Which four learning experiences would be on your personal Mt. Rushmore? Formal or informal, in or out of a classroom, for credit or strictly for personal enrichment - anything goes; it's your mountain. Mine are listed chronologically; yours need not be.
1.) High school English with Mrs. Cavico: Forced to identify a single educational experience leading to my lifelong love affair with words, this has to be it. Specifically, I recall Mrs. Cavico's rapturous praise for Keats, Byron, & Shelley; their poetry spoke to me almost as potently as music.
2.) Freshman English with Mr. Larsen: Just a few years later as an undergraduate, this man's palpable love of literature (he described caressing the bindings of library books) ensured my permanent infection. He introduced me to John Barth, Ken Kesey, William Styron; I'm forever in Mr. Larsen's debt.
3.) Organizational Behavior with Dr. Toby Tetenbaum: Fast forward to summer of 1997, the middle of my graduate studies. Having worked as an adult educator for over ten years, this course offered practical insights that immeasurably enriched my next fifteen years of teaching, coaching and living. Just yesterday, I relied on something from Toby's syllabus working with a group.
4.) One Day University (Various Instructors): Beginning December 2007, my wife and I have attended at least one event a year sponsored by this new (since 2006) learning organization. My next time on "campus"? This Saturday. Visit their website and try not to get hooked.
My peak musical learning experiences, including a week spent at the National Guitar Workshop the summer of 2002, would fill a second Mt. Rushmore. When you comment, online or off, include those experiences also. What could be better than learning combined with a passion?
Monday, September 23, 2013
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Remembering The Bad Guys
Looking back, aside from your parents, what early lessons did other adults knowingly or unknowingly teach you?
When recalling the fathers of childhood friends, it's difficult for me to identify specific traits for the fathers I felt comfortable being around. No such difficulty for those who made me uncomfortable. When those men weren't sullen, they were angry. Sullen or angry, they often spoke to my childhood friends with indifference or disdain. More than once I heard a friend called "stupid" or worse. I also vividly recall being embarrassed when one father openly disrespected his wife and then not at all surprised to later learn he was carrying on with a divorcee.
I knew even then my own father was unlike this second group of men. Though he had a temper, only my family saw that side; my friends mostly enjoyed being around him. Although I'm sure it happened, I don't recall my father disrespecting my mother either. They argued, mostly about the four of us or money, but ugly words were usually not part of the deal. Those early lessons I learned from sullen, angry, and disrespectful fathers made me appreciate my father in ways I'm still reflecting on over 50 years later. And here's hoping my daughter's childhood friends will remember being comfortable around me, even if they too can't identify a specific trait of mine to support their memory.
When recalling the fathers of childhood friends, it's difficult for me to identify specific traits for the fathers I felt comfortable being around. No such difficulty for those who made me uncomfortable. When those men weren't sullen, they were angry. Sullen or angry, they often spoke to my childhood friends with indifference or disdain. More than once I heard a friend called "stupid" or worse. I also vividly recall being embarrassed when one father openly disrespected his wife and then not at all surprised to later learn he was carrying on with a divorcee.
I knew even then my own father was unlike this second group of men. Though he had a temper, only my family saw that side; my friends mostly enjoyed being around him. Although I'm sure it happened, I don't recall my father disrespecting my mother either. They argued, mostly about the four of us or money, but ugly words were usually not part of the deal. Those early lessons I learned from sullen, angry, and disrespectful fathers made me appreciate my father in ways I'm still reflecting on over 50 years later. And here's hoping my daughter's childhood friends will remember being comfortable around me, even if they too can't identify a specific trait of mine to support their memory.
Friday, September 20, 2013
If Only...
Early in my adult life, someone wise advised me about the folly of bemoaning "if only..." about anything. And that wise counsel has comforted me many times over the ensuing years.
With respect to creativity however, "if only..." is a tape I find challenging to fully erase. This is especially true when I'm exposed to people who are more inclined to stand apart than they are to fit in. Or when I recognize how my thinking is converging on one answer or solution rather than diverging and seeking out several alternatives. At times like these, my internal conversations can sound something like this:
"If only I didn't have such a need to fit in then..." or..."If only my brain diverged more often than it converged then ..." . How do those sentences end? "...my creativity could flourish"
How familiar does this sound to you? In what domain of your life are you sometimes plagued by "if only"?
With respect to creativity however, "if only..." is a tape I find challenging to fully erase. This is especially true when I'm exposed to people who are more inclined to stand apart than they are to fit in. Or when I recognize how my thinking is converging on one answer or solution rather than diverging and seeking out several alternatives. At times like these, my internal conversations can sound something like this:
"If only I didn't have such a need to fit in then..." or..."If only my brain diverged more often than it converged then ..." . How do those sentences end? "...my creativity could flourish"
How familiar does this sound to you? In what domain of your life are you sometimes plagued by "if only"?
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
The Sense Of An Ending, Part 2
http://reflectionsfromthebellcurve.blogspot.com/2012/06/sense-of-ending.html
I was dismayed when another commitment prevented me from attending a book club meeting to discuss Julian Barnes' "The Sense Of An Ending" last September. I really wanted to hear what smart readers had to say about this 2011 novel that had moved me so much I gifted it to both my sister and wife last Christmas.
Early today, fifteen months after finishing it the first time and writing the above post, almost exactly one year after that missed meeting, I re-read the book - a different club picked it for a meeting held this afternoon. Though in the past I'd used my book journal or any notes taken to refresh my memory when attending meetings to discuss other books I'd previously read, the glow of Barnes' novel was still so fresh I relished the idea of re-reading it. And it was an improbably richer experience the second time. You know that old magical thinking bit that goes something like this? "If only everyone could read/hear/see/be exposed to (fill in the blank), the world would be a better place". The brilliance of "The Sense Of An Ending" makes me wish my blog had enough reach that using that evangelistic hyperbole would bring this book to every thinking person.
If able to narrow down my choices, I'd use Barnes' exquisite prose to entice you. But his book is bursting with sentences, paragraphs, pages worthy of quoting. One reader at today's meeting, an artist, compared the surgical concision of Barnes' writing to the way abstract painters leave out enough in their work so our imaginations can roam free. Hearing her insightful remark reminded me why I like listening at these meetings more than speaking.
I was dismayed when another commitment prevented me from attending a book club meeting to discuss Julian Barnes' "The Sense Of An Ending" last September. I really wanted to hear what smart readers had to say about this 2011 novel that had moved me so much I gifted it to both my sister and wife last Christmas.
Early today, fifteen months after finishing it the first time and writing the above post, almost exactly one year after that missed meeting, I re-read the book - a different club picked it for a meeting held this afternoon. Though in the past I'd used my book journal or any notes taken to refresh my memory when attending meetings to discuss other books I'd previously read, the glow of Barnes' novel was still so fresh I relished the idea of re-reading it. And it was an improbably richer experience the second time. You know that old magical thinking bit that goes something like this? "If only everyone could read/hear/see/be exposed to (fill in the blank), the world would be a better place". The brilliance of "The Sense Of An Ending" makes me wish my blog had enough reach that using that evangelistic hyperbole would bring this book to every thinking person.
If able to narrow down my choices, I'd use Barnes' exquisite prose to entice you. But his book is bursting with sentences, paragraphs, pages worthy of quoting. One reader at today's meeting, an artist, compared the surgical concision of Barnes' writing to the way abstract painters leave out enough in their work so our imaginations can roam free. Hearing her insightful remark reminded me why I like listening at these meetings more than speaking.
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Reminiscing Re Routines, Rituals & Riffs
Thirty years married today; five and a half additional years as an exclusive partnership. And my wife/partner and I have routines, rituals and riffs to spare. Doesn't every couple that's been together for even a few years have at least some of these? If ever there was a risk-free post to comment on, surely this is it.
* I'm responsible for picking up and disposing of dead birds, rodents, etc.; my wife is responsible for changing flats on our bicycles.
* She makes sure the natural peanut butter gets stirred; I make sure neither of us is ever caught without toilet paper in the bathroom.
* Our oldest riff? The way we fold sheets together. Started on our first visit to a laundromat in 1978; repeated as recently as a few days ago. We laugh every time.
Knowing we'd be back late from our hike at Bear Mountain today, early this morning I considered posting something somber written a few days ago. But during the hike a whole passel of these silly routines came to mind, bringing me unexpected but genuine pleasure. The somber post can wait. There are worse things than having an epitaph that reads "Here lies a good man who made sure the toilet paper was always there."
* I'm responsible for picking up and disposing of dead birds, rodents, etc.; my wife is responsible for changing flats on our bicycles.
* She makes sure the natural peanut butter gets stirred; I make sure neither of us is ever caught without toilet paper in the bathroom.
* Our oldest riff? The way we fold sheets together. Started on our first visit to a laundromat in 1978; repeated as recently as a few days ago. We laugh every time.
Knowing we'd be back late from our hike at Bear Mountain today, early this morning I considered posting something somber written a few days ago. But during the hike a whole passel of these silly routines came to mind, bringing me unexpected but genuine pleasure. The somber post can wait. There are worse things than having an epitaph that reads "Here lies a good man who made sure the toilet paper was always there."
Monday, September 16, 2013
A Very Mild Terror
Two and a half years of blogging and over 600 posts. Sometimes I feel on fire, sometimes I'm stuck, but either way money is not part of the equation, thank goodness. What must it be like for people who depend on creating something to support a family, especially when they get stuck?
During the years music was my sole means of support, no one depended on my income. In addition, although I scraped by a living, I mostly performed music others had created. Consequently, the terror of creative block never entered the picture during my lean years.
Nowadays, a very mild form of that terror is with me routinely, though these meager musings have nothing to do with my livelihood and no one holds me accountable for continuing. Some days when I feel on fire, instead of rejoicing, my mind skips unaccountably to days I've been stuck. On others I reflect - How well am I harnessing this heat? But even when my notebook of ideas feels a little thin, I breathe easier knowing there will be no parallel thinning of my bank account. No such luxury for those creative people much braver than I.
During the years music was my sole means of support, no one depended on my income. In addition, although I scraped by a living, I mostly performed music others had created. Consequently, the terror of creative block never entered the picture during my lean years.
Nowadays, a very mild form of that terror is with me routinely, though these meager musings have nothing to do with my livelihood and no one holds me accountable for continuing. Some days when I feel on fire, instead of rejoicing, my mind skips unaccountably to days I've been stuck. On others I reflect - How well am I harnessing this heat? But even when my notebook of ideas feels a little thin, I breathe easier knowing there will be no parallel thinning of my bank account. No such luxury for those creative people much braver than I.
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Which "We" Are We Talking About?
http://reflectionsfromthebellcurve.blogspot.com/2011/03/what-do-you-call-this.html
The first book mentioned after I began blogging in March 2011 was "The Painted Drum" (2005) by Louise Erdrich. Though that novel marked my initial exposure to Erdrich, I knew I'd return. What author new to you has most recently grabbed you that way?
"Small trees had attacked my parents' house at the foundation."
With the first foreshadowing sentence, "The Round House" (2012) had me immediately. Then just three pages later comes this - "And so, you see, her absence stopped time." Before any "action" occurs, Erdrich's pitch-perfect tone propelled me forward. Only once, with the vigilante act concluding the penultimate chapter, did I temporarily fall out of the author's spell. But then Erdrich masterfully puts the moral universe back on its axis in the last chapter, especially her final three pages and concluding sentences.
"We passed over in a sweep of sorrow that would persist into our small forever. We just kept going."
Those last four words are nominally about the fictional Coutts family of this novel. But based on the harrowing legal legacy our Supreme Court has constructed since the early 19th century to abrogate the rights of Native Americans, the "we" in that sentence carries added weight. You'll need to read the book and let me know if you agree Erdrich had that legacy on her mind with both the first and last sentence of "The Round House".
The first book mentioned after I began blogging in March 2011 was "The Painted Drum" (2005) by Louise Erdrich. Though that novel marked my initial exposure to Erdrich, I knew I'd return. What author new to you has most recently grabbed you that way?
"Small trees had attacked my parents' house at the foundation."
With the first foreshadowing sentence, "The Round House" (2012) had me immediately. Then just three pages later comes this - "And so, you see, her absence stopped time." Before any "action" occurs, Erdrich's pitch-perfect tone propelled me forward. Only once, with the vigilante act concluding the penultimate chapter, did I temporarily fall out of the author's spell. But then Erdrich masterfully puts the moral universe back on its axis in the last chapter, especially her final three pages and concluding sentences.
"We passed over in a sweep of sorrow that would persist into our small forever. We just kept going."
Those last four words are nominally about the fictional Coutts family of this novel. But based on the harrowing legal legacy our Supreme Court has constructed since the early 19th century to abrogate the rights of Native Americans, the "we" in that sentence carries added weight. You'll need to read the book and let me know if you agree Erdrich had that legacy on her mind with both the first and last sentence of "The Round House".
Friday, September 13, 2013
Our Autos, Ourselves
The sticker on my windshield reminding me I'm overdue got me reflecting: Is there an equivalent in human terms for the necessity of regularly changing the oil in our autos?
First thought: How about the way many of us get our teeth cleaned every six months? Threw that out as not quite the same as an oil change - more like getting the car washed, isn't it?
I also discarded my second thought, the idea of getting periodic total blood transfusions, as too radical. But the strong parallels between the two processes, i.e. out with the old, in with the new, makes it a better fit than teeth cleaning. How about fasting? Nope, that's more akin to not driving for a few days.
Because no reasonable physical equivalents come to mind, I'm thinking something behavioral is called for. How about this? At the same time each of us gets our oil changed, we dump past resentments and replace them with positive thoughts. Pretty sure toxic thoughts I've held onto have done as much damage as the dirty oil sitting in my engine right now.
First thought: How about the way many of us get our teeth cleaned every six months? Threw that out as not quite the same as an oil change - more like getting the car washed, isn't it?
I also discarded my second thought, the idea of getting periodic total blood transfusions, as too radical. But the strong parallels between the two processes, i.e. out with the old, in with the new, makes it a better fit than teeth cleaning. How about fasting? Nope, that's more akin to not driving for a few days.
Because no reasonable physical equivalents come to mind, I'm thinking something behavioral is called for. How about this? At the same time each of us gets our oil changed, we dump past resentments and replace them with positive thoughts. Pretty sure toxic thoughts I've held onto have done as much damage as the dirty oil sitting in my engine right now.
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