The world will keep you waiting

Somehow I never seem to write my blogs while sitting in one place - a form of mass transit & my notebook & pen are the magic ingredients. This time I'm hurtling through the sky at 813 kilometers an hour, 12,000 meters above Canada - or is it Michigan? - in a winged metal tube. I've been in this particular tube for 8 hours, still an hour and a half left before touching down in Memphis, Tennessee. This week I'll be visiting family and catching up with my husband, who has been on tour with his quartet for over 2 weeks.

I was just listening to one of my favorite songs on my iPod, "The World Keeps You Waiting" by the New York Voices. Ever since they performed with the Luxembourg Philharmonic last season, I've been a fan of their classy, artistic, beautifully executed renditions of original and arranged material. If you get the chance, go hear them live, or at least listen to their album "A Day Like This."

Only after hearing this particular song a few times did I start listening more closely to the lyrics. In essence, it's about choosing to listen to your own creative voice, to follow your inner vision on your life path. The world will try and seduce you into believing in its own importance. If you buy into worldly values and priorities, you will forever be left waiting, wanting, hungry.

The first two stanzas of the song go like this:

Maybe it means that I will be lonely
Maybe I'll step aside; let the others go
Maybe it means my days will be lovely
This path of my design

Choices are made and chances are taken
I turned my back on every latest rage
I lost desire for pretty distraction
I've reached the age...

I suppose it is the challenge of every artist, negotiating a way to live in the world and to transcend it at the same time. We are all artists, involved in the creation of our lives on earth, the divine spark, immortal spirit in mortal flesh, wondering who we really are in this world of "pretty distraction." No matter how much we have, we constantly want more.

The busier my outer life grows, the more I crave an inner simplicity & stillness to balance it out. Sometimes I forget/suppress this need and allow myself to get very caught up in the world and the dense cares that are a part of it. I need to remember to dance above it, to let my spirit be my guide, to live as a true artist, to take time for silence and reconnection to the source. Even, and perhaps especially, at 12,000 meters above the ground.

"Let me be thy instrument..."

On New Year's Eve in 2000, while going through a sad and difficult period in my life, I remember sitting at the kitchen table of two close friends who were very tied up in what was going on with me. We talked about many of our dreams for the coming year and spent time reflecting upon the year that had just passed. It contained some of the most extreme highs and lows I'd known to that point, almost all of them unexpected. At the time, I could not have known that happiness beyond my imagining was right around the corner, in the form of getting together with the man who would become - and still is - the great love of my life. But at that table, that evening, I was overwhelmed with sadness and grief, the kind that seems to come from the bones themselves. It had been building in me for a couple of years, and even though I occupied myself with musical projects and lovely friends, the ache was a constant undertone. I had never before been a depressive person, so the enduring gloom was a surprise. One of my friends at the table asked if I had any New Year's resolutions. Through my tears, suddenly at that moment rose a feeling of passion and purification, of hope, and I found myself saying aloud the words of my oldest prayer, "Let me be thy instrument." For some reason, I never dwelt much upon specific prayer requests for people or events - though this works very well for many people and religious traditions, it always rang false in my own ears. But this particular prayer always felt like a song inside me.

Maybe it was because my maternal grandmother's favorite hymn was the Prayer of St. Francis - "Let there be peace on Earth; and let it begin with me." The text to this hymn pretty much sums up all that I try to be and do in this life.

When these words tore out of me that night, I cried for a long time, and for the first time in ages the tears didn't feel like poison. A light, and a lightness, had returned, and it indeed proved a turning point. I found myself praying this short, 5-word prayer over and over during sleepless nights, until I reconnected to the joy which had been my more usual companion and expression.

After several years now of living with an undercurrent of joy, for I am so very blessed in so many ways, I find my prayers have gone more toward the specific rather than this one, pure wish....Since so much is good, the struggles of family and friends, the little worries of everyday life, take on greater shape and importance than they used to do when everything was hurting. My husband went through a scary couple of months with eye problems (he's fine now, thank goodness), a friend is battling fiercely against cancer, my stepsons are beginning their lives away from home, my parents and brothers are dealing with their own issues, I'm wondering what next year will bring career-wise when my contract in the orchestra ends.... And yet, as big as these things all seem at the time, I am starting to realize that my original prayer covers them all. I have always been cared for one way or another - all that seems to be required of me is to be open, trusting, and willing. And grateful, always and eternally grateful.

Hanging on the door in my Reiki room are the words on the picture at the beginning of this blog, which to me puts it perfectly.

Trip to the Cotswolds and Indian head massage course

I am a frequent traveller. It seems one or another of my suitcases is always in the bedroom, in the process of being filled or emptied (occasionally both simultaneously, resulting in mysterious piles of clothing and papers to be sorted upon return!) Most of this globetrotting has to do with performing, giving master classes, or the occasional getaway with Kerry to warmer climes or more vibrant cities than our own sleepy Luxembourg. This past weekend, however, provided a different and interesting scenario.

Several weeks ago, my close friend and chamber music partner, Heather Madeira Ni, called me up to see if I might be up for doing an all-day workshop on Indian Head Massage and foot reflexology at an estate in the Cotswolds. Ever since I had seen Kate Winslet's cozy and cuter-than-life hamlet in The Holiday, I'd wanted to see the area for myself. And a course in massage? Wonderful. My only reservation was that Kerry was to leave for a long tour with the American Horn Quartet right after I would return from England, but booking a flight to Memphis during my free week in March to catch up with him there made me feel better about leaving during Carneval week.

Heather and I met on the train platform in Luxembourg at 5:15 in the morning (yawn!) and slept through much of the trip to Brussels. There we caught the Eurostar to the newly opened Ebbsfleet International Station in Kent, picked up our miniscule blue Fiat rental, and wound our way around the north of London towards our destination. Through avoiding many major roads, we saw some lovely small villages along the way, and even ended up bravely fording a stream, causing the engine to smoke for a while afterwards! On the other side of the ford was a sign stating, "Not suitable for motor vehicles." Whoever decided to spend money by only placing a sign on one side of the stream may want to think twice next time. Anyway, Heather used to live in the UK and visits England regularly with her family, so she knew of a wonderful pub on the outskirts of Oxford where we might stop for a late lunch.

Pub food? For any of you who have not visited the UK recently, you may not be aware of the recent and utterly welcome trend of fantastic gourmet eats on pub menus. Both Heather and I are dedicated (if slightly obsessed) foodies who will go great lengths to try great cuisine. At this particular gastropub, The Trout, I had a beautifully presented and very yummy chicken avocado watercress curry salad while stealing bites of Heather's baked goat cheese with figs, carmelized pickled onions, and rucola. We stopped off to visit the 800-year old chruch in Temple Guiting, once a hold of the Knights Templar, then made our way to our B&B. We stayed at the Wren House in Donnington, which I would recommend to anyone passing through the area.

Based on the recommendations of the proprietress of our B&B, I chose the Old Butcher's restaurant in Stow-on-the-Wold for dinner. Though we were a little disappointed by the too-quiet atmosphere, the food was very good, especially my marinated venison. After a long day, we collapsed and slept deeply.

We started Friday with a massive cholesterolfest cooked breakfast and drove to Bourton-on-the-Water to start our long walk. Actually, we started walking a bit later than planned because I had discovered a bird center with a well-kept and extroverted group of King penguins. Penguins in the Cotswolds! Several came over to us to make friends and splashed us thoroughly in the process. Heather finally had to drag me away.

We "rambled" from Bourton through some lush countryside along the Windrush river to the picturesque village of Lower Slaughter, overrun by tourists in the summer months but practically deserted that day. The old town mill's arts and crafts shop distracted us for a while, then we followed the river and climbed some hills to Upper Slaughter. The church there contained remnants of an earlier Norman structure, and we chatted with a couple celebrating their wedding anniversary. All this time we marveled at our luck with the sunny, springtime weather. The next part of our walk took us through one field after another, traipsing past sheep and curious cows (how would I know how curious, really?), climbed over and around fences, and finally saw the village of Naunton through a grove of trees. The original plan was to stop for a quick lunch and continue walking, but the combination of having already walked 10 km (over 6 miles) and the malaise brought about by a delicious chicken, mushroom and tarragon pie washed down with half a pint of local cider did us in. A taxi brought us back to Bourton-on-the-water for some shopping and tea and scones. We spent a couple of hours resting back at our room while I practiced my horn with the Silent Brass mute.

I was especially excited about our dinner reservations at the award-winning Horse and Groom, run by two brothers whose parents own the famous Howard Arms in Ilmington. What a fantastic place! Lovely old stone fireplace, tasty local ale on tap, magnificent food and service - we only wished we hadn't eaten those scones for afternoon tea. My grilled hake with horseradish sauce & new potatoes were done perfectly, and Heather's deceptively simple hamburger (apparently from a cow raised across the field from the inn) ended up being the best thing on the table. We felt a bit bilious after all the food, which for better or for worse didn't stop us!

Finally, it was time for the massage course at the Farncombe Estate given by Julia Baker, a professional aromatherapist. She taught us about different essential oils which are beneficial for addressing specific health concerns (I took special note of anything helpful for insomnia - lavender, frankincense, ylang ylang, lemon, benzoin...)

Then we learned the basic techniques of Indian head massage, also covering the back and arms, and took turns giving and receiving under the teacher's guidance. I've found that I generally prefer giving massages to receiving them, but I did enjoy this one a lot. We broke for lunch, and during the break I went out to the Fiat and practiced my horn. Several people passed by, puzzled, wondering where the weird noise came from, but few actually saw me! Next week we have a heavy program in the OPL so I have to stay in shape however I can.

The afternoon session dealt primarily with the Swiss Reflex Foot treatment, involving a health analysis using varying pressure on different areas of the feet and noticing the recipient's reactions. I volunteered to be the class guinea pig and hoped my feet weren't too unsightly from the previous day's long trek! She prodded and rubbed my soles then quickly discovered my weak spots - upper spine (occupational hazard for horn players), lymphatic water retention, something in the large intestine. We learned how to massage the corresponding areas on the feet with the appropriate essential oils blended into a thick lotion. My friends and family are looking forward to being test cases!

Ever gluttons for digestive punishment, Heather and I ended up at the Redesdale Arms restaurant hotel. A delicate roasted pepper soup, breaded haddock with steamed vegetables and hand-cut potatoes, and an unusual lemon meringue pie washed down with Hooky fruit ale ("It's a Ladies' beer!" proclaimed our perky waitress) made me very happy. When Heather and I eat together, many of our conversations revolve around analyzing the ingredients of our food and how we might recreate or adapt the dishes at home. It's a never-tiring subject for us, though my stepson Andrew remarked last night that it sounded awful! Heather is also, by the way, a fantastic, easygoing, optimistic travel companion with whom I would happily undertake another such journey.

Though we suffered a bit of indigestion from overindulgence and had some stress catching our Eurostar on Sunday (the GPS led us to the wrong Ebbsfleet an hour from where we needed to be and the Fiat didn't have much pickup on the roads!), we somehow managed to pull in just in time. As I write this, our train has just crossed the Luxembourg border, and Kerry is waiting to fetch us at the station. A lovely weekend! So, what's for dinner?

A couple most embarrassing moments on stage

Luckily, both of these incidents took place over a decade ago (I can say that now that it's 2009.)  Everyone who performs publicly for a living has a collection of embarrassing moments - here are a couple that made me cringe for a long time afterwards!  Now I can look back and give them a good laugh.  Usually.

With a certain professional touring ensemble, I was doing a 3-week stint on principal horn, filling in for a colleague from Berlin who had other engagements.  One of our projects involved a series of concerts in the beautiful Teatro in Ferrara, Italy.  The lovely and lively Trevor Pinnock was conducting; Kodaly's Galanta Dances started off the program.  For those of you who know this work, you'll also know that the introduction contains a fanfare for horn alone, very alone, all gutsy and passionate and Spanish.  It had gone like a dream in all the rehearsals, and for the concert, I decided to go for it with all I had.  Bear in mind this theater is the old opera sort with several stories of seating boxes, looking down upon the stage - this concert was sold out and was being broadcast live on RAI, the Italian national radio.  The piece began with a few bars of cellos, then it was my turn.  On the last bar of my solo, I missed a note.  Not one of those "approximaturas" o little bobbles we horn players are often plagued with, but the sort of overblown-by-several-overtones-at-fortissimo-ohmygodiwannadienow missed notes.  The crowd actually gasped.  RAI broadcasted everything to the Italian public sitting safely in their living rooms and cars.  The Galanta Dances kept on dancing for another 17 minutes, and all I could think about was how convenient it would be if a trap door opened under me, and I plummeted out of sight.  After the piece finished, during the applause, Maestro Pinnock came round to my chair and whispered in my ear, "Would you like another shot at that beginning?"  So I said yes, and we played the whole piece AGAIN!  I got my solo the second time perfectly, also broadcast live for those who hadn't ended up driving off the road in horror the first time, and received a solo bow to standing ovation to boot.  Backstage after the concert, the conductor confided in me that he had recently started a solo harpsichord recital, had a memory slip part way through, and had gone behind the curtain to fetch his music and started from the beginning once again.  He said it can happen to anyone.  Who ever gets a second chance like that?  I love you Trevor Pinnock.

The other incident involved the eminently audible consequences of the previous evening's tofu dinner, during the second round of an audition playing the Neuling Bagatelle for Low Horn, but I don't really want to talk about it after all.

25 random facts

While I am working on a "proper" blog, I will share here a list (inspired by a little facebook post going round) of 25 random facts about me.

1) My favorite breed of dog is the whippet.

2) I have a small birthmark under my right eye, which most of my friends and family at one point or other have tried to rub off, thinking it was mascara or dirt.

3) I speak four languages and can do bits of a few others.

4) In middle school, I gave a campaign speech for presidential candidate Gary Hart at an all-school assembly, wearing a Halloween costume of leaves stapled to an orange and green dress.

5) I shook Fidel Castro's hand.

6) According to the Myers-Briggs Personality Test, I'm an ENFJ.

7) I was a vegetarian for almost a decade.

8) I almost never sleep on airplanes, especially those long-haul night flights across the ocean, where everyone else is passed out, legs sticking out at odd angles, mouths open, making collective creepy sleeping noises, while I alone tiptoe through the aisles like an intruder in a morgue.  Or so it seems.

9) I find clowns scary.

10) I can sing the high F in the Queen of the Night Aria from the Magic Flute.

11) So far I've performed in 32 countries on 6 continents.

12) My rising sign is Aquarius.

13) I'm a Reiki master.

14) My favorite sport to watch is rugby.

15) My husband and I got married on a private game reserve in South Africa, in a tiny stone chapel whose doorknobs had been nicked by baboons.

16) I sleep on a round mattress.

17) The longest I ever went without eating was 6 days.

18) According to a religion quiz on beliefnet.com, I should be a Unitarian Universalist.  Or a Neo-Pagan.  Or a Mahayana Buddhist.

19) I haven't driven a car since 1995.

20) My favorite children's book is A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle.

21) The recording I could listen to every day is Glenn Gould playing Bach's Goldberg Variations (the earlier recording.)

22) I'm not afraid of spiders and never kill them (on purpose.)

23) My navel was pierced for 2 years, sort of recently.

24) I don't like pork.

25) When I was 10, I lost a mitten at the beach in Oregon and found it 4 months later buried under the sand.

Celtic music and the stirrings of genetic memory

I'm several hours into a train journey from Luxembourg to Amsterdam, to visit friends Laurie and Bruce on their houseboat.  Keeping me company, keeping me sane, is a collection of songs by one of my favorite Celtic folk groups, Silly Wizard.  Andy Stewart sings wistfully:

If I was a blackbird, could whistle and sing,

I'd follow the vessel my true love sails in.

And in the top rigging, I'd there build my nest - 

And I'd flutter my wings o'er her lily-white breast...

There's just something about Celtic folk music.  Something that stirs me profoundly, something beyond the feelings of the moment, reaching beyond the parameters of my everyday consciousness, a half-forgotten dream landscape, mine or someone else's...A friend of ours has the theory that in lieu of reincarnation, the cells of our bodies retain memories of our genetic forebears.  Most of my ancestors, those of whom we have any record, have their roots in Ireland, England, Scotland.  Some made their way to the British colonies in the New World, others came a century later when their crops failed and their children were starving.  Perhaps the music of their homeland wrote itself into their DNA and passed down through generations until it reached me?

Or maybe I was an Irish bard in a past life.  Or maybe my mother listened to The Chieftains while I was still in her womb.  Whatever it is, the connection of my heart to this music teases me to remember, to catch the words of an ancient, quiet voice.  If I was a blackbird...