Classic Order

That photo of me,
shuffling toward you
for the very first time,
says it all:
small being,
newly bipedal,
approaching tall man
emerging from fuzzy background
— and that is how I remember it;
“There he is; go on,” she said,
but my baby eyes
could not see that far ahead.

Sometime later,
you and I stood on the corner
of a very wide avenue,
and little me could only cringe
at the speed of everything flowing by
— fast, so fast, too fast for me —
but when the light changed,
you took me by the hand
and we raced across,
returning to the car lot
before it closed,
because the steed we’d driven off
had failed only blocks away.

It was revived, however,
to become the beloved chariot in which
we rolled over every stretch
of road we could wind along,
from coast to Sierra foothills,
staying at creaking cottage courts
or car camping roadside,
like that time a small dog
tried to catch a mighty river by the tail,
while her human sisters panned for gold
— the golden treasure garnered,
the laughter this triggered in us all.

These are glimpses
of how this child gained vision:
Plans meticulously made
so often veered out of control,
and the lesson always seemed to be
Just Roll With It;
though not always what we expect
(Results May Vary),
rewards can still be reaped,
such as a cozy at-home indoor picnic,
because an unexpected storm
rained out an intended excursion.

Adventures in education,
ever a tilting against windmills
of cultural experimentation;
how could “new math”
compete with “old math”?
Surely there is only onemath;
but while numbers were fated
to be my Achilles heel,
for you they were stock and trade.

Building and design,
weights and measures,
these are living lessons in conformity
and resistance — even revolution;
any angle can be joined,
but will it stand and withstand
the forces of gravity and
unintended use?

Perspective is itself an art,
and everyday proposes a new lesson;
perspective does not always form in
nor heed to the painful symmetries
we are taught to expect,
asked to cultivate.

Any rejected stone
has keystone potential,
viewed with the right eyes
and placed by the right hands,
as masons from Greece,
Europe and Yavapai attest
by way of the monuments
they left behind.

And this is how you taught me,
whether you know it or not,
that symmetry is illusory,
even unnatural;
the human struggle has
always been a vertical challenge
to the gently curving horizon
of a continually growing and quaking earth,
a battle against the natural order;

Similarly, modern science is baffled
in the attempt to unmask
nature as a formulaic perfection,
perhaps because there is
no perfect, simplistic formula,
more an ever growing
agreeable synergy
of complexities.

How many places, things,
people and relationships
have we witnessed that work
in defiance of a stated perfection,
while the captains of industry
fail to produce a toaster that can toast?

Perhaps more to the mark,
nature trains us to cooperate,
revealing the truth that beauty
is uniquely, even willfully, nonconformist,
as can be seen in any garden;
you can nurture and train,
but a garden will go its own way,
and even lowly weeds can flower
with unexpected beauty,
given their moment in the sun.

You’ve lived at the apex
of this age-old human battle
to best nature, and you’ve
tested your fulcrum against
the weight of normative fashion.

I’ve observed that
your preference has been
to lay paths that gently conform
to the soft contour of the natural setting;
there you’ve planted the aloe and reed,
and together we’ve released
butterflies into the wild
— letting go is the magic blessing
that allows beauty to bloom
as it will do.

This lesson in artful living
has not been lost on me,
and these feet of mine
find those paths,
from time to time.

It is in such times and places
where I find a classic order
that allows me to
feel my feet firmly planted
and to see just a little
of what lies ahead.

for Father’s Day

© 2019 BY Elisabeth T. Eliassen

So You Bought Yourself A Band, Redux

To recap from our last episode:

Nemesis, the cold light of truth, awaits you, in every seat, in every concert hall.

Entertain me. Make me smile.

Nemesis is waiting to see and hear what you will deliver.

//

So, time has passed. 

“Back in the Family,” you said, “where it belongs.” And that’s where you began your bait-and-switch, at venues that had been advertising other performers for nearly a year. You donned the requisite striped shirts and made your move. (We note that stills of the old lineup continue to show up in venue promotions, even today…)

But it was soon evident that cracks were forming.

The ham-fisted, litigious takeover immediately turned off longtime fans that might have continued to be your primary audience. You got into brawls on the internet with people. Lawsuits surely won’t build a new fan base, and trademark licensing doesn’t entitle the licensee to threaten tribute bands covering “your” songs… 

You discovered, to your chagrin, that the summer camp you thought came with your purchase deal was actually owned and operated by someone else. (You didn’t do your homework.) You tried to create a new camp, but no one signed up. Quelle surprise! The fans you’d turned your back on were the very ones who had the means to devote to such pastimes; who did you think you were going to attract? Being that you can’t sing or play all that well means it is extremely doubtful you could teach, so what were you planning to offer? It couldn’t have ever been more than a schmooze-and-booze punctuated by posing and boasting, nothing more than a one-night stand.

Swiftly must have come the realization that one set wasn’t enough for a whole show. You discovered you couldn’t sing some songs in the keys they’d been performed in. Three-part harmonies flat-lined into unison. Instrument tuning was, shall we say, problematical. Lame is the patter, and y’all ain’t got rhythm. Adding songs that had never been part of the repertoire, one can only wonder about that. But not taking requests and leaving out some signature tunes audiences have come to expect actually does have an impact in terms of branding, marketing and sales, or so it has been just generally opined in the pages of both the Wall Street Journal and the Hollywood Reporter.

Nemesis has seen the videos, and she has heard the whispering on the wind. 

Interestingly, somewhere along the line the DNA baby got thrown out with the bath water; lo and behold, the thing isn’t really in the family anymore. At this point, the only legacy member is actually the sideman, a non-member.

Then, a fight broke out over the website. For a while, no one who might have wanted to see shows could find out anything about them. The old URL points to some other group; and while there is a new URL for The Group, no one can find it. The investors must be a bit concerned; if they aren’t, they should be.

Spies have informed Nemesis that phone calls had been made to former members, trying to sound out availability to “fill in” or “replace” well before the apparent coup d'état. Most of these parties politely demurred, as involvement could be construed as legitimizing something or someone. People who did step in struggled to perform with you, as the arrangements had been dumbed-down or put into different keys, and signature licks had been ditched. Ultimately, poaching someone from another group can only make it sound better, so that’s one plus for you... 

Email alerts come in from the four corners; there is abundant ticket availability! People who work the venues report arrogance and mistreatment back stage. Believe me, presenters will think twice, if they haven't already done so. Investors must be a bit concerned; if they aren’t, they should be. When any tribute band can play and sing circles around you, who will pay top dollar to hear less than the very best that can be done, to hear you “learn on the job”? 

And this has entertained Nemesis the most: There has been absolutely no need for her to intervene!

Your reputation precedes you. While you can fool some of the people some of the time, you cannot fool them all. What you can do is fool yourselves, as long as ever you want – at a price.

It is said that revenge is a meal best served cold. The sideboard is laid. The wine is chilled and the glasses are filled. It is all just a matter of time. 

Let us raise the parting glass!

Raspberries, strawberries, let us toast with fine wine:
Here's to the songs that we used to love, dying on your vine.

The End

© 2019

https://songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com/2017_08_10_archive.html

Addendum: The show at Yoshi's in Oakland CA on 5/15/19 was less than 1/3 sold...

So You Bought Yourself A Band…

“Music is a proud, temperamental mistress. Give her the time and attention she deserves, and she is yours. Slight her and there will come a day when you call and she will not answer.”      ~ Patrick Rothfuss

So, you bought yourself a band.

The “consummate businessman” gamboled himself along the garden path into a financial hole, and you were there at the fire sale, cash in hand. What a coup! How cool is that?

Oh, but things haven’t gone so great at the start, though, have they?

First, there was the pesky little detail of the guys who were already the band members; you had to get rid of them. But you couldn’t, like, write them a letter or call them on the phone or speak to them in person sometime during the three or more years in which you’ve been incubating your plan toward hatching point. You had to sue people, some of whom didn’t know anything about the sale of the band, because it was never announced! So, now you are paying a whole bunch of money for a big wheel attorney who can pummel and gag everyone into submission. That was an expense and bother you hadn’t counted on. You made a big splash in the press, though, releasing the detailed legal suit for everyone to see, attempting to smear everyone.

Ham-fisted. Ugly.

You wish that part were over. You’re just itching to get on the big stage. You’ve been practicing and practicing. You’ve now memorized one whole album of the group’s corpus material. You’ve been offering as many gigs as possible in little coffee houses and restaurants and the like, smoothing your stage patter. Your sychoph – er, pals have been telling you how great it all is, how ready you are!

Hmm. One album’s worth of songs is, like, one set. One. Set.

Then, there is this little problem: At those venues that are already booked, they are waiting for those other guys to show up. The publicity is already out; it’s been out for months. In many cases, tickets have already been sold for some of those events. I guess your premise is that it doesn’t really matter who shows up to load in, as long as there are the requisite number of guys on stage doing the songs. When were you going to tell the presenters to expect you, instead of the other guys? Didn’t think about that as being your obligation, did you? You thought your “business partner” was supposed to do that? It’s you, now, man; it’s you! You wanted it, you got it! I mean, if you want your “partner” to do that stuff, you might have to whip out that attorney again.

I guess you’ll now start thinking twice about your business “partner” and how you do business together as time goes on; there’s a good idea.

You’ve got a computer. You’ve got a phone. You’ve had a bunch of time. It’s not just about playing the instruments and singing to audiences. The way you’ve “played” your hand thus far means you’re going to have to deal with a website and bookings and presenters, airline tickets, hotel room bookings and rental cars. Or, conversely, you might have to hire a competent staff person to do that for you, if you are too busy; another expense. But these are business decisions, right? You own those, now, too, I guess. Don’t you? (Did your contract talk about that? Did it stipulate who was responsible for these things? Did an attorney ever look at the rag before you signed it?)

Symphony gigs. I guess there will never be another one of those. I mean, you don’t know anything about a symphony, do you? Never worked with a conductor, I’m thinking. And I’m guessing you don’t have the arrangements. First off, there is something called a “cue” that is not associated with the word “pool.”

Summer clinic. Gone. You’re into jamming and schmoozing and having fun, but you can’t teach and you can’t coach. That’s not what you’re interested in, anyway. You want to market and promote yourself, and sing on the big stage. Those old fans simply aren’t as important as the new ones you’re planning to pursue. (I wonder if you did a market study?)

Got rhythm? Not so much? Maybe lose the drum, then. Or hire a drummer. Oh, but that doesn’t fit the tradition, does it? Cuts into the bottom line, as well.

Technê (craft) and epistêmê ( knowledge). Epistasthai (knowing how) and gnôsis (understanding). Émpeiros (experienced; practiced) and artios (ready because prepared). These are old Greek words about art and artistry; do you see yourself in any of them, or is it just Greek to you?

You can buy the band, but you can’t wear it like a suit. You don’t put on a shirt and magically become the fantastic musician with the hot guitar licks and the honeyed voice. Your money can’t endow you with talent the likes of the people you’ve supplanted, in order to fulfill your fantasy. But, get this, talent is what the audiences in the big halls expect! That’s what they pay for! Can you deliver that? (Will a letter from your “partner” to the venues, saying you’re “great guys,” make it so?)

This business is bigger than you are – way, way bigger than you realize. All by yourself, you opened Pandora’s box, and you sent the word out there. The industry feeds on gossip, and you gave out a whole lot of innuendo for people to chew on. Your stunt with the media puts you in as much questionable light as the people you tried to smear, the very people you did out of decent jobs. You can gag some of the people, but not all of them. You’ve already disappointed and disgusted longtime fans with your actions. You can create a back-story, but what will people believe? (You never made a press release, introducing all these changes to the world. What were you thinking? What were you waiting for? What were you trying to hide?)

I wonder if others in the business will want to work with you, share a stage with you, stand next to you, after the stunt you pulled. They’ve earned their fame; you’ve merely “purchased the rights” to it. Don’t look to DNA for rights to respect; any actor’s kid knows you have to show four times the talent to get anyone to even look at you.

Okay. So, now that you “own” it, the big question is “Can you deliver?” And, boy, oh, boy, you’re going to have to answer that one sooner than you think. Are you ready to ride the rollercoaster of your own making? Whee!!!!

A lot of people, these days, speak of karma. “Karma’s a bitch,” they say.

Oh, but karma’s got nothing on Nemesis. Do you remember who Nemesis is? She is the Greek Goddess equalizer, the righter of wrongs; she is an aspect of Justice. She addresses the hubris of small humans and big gods in the most appropriate manner, by revealing the truth of what they are.

Nemesis, the cold light of truth, awaits you, in every seat, in every concert hall.

Entertain me. Make me smile.

Nemesis is waiting to see and hear what you will deliver.

© 2017

Slumber Song - A Christmas Reflection

Sleep, my baby, sleep
Beneath the stars of night;
Slumber sweet and slumber deep,
dream ‘neath their beauteous light.

Refrain:

Are ye born to be a pauper;
Are ye born to be a king?
Ye’re born to teach us, proper,
How to love and give and sing.

Shepherds, they rejoice;
the beasts in their stalls
—even angels send a voice
throughout the heavenly halls!

Refrain

Joseph stands by me
—now, we dare not sleep;
Having been blest to raise thee,
the Lord’s own son shall we keep.

Refrain

Innocent from sin,
and, too, all other harms,
all we, who watch over him,
long to hold him in our arms.

Refrain

Sleep, my baby, sleep
Beneath the stars of night;
Slumber sweet and slumber deep,
sheltered by their glowing light.

Refrain

© by Elisabeth T. Eliassen,
October 5, 2016; Set to music by
Angela Kraft Cross for the
San Francisco Renaissance Voices,
Katherine McKee, Director

I woke up from a dream with the refrain in my head, and that is how this carol text came about.

I have been an ardent student of biblical and other sacred texts for over thirty years and a musician for much of my life. While I cannot say that I am a scholar in these matters, I know that a few things that most people who practice Christianity don’t know or realize.

First of all, Christmas is an entirely manufactured holiday. Jesus had a birthday, of course, but it was most likely in the springtime of the year. Somewhere around the year 200 C.E., Clement of Alexandria is likely the first person to have recorded his guesses about the birth date of Jesus—none of which occur anywhere near the winter solstice. The commemorative mass could have been placed in the winter for several reasons; one of many theories is that overlaying a preexisting pagan holiday with the birth of Jesus might have been done as an means to make pagans be less suspicious of Christianity, or even entice them to join the faith. It isn’t until the 4^th century C.E. that the birth of Jesus can be found listed in a Roman almanac—the date affixed at during this time is either December 25^th in the Roman Church or January 6^th (Epiphany Day) in the Eastern Church. 

Secondly, carols are not hymns. There is a great deal more complexity to the explanation than what I have time to write about here, but, essentially, hymns are derived from chants of the psalms and other portions of scripture, and an occasional “inspired” text, first by the church Fathers, later by others, also known as a “spiritual song.” Carols are festive, religiously themed songs that can be sung in or out of church. The word “carol” is derived from the French carole, the word for a circle dance that was accompanied reed pipes and other instruments, but also by singing. While hymns are more liturgical in nature and always appropriate for the praise of God in church, carols are the festive music of the people during any holiday season celebration, be it Advent, Christmas, Easter, or some other festive season, not necessarily to be done in church.

Thirdly, only two of the canonical gospels (those that “made the cut” into the sanctioned liturgical library we call “the Bible”) record anything like the familiar Christmas story, and these two very different (sometimes contradictory) accounts are conflated into one single story. The earliest gospel, the Gospel of Mark, doesn’t record anything about the birth of Jesus. The latest of the four gospels, the Gospel of John, reflects abstractly and poetically on the presence of the Messiah as the Word before all worlds. The middle two gospels, Matthew and Luke, are where we get our bits of the birth story, and then our minds take all the bits and put them together into The Traditional Holiday Pageant Play.

So, for me, if we really need to have a credible “reason for the season,” it has to be all about the child. This story is not at all about the radical rabbi who was crucified. This is about the mother whose child came a bit early to seem legitimate; about the family who couldn’t find shelter when the mother went into labor; really, most of all, about the baby who appeared in the midst of chaos. There is chaos, as well as hope and expectation, surrounding the birth of each child. Who knows if this child will survive to adulthood, or what sort of future lies ahead. Will this child attain royalty, or will this child live a life of poverty? Only time will tell the tale. This is the story of unknown potential, like the fallow winter awaiting springtime growth.

(If I was either a seer or a theologian, I’d to say that this child will grow to be both a king and a pauper. But I'm not, and this is talking out of season.)

The best of parents will tell you that bringing children into the world and nurturing them is one of the toughest and extended lessons of humility and grace that a person can undergo. “Choice” is not a word that pops up frequently in the parental vocabulary—often, you do what you must, with what you have to hand. Sometimes the lessons that get delivered are sketchy or cranky.

No matter what religion or holiday you celebrate, inherent in all should be a simple truth: All babies are proof of the Divine Miracle of Life. All babies are born innocent; it is up to parents and community to teach and encourage, to facilitate the very best for every growing child. This is a lesson all cultures must recognize and act upon. I mention it because so many children worldwide are in grave need, right now.

But at this moment, in this story, Mary’s attention, and the attention of all who happen to be there, is on the sleeping child, illuminated by the glow of starlight.

This is meant to be a quiet celebration. It's not about angels or saviors or martyrs or gifts. It's not about loud singing and dancing or lavish meals. This story is all about a baby.

Let the baby sleep.

There’s time enough for all the rest.

School Days, Golden Rule Days

School days, school days

Dear old golden rule days

Readin' and 'ritin' and 'rithmetic

Taught to the tune of the hickory stick

                (Music by Gus Edwards; Lyrics by Will D. Cobb, 1907)

School is out. Have the expectations we hold for our children been met? A report card:

My children are leaving elementary school. During their six years in our local school district, there have been two parcel tax battles. In the news, teachers have been portrayed as being money-sucking union members. In our local school district, letters to the editor have frequently portrayed teachers as being overpaid and over-pensioned. I have not seen that. These are political myths that are convenient to cutting off funds, and an unaware public all too often buys into the lies.

I attended school board meetings, not PTA meetings. The latter might have been useful, but I only had time for one or the other. PTA meetings deal with the specific environment of a school, while school board meetings discuss the entire ecology of the district. I went to those meetings. Frequently, I listened while parents complained about how their children weren’t being given something, whether it was the ability to enroll in their neighborhood school, or the sports elective that parents felt sure was essential. The general message was that the district owed these children whatever it was the parents wanted. Those parents with complaints would have their say, and then they would leave, and go home.

I stayed on at those meetings. Meetings where the board would leave to the very last an agenda item that needed to be addressed by the teachers’ union representative. Such meetings could go on until sometimes later than 11pm. Yes. And, yet, the union rep hung in there. I know, because I was one of the ones who stuck it out with her. What I learned in these meetings would curl your hair and your toes. Parents who left, after having their 3 or 5 minutes to talk about their personal need for their child unique, never heard about any of the issues or challenges that inform policy in the district.

The teachers’ contracts had been up for renewal for a several years. Our district, like many, had been shortchanged by the, due to the shortfall of the state economy—brought on because people, particularly politicians, don’t believe in taxation or social programs. The state, you will remember, mandates education. However, whenever there is a fiscal crisis, the first thing cut from the budget is funding for public education, whether it is k-12 or higher education. That is the  first cut. The teachers in our local district have been working without a contract, and had agreed to a cut in pay, in order to preserve the continuity of the district’s education. When further cuts came, unpaid furlough days were also adopted.

I volunteered at my kids’ school. I was the parent volunteer on one of the morning drop-off safety patrol teams. I was an art docent. I volunteered to help with reading in the classroom. My husband and I sold cups of coffee on the schoolyard in the morning for over 3 years. We wore a groove in the sidewalk and street between our house and the school—who knows, we could have been personally responsible for the deferred maintenance of our local streets! I loved being able to be there, with my kids. They loved having their parents participate in their learning. It was a beautiful thing. My husband and I were given the school service award for this year. I was stunned and touched. Our children achieved their own recognition.

People, hear the truth: that service award attests to my husband's and my involvement, but it means nothing when compared to the gift we received. We saw our children and the children of others learning, growing, and thriving, while they were having a great time. For us, it was all about the kids. We saw younger siblings who couldn’t wait to start school. We saw older siblings come back to say hello. We saw students struggling, and getting help. Yes, we saw a few who were beyond help, also. There is no system yet devised to handle all parameters; when we cut funds, how many more students fall through the cracks? We all do what we can, in the time we have. As in the old carol:

Please put a penny in the old man's hat,

If you haven't got a penny, then a ha'penny will do
If you haven't got a ha'penny, then God bless you!

But, that brings us back to money. Doesn’t it? [How many resources were cut while my children were in school?]

When I think back on my own elementary school days, I never could have imagined how wonderful such days would be for my children. I did have wonderful days, back then, days that I remember fondly. But I tell you, I was able to live it again, and in a better way than when I was growing through it, because I could see it all from both sides of the coin.

Do I wax nostalgic? Not at all. No, not at all. And again, I say pas de tous.

Because I was there, at my children’s school, many days throughout the year, I was able to witness what it is that individual teachers can and do offer, despite being hampered by budgets and regulations. Teachers are now, and have always been, about TEACHING. What teachers teach goes beyond readin’, writin’ and ‘rithmetic. Teachers teach life skills. Teachers teach compassion. Teachers teach manners. Teachers teach children how to discover what lies beneath the surface. Teachers teach children how to be interested in something other than themselves. Teachers teach anticipation. No thanks, mind you, to the parents that drop off their children but never try to venture into the classroom, to the parents that write nasty letters to the editor of the newspaper, to parents that show up at the board of education meetings to state a grievance, but will not sit through the meeting to be informed of the complete picture. Never mind the textbook writers don’t know how to write for their intended audience. Never mind the federal regulations and programs, such as No Child Left Behind (a.k.a. Nickleby, as in Nicholas Nickleby of Dickensian origin, as in nickel, as in this nebulous federal program that tests, but does not fund). There is always a way to reach a child; where there is a will, there is a way--and most teachers have the will and find the way. Never mind the possibility of bloated district offices with overpaid upper management—our school offices run on a shoestring, but they run.

The teachers at the school where my children have been for six years are each stars in the education firmament. And so, too, the staff and Principal. Bless them all. Watch over them all, in these lean days of budget cuts and broken promises and the dissolution of the public employee and the breaking of the unions.

If there is anything I could now question, looking back on these last six years, it is the expectations the public place on public education. For a lot of people, school is a place where the kids are dropped off. What happens while the children are in class can remain a mystery. Many parents are strangers to the classroom life of their children, while yet wanting to have control of it. We continually expect our teachers to have ultimate responsibility for what our children learn, but, just as frequently, the public does not remember that public moneys are meant to publicly fund public education and other public programs. (When our government abdicates its responsibility to tax for the common good, we can only blame ourselves--we voted for this abdication.) And many parents do not remember that they are primary models to their children, and therefore bear the ultimate responsibility for all humanist qualities that their children learn.

Long summer days stretch before us. If I wish anything for you and for your children, it is the experience of boredom, which is the mother of invention. When your children get bored, don’t let them play computer games; don’t let them watch television. Send them to the park, or park them in front of a good book. Let your children be BORED. Boredom is the key to doors of discovery and perception.

School is out. Have the expectations we hold for our children been met?

For my part, I sing a resounding YES! The way I see it, we could not pay our teachers enough for what they do. I want our teachers to earn a decent living wage: this is how we value teachers, students, and society. 

My children and I thank all you beautiful teachers that have shaped these formative years.

May you all be blessed and may you all be kept in the manner that is due to you, all your days—be they school days or those halcyon days of summer.

Discussions About Life

It had been such a beautiful day! Warm, Spring-like, gorgeous!

It was late in the afternoon. My daughter suddenly wanted to go to the beach, even for just a short time. My son did not want to go to the beach.

At their age, it is either all or none. I decided that we should go; the sun would soon be setting, we wouldn't be gone long.

So, off we went.

We are extremely fortunate to live within a mile of a lovely beach and bird sanctuary. Because of the fantastic weather, the beach was crowded with people of all ages, and birds, of many different feathers, were floating, flying and walking around the area. Couldn't have asked for a more perfect setting.

My son, however, was moping. At first, he didn't want to play with his sister, and then he did want to play with her, but she wouldn't play the way he wanted to... (sigh) One of those moments every parent has to deal with. I usually try to deal with it by casting my mind back to my own childhood, sifting through the memory banks for similar experiences.

He finally came over and sat by me, arms crossed, with a cloudy look on his face.

"What's wrong?" I asked (already knowing).

"She won't let me play with her," he said.

"Really?"

"Well, she will, but only if we play the way she wants to," came his answer.

"Hmmm..." Meanwhile, the memory banks were flicking images through my brain, and I was winding up to formulate some sort of response to his difficulty, hopefully a response that might be useful.

"You know, when I was a child, I was serious, just like you are. The difference between you and me is that you talk more about what is going on with you. I didn't talk, thinking I had to handle everything on my own," I paused, to see if he was listening.

"You do have to handle your experience on your own; I cannot change your experience for you, to make things happen the way that you think you want them to happen." I swept my arm around at the fabulous view and the people enjoying it. "Here we are in this beautiful place, in this beautiful moment, and you are choosing to be miserable."

"I know that it is disappointing when things don't go your way. Most days in life are like that, honestly. I can think of few days in my life when things have gone perfectly or the way that I wanted." He cut a glance at me, considering this with some skepticism.

"I think the secret to getting along through life must lie in letting go of the need to control circumstances that, let's face it, really can't be controlled, and by taking time to look at what is actually happening around us. If we can do that, it may be possible to find the beauty that just is, not a moment that we manufacture or manipulate, but one that is just there and includes us. Do you see?"

He was thinking about what I said.

"I think that if you spend more time finding and being within the beauty of things the way they are, you will feel less need to control them. There are so many people in the world who spend all their waking moments trying to make things happen and in continual frustration over not being able to control everything and every person around them. Ultimately, I think this is a waste of good living time, when you could be appreciating that you are part of this beautiful and remarkable place and moment. This beautiful moment is yours, if you can see it, hear it, taste it, touch it. bathe in it."

He looked out over the water. The sun was making a glorious red slide down behind the San Francisco skyline.

"There, see? We can go home now--this was only a quick outing anyway. Let's go home and make dinner."

He was watching the colors change along the horizon. He seemed more relaxed. But, I wondered, had he been able to digest what I had said? I don't know. But it seemed to me like he was thinking about it.

"Why don't you go get your sister, and then we'll go."

"Okay, mom." He ran over to where his sister was drawing pictures in the sand and splashing around.

Looking after him, watching them both, and remembering my own years of frustration and seriousness (then and now), I wondered if what had I said would help, or not.

If there is one thing I know, it is this: as a parent, I cannot mitigate my children's experiences--they must experience what they will experience.

Experience is the great teacher, but only if we are willing to be pliant and infinitely flexible students. Experience is the reason for life, though perhaps life's meaning is beyond experience, as meaning implies a synthesis that can only be derived from a culmination of all experiences.

I thought about what I had said to him. I wondered if I were modeling, in our home life, any of what I had suggested. If so, was it enough to be a good model?

And then I wondered if I could remember what I had said long enough to write it down, to be a wisdom that I, too, could quietly consider.