a few things.

1.  red mango.  this if one of my favorite places in my neighborhood.  it's a frozen yogurt bar, with dozens of healthy toppings, like fresh fruit and granola and dark chocolate.  but it's frozen yogurt like you've never had before--tangy and creamy and completely natural.  i went there after my run today and ordered a huge cup with strawberries and blackberries.  PERFECTION.

2.  so so so much homework to do in the next month.  i'm kind of in denial about it.  which is why, even though i stayed home tonight to do homework, i'm sitting here watching this week's episode of 'lost' for a second time instead.

3.  and here's another reason to love jason bateman;

oh, tie me to the end of a kite.

I've been itching to travel lately.  To get on a plane and go explore a new city.  Or even a city I've been to before, like Seattle or San Francisco, but didn't really have a chance to fully tackle the first time around.

Here is a photo of Seattle.  Doesn't it just look like the perfect place to spend an afternoon??  Bliss.

But here I sit in my office in Chicago.  Thinking about how I have class tonight, and then will go to the gym, and then will write an audience development plan for my marketing class.  And even if I had the time for a vacation, the money just isn't in my bank account.

But really, I shouldn't complain.  As much as I would like to escape right now and spend an afternoon on a hill with friends and fly a kite, my life is good.  And maybe I need to be better at the living the life right in front of me...instead of dwelling in my favorite land of nostalgia or pining for my next adventure.  That can be difficult, when past experiences are remembered as being so perfect and the future seems to hold so much promise.

But fully living and embracing the possibilities of each day is something I want to get better at.  I love sitting in bed at night, reflecting on my day, knowing that I worked hard, didn't waste any time, and managed to laugh along the way.  I need more days like that.

And I bet, if I look around, I could find a kite hill, like that one in Seattle, in Chicago.  Well, maybe not a hill, but a similar spot.  All cities have them, I think.  It's just a matter of opening your eyes to discover them.

quote of the day:

"I am a product of long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstairs indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and the noise of wind under the tiles. Also, of endless books."

- C.S. Lewis

Listening to this right now.  And so grateful for it:




And I wish I could have a little of this right now:

drink water to give water.

For Lent this year, I'm participating in Blood:Water Mission's 40 Days of Water.

Make water your only beverage for 40 days, keep track of what you would have spent on coffee, soda, wine etc., and then donate that amount to Blood:Water Mission at the end.  Your money will go toward providing clean water for communities in Uganda.

Check it out: http://40days.bloodwatermission.com/

*****
Edit: Already craving Diet Coke. Sigh...

"Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one." -Stella Adler

I used to be good at blogging. My last three years of undergrad are beautifully and hilariously documented on my old blog--posts with photos and quotes and ramblings and new discoveries--and I'm so glad because I can nurture my fits of nostalgia by going back and reading about moments and ideas that had long ago totally escaped by memory.

But I've gotten really bad at blogging. I have really great intentions and really bad follow through. It's like flossing. And calling my grandma. And the half read copy of "Middlemarch" that's been sitting next to my bed for two years. So, this is me reattempting to blog. Because life is good, and in the future, I think I'll be glad that I documented it.

This weekend, I've been working on an assignment for my Marketing and Public Relations class, so I've been thinking a lot about how to connect artists and audiences, how to help people fall in love with a certain art form. I've been reminded that experiencing the arts should never be a passive act. It should be an active process of imagining and engaging, for both artists and audiences. Sir Joseph Campbell once said that "perhaps we do not so much seek a meaning for our lives, we seek a shared sense of having been alive." In this context, I like the idea of that, as this is what happens when we engage with the arts. We together share a sense of having been alive. And we are richer for it.

I am reminded of a story in Ronald Blythe's book, "Akenfield, Portrait of an English Village,” which records the life stories of the inhabitants of a tiny village in Suffolk County, England. The names of the village and villagers have been changed, but the harshness, isolation, and beauty of their lives shine through their memories and observations. “Fred Mitchell,” and 85-year-old ploughman, recalls his difficult childhood:

“I never did any playing in all my life. There was nothing in my childhood, only work. I never had pleasure. One day a year I went to Felixstowe along with the chapel women and children, and that was my pleasure. But I have forgotten one thing—the singing. There was such a lot of singing in the villages then, and this was my pleasure, too. Boys sang in the fields, and at night we all met at the Forge and sang. The chapels were full of singing. When the first war came, it was singing, singing all the time. So I lie; I have had pleasure. I have had singing.”

I've always loved this story because it embodies that idea of an individual feeling more fully alive because of his having shared in a meaningful, communal, and art-filled experience. I could write for pages and pages about the various times in my life that I've experienced moments like this, but I know that miles and miles of description could never do them justice. You know when it happens. The world stops for a few moments, everything is more clear, and you feel more...well, alive.

This video was shared in one of my classes a few weeks ago. I got chills the first time I watched it. And immediately watched it four more times when I got home that night.

I think it's incredible, inspirational, and yes, maybe a little idealistic. But hopeful, for sure. And I think it sums up what I'm talking about.

i expect you to save the planet.

This is worth your time to read.

A Contemplation on Music

Welcome address to freshmen at Boston Conservatory, given by Karl Paulnack,
pianist and director of music division at Boston Conservatory.

One of my parents' deepest fears, I suspect, is that society would not
properly value me as a musician, that I wouldn't be appreciated. I had very
good grades in high school, I was good in science and math, and they
imagined that as a doctor or a research chemist or an engineer, I might be
more appreciated than I would be as a musician. I still remember my mother's
remark when I announced my decision to apply to music school-she said,
"you're WASTING your SAT scores." On some level, I think, my parents were
not sure themselves what the value of music was, what its purpose was. And
they LOVED music, they listened to classical music all the time. They just
weren't really clear about its function. So let me talk about that a little
bit, because we live in a society that puts music in the "arts and
entertainment" section of the newspaper, and serious music, the kind your
kids are about to engage in, has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with
entertainment, in fact it's the opposite of entertainment. Let me talk a
little bit about music, and how it works.

The first people to understand how music really works were the ancient
Greeks. And this is going to fascinate you; the Greeks said that music and
astronomy were two sides of the same coin. Astronomy was seen as the study
of relationships between observable, permanent, external objects, and music
was seen as the study of relationships between invisible, internal, hidden
objects. Music has a way of finding the big, invisible moving pieces inside
our hearts and souls and helping us figure out the position of things inside
us. Let me give you some examples of how this works.

One of the most profound musical compositions of all time is the Quartet for
the End of Time written by French composer Olivier Messiaen in 1940.
Messiaen was 31 years old when France entered the war against Nazi Germany.
He was captured by the Germans in June of 1940, sent across Germany in a
cattle car and imprisoned in a concentration camp.

He was fortunate to find a sympathetic prison guard who gave him paper and a
place to compose. There were three other musicians in the camp, a cellist, a
violinist, and a clarinetist, and Messiaen wrote his quartet with these
specific players in mind. It was performed in January 1941 for four thousand
prisoners and guards in the prison camp. Today it is one of the most famous
masterworks in the repertoire.

Given what we have since learned about life in the concentration camps, why
would anyone in his right mind waste time and energy writing or playing
music? There was barely enough energy on a good day to find food and water,
to avoid a beating, to stay warm, to escape torture-why would anyone bother
with music? And yet-from the camps, we have poetry, we have music, we have
visual art; it wasn't just this one fanatic Messiaen; many, many people
created art. Why? Well, in a place where people are only focused on
survival, on the bare necessities, the obvious conclusion is that art must
be, somehow, essential for life. The camps were without money, without hope,
without commerce, without recreation, without basic respect, but they were
not without art. Art is part of survival; art is part of the human spirit,
an unquenchable expression of who we are. Art is one of the ways in which we
say, "I am alive, and my life has meaning."

On September 12, 2001 I was a resident of Manhattan. That morning I reached
a new understanding of my art and its relationship to the world.
I sat down at the piano that morning at 10 AM to practice as was my daily
routine; I did it by force of habit, without thinking about it. I lifted the
cover on the keyboard, and opened my music, and put my hands on the keys and
took my hands off the keys. And I sat there and thought, does this even
matter? Isn't this completely irrelevant? Playing the piano right now, given
what happened in this city yesterday, seems silly, absurd, irreverent,
pointless. Why am I here? What place has a musician in this moment in time?
Who needs a piano player right now? I was completely lost.

And then I, along with the rest of New York, went through the journey of
getting through that week. I did not play the piano that day, and in fact I
contemplated briefly whether I would ever want to play the piano again. And
then I observed how we got through the day.

At least in my neighborhood, we didn't shoot hoops or play Scrabble. We
didn't play cards to pass the time, we didn't watch TV, we didn't shop, we
most certainly did not go to the mall. The first organized activity that I
saw in New York, that same day, was singing. People sang. People sang around
fire houses, people sang "We Shall Overcome." Lots of people sang America
the Beautiful. The first organized public event that I remember was the
Brahms Requiem, later that week, at Lincoln Center, with the New York
Philharmonic. The first organized public expression of grief, our first
communal response to that historic event, was a concert. That was the
beginning of a sense that life might go on. The US Military secured the
airspace, but recovery was led by the arts, and by music in particular, that
very night.

From these two experiences, I have come to understand that music is not
part of "arts and entertainment" as the newspaper section would have us
believe. It's not a luxury, a lavish thing that we fund from leftovers of
our budgets, not a plaything or an amusement or a pass time. Music is a
basic need of human survival. Music is one of the ways we make sense of our
lives, one of the ways in which we express feelings when we have no words, a
way for us to understand things with our hearts when we can't with our
minds.

Some of you may know Samuel Barber's heart-wrenchingly beautiful piece
Adagio for Strings. If you don't know it by that name, then some of you may
know it as the background music which accompanied the Oliver Stone movie
Platoon, a film about the Vietnam War. If you know that piece of music
either way, you know it has the ability to crack your heart open like a
walnut; it can make you cry over sadness you didn't know you had.
Music can slip beneath our conscious reality to get at what's really going
on inside us the way a good therapist does.

I bet that you have never been to a wedding where there was absolutely no
music. There might have been only a little music, there might have been some
really bad music, but I bet you there was some music. And something very
predictable happens at weddings-people get all pent up with all kinds of
emotions, and then there's some musical moment where the action of the
wedding stops and someone sings or plays the flute or something. And even if
the music is lame, even if the quality isn't good, predictably 30 or 40
percent of the people who are going to cry at a wedding cry a couple of
moments after the music starts. Why? The Greeks. Music allows us to move
around those big invisible pieces of ourselves and rearrange our insides so
that we can express what we feel even when we can't talk about it. Can you
imagine watching Indiana Jones or Superman or Star Wars with the dialogue
but no music? What is it about the music swelling up at just the right
moment in ET so that all the softies in the audience start crying at exactly
the same moment? I guarantee you if you showed the movie with the music
stripped out, it wouldn't happen that way. The Greeks: Music is the
understanding of the relationship between invisible internal objects.

I'll give you one more example, the story of the most important concert of
my life. I must tell you I have played a little less than a thousand
concerts in my life so far. I have played in places that I thought were
important. I like playing in Carnegie Hall; I enjoyed playing in Paris; it
made me very happy to please the critics in St. Petersburg. I have played
for people I thought were important; music critics of major newspapers,
foreign heads of state. The most important concert of my entire life took
place in a nursing home in Fargo, ND, about 4 years ago.

I was playing with a very dear friend of mine who is a violinist. We began,
as we often do, with Aaron Copland's Sonata, which was written during World
War II and dedicated to a young friend of Copland's, a young pilot who was
shot down during the war. Now we often talk to our audiences about the
pieces we are going to play rather than providing them with written program
notes. But in this case, because we began the concert with this piece, we
decided to talk about the piece later in the program and to just come out
and play the music without explanation.

Midway through the piece, an elderly man seated in a wheelchair near the
front of the concert hall began to weep. This man, whom I later met, was
clearly a soldier-even in his 70's, it was clear from his buzz-cut hair,
square jaw and general demeanor that he had spent a good deal of his life in
the military. I thought it a little bit odd that someone would be moved to
tears by that particular movement of that particular piece, but it wasn't
the first time I've heard crying in a concert and we went on with the
concert and finished the piece.

When we came out to play the next piece on the program, we decided to talk
about both the first and second pieces, and we described the circumstances
in which the Copland was written and mentioned its dedication to a downed
pilot. The man in the front of the audience became so disturbed that he had
to leave the auditorium. I honestly figured that we would not see him again,
but he did come backstage afterwards, tears and all, to explain himself.
What he told us was
this: "During World War II, I was a pilot, and I was in an aerial combat
situation where one of my team's planes was hit. I watched my friend bail
out, and watched his parachute open, but the Japanese planes which had
engaged us returned and machine gunned across the parachute chords so as to
separate the parachute from the pilot, and I watched my friend drop away
into the ocean, realizing that he was lost. I have not thought about this
for many years, but during that first piece of music you played, this memory
returned to me so vividly that it was as though I was reliving it. I didn't
understand why this was happening, why now, but then when you came out to
explain that this piece of music was written to commemorate a lost pilot, it
was a little more than I could handle. How does the music do that? How did
it find those feelings and those memories in me?" Remember the Greeks: music
is the study of invisible relationships between internal objects. This
concert in Fargo was the most important work I have ever done. For me to
play for this old soldier and help him connect, somehow with Aaron Copland,
and to connect their memories of their lost friends, to help him remember
and mourn his friend, this is my work. This is why music matters.

What follows is part of the talk I will give to this year's freshman class
when I welcome them a few days from now. The responsibility I will charge
your sons and daughters with is this:

If we were a medical school, and you were here as a med student practicing
appendectomies, you'd take your work very seriously because you would
imagine that some night at two AM someone is going to waltz into your
emergency room and you're going to have to save their life.
Well, my friends, someday at 8 PM someone is going to walk into your concert
hall and bring you a mind that is confused, a heart that is overwhelmed, a
soul that is weary. Whether they go out whole again will depend partly on
how well you do your craft.

You're not here to become an entertainer, and you don't have to sell
yourself. The truth is you don't have anything to sell; being a musician
isn't about dispensing a product, like selling used Chevies. I'm not an
entertainer; I'm a lot closer to a paramedic, a firefighter, a rescue
worker. You're here to become a sort of therapist for the human soul, a
spiritual version of a chiropractor, physical therapist, someone who works
with our insides to see if they get things to line up, to see if we can come
into harmony with ourselves and be healthy and happy and well.

Frankly, ladies and gentlemen, I expect you not only to master music; I
expect you to save the planet. If there is a future wave of wellness on this
planet, of harmony, of peace, of an end to war, of mutual understanding, of
equality, of fairness, I don't expect it will come from a government, a
military force or a corporation. I no longer even expect it to come from the
religions of the world, which together seem to have brought us as much war
as they have peace. If there is a future of peace for humankind, if there is
to be an understanding of how these invisible, internal things should fit
together, I expect it will come from the artists, because that's what we do.
As in the concentration camp and the evening of 9/11, the artists are the
ones who might be able to help us with our internal, invisible lives.