When you learn music, just learn music

Continuing with one of my current obsessions, which is the teaching of improvisation and how that relates to meditation and other contemplative disciplines, here is a great quote from Ken Zuckerman, medieval lute and Indian sarod virtuoso who teaches medieval music and Indian music at the Schola Cantorum in Basel. In considering models for medieval improvisation, Zuckerman cites North Indian classical music as a model for “how an extensive unwritten repertoire can evolve.” That phrase and the following passage are quoted from Zuckerman’s article “Improvisation in medieval music” (full citation footnoted at the end of the post.) I can’t help but observe that one could substitute “Dharma” for “medieval music improvisation” as the subject being discussed here, and the same lesson would apply. In fact, Zuckerman quotes his Indian music teacher as saying “When you eat, you eat. When you sleep, you sleep. So – when you learn music, learn music! Why talk?” Sounds like Zen to me.

“…there is a general tendency for us in the western world to over-analyze and to attempt to understand aspects of music making with the intellect which must be first understood at other levels, such as the motor centers and emotions. It is a curious contradiction. On the one hand, we don’t seem to mind at all giving a child all the time he or she needs to learn to walk and run without any intellectual instructions, nor does the child ask for any. On the other hand, when it comes to a beginner in music, whatever his or her age, we insist on explaining many things which can only be understood and executed after much practice. Not only does this intellectual approach actually slow the more important process of intuitive and automatic learning, but it interferes with the students’ developing higher levels of listening and observation. Especially at more advanced levels of learning, it is precisely the moment of not understanding which should sharpen the students’ power of listening and observation – and not simply the impulse to formulate another question.” [italics mine]

Kenneth Zuckerman, “Improvisation in medieval music,” in Improvisation II. Internationale Tagung für Improvisation, edited by Walter Fähndrich (Lucerne: Amadeus, 1993),134-142.

Improvisation-Meditation

There is a misconception that musical improvisation is a sort of spontaneous flowing-forth of music out of thin air, or as the saying goes, out of “whole cloth.” In fact, improvisation in jazz, traditional music, early music, or just about any music I can think of requires that the improviser be deeply familiar with that particular music’s idiomatic and delimited language of scales, harmonies, melodic gestures, phrase-shapes, structures, and even modes of communication among multiple players. When the different components of that language are extremely well-integrated, the listener may perceive the actual improvised performance as “effortless” and thoroughly spontaneous. The analogy to language is actually quite useful; in order to be fluent and spontaneous in a spoken language, you must also have a working knowledge of the grammar, structure, and idioms of that language, and communication is usually a two-way street (at least.)

There is another aspect of improvisation, however, that I think is often overlooked. To be an effective improviser you have to cultivate a certain level of one-pointed attention and mindfulness. This is true whether you are interacting with other musicians or improvising in a solo context for an extended period of time. That level of one-pointedness is what keeps the player simultaneously engaged with the musical language and all its components, and able to choose from among the myriad elements of that language to create a kind of musical rhetorical discourse with shape and sense, with emotion and expression, with direction and movement and return. It is the lack of that one-pointedness that creates what musicians often refer to as “noodling” – improvisation that just sounds like “random stuff” that doesn’t really go anywhere.

In mantra-based meditation, you focus your mind’s attention on a repeated sound. Ideally, this helps the meditator focus the mind and the attention on one thing, that being the mantra. (Mantras are also believed to have different qualities and benefits; that’s another subject.) Truth be told, most of us are not particularly good at maintaining a one-pointed focus on the mantra; therefore, the mantra becomes a kind of background- constant against which our thoughts do a lot of “noodling.” As we persevere in practicing meditation, we increase the number of times we can get to that “focused” place (although even the most experienced meditators still produce a lot of mental noodling.)

It has occurred to me that improvisation is a rather similar process. For example, if you’re playing medieval music or music from a number of traditional world cultures, you’re holding the sound of the mode and its “final” in your mind (among other things). If you’re playing blues or bebop, in addition to the scale or key you’re also holding a set of idiomatic chord changes; or in the case of bebop, lightning-fast changes and chord substitutions. This is in addition to all that idiomatic language stuff I mentioned before.

It makes sense, then, that if you want to be a good improviser, it might not be a bad idea to place your butt on a cushion and sit some kind of “shamatha” meditation or zazen. It doesn’t really matter whether you use a mantra, or watch your breath, or focus on a visualized object; as long as you keep bringing your mind back to the object of your focus everytime it starts “noodling.” The two processes seem incredibly compatible to me, and it seems to me that for musicians, the one activity cannot but help support the other.

A Rant

Sometimes I feel as though I am surrounded by urgency, anxiety, and hysteria. I’ve never seen such stress—students, colleagues, family members -- and I’ve been trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

I’m not talking about people who have had bona fide disasters – deaths of loved ones, the loss of a home, divorce, severe illness, job loss – those are enough to make anyone lose their marbles. And we won’t even talk about stresses like “my home was bombed” or “all my children are ill because we have no clean drinking water.” No one I know (to my knowledge) has the slightest freaking idea what that feels like, including myself.

No, I am talking about the reactions I am seeing to the stresses that everyone encounters. Deadlines. Too much work. Arguments with friends or co-workers. Big papers due. Changed plans. Mishaps. Students hyperventilating because they waited until the last minute to write a huge paper.

What’s really going on? Our culture seems to have been inculcated with a pervasive feeling of dread. I don’t get it: if people can survive having no clean drinking water, why do we need Xanax in order to deal with our lives? I have come to the following conclusions:

1) Our entire culture catastrophizes. We have no perspective. Being hurt in a terrible car wreck, getting arrested, getting shot, having your house leveled in a tornado, having someone you love die, losing your job and having no prospects, being homeless, those are catastrophes. 9/11 was a catastrophe. Many other things -- including things that, granted, ARE very upsetting and stressful -- are NOT catastrophes. I blame this lack of perspective on all the things I list below, and on the fact that we are barraged with horror stories everyday from every quarter, and we completely lose our sense of perspective. There’s also no discrimination in the stuff that is trumpeted at us in headlines all day. Truly horrific topics like “Atrocities in Mogadishu” are situated right next to “Channel 9 Investigates: Can eating too many carrots kill you?” I don’t know – are you going to eat them in Mogadishu?

2) Our culture is completely screwed up about work. Too many people in this culture are suffering from the bone-headed idea that if you’re not doing something related to work/school, you’re wasting your time. As a result, most of us are exhausted and have done very little to recharge our batteries. They can’t watch TV without doing work at the same time, can’t go for a walk without talking business on their cell phones, can’t go to a coffee shop to relax without bringing the goddamn laptop. If our world has become a place where reading a good book, taking a walk, talking to a friend, listening to music, enjoying art, making love or taking a nap have become a “waste of time” or a reason to feel “guilty” about not spending the same amount of time reading 25 work-related blood-pressure-raising e-mails, then we need to make a different world.

3) Our culture is completely screwed up about consequences. We do incredibly destructive or stupid shit as if there were going to be no consequences as all, and then we obsess over the possibility of consequences that are actually not very bad. I see this all the time with students who procrastinate all semester writing a paper that’s worth half their grade, but will stay up all night cramming for a 15 point quiz. Huh?

4) Our culture is completely screwed up about responsibility. We spend endless amounts of angst and energy trying to fix crap we can’t control, but we refuse to take responsibility for all kinds of stuff, including our own problems, the way we think, the way we learn, the way we treat the earth, the way we drive, the way we talk to each other, and the effect we have on people around us when we exhaust ourselves trying to fix crap we can’t control.

4) Our society is suffering from malnutrition and lack of sleep. Sure, some of us lucked out and married cooks; but even then, you have to be home to do that. Many of us have “no time” and so we cram processed junk and lots of it. We are Fat partly because of that, and partly because we refuse to take time to nourish ourselves in any other way, including sleep -- so food, and lots of it, becomes one of our few emotional comforts. As for sleep, my experience has been that work that’s done when you’re exhausted often has to be done over again anyhow. Go to bed. Take a nap. Eat an apple.

6) We are all TOO DAMNED AVAILABLE. There’s not a moment of the day when we are not reachable. Cell phone, e-mail, land line, texting, Blackberries. We can even carry our computers around with us. As a result we have a whole generation that doesn’t understand the word “unavailable.” Their parents call their blasted cell phones when they’re in class; they spill their guts on Facebook; they e-mail you at 3 am and then, when they see you at 8 am, are appalled because “didn’t you get my e-mail?” Believe it or not, I’ve started locking my office door when I’m in there working to stop my students from just walking in without knocking. We can’t even enjoy a concert anymore without having some idiot (not always young, either) sitting there texting in the row in front of us, cell phone light flashing and keys beeping until you think there might be an imminent homicide in row 32. The worst part of it is that people get sucked into this trend, and even old farts like me start to feel as though we are obligated to take part in this constant-availability sickness. The only way we are ALL going to make this stop is to each take responsibility for not buying into this. It’s not rude to send a 15-second “Thanks for the message, I’ll get back to you later” e-mail (unless one of the above actual catastrophes has occurred.) The business colleague who called you on Sunday morning to discuss Wednesday’s meeting can wait a few hours, and the student who needs help with that paper can wait until you have time to give him/her an appointment (which will also take much less time than the three screens of e-mail s/he thinks s/he’s going to get at 4am.)

7) Last but not least: when did we all start being in such a terrible hurry, and what exactly are we hurrying to? This may be related to the feeling of dread; maybe we’re trying to get everything done before Gabriel Blows His Horn? When you realize you’re going to die, will you ask yourself how your life sped by so fast? Shit, you sure were in a hurry to get it over with.

Speaking of realizing you’re going to die, you may notice that I haven’t said anything about spiritual practice. Do I think it would help? In theory, yes, but it doesn’t seem to be helping many of us, so either it’s not working or, as the Internet jargon goes, UR doin’ it wrong. My money is on the second. I know a lot of people, myself included, who manage to make that one more thing to get anxious and stressed about (I’m not meditating enough, I’m not doing my spiritual practice right, I have no time to do it, blah blah blah.)

By now (if you made it this far) you’re probably wondering what Great Words of Wisdom I have now to set you free from all of the above. I don’t have any. It affects me as much as it affects you. But I do keep coming back to one thing: it’s my responsibility whether I buy into all the above garbage, or not. It’s my responsibility to get a grip, to get some perspective, to stop trying to fix things that are beyond my control, to close the laptop, to allow my spiritual practice to happen, to slow down, to ask myself what the hell is really important and why am I hyperventilating about something that’s not. In fact, it’s my responsibility to figure out what the hell IS my responsibility, and to figure out what is a catastrophe and what is just a pain in the neck.

Then, I have to take on that responsibility, and if you want things to change, you do too.

“Do not waste your life!”
(whack with bamboo stick)




End of rant.

1610 Vespers: Monteverdi

I’m not a big believer in the kind of angels that make 11th-hour rescues on TV programs, or of the feathery-winged creatures that sit on the top of the Christmas tree. However, there can be no other explanation for Monteverdi’s 1610 Vespers than this: the angels, taking pity on poor underpaid, frazzled, overworked, bereaved Claudio, sang into his ears for an entire summer. It is possibly my favorite piece of music in the entire world, and that is saying a lot. The first time I heard it – back in the days of vinyl boxed-sets – I was gobsmacked. Stunned.

I had the incredible good fortune to hear the 1610 Vespers played live at the grand opening of Indiana University’s gorgeous Auer Hall in 1996. They sang the “Deus in adiutorium” invocation at the beginning, and then the strings, the brass, the continuo, the kick-ass cornettos, and the singers hit that big soul-stirring D chord. I burst into tears – and that was pretty much it for me for the next hour and a half. I was both exalted and wrung out like a wet rag by the end of it. Fortunately, the dear friend I was sitting with was also in tears – a fine pair we must have looked.

This music transcends denomination, and to some degree even belief. Great sacred music, whether it’s Bach or Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, can do this. I’m not Catholic – it doesn’t matter. The connection to something Bigger than all of us is audible and overwhelming.

A few years ago, there was a tragic crash of a small plane in Indiana that killed several musicians associated with IU’s School of Music and the local public radio station there. They had just performed the 1610 Vespers at another location in Indiana and were flying back. I remember thinking at the time: that transcendent masterpiece was the last music they ever heard before departing from this world. We could all do worse. When I’m about to go, say the mantras into my ear, yes, please, do the phowa, yes, please do – but leave Monteverdi’s 1610 Vespers playing in my old dead ears, and The Pure Land will already be in sight.

No Results

In the past few days the story of 11th century Tibetan saint Milarepa keeps coming to mind (biography can be found at http://www.cosmicharmony.com/Av/Milarepa/Milarepa.htm.)

Milarepa is known for reaching enlightenment in one lifetime despite having accumulated a hell of a lot of wretched karma by picking off a bunch of people through his skill at sorcery (see biography above.) He’s also known for his “hundred thousand songs,” gorgeous dharma poems which he supposedly composed and sang extemporaneously (shades of Hildegard von Bingen, who was about 30 years younger than Milarepa but was alive at the same time.) These are still sung today; in fact, I’ve heard a few of them sung, in Tibetan.

Because of his dark past, Milarepa could only achieve enlightenment through a rigorous course of karmic purification. The poor guy just got one ass-kicking after another, particularly from his heart-teacher Marpa, who made him do things like build a series of buildings and then knock them down, put the stones back where he found them, and start again. Poor Milarepa just about lost his mind trying to figure out why Marpa made him go through all these hardships, and then each time Marpa would tell Milarepa that he wouldn’t give Milarepa the dharma teachings until Milarepa accomplished some other impossible thing.

That’s the part that I just can’t stop thinking about: having to do stuff over and over again, and still not attaining whatever wisdom / skill / recognition you’re trying to gain. Marpa eventually tells Milarepa the reason: Marpa put him through all these changes because it was the only way Milarepa could purify all his rotten karma and reach the state of enlightenment he so fervently desired.

To my knowledge, I haven’t conjured up any fatal hailstorms or giant scorpions in the last 53 years, but I must have done some incredibly dumb shit in this life or a previous one, because I keep having to do stuff over and over again; or just when I think that I’m finished with something, I have to either do something additional or start again. It feels sometimes as though, for my entire life, I have been getting the message that although I may be pretty good at this and that, I’m never quite good enough. Hell, I remember crying over this when I was twelve years old, and here I am still doing it, to the point where I’m no longer sure what constitutes “good,” never mind “enough.” I’ve heard this message in so many ways that I don’t know where to begin. Either I can’t seem to get to a certain point with some task, skill, project or endeavor, OR there’s some authority figure telling me that in order to either go to the next level or avoid some sort of catastrophic failure, I have to bring them the broomstick of the goddam Wicked Witch of the West.

It’s always at the peak of these times, when I feel ready to just throw in the towel, that someone inevitably suggests that it’s my own fault. Today I was informed that I have a “defeatist attitude.” After I got over feeling angry and hurt, and thinking about it for awhile, I’ve concluded that my friend is genuinely picking up on something real, but I don’t think it’s being accurately described as defeatist. I think, rather, that some people suffer from a syndrome that I’d like to call “occasional motivational paralysis.” The causes can be manifold, but I honestly think that one of the root causes of this syndrome is a debilitating inability to believe that one’s efforts or actions will actually have any result or effect. It is my own belief that this state of mind contributes to a multitude of syndromes, including depression, discouragement, fatigue, artistic blocks, procrastination, and the seeming inability to finish projects. I believe that it also may be the root of the problem for people who appear to have no “discipline” – people who can’t seem to bring themselves to practice, exercise, get up at the same time every morning, or any other thing that requires some sort of conviction in one’s own ability to act in an effective way. These unfortunates (of whom I am the poster child) DO actually often feel blocked or defeated by insurmountable circumstances, which comes across to others as “defeatist,” or foisting the responsibility onto some outside force – but in truth, we secretly blame ourselves, and harshly at that. The honest fact is that we don’t really believe in our own power, be it personal, physical, spiritual, artistic, or anything else, and our motivation takes a direct hit. This sometimes comes across as laziness: “well, you know Johnny Doe; if he can’t accomplish something right away he doesn’t want to do it anymore.” That’s not quite accurate. Johnny has lost the conviction in his ability to do it, and it hurts too much to try any more.

The problem is compounded when this irresistible force meets an immovable object, and the person with motivational paralysis encounters a situation or person(s) that is, in fact, actually obstructive. What usually happens next can be stated in one word: Nothing. Everything grinds to a standstill unless and until a crisis arises. The problem is that in many cases, a crisis does arise, and the issue that brought this irresistible force together with this immovable object doesn’t go away – it just keeps reoccurring, and the motivationally-challenged person has to go through the process again, which confirms their deeply held conviction that they are pretty much ineffectual—and so it goes, repeatedly “wasting time and annoying the pig,” as the saying goes.

I’ve now thought about this all day, and I can only think of one way to deal with it—one that I am not good at (oops, there goes the hamster wheel again.) Here is the remedy: find an old Zen guy to whack you repeatedly over the head with a stick and scream No Results! at you. If you suffer from motivational paralysis because you don’t believe that your efforts will yield results – whether because of circumstances or your own incompetence – then you simply have to stop giving a shit about results.

This may seem nihilist. It is NOT.









“Who’s the %$#@ nihilist here?
What are you, a bunch of #$^%@ crybabies?”


It is rather, as one Zen teacher said, about “showing up for the impossible.” It is the revolutionary notion that the effort IS the result; that effort and result are not cause and effect, but are in fact a unified entity.

If I think about that hard enough, perhaps – perhaps – it will transform itself from something that I understand intellectually to something I believe in my gut. Not sure how to do that yet. In the meantime, I guess Milarepa will keep hauling the stones to the wall.

25 Random Things About Me

Ah, another one of those fun pieces of ego-candy: a thing going around Facebook, called "25 Random Things About Me." I have really enjoyed reading the ones that my friends have written, but I'm still too much of a coward to post such a thing on Facebook where God-knows-who is looking at this list of stuff I'd rather reserve for friends. Of course, you could say the same thing about a blog, but to tell you the truth, I think a lot fewer people read the blog...and I think I know at least 90 per cent of you. So... since I enjoyed "y'all's," as they say down here, here's mine. Or "mahn."


1. I have been married to my best friend for over 25 years.
2. Literally everyone in my immediate family were/are musicians.
3. If I could live anywhere I wanted, I would split my time between New England, Taos/Santa Fe, the Pacific Northwest, and the west coast of Ireland.
4. The Buddhadharma changed my life.
5. I wish that I could live closer to my family, or they could live closer to me.
6. I have stood on the Great Wall of China.
7. I wish I had more time to actually practice the instruments I sort of play.
8. I’ve probably read Lord of the Rings about ten times, starting at age 12.
9. I love my job.
10. Within a 3-year period in the mid-90’s, I lost my Dad, I lost two teachers who were very dear to me, I lost a beloved cat, and I lost interest in finishing the doctorate I am now trying to finish.
11. I used to do astrology charts.
12. I love watching The Weather Channel.
13. When I was a small child I had nightmares so bad I often woke up screaming.
14. When I was a teenager I used to listen to the local AM radio station break out the Top Ten every Thursday night, then write them all down on little pieces of paper and save them in a box in my desk.
15. The names I had picked out in case I’d had kids were Melanie, Lauren, Clayton and Gavin.
16. Over the course of my youth I was deeply obsessed with several rock bands including the Beatles, Yes, and the Moody Blues.
17. I have never broken a bone, but I don’t have a gall bladder.
18. I absolutely love cats.
19. I believe that I lived in Boston during the American Revolution.
20. When I was a kid I could be an obnoxious know-it-all and my sister used to say “Thank You, Angela Brittanica.”
21. I am scared shitless of getting cancer. (Yes, I already had that done.)
22. I taught Sunday School when I was a teenager.
23. I was in my third grade class in Ludlow, MA when Kennedy was shot; I was making Christmas cookies in Cambridge, MA when Lennon was shot; I was teaching music in an alternative school in Salem, MA when the Challenger went down; and I was sitting in my house in Lubbock TX when Coyotebanjo called me from some morning meeting at the Buddy Holly Center in L to tell me about 9-11.
24. When I was a little kid I put home-made library check-out cards in all my little kid books.
25. Chocolate really does Change How You Feel.

Barackstock

As of late this afternoon, not a single arrest has been made on the Washington Mall.

1.8 million people.

One of the best moments of history I've been privileged to witness.

Yes We Can.

Hmmmmm . . .

In the "God tells ya stuff if ya listen" department: Did anyone else notice that on the DAY that the 43rd President officially gave his last (thank Christ) speech to the nation, a plane plummeted out of the sky in NYC . . . and everyone lived?

Insaneopause

You know, when you’re born, you start breathing, and unless something goes terribly wrong, you keep doing it until you die, even if you do it through some occasional congestion or ailment. Your excretory system, digestive system, cardiovascular system, all start working pretty promptly and, again, barring some ailment, quit when the credits roll to the end. They don’t just start when you’re 11 and make you crazy and then just quit working properly when you’re 53 and make you crazy again. But OK. Enough. Suppose we just accept that there IS a biological system that starts and stops while you’re still alive. Can’t it just start and stop, like a freaking stoplight? Green, go, yellow, wait a second oops! a baby popped out, red, stop, that’s the end, finito for chrissake. But NO no no no no. It can’t be that simple. It has to be OH what a lovely day JESUS look what’s happening in the Middle East wait! how sweet you are to do that for me – God, what assholes people are! Get me a gun! Gee, I feel great today, I think I’ll go work out. God – I feel terrible and crampy. Maybe I have cancer. Maybe I’m going to die! Gosh, I feel 16 again…look at that guy! Shit, he’s 25 omigod now I’m so embarrassed. Oh geez, I ate a piece of celery and gained 3 pounds. This line at the supermarket sucks! It’s taking so long! What the hell! Can’t they see I’m…Oh, what a sweet little puppy – I think I’m going to cry- - - aren’t there any Kleenex in here? What a terrible place – and it’s so cold in here…it’s so hot…I’m sweating…damn you, you pulled my blanket off! I hate you! I love you! I have the best job in the world! My job sucks! Can’t you be patient with me? I’m only 13. I mean 53. I mean – what do I mean? What was your name again?

Is it possible to just knock yourself out with Vicodin and wake up when you’re 60? For God’s sake people! This sucks!

And don’t hand me some crap about this all being the result of some glamorous Neanderthal’s obsession with an apple. It’s some catastrophic combination of magic and biology. You want a weapon of mass destruction?

Remember, Remember the Whole of November: Reflections at the Winter Solstice

There’s a humorous saying to the effect that “Time exists so that everything doesn’t happen all at once, and space exists so that it doesn’t all happen to you.” Obviously there was a wrinkle in the space-time continuum in the past month. Sometimes the stars just line up in some unfathomable way – or, to use some Tibetan Buddhist terminology, a whole bunch of “causes and conditions” converge in such a way that a whole bunch of your karma “ripens” at the same time. This gets an extra electrical charge when that convergence also includes “group” karma as well.

These past few months have been so intense, and I have been so confounded and overstimulated with simultaneous overwork, stress, uncertainty, dread, and anticipation, that I could scarcely write a word. Some of it is big, global stuff; some of it is big personal stuff, and some of it is small personal stuff but nevertheless meaningful for one reason or another. A lot of it has to do with the ‘wrapping up” of things, or of efforts coming to fruition, or of getting to accomplish or finish things that were for some reason hindered by various “ob-stackels.” Woven throughout all of it has been a higher-than-normal appearance of synchronicity, “coincidences,” and stuff that’s just plain weird.

Qualifying Exam #1
After a long protracted process of trying to “revalidate” the various components of the doctoral degree that I abandoned 10 years ago, and which I have to complete in order to keep my job, I finally reached the watershed of the dreaded Written Qualifying Exam. I jumped through that flaming hoop in September.

It was 8 hours long and I shook through most of it. I wrote 15 pages of single-spaced type, some of which was very good and some not as good as I wanted it to be. When it was over, I was emotionally and mentally exhausted. I had no clue if I had passed, because I had no clue what would be “good enough.” On the way out to the rental car, I thought with surprise that I might actually hurl my lunch right there in the parking lot of Behemoth School of Music. Mercifully I did not. However, within 5 minutes of driving away from the University realized that I really shouldn’t be driving, because my brain was no longer functioning properly; and some kind of emotional volcano was bubbling. I drove to the backstreets and tooled around aimlessly, until I found myself driving by the house where my now-deceased medieval music teacher and mentor had lived. I pulled the car over to the side of the road just in time to be overcome with paroxysms of sobbing.

Eventually I got over it, and the volcano of pent-up frustration, dread and anxiety gave way to a feeling that is difficult to describe – I don’t think “relief” is quite accurate.

”It Would Be Good if You Could Come”

The night after my written qualifying exam, my Tibetan monk teachers very kindly made a delicious, fantastic meal in celebration of the completion of the exam. When we were sitting around visiting afterwards, they told me that there was a particular teaching being offered in November. This teaching had to do with an important Vajrayana practice that I had been given (several times). When you are given the empowerment for these particular sorts of practices, you are supposed to also take the commentaries, or teachings, on the practices as well. I had not been able to do this, because they had last been offered the very month after I left Bloomington (8 years before –they aren’t offered very often.) I was saddened to have to tell them that I didn’t see how I could possibly come for the teachings – I had already had to take a week away from work to come and complete the written qualifying exam and I would probably have to come back to do the orals at some point. On top of that, the teachings coincided with an important conference at which I was supposed to serve on a panel – not that it was mandatory for me to do that, but I had committed to it, and I needed to do those things for the old tenure resume. The monks seemed disappointed, and one of them said “Well…it would be good if you could come.”

About two weeks later I found out that I had passed the written qualifying exam with flying colors. It turned out that the policy at Behemoth School of Music had changed, and that grad students were now encouraged to do their orals as soon as possible. By now it was October. Could I come in October? No way. I sent e-mail messages to try and find out when I would be able to get all the members of my committee in the same room. The one day they could all the in the same room was during the second week of November, shortly after the conference I had to attend. I figured I would go straight from the conference to Behemoth Music School.

In the meantime, it transpired that the conference session for which I was supposed to be a panel member had been changed to one day earlier. This left exactly three days between my conference obligations and my oral exam.

And what do you suppose were the three days of the teaching I had been requested to take?

The same day that all this was coming together, I was reading one of the Buddhist magazines – Shambala Sun, Tricycle, Buddhadharma, I can’t remember which one—and in one article the writer was talking about how difficult it is, sometimes, to negotiate the cultural and linguistic east-meets-west communication differences between eastern teachers and their western students. The example that this person gave was something to the effect of “For example, when a Tibetan teacher tells a western student ‘It would be good if…’ they would do something, it may sound like a suggestion, but it’s as close to a command as they will ever give.”

Oh….I get it.

The Election

As October progressed, the whole world seemed to be going crazy. The economy was tanking. The emotions were running incredibly high on both sides. I am a liberal living in a very conservative place, so I found this to be emotionally difficult; I tried not to think about it too much, but I don’t think I’ve ever lived in a place where I felt constrained to put an election sign on my lawn because I was fearful about damage to my property (probably wouldn’t have happened, but it didn’t feel safe.) As the election neared, I became more and more aware of how worked up I was about it. The day before, I was reading something on the Internet and I became quite emotional; it was then that I realized that I was really wound up, and that many other people were as well. The vibe of the whole country felt like a stretched rubber band.

When election night came, America elected its first African-American president. I stayed up until the wee hours watching the incredible videos of reaction around the country and around the world. The whole thing was a very emotional experience for me as it was for many other people in the country. I plan to blog more about this around the inauguration.

The Conference and The Guitar

The very next day after the election, I left to go to the conference which was in Nashville this year. I love this particular conference, and I always look forward to it every year. It’s a chance to see a lot of my old graduate school friends who now are scattered to the four corners of the earth, but converge on this conference once a year. I like the scholarly discourse; I like being around people who are interested in the same academic disciplines; I like the comraderie, and I like traveling, so it’s usually win-win for me. I also was looking forward to going back to Nashville, which I had only visited one time before and had a wonderful time.

However, it was a little bit tainted this time by the specter of the oral qualifying exam that was coming up. I brought study stuff with me, and every extra moment I had I was either studying it or feeling guilty because I wasn’t studying it. I was also nervous about the fact that I was going to have to leave the conference early and drive 4 and a half hours up to the University, and about the fact that I still was not completely happy with the 10-minute presentation I was supposed to make for this panel.

That’s when the completely unexpected event of The Guitar happened.

There’s a place in Nashville called Gruhn Guitars (www.gruhn.com). It was very close to our hotel, and Coyotebanjo and I walked down there after breakfast the first day of the conference.

Now, he will tell you that for most of our lives together, I have not been the one who insists on going into the Large Music Stores. Drooling over instruments I can’t have is not my idea of fun. But for some reason, I really wanted to go in there – I mean, it’s a very famous place, but it was more than that.

Now, in order to explain what happened next, I have to go back about 25 or 30 years. When I was working at Guitar Workshop many years ago, in my youth, a friend of a friend had a small Gibson acoustic guitar that I was just crazy about. I probably saw it and played it about 3 times, but that was it – I knew that if I ever was to buy a small-sized guitar solely for the purpose of playing acoustic finger-style stuff, that was the one I wanted. Oh, I love my big Guild D-50; the sound of it is simply unbelievable, and it’s been my musical companion since 1980; but I often wished for a small ¾ or triple-0 sized finger-picking guitar that my little fingers could navigate more easily, and that I could play without my elbow sticking up in the air at a 45 degree angle.

I had never run into that particular little Gibson model again. I didn’t even really know what it was – I was never much of a gearhead so I don’t memorize model names and serial numbers very well. Suffice it to say that while Coyote was sampling the banjos and I was wandering aimlessly through Gruhns, what do you suppose I saw hanging from a rack? Yes, there was IT. “It” turned out to be an early fifties Gibson ¾ LG2 model guitar, sometimes called an LG-00. I found out from Calvin at Gruhn that it’s the model they used to call the “Arlo” guitar, because it was the model Gibson that Woody Guthrie had bought his son Arlo Guthrie when Arlo learned to play.

It was a little beat up, but it sounded great, and it felt even better. So easy to play! Such a great size! Gibson may have originally made them to be “little kid” guitars, but they ain’t toys.

Coyotebanjo tells people that when I asked him if we could buy it, I had tears in my eyes. I don’t remember having tears in my eyes, but I did have an emotional reaction to the instrument. That may be hard for non-musicians to understand, but it just happens sometimes – one jumps off the wall at you and says “I belong to you.” That was the case here. Calvin told us that they’d only had about two of them come through the shop since the 1980’s. They knew nothing about this particular instrument – only that they had bought it from someone from Memphis who’d walked in with it. We bought it, of course.

Having spent the morning having my surreal Guitar experience, I stayed up until 2:30 am putting the last touches on the 10-minute paper I was supposed to give at the next day. When the time came for the panel, I discovered (one minute before I was about to give the paper), that the stand-in chair of the panel—an esteemed early music colleague whom I very much admire and respect--had decided instead to ask all the panelists, with no notice, to respond to a question instead of giving the presentations they had prepared. I think I did fine, and didn’t let on that I was at all ruffled; but I absolutely could not believe that I had spent all that time preparing a presentation that I was then not going to be allowed to give. I was intensely frustrated, but it was not a situation in which I could express that frustration appropriately and still maintain a professional demeanor, so I did not let on.

The Teachings—The Exam

The next day, I left the conference early to drive 4.5 hours up to my alma mater. It was absolutely freezing there and I was not adequately prepared for the weather; but I was blessed by the hospitality of a number of good friends there.

There is not much to say in the Blogosphere about the teachings that I received at the monastery over the next three days. Suffice it to say that they were beautiful and intense, and did indeed help me with the practice I had learned. I still feel inadequate to the task and don’t know quite how to incorporate it all into my daily life, but that is a subject for another blogpost (maybe). I am grateful and glad that I could attend.

On Tuesday afternoon I took the doctoral orals. I feel quite blessed; my committee asked me very good questions which were completely relevant to the areas and pieces I had been asked to study. I was able to expound at length. I did not do so well with my minor field; there was a question relating to the readings that I had done for a course many years ago, and my brain did a complete deer-in-the-headlights freakout. Mercifully, that didn’t deep-six the whole exam. (In the days following the exam, of course, I thought of several excellent responses to the question; typical.)

I had the same experience afterwards of actually not feeling the huge sense of relief that everyone told me I would feel. Perhaps it hasn’t sunk in, even a month later, that I will never have to take another doctoral qualifying exam; but with a large document and possibly another recital looming, it feels far, far, far from done.

The next morning I had to leave at 4 am to drive the 4.5 hours back to Nashville to catch my plane back to the Big Flat Place. The drive back to Nashville was one of the scariest drives of my life, due to my level of exhaustion; I had to pull off the road at one point, close my eyes for 10 minutes, drink McDonald’s coffee and eat some appalling fast food in order to get myself through it.

The Return

Coming back was no relief. This has been an incredibly emotional and high-stress semester for many of my students, for a variety of reasons (economy tanking, emotional election, and an unusual semester calendar that left many of them with everything due at the same time. Many of my students were frazzled; some of them were stressed to a point that seriously worried me. Others were whipped up at the prospect of a potential football championship, in a state where Football is second only to the Southern Baptist Convention as a contender for official state religion (who would Jesus pass to?)

Finally, the day before Thanksgiving, we fled to Taos Mountain, that great mound of radiant something-or-other energy, to spend Thanksgiving with our dear friends there.

It was a great and deeply-needed respite.
I brought the guitar to show my friends. Arlo Guthrie was on the radio.
Synchronicity is everywhere, if you look for it. Sometimes you don’t have to look very hard.

Winter Solstice Coming On

So now the Winter Solstice is coming. It’s been freezing cold here. The Winter Solstice is the time in the Wheel of the Year when one thinks a lot about where one has been and where one is going.

This year, taking the time to do that feels important. I’m thinking about all of these things that have happened, and I’m struck by how many of them are resolutions of one sort or another. The degree that never got finished…the chance to have the spiritual teaching that was missed because of moving away…finding the mysterious elusive guitar…even the African-American President feels like some kind of resolution. They don’t feel like endings, necessarily; it doesn’t make me feel as though I might get hit by a bus. It’s more like an awareness of what needs to be wrapped up in order to move on, and what doors need to be opened in order to move forward.

I would be remiss in completing my theme here if I didn’t also mention that there is some physical synchronicity that’s happening in all this. Without trespassing over the “too much information” boundary, let’s just say that I am now three years past fifty, and my body is going through the hormonal psilocybin trip that sometimes accompanies the passage into the “waning moon” phase you see in all that Triple-Goddess symbolism. It’s hell sometimes; one week your body’s 53 and sweating buckets and the next week it thinks it’s 30 and has cramps. One day you’re happy as a clam and the next day you have to remove yourself to another room because you think you might burst into tears. The anxiety can be so intense you feel as if you’re going to die any minute for no good reason. If you are a middle-aged woman you know what I’m talking about. My doctor thought there was something wrong, which got me extremely freaked out; she sent me to a specialist, who assured me that what was happening to me is “a textbook case” of this particular transition. In the meantime, it brings up all kinds of emotional stuff – talk about things that you did and didn’t do! But there it is: another door, and you have to pass through in order to move forward—and the wheel is going to turn, as it does every year, and every eon.

Long time no blog

Yes, I haven't blogged for a long time. The last 22 days have been pretty overwhelming, and included a historic election, a very intense teaching semester; an academic conference I look forward to every year; the serendipitous finding of a vintage guitar identical to one I once fell in love with about 25 years ago when I couldn't afford it; a visit to my spiritual teachers; the last qualifying exam of a doctorate that was started in 1991, abandoned in 1997, and resumed in 2006; two plane trips, 2 5-hour drives, and any number of other odd & not-odd personal things. I promise I will write some thoughts here when the dust settles. In the meantime, a little silly fun:

[Dharmonia's] Dewey Decimal Section:

801 Philosophy & theory

{Dhamonia's real name] = 147521318914993908 = 147+521+318+914+993+908 = 3801


Class:
800 Literature


Contains:
Literature, criticism, analysis of classic writing and mythology.



What it says about you:
You're a global, worldly person who wants to make a big impact with your actions. You have a lot to tell people and you're good at making unique observations about everyday experiences. You can notice and remember details that other people think aren't important.

Find your Dewey Decimal Section at Spacefem.com

Those preachy patriots. . .

All right, I know, I'm trying to practice what I was preaching in my previous post. But sometimes it's really challenging, people.

Apparently, a befuddled chat with Pseudo-Sarkosy wasn't sufficiently fubar for one 24-hour period. Oh, it could have just stopped at giggling over how cool it is to kill things, or not finding it a little bit ODD that the actual President of France might be telling you that his wife is "hot in bed," but Oh no, it couldn't stop there. All it took was a question from CNN's Brad Bailey, who noticed that he was the only black person at Sarah's rally and asked her to comment. Damn, Sarah -- I was so waiting to hear the end of your sentence that began "We have to be all about equality...the Constitution preaches..."

Mr. Jefferson? Huh? The Constitution does what?

But alas, the sentence was never finished...it just moved on to another sentence about how poor Todd knows what it's like to be a minority in Alaska. Uh...what?

http://www.ireport.com/docs/DOC-132425

How many hours have we got left before this freaking nightmare is over?

Divide and Conquer

When I was a little kid spouting the Pledge of Allegiance, I really believed all that “Indivisible with Liberty and Justice for all” stuff (after I figured out that it was “indivisible” and not “invisible.”) Kid-idealism, of course; but with a grain of truth, at least at the time.

No more. One of the saddest and most heartbreaking results of the incumbent administration’s complete and total “epic fail” is the fact that my countrymen and women are at each other’s throats. I have never witnessed extreme polarization like this in all my 50-plus years, including the dinner-table wars I had with my Dad over Vietnam back in the early 1970s.

It’s not just that the voters prefer one candidate over the other. It’s that the voters who prefer one candidate hate the other candidate’s guts, and on top of that, they also hate the guts of anyone who’s going to vote for the Other Guy. I cannot believe the hateful (and in some cases, ignorant and misspelled) rhetoric that I see on the blogs, in reader response columns, or even hear on the street. And I’ve been guilty of it myself – there is one player on the political scene that I can barely watch on TV out of dread and horror that she could actually sit in the oval office if a certain convergence of tragedies should take place. It’s inconceivable to me that anyone could even entertain the idea, and yet there are people out there who like her. By the same token, I’ve already voted for someone who is viewed as one of those "dangerous Moozlim commies” by people whom I would otherwise think are relatively sane. You see, I am just as polarized as everyone else.

What the hell is it going to take to get us together, people? An alien invasion? Because let me tell you, another war or a terrorist attack is NOT going to do it—that’s already been proven; twenty minutes after 9/11 the seeds for the deterioration of our civil rights had already been sown, and Clear Channel was already drawing up its list of Songs You Can’t Play on the Radio Anymore (like John Lennon’s “Imagine” – so much for “and the world will live as One.”) The event may have initially brought us together, but the response of our leaders over the long haul sowed some mighty divisive seeds. How? By doing the best they could do to make sure that we were all afraid, all the time. The Department of Homeland Security has set the current Fear Level at Orange (or possibly Red, at this point.) The sad polarization of this country has arisen because the current Powers That Be have managed to cultivate a state of omnipresent Fear and Loathing, exacerbated by the goose-squawking frenzy of the media – both sides of the fence – gobbling and clucking about how the sky is falling. Well, it IS falling, but it’s falling because of the situations that are being inflamed by the Fear, and the propaganda that says that Everything That’s Wrong is caused by those Other Folks Who are Not Like You. For some people that means immigrants, hippies, socialists, both welfare recipients AND Fat Cats, and “Muslims” and anyone else that professes to any religion that isn’t “Christian” (whatever the hell that means anymore.) For others that means neo-cons, people on the extreme right, “rednecks,” Bible-thumpers, pro-life activists, and corporate interests (and you know there has been some creative politicking in the last 30 years when Bible-thumpers, rednecks, and corporate interests are now represented by the same party – how the hell did that happen?)

Well, guess what. Everyone wants to be happy. No one wants to suffer. We all have that in common. This is the oldest cliché in the book, but if you want to work for peace, you simply have to start with yourself. Whatever you need to do to pour a bucket of cold water on your rage, do it. As I mentioned in a recent post, one of my spiritual teachers told me that when you are angry or in any kind of extreme state, the only way to get to the other side is to pass through “neutral mind” first. These teachers also suggested the radical idea that it’s possible to work for change with a great deal of conviction and still maintain a peaceful mind—and a mind full of rage may be motivated, but it sure ain’t peaceful, and I know that my mind won’t be peaceful until I can get from extremely frustrated and agitated to neutral. I don't mean a mind without opinion, without conviction, without motivation – but peaceful in the sense of having equanimity. And we won’t have one iota of success at equanimity as long as we are afraid. Am I afraid? Shit, yes—but I’m working on it. It’s important to work on it – because the true opposite of Love is not Hate, but Fear. Fear is the root; it causes all the hate, frustration, anger and venom to arise. I believe that there is a way to exist in the same space as Fear and act sane in spite of it; and I will continue to try. But most of us just fling ourselves against the side of the box and try to find someone to blame, someone or something to eliminate, or - most dangerous -- some authority figure who represents "safety," to whom we will sacrifice anything from money to our civil rights so that the nasty fear will go away. And those who would take away our civil rights know this, and they know that if they keep us all scared and hating each other’s guts, they have us right where they want us.

In her book Practicing Peace in Times of War,” Pema Chödrön writes:

If we want there to be peace in the world, we have to be brave enough to soften what is rigid in our hearts, to find the soft spot and stay with it. We have to have that kind of courage and take that kind of responsibility. That’s the true practice of peace.”

So friends, let’s wake up. Have you never heard the phrase “Divide and Conquer?” Don’t let this polarization and hate continue. Don’t you get it? That’s the bulls-eye that both the Rove-Cheney axis and Al-Qaeda have been aiming for.

I'd better give up, then...

Quote of the Day (week? month?)

Found this quote from Zen teacher John Tarrant in his short article "Not Knowing is the most Intimate," featured in the new Shambala Sun's series of articles on relationship:

Most projects to change other people or ourselves are really projects about interior decoration for the prison. A spiritual practice is really about jail-breaking."




Wow.

Norbu

About 15 or 16 years ago, our medieval music ensemble Altramar decided that we needed to do some intensive group meetings to figure out what it was, exactly, that we wanted to do as a group, and what kind of direction we wanted to take artistically. We decided that we would have a formal meeting day – a retreat – and we would work together to come up with a mission statement.

We wanted to do this in a quiet, peaceful, neutral place – in other words, not at one of our homes, and definitely not crammed into some practice room at IU. However, we were graduate students, and we just didn’t have the money to rent any kind of retreat center (or even a room at a retreat center!)

At that time, in the early 1990s, Chris and I had been going for walks on weekends at the Tibetan Cultural Center in Bloomington. We used to circumambulate the stupa that was there, talk to the enormous shaggy dogs that patrolled the place, and once or twice we had stayed for prayers. Altramar had performed at a fundraiser for the Center as well, so they were familiar with us. And they kindly allowed us to use their beautiful main hall for our retreat.
The founder and director of the Tibetan Cultural Center (now the Tibetan Mongolian Buddhist Cultural Center) was a distinguished Tibetan lama named Thubten J. Norbu, also known to his students as Takster Rinpoche, elder brother of the Dalai Lama. Norbu was a world-renowned Tibetan scholar who taught for many years as Professor of Tibetan studies. Before the Chinese invasion of Tibet, Norbu had been the Abbot of Kumbum Monastery.

At intervals during Altramar’s retreat, this kind and amiable man came into our room and brought us Tibetan chai and cookies. At the time, I had no idea who he was. Well, I mean, I knew he was the Dalai Lama’s oldest brother, but I had no idea of his status in the Tibetan world, or in the world of Tibetan Buddhism. I had no idea about his history, his political activism, the trials and tribulations he had gone through after the Chinese invasion. I didn’t know that several years later I would sit with Coyotebanjo on the grounds of this Tibetan Cultural Center and take the Refuge Vow from the Dalai Lama with about 500 other people. I didn’t yet know anything about the history of the Tibetan Buddhist community in Bloomington (Americans, Mongolians, and Tibetans); the things they shared with each other; the difficult differences that existed or would exist between some of these groups; none of it. Not yet. All I knew was the experience I was having at that moment. I knew I was in a place that had a strong spiritual energy, and I was grateful for the generosity of this man, to allow us to use their hall and then, on top of it, to come in and chat with us and actually serve us and wait on us; because of course none of us really realized the extent to which it should have been the other way around.

Mr. Norbu died last Friday. He was 87, and had been in failing health for some time since a stroke several years ago. Over the next few days, scores of people from Bloomington came to pay their respects, only to find his body sitting on a bed in lotus position. Some offered him katas (ceremonial scarves) as one does when one takes a teaching from an honored Tibetan lama. On Thursday his sons and some of his students and volunteers carried him out to a brick and clay structure in back of the temple that now sits on the grounds of the Cultural Center, and he was cremated, while many monks from around the country chanted him into the Pure Land.

Confronting the Confrontational Culture

One of my colleagues this morning (a rainy Monday here) asked me if I had experienced an unusual amount of confrontational energy lately.

Yes, I have. And why do you suppose this is so? The political atmosphere in this country right now is like a powderkeg waiting to blow. The Left is sickened by Right and vice-versa, and everyone is sickened by the divisiveness of the whole thing. Meanwhile, every citizen who isn’t hiding in a cave is being assaulted with vituperation and hateful rhetoric (especially from the Right – sorry, but it’s true) every time we turn on a radio or TV, open up a newspaper, or have to suffer through a moronic rant happening at a nearby table in a Starbuck’s. Too many politicians are counting on the divisiveness to help them; they are attempting to capitalize on the Three Poisons of hatred, greed and attachment-revulsion as much as they possibly can. And we wonder why there’s a lot of confrontational energy generating?

The side-effect of this confrontational, divisive, thick energy is exhaustion. I have never, in my seven years of university teaching, seen this many students so completely wasted with exhaustion only 3 weeks after the semester has started. My courses are not any more difficult this semester than they have ever been, and I doubt anyone else’s are either. And yet they are pale, tired, and clearly suffering.

In a supreme example of “as above so below” and group Karma, these churning energies are manifesting at all kinds of levels. The Northwest passage has opened, hurricanes are howling in the western hemisphere, the headlines are even more sordid than usual, and the world seems fueled by anger and fear.

But every moment in history is both unique and not unique; we are a constantly changing continuum. Nothing, even the bad stuff, is permanent. Nothing is permanent.Not you, not the Republicans, not the Democrats, not the hurricanes. And although we are all impermanent, we are also all interconnected. So there IS something that we can do as individuals, and that is to change the energy one mind at a time. Whether that is possible or not is irrelevant – it is what must be done.

Put your work away; it will be there tomorrow. Turn the TV off, put the newspaper down, sit comfortably, and do whatever it takes to quiet your mind: repeat a mantra, count your breaths, pray…whatever works for you. We all have the Buddha-nature even when we are yelling at the TV. Let yourself contemplate the Six Perfections: Generosity, patience, ethics, effort, concentration/meditation, wisdom. Visualize how you would feel if tomorrow your thoughts were able to lean toward how you might support the political candidates of your choice instead of leaning towards how much you’d like someone to murder the other ones.

One of my Tibetan teachers told me once that it is not possible to go from an agitated mind to a happy mind without passing through the place where the mind is neither agitated nor happy, but is simply in a state of equanimity or equilibrium. We must all allow ourselves to do what we need to do in order to get there. If this takes time away from work, study, or any other aspect of the rat-race, so be it.
May all beings have happiness and the causes of happiness.
May all beings be free from suffering and the causes of suffering.
May all beings know the joy of true freedom.
May all beings have equanimity, free from attachment and aversion.

If I had a time machine...

If I had a time machine, and were told I would have 10 minutes to go for it, I would give up the chance to talk to any number of famous musicians and other luminaries if I could go back to August 28, 1963, the day that Martin Luther King Jr gave his “I Have a Dream" speech, and tell Dr King about the speech I am listening to right now.

BANG!

So I’m sitting at the junction of the Loop and Slide Road this morning, minding my own business and waiting for a break in the traffic so I can head north on Slide Road, when BANG! A huge jolt, with a simultaneous huge thundercrack of sound, scaring me half out of my wits, and I realize: holy crap, I have just been rear-ended.

It was not that serious. Of course, it was some youngster driving his Dad’s car, or at least the car was in his Dad’s name. I have no idea what distracted the kid; when I looked in the rear view mirror I didn’t see a cell phone, but he could have dropped it by then, or he could just as easily been fiddling around with the radio, or taken the ramp too quickly to stop, or he could have just been in La-La Land. Either way, he got the worst of it -- I have a Honda CRV, and that big spare tire on the rear end of the car saved my car’s bacon, but did quite a pitiful job on his; I had a teeny little dent behind the tire, but his right front lights were smashed and the hood and front fender bent up.

An interesting thing happens to me in unexpected situations like this. I’ve only been in one other wreck – MUCH more serious – but I observed the same thing. When it happens, I feel an initial surge of shock and intense anger. (Like today, when I whirled around and yelled “What the &*%$ is the matter with you!” although I doubt he heard that, unless he reads lips.) This dissipates in about 5-10 seconds, after which I feel pretty calm and go into a sort of “OK, now what needs to be done” mode. I don’t know if this would be true if I were bleeding all over the place or had a dead passenger, but fortunately, knock wood, I haven’t had to find that out.

When I got out of the car I didn’t yell at the kid or even chastise him; I just looked over both cars with him, took his information, gave him mine, and told him that “these things happen” and “we were both very lucky that no one got hurt,” and “It could have been much worse.” I did scold him a little and tell him that he needed to be more careful, but at that point I think he was just relieved that I wasn’t screaming at him, or that I wasn’t some cowboy with a shotgun. I didn’t call the police; I decided that it wasn’t serious enough to cause a traffic jam on the busiest street in Lubbock at 10:45 in the morning, so we just drove away. My guess is that I will probably hear from his insurance company, or his Dad, or both.

After that, I calmly drove away and did the following:

1) visited my mechanic to make sure I was correct that there was no damage;
2) called my insurance company to report that it had happened and tell them my side of the story, just in case Junior gets creative with his explanation of the incident;
3) at the insurance company’s request, filed a crash report with the police, who told me that I did everything correctly and it was not necessary to call the police in the case of a fender-bender where there were no injuries;
4) called the insurance company again to report that I didn’t have some of the information they asked for, and was assured that I had enough info and it was OK.

So basically it was not that big a deal. But during the course of all this, I realized that this “calm” thing that happens is actually not cool level-headedness. I think it’s some kind of protective biological thing. You may not be freaking out, but you’re actually not thinking completely clearly. I realized that although I had felt “in control” (hah), I was actually quite shaken up – for example, I didn’t notice what make of car the other guy was driving, and you’d think that would be a no-brainer. I only knew it was crumpled in the front, and it was red. I also realized that my neck hurt. Shit! How can I have whiplash when my car isn’t even damaged? I also felt very disoriented. That’s when I started to feel really upset. Coyotebanjo graciously offered to have lunch with me, and after that I went to the chiropractor (whom I had just seen, since I managed to give myself a slightly swollen disk sitting on the diabolical chairs at Viol Conclave wrestling with an instrument I didn’t know how to hold yet.) He re-adjusted everything and put my neck back where it was supposed to be quite handily. (Digression: I’ve heard there are bad chiropractors out there, just as there are bad doctors and everything else, but chiropractors have improved the quality of my life consistently since the first time I managed to yank my 3-year old arm slightly out of its little socket and old Dr Fiske stuck it back in; I thought he was Jesus. Over the subsequent years I watched him put my stonemason Dad back together dozens of times. I have had nothing but good luck with chiropractors ever since, including the two I see now, one of whom once brought Coyotebanjo from being an immobile agonized wreck lying on the floor to a condition of walking upright in the space of about 20 minutes.)

So I’m OK now; I’m sitting in a comfy chair, with an Advil doing its work. But the real thing that stays with you after an incident like this is how fast and how unexpectedly something really screwed up can happen to you. We all know this, of course, and see examples of it every day, but until it hits you on your own noggin, it doesn’t really sink in. We have all these great plans for our lives, and of course that’s not a bad thing, but at the same time we don’t know what the hell is going to happen to us from one moment to the next.

About 12 years ago I was in a serious car accident in Bloomington, Indiana. I was going down a main road at about 25-30 mph when some cub scout in his Firebird ran a stop sign on a side street and T-boned my car on the left. Fortunately I saw him shooting out from behind the trees just in time to swerve my car sharply to the right, so he hit me an angle instead of directly hitting the driver’s side. (The cops told me this quick-thinking move is what saved me from serious injury or worse.) The sound of two vehicles colliding like that is indescribable; it gave me nightmares for weeks, and brought the inhabitants of the neighborhood at 10th and Lincoln streaming out of their houses like ants. Both cars were totaled. After climbing out of the steaming wreck, I stood there bewildered; my car was a complete accordion, but I appeared to be suffering nothing more serious than a seat-belt welt, a torn dress, an aching toe and a jolting but not-serious bump to the head. My hands and my head hurt, but nothing else hurt. I could not believe that I could be uninjured. I was so flabbergasted by this that, having read one too many near-death-experience books, I actually walked over to the totaled car and looked into it to see if my dead body was in it (my Tibetan monk friends laughed uproariously when I told them I had done this.) When I realized I was in fact not dead, I opened the car door and started gathering up all the junk in the back seat, because I had a bunch of CDs in there, some of which I had borrowed and needed to return. At the time, I felt like I was being very level-headed; I realized later that it was crackers. (My car’s a steaming wreck; let’s check to see if our physical body is still in there, and oh by the way let’s get the CDs out.) When the paramedics came, they all rushed over to both cars; half of them started removing the poor bleeding (but OK) kid from the Firebird, and the others looked confused, and then ran over to me a said “Where’s the driver of the white car?” I said “I’m the driver of the white car,” and they just stared at me for a moment. One of them finally said (in disbelief) “You’rethe driver of the white car?” I guess I wasn’t the only one who was surprised. At that point they all went bananas with questions, but all I remember is saying “My hands hurt, and I think I bumped my head, but I’m not injured.” They tried to drag me to the hospital, but I steadfastly refused – can’t they see that I’m fine? They kept asking me my name, how old I was, and questions like “Who is the President?” while I stood there thinking “Why are they asking me all this crazy shit? The kid in the Firebird is covered with blood!” Finally, after the cops came and took all the reports, the cops put me and the driver of the Firebird in the squad car. I remember asking the kid if he was OK, and he said “Yes” and said he was sorry, and I said it was “OK.” I insisted on being taken back to work, which they did; when I got to work, Coyotebanjo ran over to me and said “What happened?” and that’s when I collapsed sobbing in a chair.

That night, I remember thinking that I could have been killed in a flash; and when the enormity of that had sunk in, so did the dharma lesson that comes with it, which is that any of us could die at any moment. I remember thinking that if I had been killed, and if in fact any part of our consciousness as-we-know-it survives death (a big if), I would not have regretted the way my life had gone. Even though I was a penniless graduate student, I had followed the path I wanted to follow, and I felt pretty good about the choices I had made and the things I had accomplished. I told several of my friends about this, and in fact one of them reminded me of it many years later after he had a health scare, and said that he had felt the same way.

The sad mystery of this is that it is no longer true, and I can’t quite articulate why. Oh, I still believe that my life for the most part has been fine, and very fortunate -- as I said in my “Great Wall of China” post, I had an experience up there that reminded me that I have had a lot of remarkable experiences, and enjoyed the fruits of a lot of good karma, and that I am deeply grateful for all of it and for the life I’ve been privileged to lead. But, whether because of more focused spiritual practice, or because more people I love have grown old and died (or didn’t grow old and died anyhow), I seem to feel a greater awareness now of all the things I could have / should have done, or said, or decided differently; of the consequences of my actions and choices, and of things that I have not done. And when I have an experience in which one is reminded of the tenuous nature of our existence, I seem to have the overwhelming inner response I’m not finished with this one yet. Why? Perhaps there is something urgent that still needs to be done; but at the same time, I feel quite convinced that most of us will still feel as though we’re “not finished” while lying on our death-beds. I only know of one way to deal with that conundrum, and that is to muddle along and try daily to remain mindful of the old Zen dictum: do not waste your life. That holds true whether you believe that you will simply become compost, or if you believe that in addition to becoming compost your "continuum of consciousness" will continue in some way. For that matter, if you believe the latter, you aren't finished, are you? And if you've taken the Bodhisattva vow to return and help other sentient beings "as long as space remains," you ain't gonna be finished for a long, long time.

Final Installment, China Trip Notes, Chapter 14: Beijing 05.27-28.2008

OK – it’s true; I didn’t finish posting all the China Trip Notes, having been waylaid by Massachusetts, family visits, and a desperate attempt to learn the rudiments of the viola da gamba (see previous post.) Since historically one of my character flaws is not finishing things that I start (see all previous references to the doctoral degree), I feel it would be good for the continued progress of my particular mental continuum to bring the Trip Notes to a close…so here they are, from the pub session we played at Paddy O’Shea’s to the last concert in at the PLA Military Band Hall. They should be a good lead up to your Olympic viewing activities later this week.

Beijing: 5.27.2008 Evening

There is an Irish pub in Beijing. That may sound a little weird, but having traveled around quite a bit, I am now pretty much convinced that there is probably an Irish pub in Ulan Batar and maybe even a few in Khazakstan or Antarctica. There’s even an Irish pub now within a 3 mile strike of my childhood hometown, and there isn’t even a damned Borders or Starbucks there yet.
Paddy O’Shea’s is a very attractive area of Beijing, with tree-lined streets. The front is open in a kind of Euro-boulevard-café style that permits folding back the doors so that the sidewalk tables and the interior are contiguous. It was a strange sight, in a way; suddenly, in the middle of this extremely foreign city, there’s a typical-looking Irish pub full of white people drinking Guinness and eating pub food, presto! as if we had just clicked the heels of our ruby slippers and said “There’s No Place Like Home.”

But enough about Oz, and down to the business at hand: Guinness and pub food. I don’t even like Guinness (I think I ordered a Newcastle Nut Brown), but oh Lord the food. Salad, by God, and chips, and Irish-style vegetable soup…at least one of the guys had fish and chips; someone had a club sandwich, I think. I don’t remember anything for about a half-hour after that except grateful hoovering of food that had not been soaked in oil or have a previous life as an invertebrate.

The publican was a gentleman who obviously had some skills in the pub business. He seemed to understand both the thing he wanted to create and the local environment, and how each would have to accommodate the other. He was incredibly friendly. The situation had enough of an Irish context that one felt secure in proceeding exactly the way you would in Ireland, and that everyone would have a set of perspectives in common; you felt as though you could relate, and as though Glen had that same respect for the music and the musicians; you trusted that he would take care of you the way an Irish barman would. And he did, from the food and drink to the posters he had made for our appearance there, featured prominently on the door.

We didn’t know exactly what to expect in terms of who might show up. Before we left for the trip, we had found a clip on YouTube that suggested a very high caliber of music was being made at Paddy O’Shea’s; it later transpired that the players on YouTube ringers brought in from Ireland for Paddy’s Day. On the evening that we were there, it was mostly the three of us playing. We had located ourselves at a table near the front of the building, but it wasn’t an ideal placement, because we had our backs to the sidewalk (no corner tables were available.) But it was fine. We played typical Irish session music (jig and reels, mostly); it was too noisy to play songs, especially as it got very crowded after awhile (a large contingent of our Band Student Fellow Travelers eventually showed up for the festivities, as we had hoped they would.) There was also a variety of people who had made a special effort to come hear the music. Among the interesting folks we met:

1) A Scottish gentleman who was a professor and a consultant for a Chinese education agency. Coyotebanjo noticed him singing along, and it turned out that he was Glasgow-born of a Donegal singing family. He had come especially as a result of the advertising Glen had done.

2) A young Californian and his Chinese wife, with several of their friends, sitting at the table next to us. They were in the embassy district because they were headed to the American Embassy the next day to try to get her a visa so she could visit the US with him. They were anxious about this impending meeting; and, perhaps in an attempt to relieve the pressure, became drunk as lords.

3) A fellow from the US Embassy, who had tried to book us for an embassy reception on the same night as our concert, but failing that, had come along to listen (and brought reinforcements in the form of several young female friends who attempted a few Riverdance moves.) Mind you, we only knew he played because he approached some of the Band Students present, and asked if they thought we would mind if he were to ask to play. Turned out he was a whistle player. If I remember correctly, there was some problem with the whistle, because Coop ended up loaning him one of the extra D whistles he’d brought. He played enthusiastically along with us, and it became quite clear that he wanted to sing as well. We agreed upon a song we both knew (he knew mostly pub songs) and whoa! didn’t he have the loudest, most piercing, huge Clancy Brothers tenor voice you’ve ever heard. You could hear him over the entire lot of the hollering masses in the bar.

In all, it was a lovely evening and pretty much a success; I certainly think the Band contingent greatly enjoyed themselves. (They were probably so elated over having fish and chips and real beer that we could have sung Happy Birthday all night and they would have been content!). As we were leaving, a woman came up to me and told me that she had loved the music, that it had taken her back to Galway and reminded her of the music at the Crane (for those who are not familiar with the whole Irish music culture, this is extremely high praise). She asked me if we’d ever played there; I said that the guys had done some sessions there. Turned out that she lived in Australia for a long time, and I don’t remember what had brought her to China – all I remember is that she then asked me my name, and it transpired that we both had the same first name; we both marveled over that coincidence.

Our driver, a Chinese fellow named John with excellent English, had assured us that we could call him for a pick-up and drive back to the hotel “even if it was very late.” Further questioning about “how late” seemed to suggest that anytime was OK, so we took him at his word and called, although it was midnight. He did come to pick us up promptly, and although I had the distinct vibe that we may have pushed the envelope on “how late” was acceptable, he was perfectly courteous about it – and back to the hotel we went.


Beijing, 5.28.2008: Tian’anmen Square and the Forbidden City



Reflections on Tian’anmen Square, with polemic

The first week of June 1989, I was driving from Massachusetts to Indiana with an early music friend. We were on our way back from an early music camp. Every time we turned on the radio, more horrible reports came in about the Chinese government’s violent crackdown on student protests in Tian’anmen Square, Beijing. The protests, by students, intellectuals, labor, and others calling for democratic reform, had been gaining steam for a couple of months before that. The matter came to a head the first week of June, when the movement was crushed with great force by the Chinese army.

This is the incident that most over-35 Americans think of instantly when someone says “Tian’anmen Square.” The image of that defiant student became world-famous, and is emblazoned on the collective memory.

But today, May 28, 2008, I am standing in Tian’anmen Square, and Coop has just asked our tour guide where the “world-famous picture of the student standing in front of the tank” was taken, since he wants to take a photo. She has absolutely no idea what he is talking about. She has never seen this picture he describes.

It’s interesting to examine one’s first reaction to this. It’s a kind of knee-jerk American guns-up reaction: "of course, the Commies have suppressed this information from their people." But is our guides’ lack of knowledge genuine? Do they really not know about the 1989 protests, or have they been trained that they must under all circumstances avoid any discussion of this event? Many Americans would assume the latter, but I would just as quickly believe the former. Why? Because when I teach History of Rock and Roll, and I play Neil Young’s “Four Dead in Ohio,” I have to explain Kent State to my American students. A sobering majority of them have never seen the 1970 photographic image of the young Kent State co-ed screaming while her friends, protesting the Vietnam War, are shot down by the National Guard. In fact, not only have they never seen the picture -- they don’t know it happened. They are shocked. That photo was also famous, and I would have thought that it was also emblazoned on the collective memory. Our tour guide’s perplexity, just like my student’s lack of information, is a wake-up call: we cannot continue to allow the suppression of history. We cannot stand around and point the finger at places like China while our own students barely know that a bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. We can not, we must not continue to allow the suppression of history as it is happening here, in our own country.

End of polemic.

Today, Tian’anmen Square is full of tourists, Chinese people queue-ing up to see Mao’s Tomb, and vendors selling hats and watches whose face features images of a hand-waving Chairman Mao. (I wonder if anyone during the Cultural Revolution could have imagined that scenario in their wildest dreams.) They descend on our tour group as we stand there. Coop buys several Mao watches, and when he is finished haggling, another vendor comes up and tries to sell him three more. (As Coop said, “He needed those three, he might need three more!”)

This absolutely huge, paved area is clearly a source of civic pride to the Beijing-ers. At 100 acres, it’s the world’s largest open-air urban public square. We saw a whole team of workers whose job is apparently to weed and clean out the cracks between the squares of pavement (think about this when you have a day when you hate your job.) Our tour guides herded all of us into a group for a photo shot, and I noticed that there were other groups involved in this same activity. It became apparent that the organized tour companies bring their large groups here for the “group photograph.” In the case of our company, they develop the photo and put into a nicely bound tourist booklet which you can order and pick up the next day for about 14 bucks. (Of course I bought one.)

At the end of the square is the entrance to the Forbidden City. In fact, “Tian’anmen” means Gate of Heavenly Peace, so Tien’anmen Square is the Square that leads up to the Forbidden City gate. Above the arched opening that leads through the gate into the Forbidden City is a huge picture of Mao. We spent some time trying to get humorous photos posed as if the picture of Mao was between Coop’s thumb and forefinger (the place had so much historical import, and such heavy vibes, that a little comic relief was really welcome, for me at least.)



The Forbidden City

From the DK Eyewitness Guide to China:

Forming the very heart of Beijing, the Forbidden City, officially known as the Palace Museum (Gugong), is China’s most magnificent architectural complex and was completed in 1420. The huge palace is a compendium of Imperial architecture and a ;asting monument of dynastic China from which 24 emperors ruled for nearly 500 years. The symbolic center of the Chinese universe, the palace was the exclusive domain of the imperial court and dignitaries until the 1920s. It was fully opened to the public in 1949.
I must begin by admitting that by this point in the trip, I was pretty much totally overwhelmed, and it was difficult to soak in a lot of new input. That being said, the Forbidden City is a marvel. It inspires some interesting emotions: like a lot of the Hapsburg extravaganzas that one sees in Vienna, one is sort of torn between admiration and wonder for the artisans and laborers (a million plus, apparently) who hauled rare and precious wood and stone from all over China to create it – and disgust over the fact that it was all built for one very small group of privileged aristocrats to enjoy. The “palace” is actually a complex of 980 (!) buildings, all containing a number of treasures. Everywhere you turn there is some new wonder – carved walls, exquisitely painted exterior screens, stairways, statues, sweeping courtyards, gorgeous gardens.

If by some weird stroke of fate I should ever return to Beijing, I will go back to the Forbidden City by myself, or maybe with one or 2 other traveling friends, and I will go in the early morning and take my time seeing the whole thing. I say this because it was so incredibly beautiful and awe-inspiring that having to whiz through it at such a breakneck pace was actually a rather frustrating experience for me. It was incredibly crowded, it was extremely hot, and we were absolutely rushed through in a big group. There were 60-something of us trying to follow the tour guide, and even with her little flag held high, I couldn’t always see her. I also didn’t really want to stay with the group, but at the same time I didn’t want to lose them either. I couldn’t see into any of the buildings because I couldn’t see over anyone’s head, and there was no time to really investigate anything. The tour included no time at all to see the gorgeous garden at the end, and very little time at all to even browse in the gift shop (which normally isn’t really a big deal for me, but with only one day left, I had been hoping to grab a couple more presents.) Thank God Coop took a whole slew of outrageously good pictures of it; they have really helped me remember how amazing it was, even if I was zooming through it at the time.

The Tour Continues...


Our next event was a ride in the bus over to the Olympic Village. This was amazing, and I’m glad that they brought our buses over there so that we could gawk at it. Architecture freaks will have a field day with this: the Chinese have gone all out. The Bird’s Nest Stadium, which is literally shaped like a bird's nest, holds about 100,000 people. These pictures simply can’t portray how massive it is. The swim stadium looks like a giant luminous blue rectangular cube that has been bubble-wrapped.

There’s another very striking building, a high-rise actually shaped like the Olympic Torch, that will house the athletes; this caused quite a stir among all of us. They gave us a few minutes outside the buses to gawk at the Olympic Village and take photos (all from a distance – not allowed to go in yet). It is really quite magnificent – but I have to admit that none of it can solve the problem of how on earth the athletes are going to breathe in China’s staggering air pollution. That remains to be seen.

After leaving the Olympic area, we were escorted into a large Teahouse. This is not something that we were expecting; we knew we were going to have lunch, but that’s all. For those who are headed to China: be aware of this when signing on for guided tours – I feel quite certain that the tour companies have agreements with certain establishments that count on tourist trade, and you may very well be spirited away to a silk factory, pearl market, or other consumer opportunity that was not mentioned on the day’s itinerary. I’m not saying that these excursions aren’t enjoyable – they are, but you need to know what you’re getting into.

This particular Teahouse had nothing to do with the actual eating-establishment teahouses we encountered, and is actually a large organized entertainment for western tourists. It’s a large structure with many rooms, including several that are dedicated to demonstrations of the traditional preparation of various kinds of tea, and a kind of “tea tasting” demo. You are greeted by the “Ni haos” (hellos) of a huge gaggle of gorgeous young women, all decked out in pink traditional-looking silk costumes. They are very charming and funny, and give a very entertaining tea-brewing and tea-tasting presentation, in which you are shown the traditional and quite complicated methods of preparing cha. After, you are given the opportunity (of course) to buy the teas that you have tasted (which you do, even though they are basically price-gouged for the tourists.) You are then whisked into the main store (more shameless consumerism), and then escorted downstairs for a meal. Just as you’re about to partake, music starts, and to our surprise, it’s a floor show, complete with costumed dancers doing various ethnic dances, songs, etc. It’s a little bit Disneyland, and a little surreal – but if you just go along with the game and accept that it’s all aimed at the western tourists, (which you are, after all), it’s actually quite entertaining. (And the food was very good.)

We would then have been whisked away to the Pearl market, but the Band Director wisely explained to the tour guides that we all had an important concert that night, and it was extremely important to give us all an opportunity to rest. I personally also needed some time to absorb all the experiences – it was, in hindsight, an awful lot of input for one day.

Beijing, 5.28.2008: The Last Concert

The final concert of the tour took place that night, in the People’s Liberation Army Military Band Hall in Beijing.
You know, it would have been easy, as an American Buddhist with several Tibetan teachers, to be a little freaked out by playing this particular gig. In fact, when I first found out that I was going to China, I told one of my Tibetan teachers that I was having ambivalent feelings about the trip because of the politics. He told me that I shouldn’t be concerned with the politics; that I was “not playing for the Chinese Army,” but that I was playing for people, for sentient beings, and all sentient beings want to be happy, and all people want to be free from suffering. And, to the extent that music can lessen people’s suffering, at least temporarily, playing music for people was a good thing to be doing, anywhere.

Well, my dharma lesson turned out to be this: hello, you are playing for the Chinese army. More on the dharma lesson below, but first, the tale of the concert.

The tour organizer was clearly excited and not a little nervous about this; he was dressed more formally than the other concerts, and he told us that there would be various dignitaries there, and some very prominent Chinese musicians. He was obviously quite concerned that everything be perfect.

The hall was big, but not huge. It was beautifully kept, as you would figure for a military band hall, and it was acoustically by far the best hall we played in. It’s a fantastic performance space. They put an ambient mic on our small acoustic group, as usual, but we barely needed it – the sound carried really well. They had coffee and snacks backstage for the players.

Just as we had done in the 2nd and 3rd concert, we three Irish music persons played out in the lobby before the concert. We drew a very large and appreciative crowd, including one guy who video’d the whole thing on his cell phone. As happened on the other evenings, many people asked about the instruments; they were always especially interested in the wooden flutes.

There were a lot of musicians in the audience. One of the notables was a very gracious older woman who, it turned out, had been the first woman to hold the rank and post of Conductor of the People’s Liberation Army Military Band. Another was the current conductor of the PLA Military Band. The “Small World” award for the evening went to an older American ex-pat who came to the concert by himself. He introduced himself to us and told us that he used to teach at a large University in the Midwest. When he found out that the three of us in the Irish group were all affiliated with Big Flat Place University, he told us that before he was in the Midwest he had taught for many years at a university that is a 3-hour drive away from us – next door, by Texas standards. Now what in hell are the chances of that? One American comes to the concert, and he used to teach at Neighbor of Big Flat Place. As if that weren’t enough, he and Coop started exchanging names of mutual acquaintances, and they discovered that the fellow had known the father of Coop’s best friend. Six thousand miles from home…

The concert was a great success. The students and faculty performed brilliantly, the audience was enthusiastic, and there was a lot of good energy flying around. The audience loved the Irish set, and clapped along enthusiastically. The band did their two encores – the Stars and Stripes Forever, and the PLA March. However, this time they invited the director of the PLA Marching Band to come up and conduct the UK Band for the PLA March He was a very dramatic conductor and he went for it, and the crowd went crazy.

Afterwards, our tour guides told us that the concert was very emotional for the audience, and that during the PLA March in particular, there were tears in the eyes of many of the audience members. I understand. How can we overestimate the power of music to bring people together? From my point of view, I was still playing for a bunch of individuals – people who want to be happy, too, and don’t want to suffer. God knows many members of that audience had recently suffered, since we were told that most of them had spent the previous week pulling dead bodies out of the earthquake rubble in Szechuan Province. Sure, they’re soldiers -- is the average American soldier responsible for some oil baron’s decision to start a war in Iraq? We aren’t catering to policymakers here – we’re playing music for men and women, probably yanked out of high school either because they had to do compulsory service or because they had the talent to play in the military bands, and now they’ve been pulling bodies of children out of demolished buildings. You damn betcha I’m going to play for them. You know, when I got back to the US, I had the opportunity to tell the same aforementioned Tibetan teacher about this experience, and how we had in fact ended up playing music for military people as well as civilians, and about the fact that many of them had spent the previous 2 weeks doing earthquake rescue. I told him that it reminded me of exactly what he had told me, and what the Buddha had said – that all beings suffer, and all beings want to be free from suffering. He told me that this was indeed a very great dharma teaching.

After the concert, we were given a huge banquet in the Military Band’s Mess Hall. We were seated at various tables. It was the usual set-up: communal food placed on round revolving serving trays (and the food was excellent.) In addition, on each table there were 4 or 5 large bottles of Chinese beer. But wait – one each table there was also one bottle of (you guessed it) some kind of white baijiu, Coop’s so-called Chinese Bang Bang. He and Coyote instantly introduced this to the percussion and brass guys, who choked it down (several times), defending their manhood bravely.

Well, this party got very merry very fast. There were two things we didn’t know until later: 1) This is the hooch the Chinese soldiers give to their young recruits as a sort of mild hazing, and 2) our Chinese hosts were probably shocked that a large number of the American females drank it too – apparently that’s not polite company behavior. Oh well. I can’t choke down the stuff, so I was sober as a judge; and no one else had to do anything more complicated than sleep on a 13 hour flight the next day, so all was well.

In all, the night was a great success, and a great way to end this extremely unusual voyage.

Postscript

The story of the journey home is pretty straightforward. We were totally exhausted.
We left from the new International terminal at the Beijing airport, which like Shanghai was huge, incredibly modern, architecturally fascinating and impressive. We got through ticketing and security without much hassle. Coyote, Coop and I spent most of the wait in the Starbucks, which was very nice (and where else could you get a Red Bean scone, but a Starbucks in Beijing?)

The flight was long and incredibly uncomfortable. We were in the LAST seat in the airplane, and the flight had several periods of pretty considerable turbulence. Thank god for Dramamine. (I took a second hit somewhere above the Pacific, and I don’t even remember last leg of the flight.) We got to The Big Flat PlaceThursday evening.

We were home.