Quaking

SO. Maybe 6-8 months ago, I was praying, out loud, with my husband, at night time, in bed. My eyes were closed and I was deep in connection with the Source. I began to shake internally, like I was on a tilt-a-whirl. I had to open my eyes frequently to try and re-stabilize, but the whole room was moving around me. It was rather frightening and it took me away from my centeredness - pulling me back to the surface.

This has happened multiple times since then. I thought perhaps it had to do with my level of concentration, or where my eyes were focusing behind closed lids. And then at a recent meeting for worship when I was having one such experience, I decided to fully let go. Not open my eyes. Not worry about anything. Just offer myself up to this crazy dizziness, float along in the wonder of it. After a while, I did open my eyes for a moment, to find everything that I saw was shaking, as if in an earthquake. And then I too began to shake slightly (this was a little scary). I felt a power, a surge of HERE NOW YES! At peace despite the novelty of the physical sensations. Totally immersed in God's presence and love. It came to me: I was quaking. I was truly quaking....as in, "I'm a Quaker!"

I am still pondering the meaning of this mystical experience. Was it really the result of deep, patient, silent, expectant, worshipful waiting? That and God's good grace, yes. :) Spirit pulls me closer and closer, asking for my whole-hearted trust, my attention, my time. And in return, I get the ride of my life!

(the journey continues)

More free associations about what I'm doing with my life:

What is healing?
a deep and dynamic process
touching the most vulnerable parts
of individuals
communities
identifying hurts
giving mind, body and soul
space and structure
to rebuild itself
with love and hope
digging through habits
scars left by injuries
excavating personal power and truth
bringing oneself into right relationship
with oneself and others.
i want to help.

Camp Expressions 2009

This summer, I had a job doing music at a camp for children (ages 4-16) on the Autism spectrum. I had very, very limited experience with this population and had never even been to a summer camp before, so I knew the job would be a learning experience. Now that it's over, I can say confidently that I am proud of my efforts. It was incredibly difficult, but I learned a lot about what Autism looks/sounds/feels like, getting on with new co-workers, leadership and creating/structuring/leading musical activities segments.

Fifteen things I learned while being "music lady" at a summer camp for kids with autism that may or may not be relevant to my career as a music therapist...in no particular order:

1. Carefully consider your TIME CONSTRAINTS
2. Carefully consider your SPACE CONSTRAINTS (pay special attention to wall hangings/decorations - they can be very distracting!)
   
3. Have 5 OR MORE backup plans
4. When accompanying, consider your KEY carefully
5. SPEAK SLOWLY (people need time to adjust to your enthusiasm!)
6. Use SIMPLE LANGUAGE as much as needed (including one word prompts, hand gestures instead of words, etc.)
7. LOWERING your tone of voice can help children understand you
   
8. Have firm control over the amount of STIMULATION (noises, lights, etc.) in your activities
9. When you see an opportunity to assist children in relating to each other, take it IMMEDIATELY
   
10. Generally speaking, coworkers expect AUTONOMY and CONFIDENCE
11. For creative projects, have enough resources for at least 5 EXTRA STUDENTS
12. FOCUS and INTENTION make a big difference
    
13. Over-stimulated children should "TAKE A BREAK" as needed
14. Keeping a hyperactive/scattered kids' HANDS BUSY goes a long way
15. Kids appreciate FIRM, LOVING LEADERSHIP
16. DO NOT DISCUSS (or passively express) personal matters with kids or coworkers, PERIOD.
17. When teaching a song, sing it a few times, then drop out and kids' will finish the phrase
18. ROUTINE is critical to a sense of stability and structure
    

Six questions regarding the same...in no particular order:

1. Minimizing physical struggle of "wrestling" young kids?
2. Should autistic kids get to have alone time?
3. Encouraging co-workers not to pick favorites?
4. Balancing authority and democracy in musical activities?
5. What is my "world view" of people with disabilities? How do I assert that view without being pushy?
   
6. Handling jealous feelings when a coworker can help a child and I cannot?

*Incidentally, this is why I have not been doing any local food posts - I couldn't handle the One Local Summer challenge this year - summer camp was challenge enough for two or three summers, thank you very much. *

My Days as a Piano Teacher

I'm no writer, but it is a fun challenge now and again...

-------

Before I was a piano teacher, I worked in an office. I processed paperwork for foreign nationals who paid a great deal of money to come to the United States to work. It was an extremely dull way to pass 8 hours and I felt imprisoned by the monotony of it. My small office was windowless and generic. All of the office furniture was old and rickety. My desk chair faced the corner opposite the door, so I always felt exposed and cautious. One should be able to greet a visitor to one's personal work space from a place of power - face to face. There was always the presence of crumbs and dust and I was surrounded by files; complex and difficult to pronounce last names everywhere, crying out for attention, for justice.

My time had come. I searched ardently, looking for jobs related to music, an area in which I have a good deal of education and experience. It was several months before anything panned out. I received a call while sitting on the well-manicured lawn of Independence National Park, eating my lunch. It was an acquaintance of some years whom, unbeknownst to me, worked as the faculty coordinator for one of the schools I had submitted my resume to. I was offered an interview.

Such delight, such exuberance seized me by the ear-tips, the ribcage, the eyelids. I shook to the marrow with hope. After a year and half of drudgery, I was given an opportunity to escape...and I took it.

My first few weeks of teaching were encouraging. I felt that I had sufficient energy to drive all evening, mansion to mansion, captivating children with my silliness and warmth. I felt that I would be a good teacher. All of my families gave an impression of considerateness and acceptance. The neighborhoods I drove through were outlandishly wealthy - the kinds of places I only saw in the waiting room magazines of doctor's offices. It was alienating and yet exciting. I felt somehow that I was more important because I knew people of great wealth.

My temperament as a teacher unfolded as time went on. I began to see that many children were placed in piano lessons as a status symbol. There was no expected outcome whatsoever. This presented a problem: parents had no interest in the musical education of their children, but expected something vague in return for their financial investment nonetheless. I found that some children had a natural curiosity about sounds and notes and songs and some did not. I felt adequate. I did not try to motivate kids to do what I wanted them to do, but met them on their level of interest and skill, challenging them when the moment felt right. This was an acceptable model for the school I represented.

Watching young beginners beam with excitement and pride after completing a song; knowing for certain that they actually liked what the heard, this was a reward for me. I safely ushered most of my young students into the world of performing with great care and love. I introduced several of my students to the world of improvisation and found exhilarating joy in experiencing it with them. I was negligent from time to time, but mainly in administrative matters.

After one year of teaching, however, it began to sink in that I would not be able to teach for this school for very long. The attitudes of parents and the administrators at the school were ungrateful, condescending, even dismissive. The hard work I was doing was not being appreciated, not by a long shot. From the snobbery I encountered in private homes to the rigid administrative rules concerning billing, I felt stretched to the point of breaking several nights a week.

Lessons at the end of the spring semester were especially difficult. In the afternoons, usually around 3 o'clock, I climbed into the driver seat of my car, felt the heat radiate out toward me as I sat down. I quickly started the car and lowered all the windows. I drove up Springfield Ave., as I did everyday, and turned right onto 52nd St. I traveled all the way across West Philly on 52nd St., a narrow but bustling thoroughfare. Driving past Walnut, Chestnut and Locust Streets, there are small businesses, street vendors and a constant stream of people. After many months I began to see this neighborhood as a place where people actually LIVED. Before that, I had assumed that people in low-income neighborhoods lived paycheck to paycheck, from one crisis to the next, never sure of where their next meal was coming from or if they'd have someplace clean to sleep. But here on my daily commute, I started to recognize a kind of rhythm and stability. It was shocking (as it always is) to recognize my naivety about urban life. I passed 52nd and Market where many people transferred from the Elevated Market/Frankford Line to buses, waiting in that crushing heat. A man stood on the corner opposite them, shouting into a bullhorn about something I could not understand. I felt as though he was living up to an inheritance of that maniacal, zealous preaching for which Afro-American churches are known. A girl in tight pink capris absentmindedly holds her cell phone to her ear. A woman in a burka holds the hands of two silent, young children. School kids in uniforms scrape and push, punching and pulling hair, shouting at each other. A lunatic with uneven dreadlocks shuffles along the streets, reasoning with his demons, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. Twice I was privy to the sale of drugs, stealthily handed off to people waiting at stop lights. I called the police and after explaining to them that I only saw someone SELLING drugs, they hung up on me.

The air conditioning in my car could not stand up to that heat, reflecting from each building, empty storefront and surrounding cars. Passing over Lancaster Avenue, the landscape opened up slightly. The street was wider and there were double the amount of trees. Now the breeze coming into the car made breathing easier. Shade from the trees spared my left arm from burning. The farther I drove out into the suburbs, past Bala Cynwyd, St. Joseph's University, through Merion Station, the cooler the air. Then came the beautiful houses, flower bushes in the yard and double again the amount of trees. Schoolchildren walk along the sidewalks, laughing or alone. As I enter the wooded hills of Gladwyn, the air is cool, crisp and fragrant with green things growing. The houses get bigger and bigger and there are less and less people.

I was often hurt by the attitudes of parents towards me, just one of several staff people attending to their needs, their desires, creating an image of them for the world of leisure, intellectual capacity, health. One mother, a short, trim woman with curly hair that was dyed a deep shade of auburn, spoke to me with notable condescension. Her mouth was firm and always clicking back and forth between unsettling aggression and nauseating smiles. Her left eye pointed out slightly, not looking directly at you. She wore high quality clothing that fit her well and moved easily through her opulent home. On many occasions, my payment, due at the first lesson of the month, was late.

"Today is the first lesson of the month. Could you write me a check when Jenna and I are done our lesson?" I said, calmly.

"I don't have the checkbook today," she said, looking right at me, the foul weather in her demeanor gathering behind her eyes at an alarming rate.

"Oh well, I'll come and get it on Friday, I suppose. I'll have to charge a $10 late fee, if that's not a problem." She was putting me out by necessitating another trip. I assumed this $10 penalty would go unnoticed to someone with SO MUCH money.

"Actually yes, that is a problem. I can't do that," she responded, her voice tensing up, her eyes narrowing in on me.

I don't remember what happened after that. My "fight or flight" tendency activates approximately 10 seconds into a conflict, generally favoring the "flight" end of the spectrum. This would turn out to be my biggest liability as a teacher and one that I must continually work on.

One mother simply did not emote. She would discuss logistical details and assert the needs of her children in a completely dead pan fashion. It frightened me. She would regularly interrupt me in favor of listening to her four-year-old speak. Another father persisted in blaming me for a missing check when he himself had sent it to the wrong address. Self-perceived "rightness" was more important to many parents than the truth because it equated respect and/or fear.

Their children attend private schools. Their medical care is the best available. They go on vacation to sunny locations several times a year. Every family that I taught for, with only one exception, had at least one form of full-time hired help. When a mother of 3 is standing at 52nd and Market, waiting for her bus, children running away, bags hanging off her at every angle, she is quiet, brooding, wronged. And then there's Tanya Boyle, with a live-in nanny that washes all her appliances daily, makes all her meals and shuttles her children to various life-enriching activities. What does she have to worry about, really? Whether or not she will get her favorite hair stylist at her next appointment at the spa? Whether or not the florist will bring the exact right shade of lilly to go with her dinner party theme?

In between McMansions, I would consume large amounts of McDonalds. It was fast, cheap and made me feel good. I ate combo meals with something akin to revenge. The constant driving through rush-hour traffic, the scheduling phone-calls, the lesson planning, the frequently bratty children; my personality was such that I set myself up to survive in a thankless position. I received authentic appreciation so rarely that it did not even come close to sustaining the energy output required.

It really made me sick. Yes, I can blame the rich for being rich. Give away your money. Stop hoarding, live more simply. You disgrace this planet with your fucking wasteful lives. I realize this is a cognitive shortcoming of mine; I am being hyper-judgmental. But my heart can't see over the precipice...I can't conceive of a tenderness towards this segment of the population. Not right now, while the hurt is still fresh.

The difficulties I encountered did, however, give me the opportunity to develop a more assertive way of being in the world. In two years I moved towards a communication that is clear and strong enough to resist mincing for personal gain by even the most egotistical of clients. I learned to not be so polite, to remember my own needs more often.

And now that I'm finishing, I've had an idea. I would like to offer my piano skills to disadvantaged youth in schools of my neighborhood. I see how different the world of an adolescent living in West Philadelphia is to that of a wealthy Mainline one and I don't like it; it creates a cognitive dissonance for me that I must address. I want at least a few children to have the advantage of musical education that currently do not. My bitterness will fade and my harsh judgments will, in time, soften. And I will hopefully bring my experiences teaching piano to the greatest good possible.

I've had a challenging go of it, for the last 1 or 2 months...emotionally, spiritually. MOUNTAINLOADS of family drama have dragged up some snags and tangles from the past. And I transitioned from my three medium-sized jobs to one big job and three tiny jobs. And I am still preparing to be a graduate student in the fall. I endeavor (not always so gracefully) to continue to deepen and enrich my relationship with Spirit - this helps above all things (as do all my wonderful, wonderful friends!).

I FIND THAT FOR ME, the most direct way to healing, transformation, and guidance is to give explicitly to God’s heart each bodily pain, each wave of anger or fear, each embarrassment, each perplexity, each inner confusion, each person for whom I pray. I know God’s heart will take what is offered, hold it, heal it, and transform it into the creative energy it is meant to be.

I am learning to release past hurtful memories, as well as challenging future events, to God’s heart. I am learning to send to that heart my experiences right now: driving, cleaning, phoning, writing, taking a walk, entering a plane, welcoming my family at the door. - Flora Slosson Wuellner

(very early in the journey)

Free associating about what I want to do with my life...

Growing up is hard:
Forming a self image, a view of the world, a body.
Children react to the world around them, but also contain incalculable wisdom.
Children need understanding, affirmation;
lots of stimulation and room
to make their own choices (and mistakes!);
diversity!
Instead many children only hear: follow our rules! buy our products!
Some children have an even harder time; they were born with special challenges.
Physical. Mental.
Bring healing to a child and you've also touched an adult:
an adult they will become or maybe an adult in their world now.
I want to participate in the play-learning of childhood.
I want to reach children that are hiding behind hurts or challenges.
I want to serve children in their growth.

Welcome, Spring

I dearly love living in a climate where we experience four distinct seasons. And we all experience them differently. They are the center of my consciousness, the ray from which all inspiration, all serenity beams.

When I first began learning about global warming, I felt a profound disruption in the rhythm of seasons. I felt confused. The coming of spring is still a bit challenging. It's as if the earth says to me, "I'm not really ready to bloom again, but that damn sun is burning so hot already." I fear that cold weather, at my particular latitude, may one day be rare and precious. And I dearly love cold weather. So refreshing, so invigorating.

This year, a wonderful celtic harp concert ushered my heart into Spring. Visions of green hillsides and mossy meadows, fresh breezes. I remembered that Earth is one giant and complex wheel always turning, adapting to changes, responding with her myriad of diverse life. The days get longer and warmer and so, spring is here.

Each season has a prayer; something to teach us. Each season has a wardrobe, a palate, a different endowment of light. Rejoice! and welcome spring!