A true story for your holiday season.    May you find more blessings, fulfillment, and joy than you ever looked for.    From mine to yours, the happiest of seasons.

– Nathan

We were a ragtag bunch of youthful musicians and, being of un-proven and uncivilized manners, were likely not worthy of the term at that age; but, inspired, led, and driven (kicking and screaming), we attempted a pseudo-mastery of the art.   The shiny instruments attached to our grubby hands and sassy mouths were shiny but fingerprint-laden, purchased by parents with not a little bit of trepidation, wondering if they were justified in placing such an incredibly expensive acquisition in the hands of a youngster who had not a summer ago spent far too much energy destroying childhood toys with bottle rockets.    And yet, despite the risks of finding the bells of our horns full of tapioca pudding out of a lark, they allowed us to play.

And play we did, whether in individual lessons or in group therapy, squeaking and squawking along with vim and vigor in the only way that middle school children can, stumbling through various compositions with all the energy and direction of a stampeding herd of psychotic wildebeests.   Whether we inspired anyone beyond ourselves was unimportant; it was the fact that we had bothered to attempt, to scale the mountain, to climb the height that stood before us – the pursuit of music.

We were impressionable children at the time; a conglomerate of those that were immersed deeply within the throes of adolescence, some who had benefited greatly (not necessarily to their advantage) from the process, and the smattering who had yet to justify the liberal use of underarm deodorant outside of it being a crowd participation activity – although they would be the last to admit as such.

Music might have easily taken a dusty backseat to all other issues of our hormone-soaked lives if it had not been for a particular, influential individual in our midst.   Without his guidance, we would have never thought of trying to make sense of the muddling of black marks, streaks, and brief Italian words spattered across the pages in front of us.    We were led, cajoled, even dragged sometimes, but ultimately shaped and nurtured by – The Director.

The Director was not an imposing man; he was not a hulking mess of meat nor was he a windy, waifish figure, but average in most respects that grown men adhere to.   This was not to say he wasn’t effective — his rumbling voice, flashing eyes, quick wits, and effective retorts and commands were issued with extreme efficiency, coolness, and with a sense of authority that few dared to question, and if they did, soon found themselves on the wrong end of a cold stare and disapproving lecture.   He bespake the hale years of a man who had already seen fourteen dozen of your kind before and don’t even try it because I’ll fry your ass and put it on a stick to wave in the breeze, buck-o.

It was into this I was thrust and at the mid-point of my 7th grade year, as the calendar was waning and the holidays approached, the band made up of my grade and the one above was hard at work in our usual fashion, honing the performance of a piece far beyond our previous skills and abilities.   This did not deter The Director; he often would slap something down in front of us which resembled a polka dot festival gone mad; I secretly think he had good fun in watching our faces fall and our eyes bug out at the prospect of attempting a piece 10 times harder than what we thought we were capable.   Just when we thought we might have the hang of this whole “playing” thing, along came the judgment and we were found to be wanting.

Difficult or not, we would be led carefully down the correct path, winding through all the pitfalls, and in the end, we’d emerge triumphant, more confident than ever in our abilities, and the Director would simply sit back and silently grin to himself, knowing that the bet paid off, just as he always knew that it would.    He always knew.

The holiday concert repertoire that year consisted of the various traditional pieces, jingle-this and holly-that, angels, stars, presents, and Rudolph in a snow suit, but as a change we were attempting to polish a rather rough diamond, a lovely piece entitled, Russian Christmas Music.

Alfred Reed writes instrumental pieces that make angels wish they had taken up something more than just a harp and light beer, and causes sane Swedes to weep in contrition at the sheer beauty and magnitude of the anthems and harmonies.  This jewel is no exception; a piece of over twelve minutes in length, it takes the players and audience through the quietest of valleys to the heights of the loudest mountaintops and everywhere on the winding paths in between, all to portray Christmas according to Russian traditional musical styles.   To this day, it remains a staple in the instrumental world and is rivaled by few in its majesty.

It is rather difficult; long, drawn-out passages are simply marked, “Don’t Breathe!” for a good few minutes, complex runs and scales of notes, odd timings, entrances, and mind-boggling dynamics grace the pages.    Usually reserved for later years in high school or college-aged bands due to the difficulty levels, Russian is not a piece for the light of heart.

Naturally, the Director would have us give it a go.

We pounded, we worked, we blew and tweeted and honked and whooshed.   Many days it no doubt appeared that we were attempting to make a trebuchet out of Popsicle sticks instead of a musical piece, but we made progress.   Eventually it started to form itself into a respectable presentation of sound, suitable for a discerning audience.   We moved from the band room to the auditorium stage for rehearsals in anticipation of the yearly winter holiday concert approaching rapidly.

As is many winters in the hinterlands of Iowa, the weather has a singular mind of its own and at best, is schizophrenic.   To say that it might change at any point is to far devalue the rapidity and ferocity with which it can go from calm-happy-bluebirds to raging-shredded-goose-bits.

The week prior to the concert proved to be one where the weather forecasters walked in front of their maps and then slowly started shaking their heads as if to say, “I’m very, very sorry, but you’re just screwed.”   Winter blizzards popped up with the frequency of hair extensions in Jersey and school got let out early several times.   As the weekend approached, we were rift with anticipation about how Monday would turn out weather-wise.

Our fears were confirmed and Monday, day of the concert, we were let go early.   Of course, the policy is that we could not hold a concert on a day that the administration had already determined was hazardous to our health, so it was rescheduled for the next Monday, the week before Christmas vacation.

This was GREAT news as far as polishing the song went!   Russian had really started to shape up but still had some long-term need for copious amounts of spit and a fierce rubdown with rags that only time could bring.   So we took to it with a new-found passion, determined to make the make-up concert one to remember.

And it was snowed out…again.    And again it was rescheduled — for Wednesday of the same week; the last whole day before vacation and, it was told, our last chance.

The day loomed with storms on the horizon but an uncertain weather forecast, so we had hope.   All through the morning we gazed nervously out the windows, watching for rogue snowflakes and angst-ridden clouds, willing and hoping the storm to stay away, to let us finish this – this one, single concert that we had worked so hard for.   The Director had impressed upon us each the significance of what we had done and we believed it to our core – the show must go on.

We were in the middle of rehearsal that day, just before lunchtime, and were hammering on a particularly difficult section of another piece.   The Director’s baton flashed in the air as he swished and jabbed his commands across the span of the band, highlighted only by the stage lighting while the rest of the empty auditorium, shrouded in deep darkness, listened.

On the edge of the pool of light thrown by the spots suddenly walked in – The Principal.

We got the cut-off and silently put down our instruments.   We all knew what this meant but our hearts protested with hope, pleadingly, desperately.    Nobody said a word.   The Director stood off to the side of his podium, arms crossed, waiting.   Waiting for inevitability.

The Principal was soft-spoken, kind, and grandfatherly-like, but an administrator, and was brief:   The weather was bad, yet again, and school was letting out early.    The concert, having been pushed as far as was possible before Christmas, was canceled and would not be rescheduled.    He finished, drew a calm breath and, casting a knowing glance across the despondent, upturned faces, turned and walked quietly off the stage.

Nobody moved.    The air seemed to freeze, deathly cold, as we processed this information.   The Director didn’t move, either; he simply stood there, head cast down.     Slowly his arms unfolded and hung at his sides, limp, baton dangling.    Defeated.

After a half of a minute that passed in an eternal time frame, he suddenly straightened himself up, took a deep breath, paused, and then gathered his arms upwards and his baton to attention and uttered the single phrase, “Russian Christmas Music”.

We all scrambled silently for our music, the only sound that of the sheets of paper rustling as we each brought the tome to the foreground and readied our instruments.  Everyone came to attention once they were ready, poised on the edge of their seats in the dark and lonely auditorium, bathed in white stage lights and dark, heavy curtains, a ghostly audience occupying the empty seats in the pitch-black house.

The Director found each of our eyes and then, with a confident swish of his baton, we began.

And we played.

The difficulties of that song, all that hard work that we had ached over, it all came to bear in the notes and passion that rang out that day into an empty room.   We had struggled for so long to produce something of beauty for our audience, our parents, grandparents, friends, and mentors, and they weren’t going to be able to hear it, so we did the next best – perhaps the best thing – and we played for nobody but ourselves.

I know for a fact that mistakes were made that day.    A fledgling band tackling difficult material will naturally stumble over the course of any performance, no matter how many times you attempt it, but that day – in that dark theatre – it simply didn’t matter.    The chords sounded angelic, the runs were perfect, the horns clarion.   The sheer amount of emotion and heart being poured upon that stage in a single span of time has rarely been met since; eighty-some adolescent musicians and their fearless, passionate Director attempted to touch something true and right and beautiful and that day, on that stage, in front of nobody at all — we did it.

The song ended, as all must, and we sat once again, silent in the glow of the emotion.   Not a few tears were shed from the beauty of it all or what we had done and The Director simply said a quiet, “Thank you,” as he lowered his baton.

And Christmas came.

Russian Christmas Music, Alfred Reed, Unknown Performance, 29MB MP3

This one word pretty well sums up where I find myself.

Or rather, where I don’t.

The fact that this blog hasn’t been updated in 31 days is only a small indicator of the state of the entire system; a small window of view into the whole malaise.

It is difficult to state exactly how I feel, but I’m going to attempt it, because maybe by writing it down I can better align my mind to it, and perhaps find a way out of it.    That’s not to say this is a definitive list of what’s mulling around in my head, but it encompasses a lot of it.

I feel very Katy Perryish about almost everything — Hot/Cold, Yes/No, In/Out, Up/Down:

JOB – Best one I’ve ever had, or a stalemate?   Fulfilling or boring?

CAREER – Where next?   Should I be higher/better than I am, or am I ok?   Will I look back and regret this?   Am I fulfilled in what I’m doing or am I muddling around?   Am I skilled or am I just fooling myself into thinking I am?

MONEY - There’s never enough, of course, but have I got a grasp on it or am I still immature when dealing with it?   Am I invested correctly or am I screwing my future self into the ground?   Are my expenses justified or do I just think they are?

LOCATION – Is where I live and work promoting my life or holding me back?   Am I missing out on aspects of life because I’m isolated in the middle of nowhere, or am I avoiding things that would detract from it?

MARRIAGE – We are what we are, and we’re an old married couple.   Am I doing right by my wife and doing my best to promote what we have, or am I missing the boat on having more than we do and I’m just clueless?

FAMILY – Am I being the best at fathering my boy or am I going down paths that I’ll regret later?   Will he look back and go, “What a great dad” or will he shake his head and go, “Well, at least he tried…”?     Are my relationships with my extended family members healthy, too tight, or too loose?   Am I falling into traps with them or am I avoiding connections?

FRIENDS – Do I have the right ones or the wrong ones?   Are they helping me or hurting me?   Do I need more or less?   Am I spending enough time with them or not enough?   How do I best approach them and balance family life as well?

POLITICS – Am I wasting energy on believing that they matter or am I failing to make a difference?   Is it adding to my life and future to be concerned and involved in them or am I simply gathering more angst and bitterness inside?

BELIEFS/PHILOSOPHY - Am I developing my understanding of the world in a concrete, correctly-paced manner, properly taking in the truths and discarding the falsehoods, bringing my thoughts more and more in line with each other, or am I so jaded against getting caught in a bad perspective that I’m missing out on something significant?

HEALTH – Where do we go from here?   I have so much knowledge and so little motivation — will I find it?   Will I be able to decode my own body and mind so they work together instead of fighting against?   Am I simply destined to be a fatass for my entire life, or is there something I can achieve and manage?

HOBBIES - Do I enjoy my computer-collecting hobby?   Do I want to continue and, if so, how?   How do I both honor my hobby and avoid it overcoming me?   How do I fit my personal interests into my other responsibilities as a father and husband, without neglecting those?

MUSIC – Where is my music?   Where’s my pleasure gone in it, and why can’t I find it?   Am I being too nostalgic?   Too lazy?   Too resigned?  Too picky?

ONLINE ROLE – Where do I want to fall here?    I’m obviously not a blogger if I can’t keep updates going — but do I want to be?   Am I smart in keeping up with FB/Twitter or are they eating away at me?   Is it worth me cultivating friendships with so many people whom I’ve never met and likely won’t anytime soon, and whom I have NO idea of their opinion of me and for all I know, could be regularly laughing at me every time I reply or comment to them?    Or am I building up a wonderful network of world-wide peeps?

—–

I am directionless, dear reader.    This is one that there is no Google Maps for.

I don’t need to own a gun, spout phrases like, “Don’t Tread On Me”, and have eagles painted on my rear view window to feel its power.  I know that symbols are just that — symbolic — representative of the feelings and theories inside my head and the heads of many others.    I am not bound to the symbols; I am not a fair-weather fan.

I am realistic.   I recognize the flaws in the country and the system and I may be vocal about them, or I may simply register them with a vote.   I may be very critical of policies and procedures but that doesn’t mean that I have less of it inside me.    It simply means I care.

I might grow teary at the National Anthem or I may not; sometimes even if I do not visibly react, I’m still thinking about it inside.    The song may do nothing for me and yet that does not make me less.

I may not willingly volunteer to joined the armed forces, recognizing that it’s not my forte to do what they do.   That doesn’t mean I’m less supportive of those that choose that profession and duty.

I realize that I can be both worldly and nationally; I am not limited by my affiliations to my country to be less than compassionate, understanding, multicultural, globally relevant, or charitable to the world as a whole.   My participation in the culture and nationality of another country does not exclude me from being tied to my own.

I understand that loyalty does not equal exclusivity; I am free to show my support for more than just this and yet not be considered to be neglectful.

What I am is unique and special, and it contributes to the whole.   So does everyone else, in equal parts.

I am an American and I am Patriotic — you just might not recognize me.

I miss paper grocery bags.

The other day while shopping at Fareway (our local, Iowa-based grocery store), I stopped the friendly bagger-boy and said, “Hey — can I get paper for the produce?”   He looked a bit surprised, but responded in the positive and started bagging up the fresh things in some classic, heavyweight brown paper bags.

It’s at this point in this blog entry that any number of environmentalists and/or grocery store owners start spinning madly in their graves.    The tree-huggers are getting all teary at the idea of their main squeezes being turned into pulp simply so I can haul my Cheetos home and the store owners are fainting from the pure cost involved with paper vs. plastic.

It’s not that I don’t get it.   Yes, I understand, paper bags are less friendly to the environment vs. plastic (because they consume trees) and infinitely less favorable over cloth, reusable bags.   I have some of those, too.   And we use them…sometimes.    And plastic otherwise.   I get it.

And store owners, no need to fret; I doubt the paper bag will exist much longer and reusables will be come the de facto standard of the industry, saving you millions a year in providing packaging to your customers.   I know how much you welcomed the advent of plastic.   I get it.

But I lament still for the paper bag.

First you have the stiffness; oh god, the stiffness!   For all those who have ever bagged their own groceries, we all realize the same thing:  plastic bags are shapeless.   They fall into whatever configuration you force them to and they have zero ability to stand up against the items inside.    They become this shapeless sloth that sits in your trunk and, if you’re lucky, doesn’t spew cans all over when you turn a corner.   Paper, on the other hand, gives authority to its contents.    It provides the basic four walls of stability upon which you can neatly construct a solid stacking inside.

There’s a fine, fine art to bagging swiftly and correctly in a paper bag that simply doesn’t translate to plastic.   I’ve seen expert baggers place an entire grocery cart just so into two bags in such a precise manner that it would bring you to tears from the sheer beauty of it all.

Secondly, the SMELL!    Paper has this wonderful, nostalgic smell to it of the pulp and the glue that cannot be matched.    One of my favorite scents in the world is fresh peaches inside a paper bag.    Tell me that it doesn’t make you want to shiver and I won’t believe you.

The world moves on, much like it does for anything else, and not necessarily in a bad way.   Reusable bags are smart, they’re neat, and they’re efficient.    Plastic suffices in the meantime, despite its negatives.   But I shall always lament for the texture, feel, and smell of a real paper bag.

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This was something that popped into my head the other night driving home.   I’m unsure of its significance, but I chalk it up to recently feeling very connected to my wife and son and our unit as a family, and how insanely important it is for us to be together and connected.    The actual vision in my head was more real than I can put into words, but here is a slight glimpse.

I can see myself trudging up the relatively steep hillock covered in long, flowing green grasses, waving fiercely in the stiff wind blowing from beyond the rise.   Burdened, thick clouds hang close to the ground, their countenance not one of rain but merely a shrouding of the land in the dimly-highlighted gray of anticipation.   There is nothing else around this place except the grass-covered hills; if there is, my vision doesn’t lead me to see it.   The bottom is hidden beyond the threshold of sight.

The vision alternatively shifts between a bird’s-eye view of the situation and a personal detail; I am in a constant flux between the closeness of my warm breath and the soft ssssshhh of the grass and a perspective floating above, watching the play unfold.    I am dressed unusually — all in white; long, loose pants, a long, flowing seamless shirt, barefoot.   I can feel the dual nature of the grass, both soft and cool underfoot and yet harsh and sharp on the edges as it slides along the top and sides of my feet.

The wind blasts into my face, racing down the slope and nearly bowling me over; my struggle is prolific as I take cautioned breaths of an air tinged with the light smell of salt and water, catching a few molecules before they race behind me to some unknown destination.   I can barely see the breeze is so strong, but by squinting I can look around as I climb.

And I see her.

She is doing likewise; trudging slowly up the hill, leaning forward into the gale, her long flowing locks trailing behind her.    She is also all in white; a long, flowing dress of simple mediumweight cotton dances in the eddies behind her and presses against her barefoot legs as she moves, the bodice scooped and the sleeves long, yet simple; loose and comfortable.     A plain silver comb adorns her hair.

We are almost at the top now, maybe a dozen feet from the pinnacle and perhaps twenty apart but closing, as our trajectories are angled towards each other, when a brilliant light bursts on the peak for just a moment and then fades, and in its place stands a little boy.

He is perhaps two, maybe three years old, but I cannot see his face as he is turned away from us.    Brown, curly hair adorns his round head, punctuated by soft, small ears.    As we all are, he is in white;  a simple shirt, white cotton pants, his small bare feet poking out from the bottom as he stands there in the waving grasses, arms at his sides.

She and I reach the peak, stepping our last and coming to rest on either side of the boy, facing outwards as he is.   I feel a small warmth in my hand and I look down to see his short fingers entwining in mine; he has grasped each of our hands with his.    I look up and stare into the clear blue eyes of my son and he cracks the most innocent and brilliant of smiles.    At that very instant, a new energy like a slow, warm bolt of lightening runs between us and fills me from head to toe.

I look further upwards into the shining eyes and face of my wife who looks at me for an instant, then back down at our prodigy who is sharing his gaze between us.  I know she can feel the connection swelling between us, a bond stronger than mere touch, simple recognition; it is the shared connection of our family, our everlasting association with each other as parent, child, spouse.   I can feel him and her both and I know they feel me.

Our faces turn forward towards a rising sun that is breaking through the clouds, and we squeeze hands, pulsing this energy between us, ready to face whatever meets us, together.

We take a step forward towards the sun, down the hill, and forward into life.