Piano Lessons

I took piano lessons, and I didn't love them, so why do I feel compelled to pass on piano lessons to my boys?

I took piano lessons first with Mrs. Knapp, a petite blonde woman with three daughters, who gave us rubber busts of Mozart, Bach and Beethoven as we progressed through various pieces. I dutifully did scales, and felt tortured when my parents made me practice. When my parents told me I could give up piano at 12 if I learned to play Fur Elise and promised to play the clarinet in the school band, I agreed.

Later I wanted to take piano lessons again, and I did. Again, I was not a stellar student, though I liked it better.

Still, though I cannot sit down and tinkle the ivories, or get a room full of people singing, I am grateful. I can play a few little pieces that make me happy. I can read music well enough to almost sight read when I sing. I can jump in fast with other instruments. And, I think, piano lessons hugely enhanced my love of every kind of music--even if all I remember was the torture of practice.

Yesterday I took my boys for their first piano lessons. Unlike me, they have been begging to play. Theo has already taken violin for a year, at a super cool place run by Flea that would have blown my mind at seven. There were concerts and young cool teachers and trumpets and bands and camps. And Flea.

But maybe this was better. A sweet, young teacher, who is using different methods with my two boys. A simple Mozart Mouse method with Benji, and songs and a move towards reading music with Theo.

Our teacher, Gigi, is married to a Japanese sculptor and lives in a house perched on a hillside with spectacular views over all of Los Angeles. She has an upright and a grand piano. She starts the boys on the upright, then moves them to the Grand so they can hear how grand it really is. There is even a mischievous dog and a basket full of squeaky tennis balls. When the dog gets too frisky Gigi yells out, "Piano lesson! Ball down!" And Chilo drops the ball and skulks sadly over to his big cushion beside the grand piano. The boys thought that was hilarious. Chilo reminded them of themselves.

By the end of the first lesson Theo was playing Hot Cross Buns and Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater, and Benji was improvising with Gigi at the piano, playing beautiful jazzy improvisations to her beat, on the black keys. When we walked out they said, "Can we come back tomorrow?"

Another mother said she would only consider a teacher that came to the house. I get that.

But there is something so special about going to a place that is a shrine to music.

Flea and his Silverlake Conservatory made music feel like a social mission--a joyous, wonderful, community thing that everyone should know. Prices reflect that. It is affordable and there are scholarships.

Gigi has created a perfect aerie with magical pianos. It is a sacred place, with no distractions. You feel like musical music can happen there.

What do you think about piano lessons for little ones? Is it worth it?

Jamie Oliver is so cool!

Jaime Oliver's show about his food revolution in West Virginia--the unhealthiest state in the Union--starts March 26.

Here he is receiving his TED award, talking about food and kids.

Check it out.

He would love the ESY program. I wish he could come for lunch at LCW.

Musings on Stories

I am working my third time through on a memoir, which is now a novel. But as I keep writing, I wonder if I should return to memoir. Even if I can say less. I feel my voice is stronger as a memoirist than as a fiction writer. And sometimes I wonder if we are just living in the age of the memoir--no longer the novel. Though I love novels.

I just finished Patti Smith's memoir about her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe. It was fascinating for many reasons--a great portrait of NYC in the seventies. (And I should add that I did not come to this book a crazy Patti Smith fan. I had seen her commenting on other people, and was struck by her insights and articulate way of speaking, but really knew her only as muse to a generation of rock n roll guys before my time). But one thing I admired is that she -- at least in the recalling--tried every form of artistic maneuver. She tried drawing, writing, poetry, acting, poetry and rock n roll, rock n roll, playwriting, photography, and I am sure more. But as she did each thing, she was very conscious. She noted what felt good, what felt wooden and off track. Being on stage felt good, acting felt bad. Rock n roll felt good, poetry felt best.

She watched her reactions to others, too. Watching her reaction to Jim Morrison she felt, I could do that. Reacting to others she thought, I don't want to do that.

I am trying to look critically at what feels good to me. And what is hard, but also feels good. And what just doesn't feel good. Interest in watching does not correspond to interest in doing.

Just musings, as I put off rereading my latest submission John Rechy's writing class for the 116th time before printing out. I know it has problems, but I can't figure out exactly what they are. Humbling.

OK, I am stopping now because my son has set up a short wave radio right next to me at top volume.

Do you think he is trying to get my attention?

Alcatraz II

I signed up. It's official.

I promised last year that if I did Alcatraz this year, it would be skin--that is, no wetsuit. But sitting here, bundled in my post-yoga sweat shirt, I just could not bring myself to check the "skin" box.

If it is warm enough--that is 62 degrees or higher--I will try. But I cannot swim in 55 degree water without a wetsuit. I do not have a frigid enough body of water to practice in. That is my excuse! And, after last year, and reading Lynn Cox's amazing book, Swimming to Antarctica, I now know that getting your body used to cold water is a serious undertaking that takes commitment, and, to the truly dedicated, perhaps a month without hot tubs or warm showers. No!

I am swimming again because this year my brother will swim, and my aunt (again) and my cousin (I hope) and my soon-to-be 70 year old father. I worry about him a little. He tends to overestimate how far he can swim, and believe the water he trains in is colder than it is, and go into various kinds of shocks during extreme athletic events. But to not do this event, I think, would kill him. Last year it crushed him that three members of his family did this crazy endeavor without him. So this year he will swim. And my gift to him on his 70th birthday, is that I will swim, too. I believe he will live. And he will do it. But, I tell myself, because I worry just a little, if he does get in over his head, he will be threatening his life doing something that he dreams of doing, and that makes him feel alive. I want to be like that. So I am lending my support.

So I am in!

Sharks, cold, Alcatraz, waves, lightning, San Francisco, here I come again!!!!

A Gift From Natalie

This is a story about how things keep coming around.

I began this blog the weekend my friend died. I had wanted to start a blog--probably about mothering, about life--but she died, and so much of my blog in the first year was about her, our friendship, my mourning, and, I suppose in retrospect, my question of how I could honor her spirit in my life, in how I choose to live.

She comes to me often, with advice, and little nudges, and sometimes clucks of disappointment.

But this week she appeared with a gift.

We are not exactly feeling financially flush right now. Not bankrupt, but struggling a little, like everyone.

Still, I am longing for time away. My little one is about to go to kindergarten, my impatience to have time to work is growing, but my realization that my time as full time stay at home mama is coming to an end is also stressing me a little. I am stirred up. And know that I am about to set off in a new direction--after sitting in this camp for three years or so. Three years I would not trade for anything.

In a month I go to NYC. I am going with one of my oldest friends--my neighbor from the next village in Japan--just a three mile bikeride through the rice fields away. My only English speaking company for a long, lonely year in rural Shiga ken. She knew Natalie, and Doug. We have been far away. But if you meet when you are 21 and go on a grand adventure, I think that is a friendship that can never be broken.

After Japan we traveled for six months in Asia together--through Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Ladakh, India and Nepal.

I have been dying to have a break. To have a few days to clear my head of children and husband. Not days to attend a memorial, a death, an ash scattering. Days to regenerate, and return to my former self. To re-acquaint myself with her.

I have sunk so far it took me weeks to even get up the courage to ask Jonathan. I earn so little money now, it felt wrong, despite all I do. Athena kept egging me on--ask him, tell him this is imperative for your mental health, just do it! Finally I did, and he said yes.

I booked my flight (great fares!) and Athena took charge and found a great hotel. Sometimes I worry I am spending too much money on this grand weekend with no point but friendship, recovery, wandering, lazy mornings, walking without pushing a stroller or pulling a child. Drinking too much, eating spicy food. staying up too late, walking through a museum as slow as I want with no one to explain anything to. Seeing a dear old friend and talking about life, and where we are.

But I booked it, and we are going. Each day I feel a little happier, a little more excited. People ask what I will do. I don't know. It is the luxury of not knowing that is half the sweetness. Perhaps we will lie all day long on our backs in Central Park reading books in the sunshine. Perhaps we will eat pretzels all day and have the best Italian food int he world at night. Maybe I will visit my Columbia apartment, walk through St. John the Divine, sing at a gay night club.

I made my leap.

Then, out of the blue, it looks as if some money will appear. When Natalie died there was no one to pay. We were told some day some money would come through, but Jonathan warned me, whatever you give, expect to never see it again. I reserved the community center in Stinson Beach and put down the payment and deposit. I wrote the obit and got it published and paid for it. It was $1,000 in all. A lot. But then, nothing for a friend I loved. I never regretted it.

But suddenly, two days ago, her sister called to tell me they are ready to pay out expenses. Who knows, it could take another year to arrive. But it made me feel like Natalie was reaching out from beyond the grave saying: "Hilary, here is your money. Thank you for taking care of me. For helping to make sure I was remembered the way I wanted to be remembered. I know you didn't expect anything. But here is money for you. Take this money and travel. Go see a friend. Take care of yourself. I would call you if I could--but I am just sending this money for you. Don't skimp on yourself. Tend to your soul. Do what you need to do."

Doesn't life work in mysterious ways?

I Adore Adoree

Over Christmas I did a little retreat meant to set your new year out on the right foot. It was no Madeline Blau workshop, but thinking about where you are going is always good.

That day we danced. One of our dances was with a woman named Adoree (or, as she is known on Pico Blvd., Dorie). I loved her, and after the workshop she appeared at my side and said, "You need to dance. It doesn't need to be with me, but you need to do that. You are a dancer."

So little time. But her words stuck with me, and at the end of February I signed up for a bellydancing class with her. I know little about her, except that she traveled the world bellydancing, and her stage name is Adoree.

She is so beautiful to watch that standing in the room with her and trying to emulate her I can feel her casting her spell on me. It is a trance, or a form of meditation. Sometimes my body follows. Sometimes it can't.

In an early class she promised us our bodies would open up with the dance, as we used muscles we had not used, and stretched areas we had not stretched, and our lives would begin to change.

I don't know about that. But I do know that when I come out of the class I feel refreshed, supple, smooth, slithery, grounded.

I have gotten superstitious about it. The dance sets my week off right. And when I fall asleep after class I hear the drums, and feel my body moving, still--like that feeling after you get off rollerskates but you are still rolling. That is a wonderful feeling.

Dance!

Chicken Shit

That's what I needed to find for my secret soil formula for my garden-to-be. I searched at OSH (no more) then Home Depot (you want what?) and then finally found the final four bags at Anawalt Lumber.

The gardening man said people are going crazy planting this year. Everyone is planting--including those who have never gardened before--like me. But I got my chicken manure, and all the rest of my soil, and carried it on my back up 90 stairs to the top of our garden--with some help from Jonathan.

Then Jonathan trimmed our giant weed of a tree in back and made some light for our garden boxes, and it is starting to look ready. It is a secret place, hidden away, where only the hardiest of visitors will be able to go--and even then, only if they have the right foot-wear. (Hiking boots, preferably)

But it is in, and it looks great. So far we have all pitched in and our daily loads of compost are going up to the composter. Every day the boys look in and say "It looks the same." Still, I confess there is a wonderful feeling to taking your organic trash, and knowing it is going to make your garden grow. I am part of the circle of life.

The boys are excited. The other morning Theo ran to the top of the garden with his backpack before school to check progress.

This weekend the plants go in...