Findings

I seem to be a person whose life makes more sense when it flows through the fingers into a keyboard. This week, my preferred keyboard hasn’t been the computer, but this one:

The piano was tuned the other day, and though I think of myself as not having much of an ear, tuning always functions as a summons to my musical persona. Maybe it’s the piano tuner’s two predictable songs, “Till There Was You” and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” They fill the house, and as soon as he leaves I dash downstairs and start playing myself, searching for luscious overtones.

I’ve been playing a variety of tunes: jaunts down Memory Lane with Scott Joplin and the Sonatina Album, worship songs and hymn arrangements, a few old jazz tunes. My favorite piece for now is Liz Story’s “Things With Wings” from the album Solid Colors. I find it very mysterious the way my musical self can lie undisturbed until I sit down at the piano, then it inflates instantly, knocking everything else out of the way in all of its insistence and abandon. I’ll play a piece again and again until I hear what I’m wanting to create, and the time passes without registering at all.

It has a beneficial effect on my family too. When I sit at the computer, my older daughter refers to it as “playing around on the computer,” and both girls eventually start misbehaving behind my back. “When you’re on the computer, we feel like we’re in charge,” she told me once.

But when I’m at the piano, they dance. They make requests, their top three being ”The Maple Leaf Rag,” the theme from Man from Snowy River, and my own jazzed-up version of “Rubber Ducky.” If it happens to be after they’re tucked into bed, they drift off quickly to sleep instead of lying awake chattering quietly to their stuffed animals. I’ve heard that the way to someone’s heart is through their stomach, or their sense of smell. But experience seems to point to the ear as the pathway to the soul.

The story of my life as a mother is the peeling back of layer after layer of selfishness. The birth of my children released a new kind of love in me: fiercer, more helpless, more inescapable than any I’d experienced before. But its effect has been to shine a bright light on the paltry, flimsy supporting muscle-tone in my character.

First it was the piano. When my first daughter was not quite 1, my grandmother passed along to me the lovely Mason & Hamlin baby grand that had been cherished by my grandfather. It brought me a rebirth as a musician. Someone had given me an old, 1970’s vintage Fender Rhodes years earlier — the kind that has all 88 keys and weighs a ton, but works for an apartment-dweller. It kept my musical persona breathing. But the acquisition of a piano with dynamic range and with all the responsiveness and body of the acoustic instrument at its finest was a continual temptation. I remember that often, while my daughter was in her playpen, I’d take a basket of laundry down to put in the washer, and the piano would whisper, “Just run through that song one time.” An hour later I’d dash guiltily back upstairs to find her asleep.

Then it was the worship team at church. I’m a classically trained pianist, but as part of a large, contemporary worship ministry I developed improvisational skill, and I was totally infatuated with the wonder of being able to play the same set of chords in a zillion different ways. I played more at home, and more and more frequently at church, maxing out at three services every other Sunday, preceded by a Thursday night practice. There was a seductiveness to belonging to that artistic community, and I rose to leadership. More time went into it. More heart went into it.

Then the experience went sour, and with it, the piano. We left that church, having lost confidence in it as a spiritual community distinct from some other kind of big corporation. The pull of the worship team, and of the piano, evaporated. We’ve searched for, and (dare I say it?) found another church home. But I’m not feeling drawn to music there. Why? Partly scar tissue, but also: I’ve discovered blogging. Blogging is all me, all the time. My life looks orderly here. Now this computer, and this small patch of cyberspace, has a gravitational pull equivalent to a black hole in my universe. Now as a result of blogging I’ve experienced a reading renaissance, which is great – but when my nose is in a book I’m not accessible. Now when I bring a load of laundry downstairs, it’s the computer, not the piano, that sucks me into a place where I don’t notice time passing. (I seem to have a thing for keyboards…) 

Is it any wonder that lately I’ve found myself questioning my convictions about homeschooling? I’m not doing a very good job, I reason; the academics are going fine, but my heart’s not really in it; they know more about young children’s development at the school around the corner; this isn’t my calling.

This is a personal question that each family answers differently, but in my case, the foregoing line of reasoning is me rationalizing my selfishness and fear. I think there are a couple of false lines of thought embedded in it. One is, “I have a need for creative expression.” That’s partly true. I’m a right-brainer, artsy-type, dyed-in-the-wool, down-to-the-bone expressionist. But does it follow that I need to be spending these hours here, at this particular kind of expression, serving (let’s be honest) no real purpose beyond myself? My deepest “need,” right now — speaking for myself and no one else — is to fulfill my role as a mother wholeheartedly. I know this, because I know how many nights I lie awake tweaking my mothering, praying for my children, battling my way toward understanding them. What will it be like in 10 years if I don’t give them my best during my waking hours now, while they’re here and young?

Somewhere in there, too, is the lie that I can’t. I’m not sure if this is true for all mothers, but many times during the day I’m intensely aware of my deficiency of inner resources — of wisdom, of gentleness, of words that go to the spot of heart that needs them, of long-term perspective, of simple physical energy. I’m certain that for me, this computer is a place to hide, a personal “napping room” where I check out of engagement. The reason this is a particularly ironic problem is that one of the main reasons I’m homeschooling is to offer myself to my kids, to not hide from them, to be present to them in all my glorious imperfection and absurdity. That’s love, isn’t it? That’s why I’m doing this.

When we first started homeschooling, it was an idea my husband liked but wasn’t pushy about. I made the decision to go for it myself. But now, he frequently and confidently says that it’s my calling in life. Is it? After a year of it, have my grand ideals held up?

Not sure. Not sure it’s my calling in life. But I am sure it’s what I should be doing now.

I don’t remember Shrek, but I know the movie contains a statement about people being like onions, many-layered. My layers are all pitifully self-involved. But somewhere in there is something non-onion that feels the sorrow, weeps at the peeling, and envisions something better than my selfishness can supply. It’s the part of me that appeared out of nowhere when my children were born. It’s the part of me that’s hoping resolving to bring my blogging back into its rightful place, and my children into theirs, starting today.

I’ve been thinking about the piano. It sits there, a Mason & Hamlin baby grand inherited from my grandfather, a treasure with wear-marks from his fingers and a beautiful tone. I played for years, obsessively, but I never play anymore. Not sure why.

The real story of me and the piano starts with my father, who grew up relating to his father from another room. He wished for a dad who played with him, but faced instead the closed door of the office as my grandfather built up his medical practice.

But at night, after Dad was tucked into bed, Grandpa would emerge from his office and head for the piano. Chopin would waft up the stairs, then some Beethoven, then some Debussy, then more Chopin. My dad can still list off—with awe in his voice—the different compositions he would hear as he drifted off to sleep.

Then it was my turn. When my grandparents would come for Sunday dinner, I was the one who would go to bed to the sound of piano duets. The air between Dad and Grandpa crackled with tension most of the time, but at the piano they would sit side by side, looking at the same page, trying to move at the same pace, speaking in a language that found order and beauty for both voices. They would sit down at the piano in the late afternoon and still be at it when I went to bed. Always, they would get cocky and speed up. Always, they would crash and burn. And always, they would laugh—helplessly, till the tears would roll. “This is a real Polish horse-race!” Dad would exclaim, wiping his eyes. (Don’t ask me to explain that… I still don’t get the joke.)

The grate in my floor was designed to let the heat roll upstairs, but it made an excellent window too. The light and heat and sound flowed into my air, and I would train my ears and sometimes my eyes downward through that grid, listening to them harmonize, clash, celebrate, defy.

D.H. Lawrence thought about a piano that was apparently tied in with his history too. He writes,

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

That’s the middle stanza. The rest is here. His poem invokes a whiff of my own feeling, but not exactly. He’s melodramatic; I’m merely morose. (And milking my mahvelous m’s…)

I like this one by George Szirtes better:

It’s a baby grand with unexceptionable teeth
and a butterfly wing caught in the net curtain.
When touched it answers gently as a breath

Of cold wind, a sensualist in a puritan
Country…

(Rest here.)

Neither of them is a perfect fit, but both affirm the power of wordless things like music — and musical instruments. Poetry Friday is at The Miss Rumphius Effect today. Meander on over to see what others are discovering in the world of wondrous words.

Poetry Friday is at Jama Rattigan’s Alphabet Soup today. I knew it was a “special edition” in honor of Bob Dylan because Jama gave the heads up last week, along with a website that provides the lyrics to his many songs. I’m completely ignorant of Bob Dylan, except for the experience of my seventh grade Sunday school class, where one eighth grade boy had discovered Bob Dylan and talked about him all the time. He did growly, theatrical imitations. He got ribbed about it. But we all knew it made him cool to know about Bob Dylan, and to talk about him in Sunday school.

Mainly out of respect for Jama, but also carrying this enduring thread of curiosity, I went to the website and looked around a bit. There I discovered “The Ugliest Girl in the World.” Who can’t love a love song that extols the ugliness of the singer’s beloved? It worked for Shakespeare, whose mistress’s eyes were nothing like the sun. It works for me, who recently searched  for some “Beauty and the Beast” tales in which a male character was required to fall in love with an ugly “Beauty.” And it works for Bob Dylan, who celebrates his abject helplessness at the hands of:

The woman that I love she got a hook in her nose
her eyebrows meet, she wears second hand clothes
She speaks with a stutter and she walks with a hop
I don’t know why I love her but I just can’t stop

You know I love her
Yeah I love her
I’m in love with the Ugliest Girl in the World… 

The rest of this song is here. It’ll bring a smile to the ugliest face, making it… hmm, could the word be… beautiful? 

I remember “And So It Goes” by Billy Joel just mesmerising me the first time I heard it. I still think it’s a masterful song, though now I listen with an ear altered by almost 10 years of marriage, and children. It’s always intrigued me that the singer keeps his forlorn tone, even though he makes the courageous choice. Maybe he knows he’ll need to make it more than once, in many different kinds of relationships.

You can listen to it here, or here on YouTube. The lyrics by themselves begin this way:

In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along…

(Rest is here.)

 Poetry Friday is at AmoXcalli today.

Happy New Year.

As my husband and I ushered in the new year, he said, “We survived the year of change.” Amen. It’s been a year of change: churches, jobs, educational strategies for our kids. Thank you, Lord, for preserving and blessing us.

Yet for some reason, yesterday as I drove home from shopping, I found myself wallowing in the betweenness of life. 2008 begins with me feeling mired between youth and old age; belonging and isolation; commitment and the urge to be spontaneous; anger and tenderness; resolve and uncertainty; reason and wisdom. I remembered that old Screwtape calls us humans “revolting hybrids” of eternity and the timebound, flesh and spirit, free and not free.

Then, what to my wondering ears should appear but the following Casting Crowns song. (A week after Christmas, I’ve finally listened to their cd The Altar and the Door all the way through.) It was the first time I’ve heard it. I wanted to preserve it here, since it was such an incredible coincidence to me to have my train of thought broken by the opening lines of “Somewhere in the Middle,” which carries it more fully and productively to the crux of the matter than I probably would have done with my own pointless brooding. This clip begins with about 50 seconds of another song, then “Somewhere in the Middle” begins:  

Somewhere between the hot and the cold
Somewhere between the new and the old
Somewhere between who I am and who I used to be
Somewhere in the middle, You’ll find me

Somewhere between the wrong and the right
Somewhere between the darkness and the light
Somewhere between who I was and who You’re making me
Somewhere in the middle, You’ll find me

Just how close can I get, Lord, to my surrender without losing all control?

Fearless warriors in a picket fence, reckless abandon wrapped in common sense
Deep water faith in the shallow end and we are caught in the middle
With eyes wide open to the differences, the God we want and the God who is
But will we trade our dreams for His or are we caught in the middle
Are we caught in the middle

Somewhere between my heart and my hands
Somewhere between my faith and my plans
Somewhere between the safety of the boat and the crashing waves

Somewhere between a whisper and a roar
Somewhere between the altar and the door
Somewhere between contented peace and always wanting more
Somewhere in the middle You’ll find me

Just how close can I get, Lord, to my surrender without losing all control?

Lord, I feel You in this place and I know You’re by my side
Loving me even on these nights when I’m caught in the middle

(Words and music by Mark Hall)

I got my husband the new Casting Crowns cd, The Altar and the Door, for Christmas. Today in the car it was playing, and in the first song there’s a bridge where talking can be heard over the music, the gist of the talking being that modern Christians miss the point drastically and hurt the cause of Christ. At one point, the speaker says, “Maybe the best thing we can do is just get out of the way.”

At that point a confident, 6-year-old voice spoke up decisively from the back seat: “They’re wrong. The best thing we can do is worship Him!”

Point well taken! Let’s see: the song recommends withdrawal; the 6yo recommends positive action. The song focuses on human failure; the 6yo focuses on redemption. The song is angry; the 6yo is hopeful and confident in God.

I like Casting Crowns very much. But in this case, I’m ruling in favor of the 6-year-old. 

#3: Tradition. We have a ceramic Christmas tree my husband’s mother made when he was a little boy. We have an advent calendar my mom made. These are ways of keeping our history before us, and gaining access to our childhood responsiveness to all that Christmas stands for.

#2: Presents. I like to give them. I like to get them. Commercialism notwithstanding.

#1: Christmas Eve. It also happens to be my dad’s birthday, so it’s always been special for that reason too. But I believe God’s blessing is on that evening in a kind of mini-revival every year. We go to church, return home for a simple supper and birthday cake, and sit up late. But the magic (in the best sense) begins when the candles are lit during “Silent Night.”

#1B: Somewhere in the list is music–or everywhere. The old familiar carols are sung with new layers of meaning each year they’re returned to. I never get tired of them.

I’m going to post one more after this one, then probably take a break from posting till after Christmas. So merry Christmas to anyone reading! Have a blessed one.

I really enjoyed being in church today. There was something so wholehearted and direct about it. I found the worship very engaging, with some great leadership on the guitar. I don’t know why, but I’ve felt pretty dead lately during the worship segment of the service. Maybe I’ve been grieving. What I loved most about my old church was playing the piano with my friends on the worship team. For the first time this morning, I felt a desire to play again.

I’ve never heard “Do You Hear What I Hear?” done as a worship song before, but I’ve loved the song since learning it in my piano lesson around age 11. The pastor pointed out how subversive it is: the shepherd boy speaks to the mighty king. The categories of class are upended. This is one example of the way the gospel turns things upside down. The Kingdom of God does away with politics as usual.

Anyway, I found myself weeping. That’s usually a good thing, despite the fact that I’m not a graceful weeper–more of a snotty-nosed gasper.

Another thing that got to me this weekend was the old Bing Crosby movie Going My Way. It belongs to a more innocent age, and makes no pretense of being “realistic.” It used to be a must-see every Christmas, along with Miracle on 34th Street and Holiday Inn, but I haven’t watched it in years. I found myself moved to tears by the simple kindness in the story, and the closing scene just destroyed me.

I think it’s partly because kindness matters to me. By nature, I’m a volatile, selfish person. But by grace, I can become a kind, gentle person. That’s who I want to be more than anything.

The other reason I was so moved has to do with a different sort of longing for kindness, one I ignore till I walk unsuspectingly into it–like falling down an abandoned mineshaft. I’m not sure if it’s a personal desire to be shown kindness, or more of a longing to see the Kingdom come. That’s what we’re made for–the new Heaven and the new Earth, ruled by the true King. Something as unpretentious as a 1944 black and white movie can give me a glimpse of it and trigger the fiercest longing.