Reflections of 9/11

Nine years ago I got a phone call at 9:10am telling me to go up on my roof in Jersey City. There, less than 5 miles away I saw my two favorite buildings dying. THe thing that struck me about that day was how great the weather was in NY. The sky was blue, the sun was shining brightly, and the temp was about 70. I also remember wondering how much this event would affect my life. Profoundly, I realize now.

I remember vividly the papers people posted all over the city in the coming days, asking for information about their father/brother/spouse/girlfriend who was last seen in Tower 2 or 1 on the 89th floor or the 101st floor. As the days progressed, these notices became more and more painful to look at.

I remember working a piano bar up town on Sept 12, and everyone wanting to sing happy broadway songs at the top of their lungs. I gave them what they wanted and felt like a dirty cheap whore. I hated my job that day.

I remember working a piano bar in the village, much closer to ground zero, on Sun Sept 15th, and everyone was desperately clinging to each other as we tearfully sang God Bless America, and the National Anthem and the song Anthem from Chess, and Billy Joel's Miami 2018. I felt the healing begin that day, and such gratitude that I was allowed to channel that healing through my music and my chosen career.

New Years Eve - Zen Retreat part 6

By the time the final night of the retreat had arrived we had all been through so much. We struggled both physically and mentally, we dealt with back pain, frustration, feelings of inadequacy, battling the urge to run, discomfort. Some of us had epiphanies and moments of supreme connection we had never before realized. I had a 30 minute zazen period where I had such creative energy come through me that I had to return to my room and write down some of the ideas down before I forgot them. Much of the blogging that I've done about this retreat came out of that zazen period. Some of us had life-changing moments on our little square 3' x 2' zabuton cushions all alone and yet surrounded by others that were having their own epiphanies and battling their demons in the loneliness of their zabutons, surrounded by the rest of us. And all of this roiled beneath the veneer of silence and tranquility that is 60 Buddhas sitting silently in a Zendo.

The final night began with a period of zazen. We didn't know what to expect. After we had been sitting for about 15 minutes in complete silence, we heard the haunting sounds of a Japanese chakuhachi emerge from the front of the Zendo. The first note began so softly that it seemed to just insinuate itself into my consciousness. I closed my eyes and drank in the mournful sounds of this lovely bamboo instrument, with it's pitches bending wildly, wielded by a musician that understood it's power to speak, and from the music he played, I clearly knew he had been on the same retreat as I had, and walked the same stark morning kinhin walk that I did. As he is playing, the wind outside the building is intermittently howling and rattling the windows. After 7 minutes or so, he ends his moving concierto as quietly as he began.

Again we sit. There is nothing but the wind outside the strong cinderblock walls of our building. And then maybe 5 minutes we hear the single "ding" of the hanging bronze umpan plate. It is a clear resonant sound that is allowed to die off. Silence.

Ten seconds pass and then from another direction we hear a metal gong being struck. It's sound is lower than that of the umpan and is also allowed to fade away into silence.

Then we hear a the hollow high pitched "tuk!" of an wooden block from the same direction.

Silence.

A small bell is rung in another direction. It's sound dies away. There is silence. We hear the wind outside.

From somewhere else the low, quick thump of a hokku or bass drum breaks the silence. No wind this time, just silence.

I wonder what the next sound will be and where it will come from.

A more sonorous larger bell from yet another corner of the zendo speaks it's deep voice before dying off into silence.

Then it all begins again, and each silence is imperceptibly shorter. And shorter again. This carol of the bells slowly picks up speed spinning clockwise around the room as each sound comes faster and faster. I notice my body begin to sway. Soon a frenzied carousel of percussion and resonance dances wildly around and through us. And then when all the sounds are piling up on top of each other it abruptly stops.

Silence.

The silence becomes louder and has a resonance of its own.

"Ding ))))))))))" from the bronze umpan.

And it's done.

Humility

I have been working with another pianist/singer for the past 7 months or so, doing a dueling piano rock & roll act. His name is Paul, and he is really quite incredible. He has an outstanding ear, uncanny really, and a musical intuitiveness that is quite rare. I have been soaking up as much as I can from him, but it is really quite humbling. I have always preferred to surround myself with people that are more skilled than I am so that I can learn from them. That being said, it is the type of thing that makes you step back and take a really deep breath as you force yourself to look realistically at your own limitations. Yesterday I asked him to instruct me on soloing on the blues, which is the basis of much of the Rock that we play. Throughout the hour I was forced again and again to stare down my own limits musically. Which I know is kind of the point. How can you expand your limitations if you can't identify them first? But it's still disheartening at times.