Is there any other kind? What kind of joy can you bottle? Except maybe wine. I often sit on the sidelines at social gatherings, happily, in fact, watching others laugh their hearts out, wondering what it’s all about. Laughter, is as vital as air, but elusive to me. Observing, learning, recording, dissecting. But with time, patience, perseverance, and a kind of envious exhaustion, I’ve learned the just stay with the mood, let it happen, even if I still have no idea what or why "it" is.

"It" is this– Tonight was a petal of a blossom of the cherry tree of life, fluttering elusively, flipping, dipping, slowly, inevitable to the ground. But I was on that magic carpet, riding the soft, contented pink cushion of the petal, curving, zipping, dizzy with glee as it floated joyfully to it’s fruition, and perfect demise- the end of the evening.

I had dinner with some very good friends. One in particular, accompanies me on many fantastic forays into aesthetic Disneyland; food, wine, poetry, beauty, music. Joe is he. He and I are co-conspirators, floating side by side, guiding each other deeper into ourselves. The other two are neighbors, but oh so much more. Serendipitously, they fell into my life, at least that’s the way I see it, when they bought the house next door 8 years ago.

Summer is approaching, the pressures of time give in a bit, the wine waits for our attention. So, I threw together a meal to accompany a special bottle of wine, a 2000 Turley Zinfandel. I really did throw it together. Serendipity. I like it that way, the accidental perfection for which I can take no credit. I went for a reliable standby: grilled beef fillet mignon, Mache (an heirloom salad green, nutty) and Watercress salad (with a garlicky sweet, nutty dressing), sauteed Portabella mushrooms and Vidallia onions and a hearty loaf of sourdough bread. Some wine and food were meant to meet their consummation in tandem.

The fillet, with mushrooms, onions and horseradish sauce, and the Turley, were made for each other. Turley Zinfandel, a limited release, subscription only wine, is audacious, muscular and carelessly voluptuous on the tongue. As for the meat, the creature form which we stole it blessed our bodies tonight with it’s life. It was succulent and full flavored. The food was wonderful, the wine spectacularly memorable. But the real chemistry was in the company.

Paul is a story teller, with countless hilarious accounts of his life. He’s cute, engineer smart (in a boyish way), wise, sexy, and married to Mary, who is brilliant, wry, artistic and a perfect balance for Paul, in humor and life. He and Mary will finish each other’s sentences, and also contradict each other.

It’s even fun to watch them garden together over the fence. Her:"What the heck are you doin’? I told you ta put it over there!" Him:"I thought you said the rose over there and this hosta over here!" Her:"No, you dufus, I told you three times, the rose over here! How may times do I have to say it before you get it through your head. Roses don’t grow in shade." and on. Or, he’ll start up his "power tool" "weed wacker" and start edging the grass, then I’ll hear Her:"NOOOO, not my creeping thyme garden, that’s not grass!!!" Him:"Oh, OK, but they look the same…". Such lighthearted banter, mixed with bird song and wind chimes, is the background music to my gardening. I guess you have to be there. But they’re genuine, good hearted, very cultured, well traveled, and also lover’s of food and wine, and laughter.

Joe is a debonair, free spirit, who has taught me the ornate passions of food and wine, among other things. Though I enjoy good food, I tend toward functional nourishment, and consider "haute cuisine" delightful, if a bit decadent. Not Joe. He dives in, head first. And why not? What are we saving it for?? Really? What do we really gain by starving, parsing just to look like a photo? What’s the use of living long, is we only skim the surface? (My philosophy is "everything in moderation, including moderation")

So, we ate, we talked, we laughed and laughed. What did we laugh about? Everything, and nothing, a word, a story. It’s all gone, the food, the laughter, the words, the stories, evaporated, a puff of steam, released into the ether. During dinner I thought, wistfully, "This is as good as it gets!" I’m on the magic carpet, the fluttering petal. This is the only heaven I’ll ever need. When it’s over, it’s still ours, because it was shared. Otherwise, it’s added to the memory banks of eternity. Thank you Joe, Paul and Mary.

My orchestra just took some substantial cuts in salary. At the same time, we are searching for a new music director to lead us into a new era. I am on the search committee for the new music director. I never imagined how difficult it would be.

When I became a musician, I thought the music world would be peopled by artists with ideal standards for music: purity of emotion, reaching for the unknown ideal, striving for perfection. My naive views have recently been shadowed with doubt. Last night that changed. But a little background first.

The orchestra I play in has gone through some very difficult times in the past few years. When the music director search started, we were doing well. We had just made a spectacular debut at Carnegie Hall. The economy was booming. Soon after, things started to fall apart. And the problems went beyond a mere financial crisis. The morale of the musicians suffered, and divisions emerged. Weakened unity fostered weakened resolve. I personally have suffered greatly from the divisions in the orchestra.

An orchestra with low morale cannot hide it in their music making. The heart must heal before the body can be strong. Throughout the search, I have tried to find a candidate to heal some of these problems, to unite us in better music making.

Recently, one candidate quickly became popular. He managed to win over a number of musicians with his flare and high energy. But his panache rang hollow to many of us. His technical faults as a conductor were glaring. He didn’t even allow the orchestra to breathe. His attempt at critical input created more problems than it solved. It became impossible for many of us to function under him. I won’t belabor his weakness further here. It was apparent to me this candidate would not have the ability to raise our spirits and unite our playing toward greatness. For some reason, his supporters persisted. I feared more of the tragic division in the orchestra.

We have had one other very qualified candidate, and he was popular with the orchestra. However, the choice wasn’t clear enough. I doubted his popularity would hold next to the consistent support of the candidate mentioned above. Some other good ones were not interested, especially since we are having financial problems, which are partly caused by not having a music director. Catch 22. I was feeling sick, thinking this was the best we could do. Until last night.

This is the last week of a three year search. This is it. Our last candidate is a Japanese conductor, Junichi Hirokami. He’s been around, in Europe and in the US, but he’s a favorite in Japan. Standing about 4 1/2 feet tall, he can’t weigh more than 90 pounds. And he barely speaks English. A tough sell, but he’s huge where it counts!

He conducted Rachmaninoff’s 2nd symphony, which is probably the most lush, orgasmic, romantic piece of music ever written. The orchestra was putty in his hands. He smiled as we played, encouraging even better playing. He never criticized harshly in rehearsals, yet I’ve never wanted to work so hard. He took responsibility for problems rather than blaming us. I made a few mistakes in rehearsal and he went back with another reason, giving me another chance! He gave humorous and vivid descriptions of the moods he wanted to create. Despite broken English, he had us laughing and motivated.

In the performance, his sweeping gestures carried the power and emotion of a great heart, a brilliant mind and mature technique. He never over conducted, and often moved so little that we had to listen and play with great detail. He became a vehicle of the music, never more. Yet, ensemble and rhythm problems were corrected with the minutest gesture. Cues were given with a smile.

He paced the surging finale with perfect timing, releasing all the built up power at just the right moment. His arms seemed to grow and grasp much further than his body would allow. Several times I found myself on the verge of joyous tears. He appeared immersed in the emotion and meaning of the music, and I could feel it with him. Apparently, from the applause afterward, so could the audience. There were no walls, no egos, no judgments. Just music. And truth.

I guess I chose the right career after all. The Muse is alive. I hope the division in my orchestra is closed by the presence of such a gifted, musical, uniting, healing candidate. I hope all of us can see the amazing opportunity we have right before us. I hope the truth of the music unites us. The rest is history.

The chaos of things is only the crust.
Beneath the surface, we brew in a pot
But oh, what a glittering stew.

Here’s to the glorious Pot in which we’re stuck!

(though missing is the bubbly laugh and easy smile of Mike)

I just found out another friend of mine committed suicide. Mike was the most optimistic person I knew. He was always bubbly and lighthearted. He was passionate about many things. Tennis, piano, decorating his house, working in his garden. He was even passionate about the job that worked him to the bone. He’s the last person who would do something like take his own life.

After talking to his partner about his behavior the last week, I think Mike had disappeared already. He wasn’t himself. He called me May 7 and told me how paranoid he had suddenly become. Very suddenly. He read into everyone’s words that they mocked and hated him. No matter what was said. He knew this was serious and asked for my help. I put him in touch with a councelor I know well. Mike called me Monday to say he had met with the councelor and had been diagnosed and was on medication. I didn’t hear from him again.

He had been diagnosed as  bi-polar. I don’t know what med he was on. But for someone so up beat and confident to become so fragile so quickly must have made it worse. He snapped, shattered. What a tragedy. What a tragedy.

Two months ago another friend of mine took her life. (Goodby Barbara) (Until we meet again, Barbara)

I’ve been doing well despite my tendency toward depression the past few years. I’ve been very busy, distracted by career issues and somewhat frazzled, obsessed with this blog, and spending less time with the many friends I have. It’s so easy to become complacent, to let time slip away while fiddling with things which may not really matter.

Our lives are really so fragile, always.  We don’t really live unless we face that truth daily. With effort, we can notice each little tiny moment as it passes forever into oblivion. We can live with the earnest intention of seeing and living with compassion. We must. Otherwise we are just animals.

Mike’s death (and Barbara’s) remind me that the little things are all we have, ultimately. A smile, a hug, so corney, but they remind us we are connected. Please give a hug to someone you know in honor of Mike and Barbara.