Today's Tao

"We teach best what we need to learn most."

What happened most recently to you that confirmed teaching is the best way to learn?

In my course called Jamming for Advanced Beginners, a message I try to convey to guitar students early on is to avoid thinking of any improvised note as "right" or "wrong". Better - I coach them - to consider the notes they intended to play vs. those they didn't intend to play. I strongly believe any student who fully internalizes this critical lesson will be a more relaxed improviser from the start. In addition, having this kind of attitude about one's own improvising is a surefire way to ensure that person will be far less likely to harshly judge what other people play in their early attempts at improvising.

If I could borrow that HG Wells contraption, I know what point in time in my life as a musician I'd return to. I'd go back to my start as an improviser and hear my own words endlessly repeated back to me: "There are no wrong notes, Pat, only notes you didn't intend to play."  Perhaps those words would have given me enough confidence to ignore anyone who cringed at something I tried. 

But time machine fantasy aside, what I've seen - as a teacher - is that each time I repeat this message, an unsurprising thing happens; my own improvising gets a little more relaxed and natural. And that's when Buddha's words are confirmed for me, yet again. 

 

Assembling the Quilt

Take a moment and join me in a fantasy. Imagine you'd spent your professional life as an historian. What era or subject captivates you enough that - in this fantasy - you want to be an expert, able to easily answer nearly any question about that era or subject? 

As disturbing as the subject can sometimes be, these days I frequently yearn to be an expert in the history of the native people who first inhabited this place we call the United States of America. Though the subject was always of interest, my fantasy took a firm hold in 2011, soon after I finished James Loewen's mind blowing book Lies My Teacher Told Me (1995). Since then, the novels of Native American authors like Louise Erdrich & Tommy Orange - among others - and historical powerhouses like The Trail of Tears (Gail Jahoda, 1975) and Killers of the Flower Moon (David Grann, 2017) have helped turn my fascination with this complicated slice of history into something bordering on an obsession.

The many disparate pieces I've picked up over my fourteen-year journey are satisfying. But, at times, those pieces each feel like an individual swatch of fabric. The expert I fantasize about being would be able to assemble them all into a quilt. All that's needed is a second lifetime. Anybody able to help me with that? 

Reflections From The Bell Curve: Still Closing the Gap

Reflections From The Bell Curve: John Brown Day

Grounding Myself, Accidentally

"The graveyard is full of indispensable people."

It's possible you're someone who has never taken themselves too seriously. I make no such claim. So let me ask those of you who have - at least a few times - shared my unfortunate tendency. Who helps you remain grounded? If you don't rely on a trusted person to ground you regularly, what do you rely on instead? Who are the people in your life that remind you by example to stay grounded? 

I cannot recall what prompted me to jot down the italicized words above nor did I cite its source in my blog notebook at the time. But a few weeks back I caught myself briefly musing on my importance as I sat down to begin writing a post. What set me off on that fantasy? No idea. Anyone reading and foolish enough to admit to having done so, do you recall what most recently propelled you onto a similar delusional path? 

I do recall from that day weeks back what happened before I started writing. I opened my notebook, noticed those grounding words above and got abruptly yanked back to reality. Timing is everything.

 

p.s. Tried tracking down those words using Wikiquotes; no luck. My best guess? This is something lifted from a novel I was reading at the time. If I'm right, there's another good reason to continue reading fiction, not that I needed any rationale for doing so. 

Your Gold Standard

In my experience, most people who read widely have at least a few "go to" authors. To a lesser extent, I've noticed a similar tendency among serious music lovers and dedicated cinephiles. Music geeks and movie buffs alike rely on certain performers or directors to consistently deliver the goods just as readers do with authors. Today I'm hoping to extract unknown treasures from any of you who share my passion for either literature, music, or film, all of which have enriched my life immeasurably.   

Readers first: Which one book by a "go to" author will be difficult for that same author to top in your mind? You will continue reading this author but - in your mind - this book has become a kind of gold standard. I'm not looking for a "best of" by that author or even your "favorite", necessarily. Try to avoid using those labels as you consider this question carefully. Instead, I'd like to know which one book by that author excited you enough that returning to their work repeatedly was never in doubt. Before moving on to #2 and #3, please note: All of us are destined to be disappointed from time-to-time, gold standard aside. I mean, the Beatles released Why Don't We Do It in the Road. On the other hand, I've been upended more than once by an artist topping something I thought of as unsurpassable. Haven't you?  

Music lovers: Same question, replacing "book" with "recording/album". For information purposes, please also note the name of the musician or band or performer. 

Cinephiles: Replace "book" with "film". Again, be sure to identify the director's name. Source material would be a nice bonus, if relevant. Would be cool to get a good book out of this third entry. 

I'm standing by. Others may also be on the lookout for hidden treasure; share the wealth, please.  

Yesterday

Although the premise for this post came to me as I reflected on a good day - yesterday - some folks might find it unsettling to speculate on their mortality. If that's the case for you, stop reading now. No chance of me getting offended; I have no way of knowing.   

If you knew for sure when you got into bed last night that yesterday was going to be your last day, how would you feel about the way you'd spent it? Imagine what might happen if each of us spent even one day of every month living as though it was going to be our last. Isn't it possible the world could be improved, however marginally?  

I'm not claiming what I did yesterday improved or altered the world in any fashion. But the fact that I did no harm, combined with the positive energy I felt while delivering a music class, spurred me to consider how that energy could easily be directed toward larger aims if I were purposeful about it. All that need happen is for me to occasionally keep that question above front and center. If I did, isn't it possible that over time some modest action of mine might make a tiny difference? More important, how could keeping that question on my radar all the time be anything but beneficial for me and the world? 

These thoughts made for a peaceful night's sleep. For that alone, I'm grateful. 

A Honduran Bookonnection

Ever think the word coincidence is inadequate to describe something that's happened to you? My most recent bookonnection is wild enough that I would be skeptical were someone to tell me this story. 

I first read Paul Theroux's 1982 bestseller Mosquito Coast soon after it was published. Mid-winter of 2024, I was discussing that novel and a later travel book of Theroux's called The Last Train to Zona Verde with a new hiking friend. Zona Verde (2013) was itself kind of a "prep" book for my impending trip to Africa. On the spot, to entice this new friend to join and also because I wanted an excuse to re-read it, I decided to put Mosquito Coast into the queue for my book club. However, because I plan far in advance what my club will be reading, Theroux's early novel was slotted for the meeting in March of this year. 

Many conversations with my fellow travelers while on that trip to Africa centered on books. By the time the trip was over, I had about twenty titles to explore, including The Lost City of the Monkey God (2017) by Douglas Preston, an author and book totally unfamiliar to me. Over parts of 2024 and early 2025, I worked my way through some of those titles but not Monkey God.

Fast forward to February 2025 when my club didn't meet due to inclement weather. Late in the month, I met 1x1 with one of the charter members to discuss our "missed" book. By then, I had already completed my re-read of Mosquito Coast and also re-watched the 1986 film adaptation. At that 1x1 meeting - as is our habit - this reading soulmate and I spoke of other stuff we'd recently enjoyed. Among others, she recommended The Lost City of the Monkey God. Now that I considered a coincidence - or the universe speaking to me - and decided right then to make Monkey God my next non-fiction read. I still had no idea what it was about or where it took place. 

On March 10, the day before my club was scheduled to discuss Mosquito Coast, I opened The Lost City of the Monkey God for the first time and stopped after reading the first sentence: "Deep in Honduras, in a region called La Mosquitia, lie some of the last unexplored places on earth." I took a quick look at the map on the inside cover of Monkey God. Yeah, those river names looked familiar, as did a place called "Brewer's Lagoon". To ensure I was recollecting correctly, I grabbed notes I'd taken for Mosquito Coast to help me guide the discussion for my club. When I confirmed the two books were set in the exact same location in Honduras, I was so astonished I stopped reading and exclaimed to my wife - "You're not going to believe this!" I submit the word coincidence is not up to the job for this situation. When my club met to discuss Mosquito Coast the next day, I opened the discussion by describing my uncanny experience, reading aloud the first sentence of Monkey God. I'm still getting my head around the conclusion of this thirteen-month-long Honduran bookonnection. 

p.s. The Lost City of the Monkey God is the best non-fiction book I've read so far in 2025.        

Milestones Since the Maiden Voyage

Just before sitting down at my laptop moments ago, I realized my first tentative steps into the blogosphere occurred fourteen years ago tomorrow. On the spot, I decided to abandon what I'd previously planned to write about and instead celebrate the start of my fifteenth uninterrupted year of reflecting from the bell curve by marking a few milestones from 2011 - 2025. Why not join in and share a few of yours? I'm doing mine chronologically but pick whatever order works for you.

* When my wife and I took our first trip with Road Scholar (nee Elder Hostels) in the fall of 2015, we had modest expectations. We knew we'd enjoy two of the National Parks we'd be visiting in Alaska and hoped we'd meet some nice folks who - like us - are not luxury-oriented travelers. Who could have predicted the bond we'd build with fourteen (of forty) of our fellow travelers? Except for Groundhog Year, i.e., when Covid shut down the world, the sixteen of us have re-united somewhere in the U.S. in every subsequent year since. What an indescribably wonderful late-in-life gift.  

* Feeling accountable for a goal I announced publicly here on November 22, 2011 definitely kept me focused on that goal. Almost eight years later - in August 2019 - I had memorized 300 songs jazz musicians enjoy playing, either from the Great American Songbook or standards composed by some of the jazz giants. I've forgiven myself for taking eight years to accomplish this when I set out to do so in one (!!), primarily because the regimen of continually reviewing those 300 (now up to 319) tunes has formed the backbone of my practicing discipline on guitar over the ensuing five + years.

* On October 3, 2024, my wife and I became first-time grandparents. If my grandson gives me even 50% of the joy my daughter has given me, I'll be grateful beyond measure.

If you want to share more than three milestones/highlights, great. I limited mine to three for the sake of brevity. My life has been filled with riches since March 15, 2011. And the regular discipline of publishing this blog has clearly helped me bring those riches into focus. Thanks for all your support, online and off. 

Reflections From The Bell Curve: Maiden Voyage

Who Doesn't Want This?

"I just want you to know who I am."

I wonder how many times I've heard - but not listened closely to - Iris, a song that includes the simple but profound lyric above. Apparently, it's one of the most well-known tunes by the Goo Goo Dolls and was featured in City of Angels, a Nicholas Cage film from 1998.  

I'm not sure what made me pay close attention to Iris the last time it played on my car radio several weeks ago. But whatever the reason, I'm glad I was focused for that moment. As lead singer/composer John Rzeznik plaintively repeated that lyric several times during the song's coda, I was overcome enough that I pulled off the road. When did this last happen to you? Was it a song you know well? What lyric from that tune that you'd heard many times before knocked you down that time? Or was the lyric that floored you from a song you'd paid only passing attention to, as I had with Iris? Or was it words from a tune you've never heard before that stopped you cold?

Don't most of us have a deep need to be known by others in a meaningful and intimate way? Some people are satisfied if one person knows them well in this fashion. Others need more. Listen to Iris - especially the coda - and try to remain unmoved by Rzeznik's delivery of this universal human cry. 

A Never-Ending Search

Some months back, for the first time, I heard pianist McCoy Turner's take on Speak Low, a Kurt Weill standard many jazz musicians play. Listening carefully to Tyner's amazing interpretation, I began analyzing my tepid version of this tune, one I've played steadily for several years. The journal entry I wrote not long after finishing my analysis oozed self-pity. Not my best moment.

Fast forward to a recent conversation with an ex-guitar teacher. When I shared how discouraging it can sometimes be to listen to someone with the speed and superhuman technique of Tyner or guitarist Joe Pass, he reminded me of the days when Miles Davis shared a stage with Charlie "Bird" Parker. What if Miles - my old friend asked me - had allowed himself to be discouraged by Bird's prodigious gifts? Think - he coached me - of what the world would have missed if Miles hadn't used what he learned playing alongside Bird as a path toward finding his own musical voice. 

I've been searching for my voice on the guitar most of my adult life. And I'm grateful for those fleeting moments when it feels like I'm getting close, especially if I'm improvising at the time. But I decided long ago that it's unwise abbreviating and calling myself a jazz guitarist. I'm a guitarist who has studied and enjoys jazz, likes to improvise, and favors tunes from the Great American Songbook and jazz standards. It's a much longer explanation but a far more accurate one. Joe Pass, Wes Montgomery, and Pat Metheny are jazz guitarists. And so is that ex-teacher of mine who reminded me recently to keep searching for my voice and remember that speed is just one element, and sometimes not the most important one. 

Nomophobia or Rudeness?

Nomophobia - Wikipedia

This cranky and contrary old fart is finding it harder all the time to differentiate between nomophobia and garden variety rudeness. And yes I realize that my decision to make minimal use of a cell phone puts me in a rapidly shrinking and marginalized minority. 

That said, I'd like to ask all of you - enamored of or tethered to your cell phone or not - what might have been your reaction had you experienced what I did in my local public library this a.m.? Allow me a brief but wholly accurate set-up.  

Between the lobby of the library and the quiet study area where I placed myself there are no fewer than thirteen signs (counted after the fact) that read "Please restrict cell phone use to the lobby area". This includes one sign on each of the three tables in the study area and one on the wall directly above each. The library lobby is a distance of twenty paces away from those tables (also counted after the fact).

I'm guessing you can predict what happened moments after I sat down. What might surprise you is how the librarian blithely responded after my sheepish request that she intervene with the patron who began a cell phone conversation. "Oh, don't worry about it. This happens every day."

What possible rationale could anyone offer under these circumstances for disturbing others? Didn't see all thirteen signs? Didn't want to walk the twenty paces? What? My frequent use of the library is partially motivated by a wish to avoid the ubiquitous assault of the 24/7 news cycle - abetted by a TV in nearly public space - and the nearly inescapable presence of cell phones, both in the public and private spheres. 

Nomophobia or rudeness?  

A Snob Is Born

When it comes to movies, I am close to being indiscriminate. I'll watch almost anything and put off doing urgent things needing attention when I spot something I haven't seen. In the age of streaming, it's become effortless to indulge myself; my geek cup has runneth over.

It's also been easy sliding into less discernment because, putting aside the "I could be doing something more productive" internal conversation, being a movie geek is a largely benign habit. But I recently stumbled across a downside to my geekdom. And the downside comes wrapped in a little story.

The downside: Being indiscriminate has taken away some of my passion. Because I've seen so many, some of the conventions of genre movies (Westerns, romantic comedies, sports films, musicals, etc.) are no longer as fresh for me. I find myself a tad cynical when able to predict how these types of films will turn out. The story: I've begun to give offbeat, unusual, or non-genre films more credit than they sometimes deserve. Yes, this film geek could be morphing into a snob. This type of thing ever happen to you? If not with movies, how about with literature? Music?  

Occurred to me it's possible this road I find myself on may be the same road professional critics find themselves on from time to time. Ever notice how there are a few critics who rarely seem to like anything a lot of us "regular" folks like? Perhaps those critics have seen or read or listened to so much of what they're paid to criticize that they've gotten cynical, then told themselves a story, and presto = a snob is born. Your thoughts? Strategies to assist me from descending into reflexive snobbery?