Lemonade from Lemons

So, I woke up today feeling achy and rather self pitying. Then, I prayed, got out of bed, and thought--I should write a book. Of course, this blog is my poor attempt at starting a book from personal matters--all of which are too self pitying and not stirring enough. So, perhaps I will begin using this blog as an accountability site for the music book (I hope no copyright laws will follow).

Obviously, my formating is quite different from this website--and my images do not copy. But, maybe I'll keep it this way regardless.

Lesson 1: Solfege, Intervals, and Kodaly

What is an Interval?

In Math: an interval is a set of real numbers accounting for the space between that set of numbers. E.g. intervals between 1 and 2 are all the points in between 1 and 2.

In Music: An interval is the distance between two points of sound.

The term “scale” comes from the Latin word, Scala meaning Ladder, because the pitches go up and down like the steps of a ladder.

Western music has intervals of .5, or half steps, and 1.0, or whole steps. In other parts of the world like India, the Middle East, Aftrica, etc. intervals can be found in the .25 or quarter tones. We are only investigating Western music for orchestral purposes.

Implementing Kodaly hand signs is a tangible way for students to learn and remember Solfege. It is often used in schools due to the tactile and kinesthetic memory function.

There are different spellings for Solfege, but as long as vowel sounds are consistent variances are acceptable.

Doh Doh: Perfect Unison Doh^ Doh to Doh^

Ti to Doh^: m2

Ray Doh to Ray: M2

Mi Doh to Mi: M 3; Ray to Me: M2

Fah Doh to Fah: P4; Mi to Fah: m2 Fi Doh to Fi: A4

Soh Doh to Soh: P5; Fah to Soh: M2 Si Doh to Si: m5

Lah Doh to Lah: M6; Soh to La: M2

Ti Doh to Ti: M7; La to Ti: M2 TaDoh to Ta: m7

I'm NOT Sorry

Why is it that some people are prone to such self consciousness that they feel a compulsion to take responsibility for things which they do not own? Such is the case for myself. Waters stir, rivers roar, children grow, and I apologize.

Are you feeling blue? Are my concepts too difficult? Do I call too often? Are my struggles too much for you?

Today, I called my endocrine doctor because of some issues that I have been having. And of course, after I called, I thought, "Should I have called? Was it necessary? Was it reasonable? Was it bothersome?" But, when dysautonomics are concerned, all manner of havoc happens on frequent bases--and, I did in fact need to call.

This morning after about 5 am, I dreamed a wonderful dream. It started out as a familiar real-life situation. I was on a cold concrete floor feeling very ill. Bill, my one-and-only man, was next to me holding me. The feeling of fear and uncertainty hung over me as I waited. I just waited there on the floor. Then, in came my doctor. He was calm and reassuring. "Everything will be alright, Anne. Hold on. I'll help you find the answer. We'll find it together. Just hang on. Everything is fine." ...then I woke up.

What I lack in life is the reassurance that everything will be fine. Because, it won't be. Bad things happen over and over--especially when I anticipate the best of results. That is just a part of life.

What is my comfort? In life and death, I am my Lord's, bought, body and soul. He has claimed me and I am His. I look forward to the next life. A moment of joy or happiness should be viewed as a moment of eternity stolen into the present. I don't deserve to have such rare jewels. I think I would be far happier if I always anticipated the worst and then found that some good things happen occasionally. For some, life is one bliss after another. For others, it is a raging torrent of struggle, one after another, often of different textures. But, it is no less the life that one was meant to have.

Sometimes, beauty lies in the bluest sky of a summer evening. But sometimes, beauty lies in the deepest gray and the fiercest furry of lightening. Both are beautiful though dichotic in nature.

If I am the lightening, or the deepest gray--I cannot envy the blue, nor can I be sorry that I am not the blue. I simply am not.

I am not sorry. If this is life, this is what it is. Doesn't it feel good to say, "I'm not sorry?" It resonates because it is true. We need to stop taking responsibility for things which we do not own and only for things that we do.

Ben Franklin jested that most people died at the age of 25 even though their obituaries read 75. What constitutes death? It is a question worth considering. Is it where the soul leaves the body and the spirit rests in the next dimension?
There are two types of existentialists, generally speaking. There is the atheist and the theist. Of course there are many different subsets. But, basically, existentialism is how one gets along and makes sense of the world around him either before himself "alone" in the universe and in this world with other humans, or before God. Both find a systematic method fopr deriving moral and ontological truths. The theistic existentialist would say that humans are made in the image of God. All existence therefore is subject to the interaction upon that relationship. "Existence precedes essence" as D. Anthony Storm put it. What sets a human apart from a bear, is that he is made in the image of God, while the bear, though a masterfully created being is not in the likeness and image of God. Because of this likeness, his essence cannot change. And, because his existence precedes his essence, he cannot lose it--unless he ceases to exist--and in theistic-existencial terms, he cannot ever cease to exist--only change from one dimension to the next.
And so, on to the subject of death. It is of great relevance to me, not because I know of my certain death. Indeed, I might surprise us all and outlive a great many people. But, rather, my illness makes me keenly aware of life's frailty and my dispensibility. Last night, while in bed beginning to sleep, I gasped. Thinking maybe I was just sorely tired, I rested again. A second time it happened. So, I took my vitals (as they are often abnormal). My heart rate was 42 and my chest was so heavy; I am young and can tolerate a great deal more than this--but it felt very uncomfortable--especially for being so tired.
I sat up to catch a better breath, but it didn't help. No position could change how fast or slow my heart went. Only the week before, I was on the verge of passing out for many days straight. Even after 4 IVs, my blood pressure could not rise to normal limits. While driving home from Christmas with family, I began passing out in the car--about 3 hours from any hospital. God spared me from going unconscious and we managed to get back home and have the care of a wonderful physician here in town. Still, it left me shaken and very aware of life's fragility.
Many people think that it would be best to die in their sleep. I, however, disagree. I think of all the people I wish to see in the morning--and to all the people I would not be able to say goodbye if I were to die in my sleep. I don't wish to go too soon.
My kids. I would miss them, and my dearest husband the most. How does one live without regret when everyday is faced with reluctant acceptance of the things which she cannot change? I wish I played with my kids almost all of my waking time. But, like most mothers, my time is spent caring for them and the things that pertain to living rather than themselves--their own little minds. Of course I hold them, play games with them occasionally, cook and clean (what seems like constantly), tend to their attitudes and inquiries. But, I often lack physical strength or the mental stamina to play extensively with them. How can I offer them a life of memories apart from illness? That they would remember me not only as a caring mother, but as a mother that was most often with them in their little worlds? And so, at the wee hours of the night, when I am ill and wondering how the next day will come about--hoping that it will--I worry about leaving them too soon. Does that mean that I am not really living right now? Ontologically speaking, the nature of being is more than doing. But, this is precisely the diliemma in which I fall. I find myself insipidly doing rather than being. How does one exist apart from doing? Ergo I fear my essence lost--even though I know that philosophically this cannot happen.

As with most of life, it seems that one can make endless analogies of the human existence to musical theories. Today's lesson is one of suspensions.

Waiting is a phenomenon so foreign to us, Americans, that we hardly know what to do with ourselves when we are forced to do such things. I have the unfortunate habit of growing coldly impatient in grocery store lines. Perhaps if I had a bigger wallet, I wouldn't mind so much--and those extra moments of counting and recalculating my weekly grocery tally that seems to loom before me ever pressingly wouldn't bother me terribly. Probably, that is not the case however. I am just impatient. And, I would probably be even more so if I was a woman of great means.

My lack of waiting, my restless soul, is probably why God saw fit to give me this illness. Weeks pass as I wait for a good day, where I am well enough to walk a distance or visit friends downtown. But, that good day, the sunshine that comes out from behind the clouds and warms me up from my kitchen table and chair, brings me strength to make it through the many more days that I will once again be remarkably ill. So too, is the nature of a musical suspension.

I think I shall never hear music as beautiful as a piece that rightly plays suspensions, but like life, it must eventually resolve. The piece begins on a chord and then separates and then must again harmonize. The two voices chase each other to arrive at a harmony--but they do not quickly arrive at a harmony. They must endure through seasons of change (notes that move around from one place to another) until they finally reunite--on a mutually harmonic triad. As Kent Kennan says in his book "Counterpoint," "...a suspension, anticipation, or chord tone must be involved if the effect is to be successful" (73).

It is possible that only a life full of enough suspensions and anticipations is one beautiful enough to play.

Volition and Snowfall

As I write this day’s entry, I lay in a hospital bed on the 4^th floor of the infusion center at our local hospital. I am writing this on the back of my BMP lab work paper. It is 3 am. I am dreadfully tired, but the strangeness of the atmosphere, the irregular snores of a patient next door, and the steady pump of my IV machine give me insomnia.

The glow of the flurries outside my window bid me to smile as I recall the years of snowfalls outside my big, cathedral shaped window growing up. I can’t wait for dawn and yet when it comes, I will be so utterly spent that there will be little left for me to give tomorrow.

There are some things in life that we may choose. And, there are some things that we may not.

I was a beautiful, chaste twenty-three year old when my husband and I married. It was out of deep conviction—and the fear of loss that I abstained. There were many kind and brilliant men that I dated prior to meeting Frederick. Still, I believed that if I gave that part of myself away to someone prematurely, I wouldn’t have it for the one with whom I wished to share my whole life. That decision and choosing the man I married were two of the best choices I ever made.

The day after I graduated from high school, I packed my vintage army duffle bag and set off for the Snow King, a 217 ft. Alaskan fishing trawler docked at one of Seattle’s piers. Wrestling inside my young spirit were ambition, restlessness, and incorrigibility. I was a strong but thin 110 pound 18 year old with blond hair down to my waist and a will as stubborn as the proverbial ass. I had the fiercest determination; that was the only way a pretty 18 year old girl got to hold her own on an Alaskan fishing boat. Out of 91 crewmen only 11 were women. And at that, the term “women” could only be used loosely. “Come hell or high water” I was there and I was going to fulfill my contract. I didn’t care if the ocean swallowed me up; that was my only way out. So, I had to deal with everything on the fishing boat—or face the Bearing Sea waters, which would give me a cold death in less than three minutes.

The days were long, and the work was labor intensive. My first shift started at 12pm and went to 4am. At first, I was a galley girl; I helped in the kitchen and cleaned the ship. I took great pride in cleaning the boat; the poop deck and bow were only for the foremen, so I didn’t have to worry about falling off. The men really appreciated the smell of bleach and cleaners to the lingering stench of rancid fish (except for a few times where I must have used too much bleach—then the smell of fish would have been better).

Days carried over to weeks of introspection and longing. The ocean invited us restless souls, it seemed. Everyone had a story so far from the civilized life, they now seem unbelievable upon retrospection. But, they weren’t.

Froweena, was a lady of the same determination. She was an Ethiopian mother, on the boat for the sole intent of earning enough money for her family to survive. Every single day, from June to the end of September, her sea sickness got the better of her and no natural cure could abate her vomiting. Several times, the ship’s nurse had to do vital checks on her to see if she was well enough to stay aboard. But, through a constant regimen of “Ensure,” Saltine crackers, and lemons, she made it to the end of her contract. She spoke probably ten English words, but she always smiled and always said “thanks.”

Pasco, the baker and faithful friend, was an immigrant from Croatia. The Bosnian-Serbian war had left him and his family bereft and with nothing but ruins, after having had a legacy of land and house for more than 400 years.

Still others had a more sordid and nefarious life. One man, got offloaded as soon as our fish quota was met. Allegedly, he stabbed a man in a bar and was hiding from the law. Another man, who spoke no English, bit a coworker, and had to be offloaded. The other man had to be tested for HIV. Additionally, a very cunning fellow named “Sharky,” as he liked to be called, cheated on his wife and family and then left his girlfriend (the quality control specialist-“soon to be fiancée”). I only know he was married because we sat next to each other in orientation and I remember him wearing a wedding ring, and giving a pitiful story about how he very badly needed this job to keep his family alive. On the boat, he told Sharon, the girl, that his wife had left him and he was left to tend to his two kids for himself. There are still eighty plus more stories, but I will save that for another time.

It seems, the older I grow, that there are far fewer things that we actually control, than the things that we think we control. We think that if we decide one thing, then a certain consequent phenomenon will follow. That is often true, but not always. We get in to all sorts of trouble when we think that we can control things, or that certain patterns are predictable. I am not touting the notion of relativism or saying that there are not universal truths. All I am saying, is that sometimes in life—even circumstantially—there exists a wave-particle duality, two truths which simultaneously exist on the same plane.

I cannot control this illness, where it goes, what it will do, or even what the medicines I take will do to me. But, I can control my perspective, the thoughts on which I choose to dwell, and how I choose to spend the good days that I have. That is the same for everyone’s life. A friend once told me, “Anna, you cannot choose the story that God has written for your life. All you can do is live it.”

Sometimes, my fists are clenched and I remain indignant that such a lot could have fallen to me. At other times, I am grateful, that I am so blessed to experience life a way that many cannot. At this quiet hour of the morning, as the snow falls outside my window, I think myself very fortunate to be up and feeling better from this IV. I will be one of the first ones up all through the town that gets to see this beautiful snowfall. There is something enchanting about snow falling from under the pink glow of street lights. Christmas is two days away.

yours truly,

Anne

The Nature of Suspensions: Waiting for a Good Day

And so, my life within this modern era must begin. Many friends have suggested that I write "a book" about my life due to the uncanny number of remarkable experiences that I have had. My wish for these prose is to benefit you, my dear reader, and for you to have my life vicariously. Drink in the story of my life--that you may have my joy and weep through my sufferings, but linger only long enough to taste of it and walk back to your own more fulfilled.

My life is one of joy and one of pain. I will give you honesty and in return I ask you to give me patience and grace. I am both wretched and saintly; the best of journeys must have both the tempest and the placid.