He has no ego…always has another take, another choice or nuance.  I’ve never, not ever seen him just start to play.  There’s a moment, a breath before he dives into a song…as if aligning his heart, his intuition with the tune to come.  Most times just before a mid tune solo he quickly shifts position on the piano bench putting himself squarely enface with the keys as if starved and about to tuck into a meal, as if a high diver on the plank, as if a sprinter in the blocks…pick your metaphor.  What follows is always true, always astonishing and never the same twice.  

I asked him once how it is he decides to play what he plays when accompanying one of the many, many singers with whom he works?  I wanted to know what drove those split second decisions to lift, back phrase, repeat or introduce the next musical phrase, play the hint of another tune that has a thematically connected lyric….and one of the many things he does, to play the subtext of the lyric?  He said he follows the singer’s breath.  So he folds into, not so much accompanies but compliments, folds into the negative space a singer leaves when s/he is breathing.  Creates a platform on which s/he can re-enter.  

Here’s point in case… my girlfriend’s daughter unexpectedly died last week. God rest the departed’s good soul. Saints preserve us. My bereaved girlfriend wanted played at the Covid restricted funeral the poignant song,  I’ll Be Seeing You. Within thirty minutes of my asking, Tedd sent an MP3 accompaniment.  Just at the debut of describing the places where the singer will be seeing the departed…”the small cafe, the park across the way”…Tedd parted his hands to play cords that encompassed both the ethereal joy of seeing on the upper keys, as well as a devastating single note way down at in the bass clef that carried the gravity and loss both…leaving the singer standing in the middle, suspended between these two emotional states.  Who does that?? 

I’ve stood on stage when colleague and fabulous singer Tom Wopat has been doing a solo with Tedd and been brought to tears for their bro-mance.  They have 19 years together and their patina of mutual respect is powerful to witness. Theirs is a musical marriage at its very best. I’ve sat in the audience as he musically thrust and parried with prodigy Michael Feinstein, electrifying the rarified air of New York’s finest venues. 

I have many fond memories of performing with Tedd but a favorite was when we were in a particular town for two back to back concerts. Three local musicians had been hired to play with us…bass, drums and percussion. As Tedd took them through his arrangements of our tunes in rehearsal, their heads shook in admiration. Two hours later it was showtime.  The first show went well enough but as we launched into our second night it was clear that the boys were performing with greater ease than they had the night before.  All was rolling along well until the penultimate number which included a huge Latin drum/percussion solo. It didn’t exactly fall flat but I knew these young bucks had more to offer.  As we were about to launch into the final number, something came over me and I asked the audience if we could do the former number again?  I guess drinks had been free flowing enough that they gave us permission.  Thank heavens my son wasn’t in the audience because I then turned to the drummer and percussionist and said, “Take your shirts off, give me everything you’ve got. I can take it.”  I turned to Tedd who was looking at me bug eyed. He asked in his sedate tone of innocence if I wanted it a bit faster?  I said, “No, just give me MORE.”  Be careful what you ask for.  Tedd quietly stood up. Took off his jacket, folded it neatly and placed it on the piano bench.  He calmly took the stack of music off the piano and having placed that on the floor, lay flat the music stand and in one of the sexiest moves I’ve ever seen, slid it up under the grand’s raised lid as if raising the skirt on his woman, to reveal the hammers and keys.  One deep breath and his hands dove into the strings which he began to play, pluck and then bang on with his wedding ring. Now it was my turn to be bug eyed.  I whipped around to the percussionist who was now laser focused on the Maestro and jumped in to follow our fearless leader.  Once their grove was established Tedd nodded in the drummer. It was at that point I think I entered into the music of the spheres.  Uncharted territory made real only by the harmony it was producing.  It was on that magic carpet that I got to reprieve the tune.  This, I thought is where Bach and Mozart spent their lives…this is the beauty the gifted, the touched hear, the celestial beats they live by, that place where everything translates into music, its flow, its movement and limitless possibilities.  Where thought and heartbeat are one, pulse and emotion one, that existential place ever unfolding, excruciating beauty.  Where love is articulated, it is that land beyond the point of word’s efficacy to express thought.

A much lauded concert pianist pal from Texas says it best: “He can play the shit out of any piano.” I hope dear reader that if you have not yet, you have in this lifetime the opportunity to hear Tedd Firth play the piano. He works with a plethora of artists, he also on rare occasion choses to do a solo concert.  Seek him out. I promise you will not be disappointed. You will be astonished.

Inanimate objects hold energy but do they hold memory? Some would argue that they do.  I pondered this the other day in Sara’s kitchen.  Sara, salt of the earth boot straps girl who made her way off the plains of Texas as a young woman because she had grit and a world class singing voice that got noticed. Noticed in competitions by judges, then teachers and conductors in the world of opera.  Her talent and hard work took her around the world performing and eventually into love and marriage with world class Maestro, Christopher Keene.  They shared a huge life, moving from success to triumph on the international stage.  I never had the privilege of knowing Mr. Keene, but knowing Sara I cannot imagine he’d ever have found a better life partner than she.  She has an encyclopedic knowledge of classical music, a keenly discerning ear, an egoless support of artists…you get the picture.  As happens life moved on for them decades ago. Too soon Christopher was gone but Sara has thrived over the past several decades on her own in a multi chaptered, full life. Her home, the walls of which are lined with posters bearing witness to legendary performances of yore is filled with a constant rhythm of family and of diverse friends, most of whom are musical, all of whom are interesting, engaged and up to something good. 

I wanted to give you this background because you will understand why it was that Sara was able to pull a box with remarkable contents, from her shelf.

As we sat over coffee… Uh oh, have to interrupt again…Sitting over a libation or meal with Sara is never just that.  The famous, the workman and very famous sit elbow to jowl at her table in equal welcome. Conversations are robust and sometimes I feel her walls will burst from the peals of laughter they have to contain…and oh the stories! Disasters averted or survived, feverish opening nights, diva meltdowns and through it all the music.

OK…the box…she placed the rectangular box from her bookshelf on the kitchen table and as she was opening it said, “What do you think I should do with these batons?” 

The opened box held six batons, six magic wands that had drawn music from orchestras around the globe.  They’d helped lift black notes off the printed page, bent tones mid air, cued masters in their own right, had been the swaying beacon wooing it’s handler’s interpretation of a given score once again into the atmosphere.  Staring at the batons I had the feeling that if I listened carefully enough I’d be able to experience for myself the passions they’d stirred. Apparently Maestro Keene’s favorite baton had been the most simple, a slim white needle with a tear shaped cork handle.  No added weight nor adornment and the cork would’ve solved the slippery challenge perspiring hands might present.  There was a terribly heavy black baton adorned with silver filigree that had been given the Maestro by a Maharajah. Yet another in this collection had belonged to Toscanini.  Toscanini! I tried especially hard to listen to that one. 

A baton holds focus, pulls the collective energies of those assembled before it into an harmonious one, out of potential chaos makes order to produce and to give something beautiful away. Seeing these wands meant that those musical geniuses had been real, meant that they had led music in magnificent concert halls, co-ordinating sometimes upwards of one hundred musicians. These events had happened, their blessings felt, their epiphanies and emotional swells lived. 

Years ago Sara bought a rambling turn of the century inn in New England. Notes on a yellowed score, she’d seen the potential and had taken it on. No small task. As if that had not been enough to tackle she additionally took on the renovation of a ruined barn that sat on the back acres of her property.  The first time I saw it was on a frigid January morning.  Sara and I stood, with teeth chattering, on the barn’s floor beams looking at the frozen dirt below and waved at the birds sailing through the crystalline sky above. I saw bones, she saw a performance space. She had interpreted the score.  Within two years The Barn had become a thriving establishment that continues to draw audiences from far and wide so much so that it has been featured in Vogue as a cultural hot spot. 

Sara is a practicing, ecumenical Christian who through her eight decades plus has made strong demands on her faith.  There have been times when all but her faith and music have failed her.  Health, loved ones, funds, world events, friends…all of it.  One Easter morning I asked her what had got her through?  “Prayer” she answered in a delicious drawl.  Somehow that led to an hysterical story of how Agnes de Mille had helped potty train Sara’s infant son in between rehearsals in Vienna for the European premiere of “Carousel”, Maestro Keene conducting/ Ms. De Mille choreographing.  I circled back to prayer asking her how she prayed? “Oh that’s easy. I drop to my knees, clap my hands together, look up and holler DO SOMETHING!” Surely that’s the crescendo.  No score is too daunting for her to take on.

If The Barn is the score, Sara is the baton. On a regular basis she lifts her interpretation off the page and with great intentionality draws dreams out of thin air, translates them into something beautiful and gives them away.  She both holds and makes memories.  At the ready Maestro.