This afternoon was the last day of the Christmas holidays, unexpectedly sunny, crisp and breezy. After the departure of some visitors, Robert and I were about to go out for a walk and some tea and cake, when he suddenly pointed to a patch of light on the wall behind me. The reflections from the garden of waving branches and the wrought iron of a clothes post were casting flickering shadows onto the wall in an astonishing fashion, almost like a silent movie. Robert grabbed his iPhone and captured some video. “You could use that for a poem-film, “ I remarked, thinking about the beautiful short videos some friends had made recently.

When we got home from our walk, I began improvising to the footage on the piano, while Robert listened and wrote.  Within twenty minutes we both had something. Remarkably, when Robert read his poem aloud, it was exactly the right length. He recorded it, synchronized it with the video, and then I recorded my part on top onto a different track so that we could experiment with individual volume and colour.

I’m not a recording engineer, but I know what works when I hear it. In this case, I knew we needed to take the ‘edge’ off the sound on both tracks. It took a little whole to find the right effect for the piano part. It wasn’t until Robert added a little reverb that it harmonized with the imagery. It sounded as if it had been recorded many years ago in a dusty, cavernous ballet studio on a slightly tinny upright. Perfect.

We both could hear that Robert’s voice was also cutting through the texture in a way that sounded too immediate, modern and dynamic. When he equalized it, using an effect called RCA Victor 1947, it all came together.

Result: a film-poem in one evening. If only making art could be this easy and graceful every time.

“No Triumph, No Tragedy” is the name of a program on BBC Radio 4 where a well-known blind radio presenter, Peter White, interviews various celebrities who have also had to deal with physical challenges. The program is enthralling–Peter White is an excellent interviewer and his subjects are equally fascinating. So why did that title offend me so much when I first heard it? What on earth could he mean, I thought, “No Triumph, No Tragedy”?

I’ve been dealing with a health challenge for 13 years now that brought my career as a concert pianist to an abrupt halt, and I’ve taken it for granted so far that I’m moving from tragedy to triumph. It’s my raison d’être, you could say. What on earth would my life’s journey be about, if not moving from tragedy to triumph? All the personal development work I’ve done has emphasized that trajectory. The people I’ve met, the courses I’ve taken, have focused on turning your life around, or moving towards some idealized vision. And the alternative is too scary and sad to contemplate.

Or is it? I’ve already been learning that those things that have happened to me were not necessarily tragedies. The Oxford English Dictionary defines a tragedy as “an unhappy or fatal event, a dreadful calamity or disaster… especially a sorrowful end…”.  But who is to decide whether an event is unhappy? Who is to decide if an end is sorrowful?  Surely only the protagonist of the story can decide what their story is.

For example, the death of our baby son, James,  led to Robert re-engaging with poetry seriously, which brings great joy and fulfillment to his life. I’m not sure what James’s death brought me. That’s where I get stuck. It brought me greater strength and endurance to deal with pain (my own and others’). That doesn’t sound very inspiring. But maybe it is. It has also brought me great isolation, as I have had difficulty being around others with children, or even telling others (with or without children) what happened to me. Yet isolation has brought with it introspection, a chance to face my own wounds, demons, inadequacies.

Maybe some days, triumph is just getting out of bed in the morning.

Sometimes I don’t believe my own story. Sometimes I think that surely I must be well–I look well–and I will wake up tomorrow morning back to my old self. The idea of tragedy frightens me because of its “sorrowful end”.  Do I want to turn my tragedy into a triumph because I’m afraid of the alternative?

What really constitutes a tragedy? Perhaps it is failing to gain any understanding or find any meaning in difficult circumstances. So I may be the only one who can tell if my life is a tragedy. It’s not possible to tell from the outside.

And what constitutes a triumph? The earliest definition reads as follows: “The entrance of the victorious commander with his army and spoils in solemn procession into Rome”. Also, “a signal success or achievement, pomp, splendor, glory, magnificence.” That sounds like a lot of pressure to me. What I notice about these definitions of triumph is that they are about a signal success, a public festivity. Yet I realize that, just as tragedy cannot be inferred from outside, neither can triumph. And just as only the individual can know if their life is a tragedy, perhaps only they can decide, equally, if their life has been a triumph.

So has my life been a triumph? One voice says, “Yes, it’s all about inner victories, and you have had many.” Another voice says, “No, what do you really have to show for your life?” And a third says, “Don’t put that kind of pressure on me for the benefit of others.”

That last voice is really the key. How much of my life is a struggle simply because I’m trying to make it pleasing to others? I don’t think I realized that I needed to ask that question until this very minute. And the answer that comes is: a great deal. I think I’ve been attempting to prove something to myself and to others, and it’s exhausting. What if I could be more inner-directed and see what happens?

I’m afraid I wouldn’t get anything done. Well, if all that counts is what’s happening inside, maybe that doesn’t matter. A sense of relief comes over me. And then nervousness–wouldn’t I just be more isolated?

It’s about acceptance. What if I could accept my circumstances fully? Maybe the isolation comes from the disconnect between how I feel, and what I am willing to show or let others see. If I could fully accept myself, I wouldn’t mind what others see.

I forgive myself for judging myself as tragic. I forgive myself for judging that my life is not a triumph. How can I possibly know what it is? Can’t I just let it be?

Photo: Jeremy Burger

“Humans are the only animals that will follow an unstable pack leader.”

-       Cesar Millan, ‘The Dog Whisperer’

How many times have I followed an ‘unstable pack leader’? Try: My whole life! I bet I’m not alone either. Ever since I heard that quote a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been pondering what it means, and whether it matches my own experience.

Cesar defines a stable pack leader as someone who is what he calls ‘calm-assertive’, present in the moment, balanced, and consistently providing clear rules and boundaries. For dogs these are “exercise, discipline and affection… in that order!” He asserts that dogs immediately know whether someone is in that state by their energy, and can’t be fooled by words or the outer symbols of power that persuade us mere humans. I’ve recently become a fan of his show for that reason— to see him modeling that energy, and to learn how to manifest it more in my own life.

Looking back to my teenage years at a selective girls’ school, I remember teachers who commanded my respect. Although they seemed a little strict initially, they often also turned out to be great fun. In my mind, they were much taller than me, although I was a gangly teenager and must have been 5’10”. No one risked being cheeky to them. I knew that they were in charge. I felt safe: to learn, to have fun and to be protected from bullies— the kind who went for me, or the kind who went after them.

Not all teachers were as effective. When I heard that 4B had locked Miss Dunstan in the stationery cupboard one day, I was horrified and enthralled. I was so sorry for her, so appalled at their daring, so uncomfortable with the reversal of the status quo. With “Lord of the Flies”–type instinct and cunning, they had sensed her weakness, and gone after her en masse. She didn’t last much longer at the school after that.

Why do we follow an unstable pack leader, if it is against our animal nature? When I worked for Maria (not her real name), a singing teacher on a summer course in Germany many years ago, it was clear to me by the second day that she was crazy and a vicious bully. What kept me there, despite levels of stress that made me physically sick within the first week? The unwillingness to speak up for fear of bringing her ire down on myself? My discomfort with breaking my agreement with her and seeming unprofessional? The difficulty and expense of finding my own way home? Yes, all of the above… along with a conditioned belief that if someone else is upset, it must be my fault, and that I need to placate them at any cost.  I went out of my way to be pleasant to Maria…. yet Cesar doesn’t recommend showing affection when a dog (or in this case, a human) is unstable, as it only nurtures that state of mind.

Rationalization is another obstacle to observing clearly. For example, we may have a bad experience with someone, but decide that it is just a temporary aberration. When I was a child, my mother instilled the habit of looking for the good in others. Wonderful. What she didn’t know how to teach me was that some people are not well-intentioned at times, and how to deal with them when they are not. So, I was constantly trusting other kids, only to be disappointed by some of them time and again. On the other hand, men were not to be trusted… unless they were doctors. So I was too nervous to date, but unsuspecting when my osteopath made an unwelcome move on me in the middle of a session.

What if we could open our minds and just observe what is, without trying to categorize it neatly? For example, Rachel is kind and has a bad temper at times, or Mark is loving and has a tendency to be unfaithful. Not one or the other. Both. When we move out of a child-like desire to separate everything into good or bad, black or white, we can begin to open up to being present and learning to trust our instincts.

I’ve experienced several types of unstable pack leaders. There’s the neurotic or borderline leader, who is all saccharine sweetness one moment and a howling banshee the next. There’s the conflict-averse pack leader, who is unwilling to deal with issues amongst the pack. There’s the weak leader who wants everyone to like them, and will do anything to achieve that.  There’s the impulsive leader, always changing their mind. There’s the passive-aggressive leader who won’t tell you what to do, only point out what they don’t like once you’ve done it. And there’s the icy cold leader who is impersonal and punitive.

Luckily, I’ve also been fortunate enough to work with and for stable pack leaders- those who are willing to be calm-assertive, present, balanced, with clear boundaries. Mrs. McGarrigle, my second-grade teacher always kept control of our class, but also organized games and fun activities, and gave out treats at the end of the week to the class team with the best track record (exercise, discipline and affection work on little kids too!) Tom, my Alexander Technique teacher, peaceful, compassionate without ever being sentimental, clear about his role, available in the moment for whatever was needed. Mrs. Martin, our English teacher in high school, who despite being an eccentric individual who would never say “Good morning, Miss Ashton” when we all greeted the principal in unison at Assembly each day, and who told us all to read Mao’s “Little Red Book”, was a rock of stability in the midst of a sea of hormones. And my spiritual teacher, constant, strong, motivated by love, willing to be present with whatever shows up.

And so I find myself beginning to form an idea of what is needed to evaluate a stable pack leader, both from the challenging experiences I have had, and the splendid examples I have found. Here are my principles so far:

-       Tune in to your intuition.

-       Be open to seeing what is.

-       Be cautious about packs and their rules.

-       Be willing to walk away rather than staying involved with something detrimental.

-       Be honest about what is true for you, even if it is uncomfortable.

-       Don’t give over your authority to others. Be willing to take direction, but always check inside whether it lines up.

-       Don’t placate bullies- it only reinforces their behavior.

-       Be centered, calm-assertive, balanced, consistent.

-       Maintain clear boundaries (for example, business versus personal)

I realize that I’ve set high standards for myself here, and it may take a long time to learn to abide by these principles, but, honestly, I can’t wait to start!

My new blog post over at Music Teachers Blog is about boosting your creative energy. It’s primarily aimed at musicians, but there are some ideas anyone with a creative bent can enjoy too. I’d love to hear your ideas…

Sounds fun, huh? The plot is the usual: boy meets girl, boy and girl go through many trials and tribulations, boy and girl end up getting married. With one major difference. When Deb and Chris walk down the aisle at the end of the musical, they will in fact be legally married. That beautiful singer who played the minister? She’s the real deal.

Deb and Chris are hosting a blog on their journey towards marriage in the run-up to this wild extravaganza, and this week, on the sixth anniversary of our marriage, they asked me to write a guest entry about what marriage means to me.

Vaslav Nijinsky

Last week, I saw an amazing article in the New York Times, describing the creative relationship between an experienced and adventurous choreographer and a young and talented actor with cerebral palsy. Tamar Rogoff, the choreographer, saw the actor, Gregg Mozgala, in a Shakespeare play and immediately knew that she wanted to work with him to create a dance piece. He, understandably, with muscular and neurological challenges, particularly in his legs, had not considered himself a dancer until this point, but was intrigued by her offer and agreed to the challenge.

The miraculous part of this experiment has been the changes they have wrought together in Gregg’s body- more dramatic changes in eight months than he had achieved in twelve years of physical therapy. For example, after walking on his toes his entire life, his heels now touch the ground, allowing him to walk normally. He is now aware of, and using, parts of his body that he had no relationship with before. And, most wonderfully, he is becoming a dancer, creating a piece called “Diagnosis of a Faun”. The first performance takes place on Dec. 3 at La MaMa Annex in the East Village, New York City.

I wrote to Gregg to congratulate him on this incredible achievement, and to ask whether he considered the creation of art to be part of the healing process, to which he replied emphatically, “Yes.” And this “yes” makes me curious about my own healing process. What if I could heal some of the old patterns of tension, contraction and pain, which prevent me from leading an active life and playing my beloved piano? What if I could do this through movement, through a creative process, so that rather than just repeating a series of mindless physical exercises, each movement had a purpose I believed in? It’s an intoxicating idea, one that speaks to me on a deep level. My next step is to contact the choreographer. Wish me luck!

Photo Courtesy of Warner Brothers

Recently, I went to see the movie “Where the Wild Things Are”, not quite sure whether to trust this expanded and re-envisioned version of the classic picture book, since it had received mixed reviews. It was tremendous. Grounded in the mundane life of a real little boy, Max, when the movie takes us across the sea to “Where the Wild Things Are”, it convinces us to believe in the magical world he discovers, even as it is fantastical in nature. Strange, adult-sounding monsters who behave like children become his friends, and Max begins to create a new kingdom fresh from his imagination.

What I didn’t expect is how powerful an experience the movie would be for me. When Max and the Wild Things created a rumpus, or howled plaintively at each other, I felt an echoing desire to take part. I left the theater moved and provoked, with memories surfacing of the wild energy I had experienced as a child and how it had gradually been socialized out of me.

Looking back, I could now remember the early tantrums at the piano, gradually suppressed, as I became a dutiful child who stopped creating her own music and surrendered to scales, exercises and the compositions of the Great and the Good. I remembered the child who fought back against bullies in the playground, even pulling hair and biting, becoming the ‘goody-goody’ with braids who strove to be teacher’s pet. And I remembered the mischievous small girl who loved to play “Doctors and Nurses”, becoming the teenager who was too scared of boys to date. I sometimes wonder if my long-term challenges with pain and inflammation arose through becoming disconnected with this essential part of myself.

As Mary Pipher described graphically in her groundbreaking study of adolescent girls, “Reviving Ophelia”, many girls experience similar changes on their way to adulthood, moving from confident, spunky kids who believe they can do anything, to teenagers beset by anxiety and lack of confidence, whose main goal seems to be to please their peers.

How do we reconnect with our wildness? How do we become free to create? For me, this is an ongoing journey of experimentation, which has so far included free dance, therapy,  art,  play,  writing,  improvisation workshops, spending time in nature, learning spiritual practices…..and the odd howl!

What about you?

Having seen “The Story of the Weeping Camel” and “The Cave of the Yellow Dog”, Byambasuren Davaa’s engrossing and eye-opening docudramas about life as a Mongolian nomad, I was intrigued to hear that “Tulpen”, a movie about a family of Kazakh nomads, directed by Sergei Dvortsevoy, was screening at our local cinema. This 2008 film won many international awards including one at Cannes,  but my main reason for going was my fascination with nomadic life, particularly in Asia.

Boni, Asa’s suitably-named, bone-headed friend zooms across the steppe in an old jeep papered with pin-ups from girly magazines, and dreams of the big city. But Asa, home from a stint in the Russian Navy, wants nothing more than to find a wife and become shepherd of his own flock. He comes to live with his sister, married to a shepherd and with three children, living in a yurt in a near-perpetual sandstorm, many miles from the nearest village. The main plot line of the film centers around Asa’s attempts to win the hand of Tulpan, the only girl of marriageable age in the area.

The Kazakh steppes are the most inhospitable landscape I’ve seen on film– endless parched plains covered with a few inches of scrub here and there, where tornadoes of sand whip up from one moment to the next, and there is no sign of water. Yet families of nomads with flocks of sheep, camels and donkeys live here, eking out a living, creating home in the middle of nowhere.

Although the film never leaves the steppes, whispers of the Western world drift through– magazine pictures of state-of-the-art solar-paneled Japanese houses, a poster of the wedding portrait of Prince Charles and Lady Diana (he’s American, according to Boni), and the Kazakh State Radio broadcasts that his sister’s oldest boy memorizes compulsively. For a while, the only music we hear comes from the one single Boni appears to own, Boney M’s “By the Rivers of Babylon”, which he turns to full volume as he races across the steppe. A more incongruous song is hard to imagine.

Who can blame any of them for desiring a life in the city, as they wrestle camels and donkeys in the blinding storm, and try to save lambs born in some of the worst conditions imaginable? The nomadic life that is documented here is swiftly dying out, as young people stream into the cities, drawn by seductive images and fantasies of an easier life.

Yet, strangely, I came to envy them. The mother cradling her baby between her knees and singing him a lamp-lit lullaby moved me more than any recorded music, because I realized that what she has is so precious. How many of us sing at work or play any more? How many of us are even comfortable with the sound of our own voices?

Her nine-year-old daughter sings constantly also, sings to be seen and heard in a male-dominated world, leans her back against the yurt and sings her defiance into the wind.

Towards the end of the movie, the family dismantle their yurt and stack all their belongings in a cart. When they move on, nothing is left by a swiftly disappearing circle in the sand.

He knows what’s important— the purity, the essence of the music. There’s nothing like not being able to play the piano for forty years to make one appreciate each sound. Each opportunity to create beauty. There’s no excuse, no need for artifice. Each moment has purpose.

Years of absence and silence have refined the desire to create sound. Decades of trying and failing to regain health, prestige, career have bruised and beaten the ego to a pulp. Only the heart of the music remains, as only the soul of man survives.

Now he wants to play Bach, Chopin, Schubert. Why play music that is purely virtuosic? He learned long ago that maximum notes per second are not where it’s at.

“Before, I was just a two-handed piano player,” he says. “What happened to me has expanded my life, my awareness, my humanity.”

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xgyz0XqDEEA