Bubble Bath

As a team member for the upcoming More To Life Weekend, I was recently given an "egg assignment." These were individual, randomly selected ways to be intentional about how they engaged life, others, and themselves in preparation for serving. My egg assignment was to "nurture myself with a bubble bath." Some people considered me to be quite lucky. Well, while I gave it a try, I'm concluding that I'm not a "bubble bath" kind of guy. But more about that in a moment...

My thoughts upon receiving the egg assignment: Why is it lucky for me to get assigned to take a bubble bath? Couldn't a person who wants to take a bubble bath do so without having it assigned to them? I don't think I have ever taken a bubble bath as an adult. I'm willing to give it a try.

So, I knew that we had some sort of paraphernalia around here, fragrant salts and Calgon and what-have-you. So my first intentional step with this was asking for a little assistance in locating it. Joy was of great assistance, and offered impishly gleeful recommendations. I had thought about waiting until after all of the Easter services were over tomorrow, but since the opportunity arose today I went for it.

It was relaxing to be not doing anything for awhile, and I intentionally didn't have anything to read or work on so my mind could take a break too. The warmth of the water and the added salts and bubbles were definitely an out of the ordinary experience, but I think the stillness was actually a bigger part of the experience. It was just a moment out of time. At first.

Then, I started thinking about all of the things that I wanted to accomplish in the next few days: working on a couple of pieces of music, preparing for a weekly role-playing game, potential entries for the blog, making some progress on my personal online networking initiative. And I got critical of myself for not relaxing. "I always seem to be busy with something, and I can't even let myself take a little time to do nothing." Wrestling with my judgment of myself and my "inability to just relax," though, I became aware of something about my busyness that I often overlook.

I actually enjoy a large percentage of how I spend my time now. It is actually nurturing to my mind to be creative, to find ways to connect with people, to be musical. I am energized by the vision and plans I have for my life, and it is fun and exciting to spend time and energy on that journey. So I can kick back and physically relax, but putting restrictions of how active my mind is can be the opposite of nurturing.

So, when I got out of the bubble bath, I was physically relaxed, but my brain was joyfully working away. I was happy to have so many things that engage me and that propel me forward. I found myself grateful that there were too many things to do in a day because they were all things I wanted to do rather than things I had to get accomplished. That hasn't always been the way I've looked at my busyness, and it was a refreshing perspective I'd like to hang on to.

Then, I walked out into a cloud of swarming termites all around our big dining table. Lots of reactivity to that. I could see them completely obscuring the soffits when I looked out the window. The "bug man" is on his way as I type. Good thing I had that relaxing time to gain a little perspective on the big picture of how I nurture myself. If I choose to, I can still create and prepare for the things I really enjoy in life while I'm sweeping up the hundreds of insects that have invaded my space. I mean there's practically a carpet of the things, people. It's kind of disgusting.

Context for Composition

I've been working on a piece of music, and I am frustrated by the same doubts that usually creep in while I'm writing. It's almost like I am two people, one composing and one critiquing over my own shoulder. The composer side is making judgments about the expression of the piece, the nuts and bolts of pitch and duration and intensity, the precision of the notation. I can be fully engrossed in the sound I want from the performers and how best to communicate that with markings on a page.

And yet, the critic side still finds a few brain cells to tap into. And his argument is almost always the same, although he disguises it from time to time for variety. It boils down to: This music isn't intellectual enough. Which, of course, reduces to: You're not a good composer. Actually it's "I'm not a good composer," but putting my critic in the third person seems more natural. In actuality it provides an illusion that an objective outside party is drawing the conclusion.

The argument doesn't even make sense, but it seems to when it comes from my own mind. I blame graduate school. There we listened to famous works of art music that I had never heard performed live, and we dissected the construction of these pieces and how effective and brilliant they were. But they almost never get performed except at music schools, because however brilliant their construction, they aren't appealing pieces of music to most people's ears. I truly enjoy listening to some of these pieces, and I have most of my favorites on CD. But I have to admit that most people I know wouldn't choose to sit down and listen to this "brilliant" music.

In combating the critic, my response to myself is to create context. I do not compose so that a bunch of music students might be able to dissect my work in fifty years. I do not compose to show anyone how smart I am. I do not compose because my job demands that I produce something, regardless of its quality, in order to get tenure. I compose because I have something to communicate, and music provides a graceful and engaging vessel for that communication. Recognizing why I do what I do takes the critic's bite away. He doesn't ever really shut up, he just sounds much less convincing.

Making Things Difficult

On Saturday I accompanied a ton of intermediate school musicians at a local competition event. At their level, the piano parts were not terribly difficult and the judges were mostly there to encourage the students to stick with their musical training. It was fun to work with them, and I made a little money. Over lunch, while sitting with one of the event organizers, I even made a couple of strategic suggestions that may improve their scheduling system in the future. The most flattering part, though, was when one of the teachers pre-booked me for next year's event.

I walked away from that event believing that I was a skilled accompanist, an insightful strategist, and a valued musician. Then I went to work on some of the high school accompaniments I am preparing for a couple of weeks out. These piano parts are a bit more challenging, and I was really struggling with a couple of them. One in particular was marked "Allegro con Vivo," which I was interpreting to mean "faster than you would like." It was a difficult piece of music. Nearly at the limit of my ability.

Then, I rehearsed with the saxophonist Monday morning. I asked him about his tempo, since "Allegro con Vivo" is a rather subjective marking. I was astonished that his speed was nearly half the speed I had been practicing. It still sounded fast, and it still had liveliness. But now it was suddenly an easy piece of music. Of course, I'll still practice it and prepare for this student's performance, but I won't dread it or use it as evidence that my skills aren't enough.

Now I'm wondering what else seems to be at the limit of my ability. What else am I making more difficult than it actually has to be?

Compassion

Most of the music I write has a message to communicate. Sometimes it's just a guiding principle as I am composing that winds up as a sentence in the program notes. Other times the message of a piece is integral to the audience's experience. Almost always, it is about awareness. I believe that people's lives would be enriched and more connected if they practiced more intentional awareness. My music is clearly influenced by that belief.

Some things we do work against our awareness, however, and I've been thinking about this as various people have been commenting on the national budget. We often respond to governmental programs from a position of compassion. If we want people to have health care, homes, the basic necessities of life, we are comforted by government-funded programs that tend to these needs. If we want businesses to be successful, for people to have jobs, for retirement plans to be adequate, we take comfort in government-funded assistance for corporations and businesses.

We are a compassionate people in theory, and when we see suffering on any level, we want someone to take care of it. Someone. Not us directly, but somebody ought to do something, right? Sure, it's OK if our taxes are used for it, as long as we can be comforted by knowing that it's been addressed. Then we can ignore it and go on with our lives. Or, if we choose, we can get angry about it without being burdened with responsibility.

I wonder if it is the government's job to be compassionate for us. What would we do as individuals if the government stopped all of these compassion-driven efforts? Would we rise to the challenge and become compassionate people in action? I suppose we could keep getting angry that no one was doing anything. Or we could still ignore the problems and pretend that we have no responsibility toward one another. What builds a stronger society, a compassionate government or a compassionate people?

Standing on the Tracks

I have been listening to people. Lots of different people in lots of different situations. In person, on the radio, friends, co-workers, politicians, strangers. And I have been thinking, "When do I sound like that?" Pessimistic. Afraid. Panicky even.

It takes many different forms, but I have been noticing more and more the influence of fear on people around me. It plays out like a natural, automatic response to danger, the whole fight or flight thing. Only the danger isn't real. And even if it is, reacting to it won't make it less dangerous. The more I listen to and watch people being fearful, the more I want to push them off the tracks. At least the ones to whom I have direct access.

But I recognize that pushing them off the tracks isn't necessarily the answer. I want to find a graceful way to point out: You are standing in the direct path of a crazy-train of your own device, and if you are willing to take a few steps, your perspective might grant a fuller picture of reality. The crazy-train might be exciting, but it doesn't go to the destination you really want.

And then I look at my own decisions and thought streams, and I recognize how crafty fear can be. I make intentional choices most of the time, but sometimes I stand right on the tracks. My own crazy-train doesn't smack me or crush me, though. It just scoops me up gently and carries me in the opposite direction of where I most want to go. Am I so afraid of getting what I want?
What can I create from fear that is worth creating? Who can I be when I'm in control of my fear and not the other way around?