Optimism is Fragile

 

A new creature in our yard

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Thank you Fay! 

Religious cat

We could all use some. . . 

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Hello! 

King of the cat tree

My favorite turkeys

I've been very busy. Teaching Suzuki Piano Book One for the first time is a total joy, but 28 hours of class is a lot of prep. I have a wonderful group of teachers. Book One has always been my favorite and this course has given me a chance to reflect and solidify my ideas. Watching hour after hour of yourself teaching is also risky business. I am either a complete genius or a complete catastrophe. This is contingent not upon my actual teaching strategies, but determined by the amount of caffeine or sleep I have had when I actually edit the videos. The reality is of course somewhere in the middle. 

Between the Book One class, masterclasses, and my upcoming studio recital, I will have worked 12 straight weekends. The weather here in Minnesota is still cold and rainy. Our news feed is even more dismal. Minnesota has had a tough run. 

Mary's high school allowed a walkout yesterday. What might have been a moment of silence for a lost life, and a prayer for change turned into the F word being chalked all over the school and the "walker-outers" yelling disrespectful chants at the faculty who were supervising them. Oh, and by the way. . . the students  were given an excused absence for their profanity. Not Eastview's finest moment. 

I have found myself trying to preserve my mental health on an hour by hour basis. 

I guess optimism is fragile. 

When I'm high I'm making plans and living in the moment and noticing the miracles of nature everywhere around me. 

When I'm low I worry that I might spill my darkness over everyone around me. 

It's a good reminder to me how fragile we are. How fragile our optimism can be. How much darkness can we light? How can one person's love lift the fear of the masses. How can one person's joy assuage the anger in the street. I'm a little too fragile for that responsibility. 

I got to see the lower faces of many of my students this week. The last of the masks are coming off during private piano lessons. My eyes were wet because their teeth have changed in a year. The teeth of 6-9 years olds change and grow. It seemed to me that their teeth were all very different than the last time I saw them. I'm sure I stared. They smiled big toothy smiles at me. They stared at my mouth too. We were all just smiling. I can't stand what we have done to our children this year. I can't stand it that we have filled them with fear. It goes against everything I have tried to provide for my own kids, and everything I wish for for every child. 

Without diminishing the acknowledgment of the suffering of those who have lost loved ones, and those those health has been compromised from covid, I can unapologetically say that the contagion of fear is exponentially worse to me than covid itself. There. I've said it. 

The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself. 

I'm committed to letting my light shine, but sometimes that candle is just a little flickery. It's fragile. Perhaps acknowledging that fragility makes things a little better. A little brighter. Maybe when we sit with the darkness a little while, it can make us more compassionate. More ready for the light. When the temp gets above 50 and the sun actually shines, we will appreciate it even more. 

Every time I say goodbye to Calvin and Mary or drop them at school, I say --let your light shine.   

The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it. . . John 1:5.

That light is the alpha and omega. I know it will shine. I want to be its harbinger, but the wick in my candle is a little damp. 

Thanks for listening. And wherever you are on the continuum of fear and love, of joy and anger, darkness and light-- after you sit there for a bit, may your optimism be reignited. Your matches will dry out. If you don't mind, you can say the same prayer for me.