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Filled with Inspiration

Increasingly it seems that joy comes from celebrating the little things and gradually letting fears and worries go. Of course that isn't completely possible, but it is a good goal. I hope I remember it a year from now.

Today, these are the things that make me happy:

1. Stepping off a curb and not feeling a small jolt of pain. The ease of stepping down and walking on without pause, as if stepping off a curb was a normal part of life, which of course it is, was pure pleasure. Later, I intentinally stepped up over another curb, intentionally striding across a tree root, just to prove to myself that the world will soon enough be mine to amble across at will. It is the pure mundanity of it that thrills me.

2. This chocolate. It is really a little sweeter than I usually prefer, and it is not silky smooth,. The stone-ground grainyness of it is pleasing however, almost enhancing the intensity of the chocolate as it melts on the tongue. The texture brings a new dimension to the chocolate, a dimension I didn't realize I was missing.

3. My mousepad. A simple collage of photos of clothes gathered from the web a few years ago. It inspired me anew each and every day.

4. Driving over a speed bump, no matter how slowly, and not feeling that deadly settling thump of the rear tires coming down with the accompanying leaden jolt of my back against the seat. It is a pleasure not to dread the next speed bump.

5. The reproduction sun mirror in my entry hall. Massive and yet delicate, reflective and yet cloudy, it makes me smile every day and reminds me that promise and art are all a state of mind. I also just realized that I have no idea what is reflected in the mirror in the above photo. Somehow that makes me very happy.

6. The large painting in the entry hall, also seen in the above photo. I knew that painting would go on that wall the moment we agreed to buy the house. It is nothing fancy, a student painting, a painting George and I both saw lying on the floor waiting to be hung for a student exhibition at Vassar College, a painting we instantly knew we wanted in our living room. Now, surrounded by the sun mirror and a few smaller prints it is no longer lonely, my entry hall is no longer bare, and as my life is becomes full with the things that are important to me, these objects provide a background of comfort and familiarity and joy. Not really significant in and of themselves, they are artifacts of a life well lived, and yet open to all the life that is yet ahead.

June 19, 2014
A Few Brief Notes, Mostly on Books

This morning I went to a fascinating workshop/seminar on based on the Social Styles model for working with other people in a community leadership setting. The talk was thought provoking, and at times uncomfortably close to home. I agree that we all have our own personalities, and we have dominant modes of thinking and relating, but I also think we all have aspects of the other types, and we can learn to channel them, or perhaps life has taught us to channel them (or not). There are other systems as well, and although they are all useful, I always want to be careful about over simplification. But smart people don't oversimplify their persepctives on other people, do they? Anyway it was interesting and I gained insight into myself and the way I relate to others. I could clearly see how there have been occasions where my own particular defensive responses have been absolutely the worst approach with particular people. I could have done better; I can do better.

Then I went to McKay's, the local second-hand book store, to sell a big box of books and, yes, come home with a bag of books as well. I did not come home with nearly as many books as I sold which is a good thing. There are days I can walk around McKays and find nothing that interests me, and then there are days, like today, where books seem to be jumping into the cart. The only solution is simply to stop looking.

Now I am tired, not quite mind-numbingly tired, but close, so this will hopefully be a short post. Since I was at a bookstore and since I also bought books, it seemed like an appropriate time for another book update. Luckily, I've only read three books since my last post.

Final Gifts is a book about communicating with the dying. It was recommended to me and lent to me, and I put off reading it longer than I should have before passing it on to the next person. It is a good book, and I wish more people who are faced with the loss of a loved one could and would read it before finding themselves in that situation. Many times we are frustrated by a sense of helplessness and loss of control when faced with the loss of someone we love, and we fear for ourselves and for them. This book helps one in learning to listen to what the dying person is saying, not just hearing them, but actually listening, and as such it is warm and wise and uplifting.

Moving Day is a thriller, a psychological thriller, about a theif who likes to annihilate his victims and what happens when he accidently choses as his next victim a man who refuses to accept his fate, a man psychologically driven by forces he himself can't fully comprehend, to fight annihilation with all of his being. This was the book I should have chosen as my Kindle First choice for May. It is a good book, as it explores the way the theft of all his worldy goods sends Stanley Peke, a man who literally arrived in this country as a boy with nothing after losing everything to the Nazis, a man who made a very successful life for himself, on a path into his past and parts of his psyche that he has suppressed for decades. I thought it was compelling and for the most part well-done. I am not informed enough about psychology to know how accurately Peek is portrayed, but many parts of his story resonated with me in a way that I could see as true, at least for some people. The use of sentence fragments could at times be moving, as Peek came to terms with bits or fragments, of memory, but the author fell back on this technique far too often, so that over time, what seemed filled with meaning became simply annoying. Still I enjoyed the book, and was driven to finish. I would be surprised however if this book stood up to a second reading.

Freud's Mistress is a novel about an affair between Sigmund Freud and his wife's sister, Minna, who lived with the Freuds for 42 years. The main characters actually existed. Minna actually lived with her sister's family, and there is a large archive of letters between Sigmund and Minna which seem to indicate that she was highly intelligent and progressive for her time. However there is no concrete evidence that an affair took place although there have been speculations. There is also a five year period where there are no letters between the two. The novel uses the general speculation about the affair, and the absense of letters, in order to explore the possibility of an affair, an opportunity to explore an idea of the lives of these characters. I found it entertaining and well-written, and I think Minna was very well drawn. The author did a good job exploring Minna's conflicting emotions, and also with placing Minna thoroughly in her time and constrained by her class and the mores of her upbringing and the society in which she lived. In short she was a smart and enlightened woman for her time, but she is not portrayed as an entirely modern woman, and this may in some ways make her a little more difficult to understand today.

One of the things I particularly liked about the book were the conversations between Freud and Minna, not just about Freud's ideas, but also about literature and philosophy. These conversatons are brimming with that excitement I recall from my own youth: of the joy of intellectual discovery and new ideas, sometimes brash, sometimes completely wrong-headed but brimming with confidence, with the seductions of the mind and the world of ideas as an escape from mundane reality. And of course, the seductions of the mind, of feeling needed and wanted, can lead to other seductions as well as disappointments.

social style matrix from here.

All book cover photos from Amazon.

June 17, 2014
Footloose

The blue toenails felt a little wild at first.

That was before I noticed how nice they looked with these pretty sandals. Actually they were last year's sandals but so far, I've worn them more this year. The truth is I'm just happy that I can see my toes.

I am happy for a lot of things. Materfamilias commented on the offhand way that I mentioned a walk. The truth is that I am grateful to be walking; I am grateful that walking grows easier each week. This past week was filled with walking firsts: it was the first week that walking actually made my muscles feel better, the first week I was able to increase my walk from 1/2 mile to a mile, the first week I could walk uphill without pain, the first time I could actually look up and admire the view while walking down the hill without risking an inadvertent misstep and back pain. In short it was a good week. I was able to walk a mile at least once 5 out of the past 7 days.

Yesterday I took my walk at the downtown farmer's market. Uneven pavement — no problem. Curbs — no problem. Stopping and starting and dodging other walkers — no problem. I didn't buy a lot but I had a wonderful time looking around. It was so nice being able to go out and on my own to explore again.

Near the end of my walk, on the way back to my car, I stopped at Cruze Dairy Farm Stand and bought a small prepacked icecream single: buttermilk lime cardamom. The flavor caught my fancy. And it was good, very good. Even the act of eating ice cream while walking, something that a few months ago would not have even caused me a moment's thought, seemed like a special treat. After all, it was only a month ago that standing at all was a challenge, a calculation, a risk: could I stand long enough for a shower? Could I go to the bathroom? If I did, how long would I need to rest before I could get up long enough to brush my teeth? Could I stand up long enough to get something to eat, or to drink, or even to turn out the lights?

Today I didn't take my walk. I realized I needed rest, that I have been doing too much. It s not the walking. I am not lifting, working hard, pushing too hard, except that I am. I want to do everything and miss nothing, and although my days are filled with simple tasks, common errands, I am finally realizing that all these simple activities require using muscles I didn't use for a while. In fact they all require relearning muscle movements that I've probably not used for for years. It shocked me to discover that movements my therapist tried to teach me, are easier now, that I can stand straight now, with some effort, and I've not really been able to stand straight, withoug leaning forward, for years. A world of possibility is opening up, if only I can give myself time and patience to learn to move properly.

Today has been a day of rest, of recovery, and yes a little bit of blog writing. In fact I've written, and lost, this post three times. I blame it on physical and mental exhaustion. I spent the afternoon watching movies and knitting. I spent the afternoon in necessary rest. There is more than enough time in the world for rest, for revitalization. There is no benefit in pushing to do more and more; the benefit is in giving oneself time. For the first time in a days I don't feel numb with exhaustion. Out of rest will come even greater progress.

June 15, 2014
Welcome Home

Remember a few weeks ago, when I posted pictures of my newly-filled planters? Do you remember how thrilled I was at just having been able to make this small outside effort, as if by marking some territory, much like posting a flag, I was claiming that I was back in the world? I remember.

It seems sometimes that I am still there, simply marking my territory. It is true that much of the world, and our acknowledgement of our place in the world, hinges on maintaining a complex web of appearances. After we have no way of knowing someone's inner life, or the shape of other's private lives, nor should we. In much the same way, no one really cares that I am managing to clean out my closets, and that decisions I could not make months ago, decisions about truly insignificant things, like what to keep and what to discard, are easier now. Nor can I really share the immense sense of satisfaction that comes with clearing off a shelf, or a drawer, or the accomplishment that I feel when I discover that I don't need to hold on to things for someday, that they would benefit others more, and I simply let go.

But sometimes, lurking on the surface, there are hints of the depths within. Some of my neighbors have beautifully laid out and maintained front yards, artfully decorated front porches. I don't think I have a gift for decor, although sometimes things go together well. I'm not good at design for design's sake. Everything has to mean something to me or I see no point to it. As a result, far too often things are left undone.

This spring however my front porch offers a little more insight into the resident within than had previously been the case, at least for those who are inclined to notice. In the process of downsizing to her own smaller house, my mother shipped me these planters. I hadn't remembered them specifically, and once I might have claimed they were not to my taste, but now I adore their Texas stars, their graceful beauty, the fact that they were made by my paternal grandfather. These planters are part of my history and a reminder of how I became the person I am today.

Every morning, when I take the pots out of the planters and rotate them to insure that all the plants get adequate sun and water, I think of my grandfather. I called him Papoo. I think of the beautiful things he would make, of his big heart, of the way he would take time to tell stories, and examine rocks, and bugs and plants with wee grandchildren, and tell us about the world. I am grateful to have this reminder of him, this beloved grandfather, my step-grandfather actually, who was not so beloved by his step-sons, of whom my father was one. But my father's animosity couldn't stop me from loving Pappoo all the more fiercely, and now the planters he made grace my entry, battered and dinged though they may be just as we all become battered dinged by a life well lived.

But the planters themselves are important only to me. It is the flowers, and the attention needed to maintain them, that signals invitation and well-being to friends and neighbors and even to oneself. I suppose that making an effort, not to be fancy, not to be something one is not, is also a way of reminding ourselves that we too are capable and organized and not overwhelmed. Perhaps keeping up appearances is something like smiling. Research seems to show that smiling, and having those smiles returned, actually seems to make people happier. Paying attention to the front we present to the world shows not only the world, but inner self, that we are paying attention.

And yet, we are always a bit rough around the edges, although some of us prefer to put forth a more manicured front. Obviously I did not bother, here, to sweep the walk. My front porch is no better groomed than the rest of my life. The photo was taken between thunderstorms, before my evening walk, and I saw no point in straightening what would only become wind-blown once again within an hour's time, if the forcast was too be trusted. It was. I was drenched. The rain began when I was still 250 yards from my house, on the last leg of my loop. I can't run yet, but luckily I don't melt either. And I found a welcoming place to stop and take off my sneakers and pad gently through the house.

June 12, 2014
Happy in the Kitchen
I have to say that during the two months that I was mostly flat on my back I was extremely lucky. People brought me food. People brought groceries. Some people cooked, others brought prepared meals, and still others would come by and see that food actually travelled from my refrigerator to me so that I was able to eat. There were some surprising advantages to this ad hoc system. I learned which stores have a good rotisserie chicken, and conversly, which ones I will never buy. Granted I usually prefer to roast my own; it is not difficult and I have found a network of local farmers who provide organic pasture-raised chickens which are much healthier and better tasting than the average grocery-store chicken. That said, there are times where instant gratification is the orderof the day, and now I know where best to satisfy that particular craving, as well as where to find the best and freshest salad on those occasions it is inconvenient to assemble my own.

Still, I cannot deny that as soon as I was up and about following surgery, I was in the kitchen. I was truly eager to be able to cook for myself. I was ready to eat just what I wanted, just the way I wanted it prepared. This is the curse of being a cook I suppose, that I like my own cooking. It has certainly been one of the letdowns of Knoxville; that I have found precious little in the local dining establishments that I couldn't make better myself, and the two restaurants that seemed to have potential both closed….so that although I love to meet friends over a meal, the draw is the fellowship more than the food, and I am not likely to eat out for convenience. Of course that could change, although, as I've said before, I recognize that when it comes to food, I am terribly spoiled. Spoiled and blessed, because although although I love to cook something special and occasionally even complex, I can also be completely satisfied with simple, very simple. Food doesn't need to be complex to be good, but it needs to be good to nourish body and soul.

That first day in the kitchen I was so happy to be cooking, so eager to make something, and yet also so easily tired. I made a stew and a stir-fry. The stew was excellent but a bit of a mistake. I learned very quickly that I needed more balance. The freezer was full, and I wanted to use up the contents, but I couldn't bear eating stew every day. I needed fresh foods, easily cooked foods, but also a few good standbys that I could cook on a good day and have available to heat up on those days I was just so tired that if it weren't for leftovers I wouldn't eat.

It has been fun to explore cooking again: a simple roast chicken, a steak, a curry, or yes, even a roast or a stew. Happiness is in variety even though I can happily eat a monster salad every day, or even a simple plate of cold vegetables with chicken, hardboiled eggs or a bit of salmon. So the trick seems to be balance. Balance has never come easily to me, but it is the challenge I set for myself now. It is worth repeating: Balance. I need to balance my cravings for simple and fresh, for kitchen play and cooking, and for sharing food with friends, both out at local establishments, and eventually, when I don't tire out so easily, at home.

In the meantime, I've made this stir-fry a couple of times, usually in smaller quantities than here. Really it is best freshly made. It is not as complex as it seems. I've made it with coconut oil and lard, although I like the hint of sweetness in the coconut oil. You can use whatever fat you prefer.

Stir-Fried Shrimp with Bok Choy
- 1 pound shrimp
- 1 tablespoon dry sherry or rice wine
- 1/2 teaspoon salt
- 1 tablespoon cornstarch
- 1 pound bok choy
- 1/2 pound mushrooms
- 2 tablespoons coconut oil
- 2 slices ginger root as thin as possible
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1/4 cup chicken broth
- 1/2 teaspoon sugar
- 1/2 teaspoon soy sauce
- 1 teaspoon cornstarch
- 2 teaspoons water
1. Rinse the shrimp under cold running water and pat dry with paper towels. Peel and devein shrimp, leaving tails on if desired. Blend sherry, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and cornstarch in a medium bowl; add shrimp and stir until shrimp is well coated.

2. Separate the bok choy leaves from the stalks. Slice the stalks diagonally about 1/2 inch wide. Cut the leaves into 1-inch pieces. Wipe the mushrooms with a cloth or brush and thinly slice. Combine the 1 teaspoon cornstarch in 2 teaspoons water and set aside.

3. Preheat the wok. While the wok is heating, drain the shrimp and discard the marinade. Once the wok is hot, add 2 tablespoons oil. When the oil is hot add the ginger. Stir-fry for about 30 seconds, until aromatic, then add the shrimp. Stir fry until shrimp turn pink then remove them from the pan and set aside.

4. Add a bit more oil if needed so there is about 1 1/2 tablespoon oil in the wok. Add the bok choy stems and mushrooms and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Stir-fry for 1 minute. Add the chicken stock, cover and cook for 2 minutes. Add the bok choy leaves and cook 1 minute more.

5. Add the shrimp back into the pan. Add the sugar, soy sauce, and pepper. Give the cornstarch mixture a quick stir then add it to the wok and stir to combine. When the mixture begins to thicken, remove from heat and serve.
June 10, 2014
Too Many Books; A Summary

It has been nearly a month since my last book post and until I took the time to sit down and actually update my list I would have said that I really hadn't read that much anyway. But truthfully, that is all a matter of perspective. It is true I did not read as much as when I was confined to bed, and there is no surprise in that since there wasn't much else I could do during that period. Still I was surprised that I had read as many books as I have, too many books to adequately review. Some were very good, some not so much; it is not that my memory of the books has faded, but that my energy exhausted, and so, for now, settle I must.

I had high hopes for How Children Succeed by Paul Tough and it proved to be thought-provoking, especially in the first half of the book. Tough challenges the assumption that success is highly correlated with acquired knowledge and IQ, pointing out, in a very measured way, that character is far more important than IQ even though character strengths such as perserverance, grit, determination and curiosity are both harder to teach and to measure. The author also scored points for pointing out that although poor students from troubled homes experience severe setbacks to building resiliance, and most of his emphasis is rightly on lasting effects of childhood insecurity, he also points out that this problem affects the affluent as well, accurately pointing out that many afffluent young people in private schools are succesfully sheltered from failure, the result being that many are afraid to take risks. The second half of the book does not live up to the premise of the opening chapters though, The young people he profiles are fascinating, but in the end the book is far better at telling us why children fail than it is at offering suggestions for helping them to succeed.

Dragon's Triangle by Christine Kling was my Kindle First choice for May. It was fast paced but the plot was cliched and convoluted and the character development distinctly lacking.

Just One Evil Act by Elizabeth George was both fascinating and at times painful to read. It could easily have been subtitled "The unravelling of Barbara Havers" and unravel she does. A tightly wound bundle of denial, anger, fear, loss and recklessness, Havers comes dangerously close to losing everything and completely antagonizing the few friends who have stood by her. And yet I found a certain amount of resolution in this novel, at least in the end. Nothing was completely new here; both Lynley and Havers have been through tough times and Barbara, rather rightly or wrongly has felt betrayed by Lynley for a long while, although this betrayal was unintentional and probably not even reognized by Lynley or acknowledged by Havers. In fact there have been signs throughout the last few novels that Havers was spiralling out of control and it is a sign of George's mastery to have managed this long, convoluted saga with Haddiyah and Azarh so well. In the end I'd like to hope that Havers and Lynley are both beginning to heal now, although I'll also admit I wouldn't mind seeing Salvatore lo Bianco again either.

The Last Chinese Chef by Nicole Mones was a wonderful novel about culture and relationship and food and how they all can be woven together. I loved the book and found it almost poetically beautiful. I would read it again.

The Whole World Over by Julia Glass was a book that was given to me while I was in bed. The book is well written, and Glass is an astute observer of the intricacies and inconsistencies of relationships. The book was tender and thought provoking, but I found the characters difficult and unappealing and I couldn't really understand the decisions they made. I suppose it was just not my cup of tea.

Faro's Daughter by Georgette Heyer was the first novel by Heyer I have read, and I can hope that it was not one of her best, given her reputation. It wasn't bad, and the writing was, in fact, rather clever, but the characters were not particularly likeable or well developed and once again the characters' actions often seemed inexplicable.

Lastly, I found Zealot by Resa Aslan simultaneously fascinating and problematic. It is fascinating because Aslan does a fabulous job of portraying the political milieu and social unreast that existed in Israel and its relations with Rome during the time of Jesus and the first century CE. It is excellent at addressesing the confusion of the time, and through that the confusion and unsettledness of human interpretation of ideas and events. The book is problematic because Aslan's biases are exceedingly obvious. This doesn't entirely detract from the book and I do think that Aslan makes his point that Jesus of Nazareth was a fascinating figure from a completely historical perspective, whatever one makes of Jesus Christ. However, the book is riddled with antagonism and cynicism and rather blinkered and unreasoned opinions, and is best suited to a reader who is willing to read the book as a conversation, although granted rather one-sided.

June 5, 2014
Satisfaction

I finished knitting the perfect scarf. I'm sure I've said something like this before, but at the moment, this scarf seems to fulfill the perfect essence of scarfness, at least warm woolley winter scarfness.

Too bad it is not winter.

Although I've finished perfectly nice projects: scarves, socks, sweaters, a baby blanket, nothing has given me the sense of satisfaction I find in this scarf. In fact, nothing I have knit has thrilled me so since a cardigan I finished in January 2012. That is far too long. In retropsect, I can see why I have been so ambivalent about knitting for the last couple of years. Although I love the process of knitting, process alone is not enough.

Th finished scarf is 7 1/2 feet long, long enough to wrap twice around my neck without being tight and still hang well below my waist, although my finished gauge is slightly smaller than the gauge called for in the pattern. This is mostly because I used a much smaller yarn, a fingering weight, which, even though I held two strands together knit to a smaller gauge than the original DK yarn. It doesn't matter. MY scarf, in my colors, is perfect for me.

Suddenly I'm excited about knitting again, and I've started another project. Who knows, perhaps I will be daring and even knit raglan sleeves.

June 3, 2014
Radis Au Beurre

The air has become humid this past week; welcome to summer in full. The screened porch continues to be delightfully breezy and cool however, a haven in the late afternoon, but the early mornings are my favorite time on the porch. I love the soft rustle of the trees in the morning breeze, the quiet symphony of bird song, and with luck, baby bunnies frollicking on the lawn.

Inspired by a beautiful bunch of French Breakfast Radishes, one morning this week everything seemed to align perfectly into one of those fleetingly precious moments which are greater than the sum of their parts. Radis au beurre, hardboiled eggs, coffee, memory, dreams of how the people we love shape the people we become, and the promise of spring and early morning. It is hard to put my finger on it, and yet it was perfect.

I never ate radis au beurre growing up; it was George's memory not mine. He would reminisce about the year his mother, his sister, and he spent in Paris before coming to America, about the American School where his mother was hoping he would get a head start in English. It was at school he first had radis au beurre. He would tell me about thick baguette's spread with sweet butter and topped with thinly sliced radishes, how he had never had anything so comforting and yet exotic at the same time. Radis au beurre symbolized a moment of joy hidden within the turmoil of the time before and after, between leaving Vienna and getting settled in America, a time of promise.

I am afraid I thought the combination of butter and radishes sounded weird and not at all appealing, strange considering that I grew up eating a lot of things some of my school friends would have thought odd to say the least. But eventually radis au beurre became our tradition as well, an early spring treat celebrating the first bunch of those lovely French breakfast radishes. But those traditions were long gone and I hadn't thought about it for years until these radishes appeared in my CSA bag.

There is no baguette in my version of course. Instead I used toasted Udi's gluten-free bread, the deli version that I buy at Jason's, which seems fresher than the frozen grocery-store variety, toasted because gluten-free bread is better toasted. There is still sweet cream butter, and thinly sliced radishes, and they form the perfect combination of soft crunch of bread, creamy butter, slight piquancy of the radishes: crisp and soft, chewy with a touch of crunch, like the soft morning breezes and the crisp air of dawn, a perfect combination.

I realized that somewhere in the process I had made my own tradition of welcoming spring, morning, rebirth. Like the combination of toast, butter, and radishes, traditions that were separate from me have been melded into my own traditions, just as people who have shaped my past live stil in my heart and guide my future. Each morning is something new, crisp with promise and yet soft with the warmth of history and love.

May 29, 2014
Peripatetic

Move much and accomplish little. This seems to be my current operating mode. I am upright most of the time. When I am tired I sit. Bed is the worst, but really, don't you think I spent enough time there? Even getting myself to go to sleep seems difficult. I want to keep puttering about, puttering and resting and puttering some more.

It is not very efficient. I can't lift much. I can't go where I want when I want because I haven't been able to drive, but that is changing. Mostly, I can't focus. I don't believe I have been this absent-minded in ages. Perhaps this is some kind of reactionary inter-cellular phenomenon, freedom from excessive stillness breeds excessive puttering.

I think I am calming down now. At least I seem able to string words together into some semblence of thought. The better I have felt physically, the more fragmented and scattered my thoughts have become. I must be feeling better because I am getting particular again, starting to set things to rights around the house, my version of "rights" that is.

Some parts of this process are good. It is good to be taking care of myself, taking care of my space.

I went to the farmer's market with a friend who could drive and schlepp. She even brought one of the chairs around front from the back porch, so I could sit and plant the flowers she so kindly carried for me. Even that, without lifting or bending, was enough work. But the joy experienced for the effort expended is phenomenal. There are no more dried twigs in the planters, stark reminders of my incarceration. Instead there are flowers. And the flowers make me smile. Soon I will sit out on the screened porch, surrounded by flowers and soft breezes. Monday was pollen scrubbing day, although I only did a tiny bit of the scrubbing and none of the heavy lifting. There is still a little scrubbing left, but only the small stuff, the things I can do myself. I can accept that it may take 2 days to accomplish what took half a day last summer, and I suspect that there is a lesson there somewhere, about enjoying the process of one's life. I hope I don't lose that thought along the way.

There, I think my head may be a trifle clearer now. Perhaps a little nesting helps the brain to settle as well.

May 27, 2014
Music: Final Spring Concert

Spring seems to be the primary music season and one of the things I missed the most during my confinement was attending concerts. To some extent, this caught me by surprise because earlier in the season I missed a few performances, fraught as they were with memories of shared expeditions with George. I had no way of knowing if a concert would be a joyous occasion or filled with tears, and I suppose, in a misguided attempt to avoid the tears, I would avoid the concert, thereby missing the joy as well.

Therefore it may come as no surprise that I was determined that, if at all possible, I would attend the last concert of the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra last Friday even though it was a mere two days following my surgery. Admittedly it was a bit of a stretch, and on Thursday morning it seemed like an impossible dream. By Friday morning however it was evident that I was most comfortable sitting and that I could easily sit for a couple of hours; I could also stand for long periods of time and walk, although stiffly and slowly for moderate distances. A friend had offered to drop me off at the door to the Tennessee Theater, and it was an easy walk to my seat, conveniently located on the aisle, although I have requested a change for next year. I managed to convince myself that the healing power of music is exactly what I needed.

Indeed it was. I do believe that this was one of the best, if not the best concert I have heard the Knoxville Symphony perform. The concert opened with Beethoven's Overture to Fidelio and although it was an acceptible performance, I thought it sounded muddy in places. It is possible that the problem lies at least partially with my ears. I suspect however that someone or section is slightly off beat, but I can't really distinguish different instruments well from my seat, so I am hoping that, by moving up to the balcony next year I will have a different perspective on the performance. At any rate the opening was lovely, and warmly received, and it certainly did not detract from the two highlights of the concert, Beethoven's Piano Concerto #4 in G, and Shostakovich's 10th Symphony.

The soloist was a young Pianist named Spencer Myer, a name I did not at first recognize. When he came on stage and began to play I realized I had indeed heard him play before. He is an excellent pianist who plays with fluidity, precision and nuance. Listening, and watching, him play, I felt his sensitive phrasing helped me to hear parts of the music with renewed appreciation. This was especially well realized in the second movement, where Myer and Richman worked well together in controlling the dynamic between the piano and the orchestra, and it was in this movement that I felt Myer's combination of subtle passion held by restraint was particularly effective.

The Shostakovich was surprising in just how good and enjoyable it was. It is a piece I have heard performed enough times that I was cautious in my expectations. Shostakovich is never easy, although I do think Richman excels in 20th century works and his affinity for the intersection between classical and popular works should work well with Shostakovich. And I have to admit the piece was joyous and exciting. Again there were sections that sounded slightly "muddy" to me, I suspect that there were discrepencies in timing which blurred the sound in my location. The orchestra managed to capture a sense of that contrast that is always present in Shostakovich, of joy and pathos, hope, yearning, beauty, horror, absurdity. The second movement captured that sense of brutality well, and the final movement was triumphant. The audience was silent, rapt throughout the performance, and it errupted upon the finale. The gentleman in front of me was bouncing up and down in joy through parts of the performance, a welcome change from the sometimes bored placidity of the New York audience. A gentleman behind me said "yes" once, and "no, no, no" on at least two other occasions. I might have agreed with him, but overall, I found the performance exciting and enjoyable. The piccolo was fabulous. My only complaint might be that the work was somewhat muted in its impact and mainstreamed. Yes the second movement was forceful. Yes Shostakovich triumphed over Stalin in the music but the dynamic was slightly subdued, the contrast between joy and pain, beauty and horror, not quite as heart-stopping and shocking as it should have been. The first movement especially did not seem to have that nightmarish quality that you can't quite pinpoint that I find most compelling in some performances: an eerily haunting listlessness in the strings, that leaves one unnerved on the deepest level, the almost hroat-clenching pain of the sudden outbursts. Still, these are very small complaints in a work that was extraordinarily difficult and very well and powerfully performed.

Saturday morning I was musing about the concert and where I might have heard Spencer Myer perform before. I suspected it was at Bard and I hoped that I had written something about the performance in my earlier blog. Alas I was inconsistent in my blog posts, and there was nothing about Myer to be found, although I did enjoy reading my old posts. Next I went through the old Bard Music Festival programs, where I tended to write notes about the performances, and I did indeed find a few notes about Myer, not valuable for anythng really, other than ascertaining that my memory was indeed correct. I noted that I had thought he was enormously talented, and played with great precision, but that I felt at that time, and this was some years ago, that he was too driven by control. In thinking about these earlier performances, and the Beethoven from Friday night, it occurred to me that although I did find the second movement compelling, the Piano Concerto as a whole was not quite my cup of tea. Myer's performance was incredible, his phrasing and coloring shapes a subtly thoughtful emotional landscape, but it lacked, to my ears at least, a certain dynamic contrast and mystery, perhaps even a bit of that sense of struggle, although controlled, of the fine line between joy and pathos that Beethoven seems so often to tread. Yes, it is possible to over-Romanticize Beethoven, but Myer's approach was perhaps to intellectually ethereal. Nonetheless, I think he is a pianist from whom I wish to hear more, and I am sure there are composers to whom I will find him brilliantly suited, although perhaps not Beethoven.

May 20, 2014