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Big Ears: Setbacks and Triumphs

So I am wandering a bit in this post, about Big Ears and not. Please have patience. I'm not asking for anything but patience.

After I exhausted myself on Friday, the rest of Big Ears seemed something like a blur. That even though I intentionally planned a rather light day on Saturday, and lucky for me I did. I started off with a performance by trumpet virtuoso Peter Evans, which was certainly mind-bending. I can't really say that I would classify what I heard as music, but he pushed the trumpet to produce effects and waves of sound, tone, and tempo that I certainly never imagined; there were times where the sound was loud and crashing, a tornado in the room, and there were other periods of soft, gentle, melodies, a gentleness I had never really imagined from a trumpet. So although I personally didn't hear music, I was fascinated, and I could easily imagine music being written to incorporate what I was hearing, I could imagine the sounds I heard as part of greater works. I would say that the concert was difficult but also exciting.

Then I had a short break and a dilemma. At 2PM there were three concerts I was interested in: Bela Fleck and Abigail Washburn, Jon Gibson, and Rushes Ensemble, with Cyro Baptista also performing again at 2:30. I had already decided not to go to Bela Fleck, not because I wouldn't love it, but because I had heard Fleck and Washburn perform together before, and felt I should push myself to explore something new. Given that reasoning, I also opted out of Baptista, even though I had been entranced by his concert the day before. Torn between Gibson and Rushes, I opted for Rushes Ensemble, only because of the bassoons. It may not have been the best choice, but I am a woman who loves the bassoon, a woman who will, and did, go out of her way for bassoon music. The work being performed, a piece written for 7 bassoons, was very interesting, with rotating waves of sound. It most certainly was not Telemann or Mozart, but I did not expect that it would be, and it was beautiful nonetheless. Or at least the first half hour was beautiful; then I got bored. Perhaps I just got hungry, and I realized that I had a walk of several blocks before I could eat. I probably should have eaten between concerts. I had had an hour. But I played with Tikka instead, thinking I could wait until after the bassoon concert. I had forgotten that, although I had a decent breakfast of hard boiled eggs and hot smoked salmon on salad, I had not eaten much the day before — a felafel salad plate and a small bucket of popcorn even though I had gone to concerts all day long, walked 13 miles, and my smart watch told me I had burned 800 calories more than my usual. Not smart. So I left and had a leisurely lunch, and spent some time with Tikka.

If my 2 PM concert was not my favorite, the next concert I attended, the 5 PM performance by Jason Moran and Milford Graves was one of the high points of a weekend that, in retrospect seems filled with high points. The music was fabulous, and incredibly inspiring. I felt as if the music flowed in such a way that it encapsulated the breath and pulse of the room, audience and musicians as one, drawing us in and transforming us, at times slow and centered, at others rising up. Amazing.

The next concert on my agenda was billed as Roscoe Mitchell Trios at the Bijou, performing Bells for the South Side, among other works, and although there were more than three musicians on the stage, they did in fact play in trios. The music was very different from what I had heard Roscoe Mitchell playing the day before. That music had been warm and full of heart. This was fascinating, minimalist, and far more purely intellectual. I enjoyed it, and my brain was hopping along all sparkly and intrigued, but I wanted something more, so I didn't stay, opting instead to wander back to the cathedral to hear Johnny Gandelsman playing Bach. Gandelsman is technically very proficient and he played the Bach well, but he also brought a warmth and a humanity to the music. The performance was incredibly heart-warming, and intellectually thrilling as well. Sometimes the Bach solo violin pieces become a showcase for technical virtuosity and the soul of the music is lost; not in this case. I sat entranced.

By the time that concert ended, it was pouring and I was tired and hungry. I had hoped to eat at Kaizen, hoped it was late enough that I would luck into a table because I had forgotten to make a reservation. Alas a few people arrived just ahead of me and snagged the last table and last seat at the bar. I didn't want to wait so I walked over to Emilia where they managed to work me in and I was very happy. I settled in for a good meal and a glass of wine, a symphony of food and drink, along with some people watching and reflecting. The evening ended with a lovely dessert, not on the menu, of a small bit of rich and satisfying vegan dark chocolate mousse, with Amaro soaked citrus and luxardo cherries. It reminded me of music, of Roscoe Mitchell's minimalist compositions, but it was far more satisfying.

I noted that Big Ears was turning out to be both better than I had expected and yet also more frustrating. My frustrations however stemmed more from my own patience, or lack of it, with myself. Perhaps my expectations had been too high: My first big ears, I still couldn't stand long, even though it was nearly a year after my back surgery. But this year I stayed downtown so I could go to more concerts. I walked 8-11 miles a day the weekend in Paris and again in New York in February with no ill effects. I routinely walk between 6 and 7 miles a day. I thought Big Ears would be a piece of cake.

Unfortunately things were not proving to be that easy. One of the reasons I stayed for the entire Medeski, Martin and Wood concert Friday night was that I was having a lot of pain walking. I had mentioned that I was having leg and hip pain in previous blog posts over the previous two weeks, and that I had concerns about being able to handle the amount of walking required, as my movement had been severely curtailed. In fact I had just worked my way up to 4 miles a day before Big Ears started, and that only by taking many short walks. By Friday night, my right leg was dragging and I was in considerable pain but I was going to be damned if I missed that concert. I arrived, got a bourbon and the aforementioned popcorn and settled in. I didn't plan to stay for the entire concert, but I was entranced enough that I did. Two hours later I was comfortable enough but able to walk back to my hotel room, but further concert-going was out of the question.

Even so I was up half the night with leg pain. And the pain was worse on Saturday. I was beginning to realize what should have been apparent all along, that this wasn't a leg injury but back pain, sciatic pain. The sciatic nerve was so inflamed that other muscles were being inflamed as well. I've experienced this before, but it had been a long time. The back surgery I had 4 years ago was for a disk at L4. That was causing pain and numbness in my left leg, and in my back, but I had experienced intermittent sciatic problems for 30 years in my right leg, at times so severe I could barely function or walk. That particular pains stems from some changes at L5-S1, but they are not changes that would or could be improved by surgery. I'd have one or two "spells" a year and then move on. I wondered why it had stopped, but apparently it never did. The L4 disk, which had been bad, had just overpowered the other, and it took me long enough to recover, to stop perhaps being overly cautious, for small accidents to happen. A simple unexpected step Into a dip, a small twist, and there I was again.

Before you jump all over me, I am not looking for sympathy. I intended to take it easier on Saturday and I did. I intended to walk only 5 miles or so, but it ended up being over 8. But I also know that the only way to overcome back pain is to keep moving. Once I realized what was going on, I knew I needed to move as much as I could, stop when I needed to, but also not let myself freeze in place. Sunday was hard. And I missed some concerts because I couldn't walk to them. I got to one end of Gay street and stayed there. I could walk and stand but getting up a hill would do me in. Once I couldn't walk any more I went back to my hotel and rested. At that point I was fine as long as I was standing and walking; walking slowly perhaps, but still walking. Sitting was a problem, but that could be addressed in time, so I went out again.

I heard and did more than at any prior Big Ears. I had fun. I also pushed myself, perhaps more than I should have, but I wouldn't do anything differently, and I would have hated to have missed the festival. I'm not inclined to let a little inconvenience get in the way of music and fun. I also had fun. I spoke to more people I didn't know than I have at any previous Big Ears Weekend. I got out of my head and into the social aspect of the place. Once I knew what the problem was I could actually manage better. And yet, despite pushing myself, or because of it, I am actually better now and am functioning well with only minor nerve issues.

Aside from learning that I was simply more comfortable in my skin than I had been for a while, I learned a couple of other things about myself. I had forgotten what it was like to be so wrapped up in something I love that everything else becomes unimportant, and I had also forgotten that, once I get wrapped up in something I love, I need to remember to take time for self-care, like food perhaps. I also reconnected with another one of my gifts, one I had forgotten, namely stick-to-itiveness or stamina. I'll never be the fastest, or the strongest or the smartest, but damn-it I've got stamina. When I played tennis, my success at doubles was not because I had great shots, although I did have a strong backhand, but because, if you couldn't knock me out with a killer serve or super shot, I could wear you out. The longer the match the stronger I got, the more sheer determination would kick in. I thought nothing of a 3 hour plus match. I would wear the opponent down, and the more tired everyone got, including myself, the more focused I became. I'm still that way. That came in handy this past weekend. There is a point in any journey, through pain, fear, discomfort, anything really, where you either say "I quit" or you push on. I can push on, and once you push on, the rest of it becomes secondary, well until it doesn't, but that is another story.

Most of my back was fused when I was 16 years old. Before that I wore a brace for five years. I was always determined that I could do anything anyone else did, if I wanted, and my parents encouraged that attitude. I have no regrets. I've had a fabulous life thet would have been very different had I not had that surgery, if I would even be here at all. And I still have a fabulous life ahead of me. I have only two disks that are not fused, and they are both well on the way to self-fusing themselves. The simple truth is that I will probably have intermittent periods of difficulty for most of my life, a simple mis-step with a little twist can cause weeks of pain, but it is not the end of the world. And the only thing that helps is moving, specifically walking. If I can only walk 100 feet now, I need to walk 110 feet the next time, and so forth until I can do more. So here is the thing: I don't want setbacks to hamper my life more than they need to. But I also no longer want to pretend like they don't happen. Life is what it is, things always happen, and I am who I am, good and bad, all rolled into one.

Would I rather have been pain-free for Big Ears? Of course. Do I regret anything? No. The fun outweighed the discomfort, and working through it probably did me more good that staying home ever would have. I heard things I might never have heard otherwise. I spoke to people I would otherwise never have met. In fact, the difficulties may have focused my attention more; I took nothing for granted. I had a blast. And now that is all out of the way, I can tell you about the fun stuff on Sunday at another time.

Next year will be even better. It probably won't be perfect, but if you are looking for perfection you are just looking for an excuse to fail.

March 30, 2018
Big Ears: Day One and a Half

I'm still recovering from Big Ears and I'd probably like to take a nap, despite the fact that I slept late this morning. But if I take a nap, nothing will write itself.

Big Ears started Thursday, but I have an obligation every Thursday night so I did not get started until after 9, and then I pooped out early. I did, however, get to two concerts. I missed the beginning of Brooklyn Rider's performance at St. John Cathedral, but I heard well over half of the concert, and was very happy that I went. I was particularly entranced by a work titled "Sequence" from the group's new album Spontaneous Symbols, which I also purchased later in the weekend. Some of the sounds and combinations of sounds in Sequence were new to me, new but also startlingly beautiful. Although I didn't know it yet, this was already the theme for the weekend: new sounds, startlingly beautiful.

My next venue was the Bijou Theatre, only a block away, and a concert by Jaga Jazzist. This was newer territory for me although the group itself is not particularly new. The music was complex and interesting although at times I found it a little loud. The lighting effects were also interesting, when they weren't blinding. I listened to much of the concert with my eyes closed, which had two effects. First it made me feel old (sitting there with earplugs and my eyes closed) but it also allowed me to release distractions and just listen to the music. In the end I decided that Jaga Jazzist is really creative, although perhaps not revolutionary. I liked the way they formed complex melodies and moods, fusing traditional jazz with various influences from electronic music to space-rock. I heard strong Miles Davis influence but it was Miles as Miles could probably have never imagined, from a group who seem to have cut their teeth on acid jazz. The music was exciting, complex, and also warmly human. Which also reminded me that the audience in this concert skewed considerably younger than at Brooklyn Rider, where I felt the audience skewed older, mostly my age and up. As I contemplated that, and the implications in terms of music and expectations, it seemed like a good place to call it a night.

Saturday was a fabulous day. Tikka and I had a quiet morning of writing and snuggling and a lovely 2 mile walk. The music began at noon. For me that meant another 11 miles of walking between venues, 7 concerts, and 9 hours of music before returning, exhausted to my hotel at 11 PM. My Saturday concert schedule began with Roscoe Mitchell, Junius Paul, and Vincent Davis at the Standard. What followed was an hour of incredible improvisation, spontaneous and yet seemingly balanced between structured and unstructured play. The music was intellectually rigorous and fully emotionally satisfying with felt like a blending of jazz and classical forms. I could not think of a better way to start the day.

Roscoe Mitchell would have been enough to make my day, except that they day simply continued to flow along at a high level of satisfaction. I went from Mitchell to hear Cyro Baptista in a concert that was filled with joy and happy rhythms. Brazilian – Jazz – Dance -Pop: I can't classify music, especially not at something like Big Ears where the best performances seem to form their own rhythm, a rhythm of life in its many forms, a rhythm that transcends categories.

The Rova Saxophone Quartet was fascinating in a more intellectual way, but here too, the music moved and filled the space, filled the pulse of the listeners, occupying the heart as well as the head. This group also performed one piece from their new album; but I am certain that when I sit down and listen it will be completely different. The musicians moved in the space, the music flowed in the space, a conversation never to be repeated, reflecting time, place, participants, and one felt like even the act of listening was an act of participation. From there I moved onto the breathtaking, ethereal beauty of the performance by the International Contemporary Ensemble, a concert filled with new sounds: bowing on a box, scrapings and dragging, and yet entrancing beauty prevailed.

Thinking potential had been exhausted, I went from ICE to Milford Graves where watching him play and make sounds, his body and his drum kit seeming to become almost like one instrument, fascinated by the magic of his playing with an inverted grip that still seems impossible to manage. But it was more than drumming, more than beat, more than sound, with Mitchell, keening and singing, talking and muttering, drum and voice combining as if form and music were being pulled from the air and the breath of the audience itself.

I had a short break, during which time I hoofed it back to my hotel, fed and walked Tikka and neglected to feed myself. Something about unrealistic expectations may have been involved. And then the music, or at least my view of the music, was on again.

I started with Bela Fleck and Brooklyn Rider, my musical happy place, artists playing in my favorite forms: classical and bluegrass, but even then the results were more than the sum of the pieces, and Bela Fleck definitely has the necessary skills to write a sustained piece that is both intellectually stimulating and emotionally satisfying. Then the incredible saxophone of Evan Parker, filling the space in St. John's cathedral with warmth and life. I ended the day with Medeski, Martin and Wood, and performance that I intended as a brief stop in passing, but which I ended up staying for. Once upon a time I would have dismissed them, probably unknowingly, as being just another jam-based, waves of sound type band, but I would have been wrong. I stayed because I was fascinated. They are far better than that and the groups skill and musicianship was amazing. Risk-taking, genre bending music carried out with incredible skill and creativity. I was impressed.

I was also exhausted and realized I may have let my enthusiasm get the better of my common sense. But more about that in the future. It was time for rest.

March 27, 2018
Baby Steps

As I was sitting in the Knoxville Museum of Art yesterday evening, listening to a Violin Sonata, I looked out the window at the Knoxville skyline, the reflections from the museum, and the curve of the piano and was entranced. For some reason, the view reminded me of a photo I took in New York in February, although the neither the time of day nor the actual view were in any way similar. I will never know what connection my brain was making though, because I missed the opportunity to take a photo. At intermission I started talking with my neighbor and by the time I looked up the piano was being moved and whatever I had thought I was seeing was long gone.

All that remains is the photo from New York, which I will post anyway, despite the fact that I have no idea how it relates to this post. Perhaps that is exactly the point. I love this photo of New York and yet I have never managed a narrative in which to include it.

Much of my life has revolved around my ability to manage things, to organize, to solve problems, and I am good at it. I enjoy the challenge. But although this organizational ability is only a part of who I am, I have allowed it to dominate, to send the quieter, messier, more creative side into the corner quavering. Perhaps it is time to stop managing the narrative and let it find its own path.

This week I realized it was time to retire. I had told myself I was taking a sabbatical, or a short break, before taking on some other project. But I realized that although I am incredibly fortunate to have retired from paid work some time ago, I have never actually retired. I went from working full time to managing a construction project on our old house after the general contractor disappeared while simultaneously closing my late husband's business and managing his health care. Then I moved into managing his caregivers and medical care in his final years. After we moved, I went on to manage commissions and ministries at my church, and to serve on the church vestry. I am the kind of person who, if I agree to take something on, tends to give it my all. I am rarely only partially invested. And yet I am tired of taking on other people's problems. I'll be 60 in a couple of months, and although that is young yet, and relatively young for retirement, I am ready. But I also know I need to take baby steps. Force of habit is a tough roadblock to surmount.

For the moment I am letting myself be disorganized. It won't last, but it is a necessary little eddy in flow of life. I know I need structure, and I have a limited tolerance for disorder, but I also needed to push a reset button. In order to find my own path, I first need to see where the flow takes me. I also know that I will undoubtedly eventually take on something else, other new projects, but I need to wait, and learn what makes my heart sing. In the meantime there are small ways I can volunteer and help my community without being the person who takes charge, ways of helping others that also feed my soul rather than batter it down.

All I ask is for your patience. I will return to a schedule, but at the moment I am intentionally not forcing it. Some days I think I have nothing to say, others too much, but at this point even self-imposed schedules seem oppressive. This weekend is Big Ears weekend in Knoxville and I'll be listening to a lot of music, which I may or may not write about. I have to learn to let the flow carry me along. I know I've been saying this for some time, but it has really hit home that if I don't stop clinging to roots and rocks and things that obstruct my path, if I don't say no to obligation, I shall grow still and green and stagnant. I will find my own rhythm; it seems like it is about time.

March 22, 2018
Saturday Afternoon

Look! Look! New flowers!

The shrubs outside the front door are also getting ready to bloom. I have been asked if they bloomed, but I hadn't seen the blooms, or didn't notice them while the construction crew was here last spring. I think the shrubs are too big, but nothing is going to be done about them in the near future. I can only change so much at a time. But I like the way the top of the hedge looks like a see of buds.

I managed to walk up the steep hill toward the end of the street today, for the first time in over a week. There were days I walked around the neighborhood, except for that block, but not the last two days. Luckily most of the way home was downhill. I started uphill again just before I could finish one block and turn back down to my house, and I could feel my hip beginning to rebel, so I cam home. While I rested I've been playing with thread.

Mostly needlepoint, but some knitting too. I finally started the front of the Lazy Days tunic, and I also finally updated the knitting blog with the status of that project. Believe me, not much has been happening around here, and yet everything has been happening. New flowers arrived right before my eyes. The front of the sweater is going more easily than the back, but that is simply because my fingers finally have the feel for what they are doing. And the new peonies out front are poking up their heads, but they aren't very photogenic yet. Most of us eschew photographs immediately upon waking in the morning.

I'd like to add something about last night's symphony performance of Orff's Carmina Burana, but I really can't right now. It was fabulous and I enjoyed it immensely. But it is also getting caught up in all kinds of other random thoughts, thoughts that don't seem to have anything to do with Carmina Burana, but maybe they do. When I find a thread I'll let you know.

March 17, 2018
Five

1. A catch-up post of sorts. It seems that last week I was under the weather, psychologically or spiritually anyway, and I am although I am good this week there remains a bit of a backlog, a backlog which also reminded me that during periods of upheaval I often neglect things that are important to me. One of those things is that I stopped writing about music last fall and never caught up. I didn't stop going to concerts; there were simply other things going on in my life and I couldn't really marshal my thoughts into coherent patterns. Now all of a sudden I feel I have been remiss. I am trying to be consistent, and obviously occasionally failing at that, but I have simply decided to carry on, attempting to release the burdens of expectation I place on myself and accept that there are flows and eddies in life and in blogging. I shall simply hope not to bore you too often.

2. Nearly two weeks ago, on Sunday March 4th, I went to the last concert of the Knoxville Symphony's Chamber Classics series. It was a really sparkling and bubbly concert, and a perfect way to end a beautiful season. The concert was billed around Mozart's symphony #41, the "Jupiter" and that was, indeed, the final work, but the theme of the concert was Bach's third Brandenburg concerto, which opened the concert. The Bach was beautifully light and sparkling and the music seemed to dance through the hall. Aram Demirjian seems to have brought a greater emotional depth to performances, without overplaying, and there was a tightness and clarity to the music that reminded me how far this chamber orchestra has come since I moved to Knoxville, six years ago now. I sat, reveling in the music, perfectly content. The remainder of the concert focused on works that were inspired by or modeled after the third Brandenburg, including the aforementioned Mozart.

Of the middle pieces, Stravinsky's Concerto in E-flat major, called Dumbarton Oaks, was my favorite. This is Stravinsky in his more Neo-classical mode. Immediately following the Bach, as it was, the direct reference to the Brandenburg 3 was evident, and yet it still sounded like Stravinsky, crisp and modern. The music still danced, but that dance was a little dryer, the sparkle a little sharper. The third piece was entitled Muse, by Christopher Theofanidis, a piece specifically written as a modern reimagining, a "new" Brandenburg. It was melodic and contemporary and I suppose well played. I did not dislike it, but I have no specific memory of the work other than that it was pleasant and I caught the references to the Bach, some of which I thought were clever. I suppose I actually need to hear it again. This is not a criticism per se, merely an acknowledgement that I often need to hear something multiple times before I can coherently wrap my head around it.

Of course the Mozart was brilliant. The musicians managed to highlight the baroque polyphony in the finale without deemphasizing the very Mozartiness of the work. Again, the musicians played with intention and lightness and the music danced in a way that Mozart concerts rarely seem to achieve. We've grown so familiar with Mozart that I sometimes feel performances and audiences take it for granted. This was Mozart as we all know and love, but it was Mozart afresh, light and sparkling, music that is the star of the party, the guest who lights up the room with wit and charm, who carries people away in a bubble of their own making.

3. Friday, a week ago today, I went to a very different kind of performance. A modern opera, Follow Suit, performed by the local Marble City Opera Company. The libretto, which I was fortunate enough to be able to read before the performance, is by Emily Anderson and I found it light, charming and witty. The setting was in a hotel bar; as was the performance, and my group was lucky enough to arrive early and claim beautifully positioned seats for the performance, a position that hit the right balance between singers and musicians. The subject matter, wedding-centric, addressed relationships, failed and hopeful, fear, longing, and the burden of expectation, was deftty and skillfully explored. The music itself was a bit modern, a bit edgy in places, and it seemed to this listener to suit the setting and the subject well. I was completely charmed and I would love to see and hear this work again and again.

4. Despite my spring-induced urge to be out walking more, I have been slowed down right by hip and groin pain, partially involving the adductors and also some other muscles. This is a life-long issue, partially relating to some anatomical issues due to my scoliosis, but also severely aggravated by a twisting fall down a flight of stairs nearly 20 years ago, which luckily for me caused no fractures, but unluckily did result in some muscle tears and strains and probably helped precipitate some arthritic changes as well. At that time it took me six months to learn to walk again, at least walk well or for any distance. In comparison, this current pain is but a minor residual. There is little point in complaining, just adapting and accepting that my body will do the best it can if I give it both rest and opportunity. Besides adaptation surrounds me. It is spring. Forward movement and growth abound despite minor setbacks like spring frosts. Life moves forward, reminding me that flexibility, not certainty, is key. Perhaps fewer, shorter walks. Perhaps an occasional foray to the mall, despite the mind-numbing nature of mall-walking, on those days that even a slight incline becomes tortuous. I will be out among the flowers often enough.

5. And closing with yet more music, last Sunday afternoon I attended a beautiful performance of Durufle's Requiem. For me this was something new as I had only heard the work in its variations with organ (solo) or organ and chamber orchestra, but not with chamber orchestra alone. I was entranced, and promptly went out and bought a recording, which has entertained me during times of enforced rest, knitting or needlepoint in hand. I do think the orchestral version has become my favorite, although given that there are far more recordings with organ or organ and orchestra, this may be a minority view.

March 16, 2018
Trees of Knowledge

The other night as I was just dipping into a new novel I was struck by a couple of sentences and had to pause. I was all of two pages in.

"To him a tree is a thing, which can be replaced by another thing like it. Is it lunacy in me to feel that this is not so?"

from Peculiar Ground by Lucy Hughes-Hallett

As you know I was cutting down trees, and replacing at least one tree with a different tree. Perhaps this is why this sentence resonates with me so. But perhaps not.

The same weekend that the trees were coming down I was finishing up Peter Wohlleben's book The Hidden Life of Trees. It struck me that here I was reading about communication between trees, reading about the social structure of forests and the interrelationships between individual trees, and I was committing tree-murder. Of course Wohlleben himself states that nursery bred trees don't have the same social instincts that trees raised in their native forest, with their mother tree and all their relatives do. And I can believe that, just as I have come to understand that people who are reared in isolation, or without love and safety and emotional support do not have the same social instincts as people who have a more fortuitous upbringing.

I remember coming home from New York two years ago, sitting in the back of a car in the rain, headed toward Newark airport. The darkness was slowly lifting, its leaden, rain-soaked colors only slightly brightened, and I remember looking at the trees. I had no reason to think about trees. But those trees, surrounded by concrete, industry, traffic, and noxious fumes seemed particularly solitary, lonely even, isolated and yet determined to survive.

Perhaps I have too vigorous of an imagination, but I do not think this is the case. I was brought-up to believe that knowledge brings with it responsibility, responsibility for that which is known or seen. The two together, knowledge and its attendant responsibility help guide us, if we are attentive, to understanding.

I have always talked to trees and plants and animals as well. I think all children do, but we are often trained to outgrow it. If we are lucky, we live to outgrow our training. Even so, people who talk to trees are looked at with suspicion. We praise fantasy, the novels of CS Lewis, Tolkein, Stephen King, and many others, where, yes, trees are know to speak, or to have once spoken before growing silent, but it is more comfortable to relegate this idea to another place, the realm of fantasy.. I think we know that all living things are just that, alive. They feel, they suffer, they seek and need community, they love. Perhaps it is we humans, with our big brains, and the way we compartmentalize everything, who have forgotten the meaning of love and community. Even though we live in communities, it seems like we are often like those pot-grown trees, apparently together but actually apart. Our roots don't know how to intertwine, how to share, how to nurture and support each other.

And yes, I did murder trees; or I hired someone else to do it. Of course not all can survive, and I understand this. I can justify my actions as well. The river birch was directly in the line of future construction, the maple was on the edge, and even if it had survived, it would have experienced serious damage, and yes pain. A swift death by chain saw may be kinder than a slow an agonizing death. Mostly, thought that tree was simply too close to the house. There is a lesson in that, and I worry about putting the wrong plant in a place. Yes I am human, I am arrogant, I compartmentalize, I make mistakes, but I want to avoid the obvious ones, putting in a plant that solves a need now, knowing it will eventually grow too big. We human's say things like "but that's 50 years from now", as if the life of a tree doesn't matter, as if the tree is just a thing that can be replaced with another thing. But 50 years is but a drop in the bucket for many trees. Would we say the same thing about fellow humans? "Oh go ahead, let her grow and do what she wants, she entertains us now, in 20 years we can execute her and start over". I doubt it. And yes, I know that statement is a bit extreme.

Another tree came out. A redbud, that was loosing large parts of itself in every wind. A dogwood filled its place, and I cruelly pulled out other plants to replace some that were obviously struggling, but they were still alive. They were replaced with plants that I hope will do better in the spot. Gardening, it seems is also a responsibility, just as life is a responsibility. We boldly go, making mistakes daily. Tit for tat. "You hurt my people; I'll hurt yours". But that is not what it is all about. When we work in that dual, me and mine vs you and yours mode, we actually harm ourselves as much as the entire fabric of our society, our lives. We create rifts from which we may never recover. Compassion doesn't mean that no one ever suffers, it means that our roots, our very beings are interconnected, and we suffer together, that we mourn, that we support each other, but that we also live, and we also accept that our very lives depend on the health of the whole community.

And yet, we are arrogant. We make mistakes. I am arrogant. I make mistakes. Can we become master gardeners? Can we become masters of life? of compassion? Or will we cling stubbornly, each wrapping our roots around our particular rock, determined to have our way even as we stand isolated and alone against the elements?

March 13, 2018
Not So Quiet Saturday

I was not planning on writing a blog post this morning. At 8:30 I was still in my pajamas, although my morning housekeeping chores had been completed and I was ready to settle down with my journal and a pot of coffee. I thought, perhaps erroneously, that I had all the time in the world, despite a sore back, despite the fact that I still have to run to the store for a critical ingredient for a dish I promised to take to a party tonight.

Instead, just as I sat, my sore back finally comfortable, hoping for a bit of a respite, I heard loud trucks. "I thought that can't be happening here". But it was. The trees I thought were coming down on Monday came down this morning. As I sat here, watching men tossing ropes over the tree not 10 feet outside this window, I wondered if I should move. But before I even gathered my notebook and my coffee the tree was down,

I watched them pull the River Birch down, and now several trees lie across my driveway. No going to the store for a while, but they are so efficient I will probably get there. Of course if I had known this was going to happen at 8:30 on a Saturday, I would have warned my neighbors, whereas I would not have worried about it on a weekday. Too late now. We will all just have to settle in to the sound of chippers and saws. And Tikka barking hysterically, She doesn't know what to make of all of it.

In other small bits of news, the Amaryllis is in full bloom. Moises broke the main flower stalk, unintentionally I am sure, he had never seen an amaryllis before, but I managed to prop it up against the window sill, and all the flowers have opened.

Well, at least I won't have the tree people here on Monday at the same time as the people fixing the leak in my basement. Which reminds me I still have more heavy cleanup to do. But first a short break.

Happy Saturday. I hope yours is quieter than mine.

March 3, 2018
February Books

In February I finished off the Inspector Gamache series by Louise Penny. Well, almost. I haven't reread the most recent two novels, but I read them first, earlier last year; they were my introduction to Penny. I will go back to them, perhaps this spring, perhaps during the summer, as I do want to read them again and finish off the sequence, this time in order. I am certain to understand things I did not understand before, although the novels wee completely enjoyable, even out of sequence.

In fact, I think the novels are all readable more than once as I found them enjoyable on many levels, both for the writing, for the story, the character development, and for their insights into human nature and the struggles we all carry with us. In that sense the books were also good companion pieces to both Anne Lamott's Hallelujah Anyway, which was a gift, a gift that has now been passed on to another reader, and Mark McIntosh's Mysteries of Faith.

The Lamott book is a quick read. I like Lamott and she has a way of getting at the essence of things in a friendly way, as if you are having a conversation with your neighbor down the street, except that instead of complaining about the neighbor's dog who barks all the time you are comparing notes on faith and life's journeys. That said, although it is timely, it was not my favorite of Lamott's books; like that coffee conversation, although the points will probably resonate over time, the conversation itself is enjoyed in the moment and then quickly retreats into the babble of life, yes to bubble up occasionally, but otherwise happily subsumed in the stream.

Mysteries of Faith is another kind of book altogether. It is dense and thought-provoking. This was the second time I read the book, and I enjoyed it more than during my first reading, early in 2017. I liked the book then as well, but I also struggled. The book is part of the year 4 curriculum for EFM and last year, in my year 4 group, I often felt like I was the only person in my group who enjoyed the book, who found it enlightening and thought-provoking. I hate to admit that I felt embattled by other opinions, but I did. This year I am a mentor, and I have read the book again, and this time, not needing to discuss it or defend it, I have been more free to delve into what the author is saying, and to explore my own beliefs and principles in the process, while also stepping back, listening to and hoping to mentor a new fourth-year group. It is a book that rewards rereading, and I will look forward to future explorations.

I wrote about Oliver Loving here. I loved the book, I still love the book. I probably will never read it again, unlike the books by Louise Penny. That probably says more about me than about the book. Both Oliver Loving, and the novels by Louise Penny say a lot about the times in which we live, in completely different ways, and for all that I think Oliver Loving is beautifully written, its focus is far too narrowly inward for me to want to delve into it again.

Being Disciples is a set of six meditations or short essays. It was interesting and yes, somewhat thought provoking. The book was recommended reading for delegates to the diocesan convention for the Episcopal Diocese of East Tennessee. I have no other comments, I neither loved it nor disliked it, but I didn't mind reading it either; I did not find it to be one of William's most thought-provoking books.

The New Jim Crow was thought provoking however. The book is several years old, and I mostly read it because several people have asked me if I had read it. I'm not sure I'm happy about it. In some sense, there was nothing new in the book, but that could be as much because the book is no longer new, and much of the information in the book has been available through other sources. That said, the author does pull everything together in a coherent, and yes, enlightening way, and it has helped me in my own understanding of our blindnesses and the way culture slowly warps our minds to accept circumstances that we would otherwise reject. It ties in with books I have mentioned previously, where it seems to me that we need to radically change our way of thinking about ourselves and others.

And yet, I am not convinced I am the target audience for this book. There are people whose passion is for social justice, and I support them wholeheartedly, and yet the older I get the more my focus seems drawn to a smaller. and smaller circle, not about me, but about individual relationships, small actions, the circle of the immediate. Do I need to know about the greater world? Of course. Do I need to become an activist on a large scale? No. But I need to acknowledge, and accept the work of others, to help support an all-inclusive world. The world needs all of us, the philosophers, the dreamers, the doers, the marchers, the changers and the changed. It is only in our conversation, our relationships, through listening to all the voices and learning to hear and move forward that change will actually occur, big and small alike.

March 1, 2018
Brief Update

I stayed up late knitting, and I finished the back of the red sweater. You can see it below, not quite finished, but close enough that you get the sense of the thing, and why it was difficult to photograph in process. I will block it today, a quality control check, to be certain that I maintained gauge, that my calculations were correct, as I rewrote the pattern somewhat. Better to know now, before proceeding. I have not been as consistent in my knitting as I had hoped, but even so, it is a good start. When I am knitting I want to do nothing but knit. When I am working on something else, my focus shifts, which is, as I suppose how it should be, living in and enjoying each moment and each task.

It was cold in the house this morning. The weather has been warm, unseasonably warm, and I had turned off the heat. Luckily I hadn't yet put away the alpaca blanket I knitted some years ago, although I had, in fact considered it. The blanket needs to be disassembled, washed, and repaired. But it was still at the foot of the bed, just in case.

So I S was snug and warm, surrounded in delicious softness and I was reluctant to venture out. The house was cold. When I finally pulled myself upright I learned that it was 59º in the house. I turned up the heat, let Tikka and Moisés out for their morning romp, and made a pot of coffee, my first pot of coffee with my new coffee grinder. The old grinder died over the weekend, accompanied by screeching noises and billowing smoke, and the new grinder arrived yesterday.

As I write these few words, I am drinking a cup of wonderful coffee, far better coffee than I made with my old grinder. It warms my hands, and frankly discourages me from being eager to run out to my morning meeting at Panera, not because I am not eager to see a friend, but because I am not eager to give up my superior coffee. Friends trump coffee however, and off I shall go.

When I return the house will be warmer; but for now I am enjoying that sense of warm air drifting through the rooms, the deliciousness of warm air meeting cold, a feeling akin to holding a cup of warm coffee in cold hands, except felt with the entire body. There is nothing quite like it, and it is good to be reminded of the blessing of warmth, the luxury of my life, When the house is always the same temperature I can forget what a joy shelter and warmth and yes, good coffee, truly is. I feel the warm air meeting the cold, I see the sunlight creeping across the branches outside my window, the glistening of the dew on the twigs, the rise of steam from my furnace, the whisps of fog. And I know how luckily I am and how perfect small moments can be.

February 27, 2018
Sunday in the Late February Garden

It feels like Spring in Knoxville, an early spring indeed. The daffodils are blooming as are a few flowering trees including a couple of early dogwoods, although it still feels too early. I don't know how accurate this feeling is, or if it is just a remnant from my 30 years in NY, but there is still a possibility of killing frost, and so I remain hopeful but cautiously so. I am starting to see leaf buds on the maple outside my office window the one that is too large, not very pretty, and blocks all the light; I am reminded that it is better to deal with this tree now, before those leaves unfurl and make the tree even more ungainly.

In fact it is really hard to exercise restraint and not muck about in the garden too much, to not get carried away with dreams and plans. I've owned this house for a year now, although I haven't lived her for a year yet, so my one-year moratorium is not quite over. But I also know there will be construction coming, and there is no point in planting things that will just get trampled, so waiting is the better choice. But waiting is hard.

There is, however, one small section of the yard I can work with now, and a couple of small projects here and there. Even so I need to be careful not to get carried away. New plantings will need water, and I must be mindful of my ability to water areas that are currently outside of the reach of my 50-foot hose, not that a 100-foot hose is hard to come by. But I must also consider that the sprinkler system will not go in until after the other work is done, remembering to plan accordingly, and not plant things that will only be uprooted by future work, remembering that my own life, as well as the yard will be uprooted by construction, remembering to be patient with myself.

Still, I can also remember that it costs nothing to dream. The trick is in starting slowly while dreaming big. But that is the best way anyway.

Today I am out working in the garden. It rained overnight, but the rain has stopped, hopefully, for the day, and I can putter about, am happy to putter about, cleaning up the beds, carrying out a little late winter pruning, even though I may have missed that late-winter part. We don't yet know who is going to win the "is it Spring yet?" competition, the plants or Mother Nature.

And when the rains return, or I am forced inside due to other obligations, the winter cyclamen is still going strong, and my Amaryllis is finally blooming, a reminder just to enjoy things as they come, in their own time, placing the emphasis on acceptance rather than expectation,

February 25, 2018