A Gift That Lingers

"No tears for the writer, no tears for the reader." - Robert Frost

Over almost fifteen years and 2600 posts, I've tried to avoid cheap sentiment on this blog. At the same time, on days like today when I'm inclined to pay tribute to someone dear to me, it's hard to steer clear of emotionally charged memories. 

In every important respect, my father was my hero. Like everyone, he had his flaws; I inherited a few of his less noble traits. But the gifts he passed on - most significantly, his devotion to my mother and pride in all four of his children - far outweighed any of his shortcomings. 

Dad was a gifted carpenter. But from as early in life as I can remember, he continually told me he wanted me to use my "good brain" in whatever work I chose. That coaching may have contributed to my disinterest in working with my hands. It's equally possible my lack of aptitude for carpentry or any related field sent me in a different direction. Either way, I can't recall my dad ever acting disappointed in my choices, vocationally or otherwise. 

Instead, I remember his pride in me, including the pathetic shop projects I brought home from school. Even at ten or eleven years old, I knew how bad my work was; my shop teachers had given me some clear signals. Dad proudly displayed each of my disasters on our walls. On Veteran's Day, these sixty-five-year-old memories overtook me, a gift he gave me that lingers. 

Restored Via the Natural World

Early today, I nearly surrendered to my weariness. I'll spare you the self-pitying rationale. 

But as often happens, the natural world then helped rescue me from myself. While sitting in my car making a desultory journal entry, the warmth of the autumn sun washed over me. Through the windshield I noticed patches of clouds crossing the sky. The longer I stared at the movement of each unique cloud formation, the more restored I felt.

I then began writing what may eventually become song lyrics. It's equally possible that what I wrote may linger indefinitely in my notebook. In the end it doesn't matter because by the time I put down my pen and resumed staring at the clouds, my weariness had dissipated.

How I'd welcome hearing your story about the last time you were restored via any of the miracles the natural world delivers to us all every day.

My All-Star; Our National Treasure

While writing my book journal entry about Home (2012), I began reflecting on my journey with Toni Morrison's work. Which contemporary author has sustained you for the longest stretch of your life? 

Morrison's books have been critical to my development as a reader, a thinker, and social justice advocate for almost fifty years. I got hooked - as did many - by Song of Solomon (1977). Almost alone among contemporary authors, I've read many of her books twice. Tar Baby (1981)? Three times. She always challenges me and never lets me down. Which author's work has had a similar effect on you?

Before beginning this brief valentine to her, I decided to use Blogger's search engine to see how many times I've gushed about Morrison since the inception of my blog in March 2011. Although the number of mentions was fewer than I would've guessed, I was pleasantly surprised by two of my posts. The fitting title of the more recent - My Debt to a Great Writer - made me happy. That tribute was published two days after Morrison's death in May of 2019. The older one - published in 2012 - was gratifying for a different reason. After finishing Home, thirteen + years from first placing her, Toni Morrison's slot as a forward on my all-star basketball team of authors remains secure. Which author has enchanted you for that long?  

Reflections From The Bell Curve: Attention: Sports Fans

p.s. When (not if), I finish Love (2003) and A Mercy (2008) - the remaining two novels in Morrison's oeuvre I still haven't read - look for a post in my completism series.  

   

Counting Before Publishing

Whenever capturing a kernel in my blog notebook that has potential to later put me on my high horse as I compose a post, I frequently add an admonishment right alongside the kernel. Of late, the one that seems to work best is "Be careful, Pat".  Kind of a written equivalent of counting to ten before opening my mouth.

When e-mail first became popular, I recall once being instructed not to send anything written while angry or otherwise upset. It's possible that long-ago instruction prompted me to begin admonishing myself in my notebook. But even if there is no connection, being more deliberate before publishing 2600 blog posts has had some unintended and welcome consequences in my face-to-face interactions. I'm both more tactful and marginally less judgmental than I was fifteen years ago. 

Though no one is likely to mistake me for a Zen master, it's gratifying to feel myself growing. And my plan? Continue jotting down reminders to be careful. What strategies help you avoid that high horse? 

A House of Dynamite

Although I didn't know it at the time, turns out I watched Katheryn Bigelow's latest film - A House of Dynamite - on the day it was first streamed on Netflix. And a week later, I still haven't shaken it off. This is a movie you don't enjoy, but it's one I'm reasonably sure you will never forget. The last time a film hit me this hard was when I watched The Day After in 1983.   

Each of the three parts - told non-chronologically - is equally terrifying. I was disturbed enough at the conclusion of part one that I considered turning off the TV.  But I didn't. Then, as part two ended, there was no doubt I'd watch part three. Bigelow's total command of film craft is a marvel. I wasn't happy but I was riveted. 

If you decide to watch A House of Dynamite, be prepared. 

That Kind of Book

Unless you are an Uber-snob - and I'm sort of a mid-level snob myself - I can almost guarantee you'll enjoy Tomorrow, And Tomorrow, And Tomorrow (2022). Gabrielle Zevin's satisfying novel has all the elements that readers - except Uber-snobs - look for in a reading experience. It's well written, the narrative arc is strong and believable, the characters are interesting and relatable.

In addition, I can't remember ever reading such a skillful portrayal of a deep friendship between a man and a woman. For me - perhaps because my most enduring and enriching friendships have always been with women - the bond and the bumps that tie and test Sam Masur and Sadie Green's long friendship, thanks to Zevin's masterful yet unshowy prose, elevated this novel. I believed it because I've lived it.

Tomorrow, And Tomorrow, And Tomorrow also reminded me how collaboration in the creative world can be invaluable. It was difficult to read this book and not be reminded of the collaborative creative efforts of my daughter and her writing and directing partner. Isn't it wonderful when the insights in a worthwhile book are reflected in your own life experience? This is that kind of book. I suspect you'll find parts of yourself in it. When you do, be sure to return here and tell me and others about it.     

When Will It End?

OK, it's official. With respect to the music classes I've been delivering and teaching for over eleven years now, I have no respect for my own time. 

Reflections From The Bell Curve: Assist With a Reprise

About a month ago I used the post above to solicit input for a reprise of my course called Tunesmiths. And though initially pleased with the responses I got both online and off, that's also when my trouble began. At this point, I'm beginning to wonder when it will end. 

Short version: Resolved to listen carefully to every song suggested. Created a playlist on Spotify. Been listening steadily since mid-September to determine which artists suggested to me that were not included in 2017 measure up reasonably well against those featured eight years ago. Any "new" artist making that first musical cut = research required to ensure they fit the parameters established for the original course. Getting the picture yet? Though trying not to tally hours spent so far (did I mention my slides will also need updating?), it's not pretty. 

Even my meditation practice is suffering. During several recent visits to myself, instead of being present with my breathing, the soundtrack in my brain wouldn't leave me alone. I love music but I'm thinking, at minimum, I may need to go on the union clock. You know, forty-five minutes on, fifteen minutes off.  

More Rushmore Coming

From my earliest days as an insatiable reader, I've adored short stories. But until recently, my awareness of some of the critical elements common to great short stories hadn't kept pace with my love of this vital form of literature.  Happily, this shortcoming has been remedied a bit thanks to an Act Three friendship with a serious lifelong student of short stories. 

Starting with the first discussion of some short stories I attended that this friend moderated, I could feel my discernment deepening. When was the last time you had a learning experience like this? For me, few things in life are as exhilarating. Although I knew short stories needed to do more with less, the subtle choices made by some masters of the form - word choice, tone, voice - had often eluded me before this astute reader and dedicated student began helping me see those things more clearly. 

Reflections From The Bell Curve: #2: The Mt. Rushmore Series

Soon after attending a workshop led by this friend earlier today, I exhumed the post above from my archives, the second iteration in my long-running Mt. Rushmore Series. Thirteen years ago, these four jumped to the front of my brain as some of my most revered short stories. But after almost twelve years of her able tutelage, I'm inclined to construct a second monument acknowledging what I've learned from my valued friend. This new memorial will not replace my original; I stand by those choices. But enshrining a story by some of the masters my friend has helped me better appreciate - Lauren Groff, Jhumpa Lahiri, William Trevor, to name a few - is now in order.

Construction has begun. In the meanwhile, I'd welcome hearing which short stories you'd put on your Mt. Rushmore.