Into the Woods

Auditions late October, rehearsals began in November, illness and snow days robbed us of much of our needed time in December and January, but we opened, ran, and closed this past weekend and had an incredible run.  Over 1000 tickets sold, 70+ thrilled kids, and a proud director.  Today, I'm resting and reflecting on an amazing journey.

Stars

Somewhere in my father's studio, in an old wooden cabinet filled with audio cassettes, there is a tape of my brother and I singing and making music.  I am maybe five and he is two and half.  We sing about rock and roll in our tiny, tinny childrens' voices, we laugh, we sound like we are having the time of our lives.

Brandon knew early on that being a drummer, a performer, a professional musician was the only thing that was going to make him happy and, to that end, he is living the life he dreamt of when we were kids.  He is not famous, his is not a household name, but the shows he plays with the various groups he's in are always packed, and they are always worth the price of admission.  His press clippings have called him "a show unto himself," and "the best drummer you've never heard of."  When he is on stage, no matter who he's playing with, Brandon is the one you watch.  His passion and energy are electric, and he's the guy you want to know in the room at any party, too.  He's quick with a joke or a great conversation about the influence of ancient African rhythms on the evolving state of contemporary hip hop, but being a drummer is just the beginning of who he is as a musician.

I remember one Christmas, he somehow got a hold of an old trombone and proceeded to play--or attempt to play--that thing all over our house.  He had to have been twenty and he was ridiculous, puffed out cheeks and breathless, but blowing all day trying to get the hang of it.  Eventually he did.  He's not going to join any brass quintets, mind you, but he could add a few notes to a record if he had to, and that was always his intention.  He's taught himself to get by on almost every instrument--bass, guitar, piano, winds, brass, strings--I've heard him play them all, and of course he can sing.

But, and this is the part that I think I am most proud and in awe of, Brandon also writes songs.  Not just hooky pop pablum that any of us could spew out in the car given the right beat and topic, but real thoughtful music that warms the soul and soothes the spirit.  When he sings, you hear his sincerity, his passion, and sheer love of creating something lasting.  This is his latest track, I hope you enjoy it as much as I do--but that might be hard seeing as how I'm a pretty biased big sister.

STARS

Show & Tell

Since late October, I have been directing a show at LHS.  We open on the 20th and, until today, I was really starting to worry whether or not we would get there.  Illness, snow days, winter break, and a thousand other setbacks have impeded our progress in ways I can only begin to describe, but today, when the backdrop was hung and the moon went up, as the costumes were tried on and mics tested, when the set pieces were finally painted and the orchestra began rehearsing, I saw and heard proof of what all this sweat and, yes, tears has been for.

And, as the snow begins to melt, I am starting to set my eyes on spring, on the thaw, on the great pageantry of life's renewal that happens every greening season.  Just like the earth which freezes and sets itself to sleeping through the long winter only bear fruit and blossom once the warm weather returns, this show is coming to life after months of cold and tedious toil.  I am excited.  I am thankful.

Snow Day

No matter how beautiful the snow, how magical the world, today was a day I needed to be at school.  The musical I'm directing needs to be rehearsed--we open a week from Thursday--and I'm teaching Their Eyes Were Watching God, which I love, so I hate not getting to talk about it.

If you need something to do today, this is my pick for the most perfect short story ever written. I cry every time I read it: In the Cemetery Where Al Jolson is Buried, Amy Hempel.

Since this is the hand dealt to me, this is the soundtrack for the day:

All My Life

Today is my mother's birthday and, while I know many people love their moms, I feel that my relationship with my mother is special.  The story of my childhood is that, when I was a little, my mother began talking to me right away, telling me about her day, the world, speaking to me as her friend, a person she wanted to know, a person with whom she wanted to share her life.  


I grew up knowing what I had to say had value, and that my life was meaningful.  I knew early on that no matter what happened to me, no matter how poor some of my choices or how catastrophic some of my defeats, my mother was behind me in every single thing I did.


Abraham Lincoln wrote, "I remember my mother's prayers and they have always followed me.  They have clung to me all my life."  My mother has prayed her whole life, as a little Catholic girl on her knees at school, when she taught my brother and I to say our prayers at night, and even now she prays every day for a better life for my brother and I, for my niece, for the world.  


All my life, I have known she was a good, kind, honest, funny, smart, strong woman, and I am happy to say that I think, now, after 59 years, she may finally know all of those things about herself.  The greatest gift she has ever given me is the knowledge that I can accomplish and survive anything.  I have always known I was blessed to know her and today--in celebration of her life--I wanted you to know her, too.


Happy Birthday, Mama.  I love you.