a small Christmas thought

Today, we wish Christ a happy birthday, and give gifts to each other. Perhaps there's another layer in the symbolic exchange of gifts, for "God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory." Colossians 1:27.
Happy birthday, Jesus, and happy re-birthday to you, too.

for my teacher

It's been a semester full of surprises, some more welcome than others. One month ago, my music theory teacher Mr. Yowell announced his sudden retirement. To de-numb myself, I scoured through the why's, but found no answer. So instead, I'll present my small why's for Mr. Y: why his departure hurts so deeply, and why he shall stick in my memory.

Mr. Yowell took on the music theory class, but his primary attentions lay with school choirs, in which I sung for two school years and a summer. Cantare Chorale, the all-female ensemble, was by far the best time of the day. Following every class, we girl-chorists gamboled down the halls, humming "Follow Me Down to Carlow" and Tahitian folk songs. Mr. Yowell elicited confidence from shy singers like mine, hammered good posture into the sluggish ones, made smiles from sleepless scowls. From a mishmash of voices (some mellifluous, most... crunchy), Mr. Yowell crafted a single, fine instrument, which he played masterfully.

With his encouragement, I explored new territory:

• uke-strumming for "Hey Soul Sister"
• tricks of the piano-accompanist trade
• ad libitum violin solos
• the percussive-ness plastic eggs, zippers, claves, and tupperware
• golden hand-bells (with which I famously ruined the beginning of a solemn Latin dirge, in-concert. As I chimed the opening chord, I [and the audience] realized that I had grabbed a tri-tone instead of a perfect fifth. He... hehehe)

Last summer, Mr. Yowell led the choirs on a tour of Italy. Somehow, he arranged for his high-school minstrels to sing Franz Biebl's "Ave Maria" in the Vatican. For me, it was the performance of a lifetime--reverent and resounding. We bused up the boot, singing for fishermen and their fan-swishing wives at their seaside chiesa, distributing flyers in rudimentary Italian in shady alleys, chomping our way through sun-dried tomato everything. Lo sono in cielo, I am in heaven, fell glibly from our oft-opened lips.   

  

In a public school that scorns public declarations of faith, Mr. Yowell courageously included Christian repertoire in every song set ('twas natural; the bulk of classical choral compositions are ecclesiastical). Students barred from wishing others a "Merry Christmas," caroled it instead. With music as his medium, Mr. Yowell advanced his ministry.

Summer arrives, music-sheets hit the recycling bin, and the piano dons its dust-cover. The choirs sing "Irish Blessing" to send off seniors, variables in the high-school equation. I expected Mr. Yowell to be a constant, but he, too, has shifted. In farewell, here's an Irish Blessing for my teacher:

May the road rise up to meet you. 

May the wind always be at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face,

and the rains fall soft upon your fields.

And until we meet again, my friend,

May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

helplessly hoping

Stand by the stairway, you'll see something certain to tell you. My dad spotted an M. C. Esher-esque photo op.

I present to you selections from Crosby, Stills & Nash, pieced together with colored patches of my own. Wrap up in the quilt!

Helplessly hoping her harlequin hovers nearby 
H... h... h... hahhhh. I love the way alliteration hums along.
Awaiting a word 
Accompanied by the sound of silence: In restless dreams I walked alone/narrow streets of cobblestone. Narrow streets, elsewhere: “Enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and those who enter by it are many. For the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and those who find it are few. Matthew 7:13-14.
Gasping at glimpses of gentle true spirit 
How might a spirit be both gentle and true? How easily I supply the former, often in a feigned fashion. Is it really possible to hold others higher than oneself?
He runs wishing he could fly only to trip at the sound of good-bye... 
Alas, poor fellow. Every good-bye leaves the tingly possibility of another hello. 


Stand by the stairway, you'll see something certain to tell you 
S... s... s... My fourth grade teacher gave everyone detention for hissing.
Confusion has its cost 
Best to speak, for silence leaves more room for misinterpretation.
Love isn't lying, it's loose in a lady who lingers
Lingering... Waiting for the denouement, answer, affirmation.
Saying she is lost and choking on hello
So be patient with her. 


They are one person, they are two alone
They are three together, they are for each other.
Hey, Plain White T's! I've spotted a maybe-root of the song "1234": There's only one way/two say/three words/for you. The syntactic idea is the similar, but the sentiment differs. "1234" is aglow with warm love, but in "Helplessly Hoping," love is distant, and demands third-person treatment

Here's the actual song, uninterrupted by globbish glibbering. I also have a soft spot for the King's Singers' rendition.

gratitude unlocks the fullness of life

Scenes from another Woodleigh Thanksgiving

My parents in a rare moment of cooperation. My dad cannot cook, and is rather resentful of kitchen over-activity, but he is a carving--an artist. My mom, on the other hand, is a Bauman College-certified Natural Chef. See the way she tosses the purple cabbage! I must describe her signature dessert, the tiramisu (located at right). 'Tis dusted with hot-chocolate powder, contains a good glug of (un-evaporated) Kahlua coffee liquor, which enriches pillows of mascarpone-zabaglione. Makes tipsy munchers. The dishes sit atop our laminated astronomy and geography place-mats - gourd (good) feast-time reading.

Two little kids, one a little littler than the other. My brother Samuel and small cousin Evie used to have a strained relationship, due to The Incident in the Car: several Thanksgivings ago, my mom chastised Samuel for not buckling up, calling him a very bad boy. Evie, bizarrely observant for a toddler, held onto this memory and deliberately avoided contact with the very bad boy. Samuel was not permitted pat her, eat pumpkin muffins with her, or occupy the same row in the minivan. The three-year Reformation of Samuel's Reputation commenced, requiring gift offerings and acrobatic displays from my brother. Persistence won back Evie's heart, and here they are now--within two feet of each other! 

A game of I Spy reveals my cello-wielding cousin Joyce, my yellow-apron'd mom, my dad rearranging chairs (his favorite activity). In the foreground, a glass of fizzy beer (not mine), and my dear Catherine in a turkey-induced slump.

I am thankful for these scenes, and all that goes on behind them. Thank you, God, for another day.