Oboe-ing in Rural France

I haven't entirely abandoned my trusty little oboe. I'm so glad it's so portable! There was plenty of room in my carry-on bag for other stuff next to my little oboe case. I wish I could have taken a picture of the security guy's face when he paused the conveyor belt to scrutinize the x-ray image of my hand luggage inside the machine. His eyes got more and more scrunched up and finally he put his hand over his brow, leaned on the screen, and looked at my bag intently. I wanted to speak up and say it was just an oboe, but I thought better of it.

I've realized that I love a lot of things whose origin is (as far as I know) French. Crêpes, croissants, and opera gateau. Ballet. Oboes. The French language. Lots of great saints. Gothic cathedrals. My husband. Maybe I had a past life in France or something! :)

Practiced in our cozy country home with the windows open and a breeze blowing in from the fields, while my kids and their cousins were clomping up and down the wooden stairs and raucously practicing a play my daughter had written, partly in French. It was a brief practice session, especially because I really don't feel comfortable playing when other people are around. 'Twas in the Moon of Wintertime (a.k.a. the Huron Carol), in honor of René and his fellow-Jesuit missionaries. The opening passage of Swan Lake. Scales. Gabriel's Oboe. Some exercises from the method book. They are getting easier, but it's tought to practice consistently on vacation!

We're off to Paris tomorrow for a couple of days. Not sure if I'll be able to keep writing, but I have no doubt I'll be hungering to catch up either from there or when we get back. If anyone has suggestions for where we should go to eat, let me know!

Codes

Code #1: Rondeau's Journal


One of my favorite books when I was in grade school was a book about secret codes and ciphers called How to Keep a Secret. Not only the act but also the idea of writing fascinated me - that our thoughts could be made visible on the page, with symbols. Ciphers had special allure because you could put those thoughts out into the world, then conceal them again - how intriguing!

The reason I mention this is because codes and ciphers came up in conversation during our visit to the wonderful Adirondack Museum, probably one of the nicest museum experiences we've had as a family. It's a bit like the Shelburne Museum in Vermont, with lots of historic memorabilia and artifacts related to human labor and achievement, beautifully displayed, but more compactly laid out than at Shelburne, with more focused exhibits.

There was an interesting replica of pages from the journal of Adirondack hermit Noah John Rondeau, who wrote his journal in cipher, sparking a conversation between my family and me about writing for oneself only, and why someone might do that. Ultimately we may write most genuinely when we write for no audience other than ourselves...but to block access so actively seems to counteract the sharing process I associate with writing, although of course I've also discussed writing as tilling the garden of one's own mind, a way to shape and develop one's thought processes...

Code #2: The "Sliver" (a true medical code situation, potentially, if I ever saw one!)

Elsewhere at the museum I was amused to find a charming cottage that had been the dwelling of the doctor "on-call" at a place called Camp Cedars. If only all call-rooms could be so quaintly appointed! Other highlights included a walk-through rail car, the carriage Theodore Roosevelt rode at breakneck speed after McKinley was shot and Roosevelt got the news he was president, a picnic lunch with a view of Blue Mountain Lake, and an exhibit on loggers, which being a fan of log homes I found especially valuable. I was startled by this depiction of an injured logger receiving general anesthesia to remove a "sliver":

Not something I want to see rolling into my O.R.!

Code #3: Oral History, Unspoken History, and Codes of Conduct

After visiting the Martyrs' Shrine yesterday we spent the night at the Mohawk Indian Bed and Breakfast, also known as Kanatsiohareke ("ga-NAH-jo-ha-LAY-gay"), meaning "place of the clean pot" after a basin formation in a nearby stream. The lovely Mohawk woman who runs the place, Emily Tarbell, is the seventh of seventeen children (!), and a great story-teller. She cooked us a hearty country breakfast during which a man named Rob stopped by just to tell a delightful story about a runaway 800-lb bull he was trying to transport. It was beautiful to hear little bits and pieces of the Mohawk language in the conversation, and luxurious to be able to talk and eat without watching the clock. I would so love this slower pace, rich in human contact and story-telling.

I couldn't help but wonder, all these centuries later, if there is still some tension and pain between the Mohawk and other area residents. As much as I cherish the life of René Goupil and his companions, and admire how they demonstrate real growth in their anthropological understanding (as shown in the writings of Jean de Brebeuf for the Jesuit Relations), I am not oblivious to the fact that they came as outsiders, albeit with good but in many ways misguided intentions, and basically contributed to the loss of a native culture and people, the Huron. Nor do I have any romantic, uni-dimensional notions of native tribes in the 17th century as placid tree-huggers; from what I've read and heard, they had deep spirituality and reverence for their world, but they were also plenty violent with prisoners of war and committed atrocities that might turn the stomachs of the most battle-scarred warriors today. Nothing is simple, and over 350 years later this holds true. There was plenty of both heroism and guilt to go around. But the fact is, Europeans and their descendants claimed for themselves an unjust portion and are still enjoying the fruits of that claim today.

I find myself caught between two sympathies - my admiration for Jesuit faith and work ethic, with special affection for René, and my admiration for native peoples and desire to learn from their wisdom. Meeting Emily was a real blessing, a bridge. I cherish the connections we've made, in our minds and hearts and with others, stemming from our encounter.

Music and Silence

Monday, July 25, 2007:

We’re on VACATION!!!

We set off westward found ourselves near the Massachusetts-New York border by lunch time, so we had a home-packed lunch of sandwiches and strawberries at Tanglewood, right in front of the Hawthorne Cottage. What a great start – a picnic in a place permeated with music and literature, my favorites!

***

In the car on the way to New York I was so pleased when my daughter asked, “Is this Holst?” and started humming along to Jupiter. I also played a mix of violin selections, some of which included Joshua Bell in belated honor of his busking experience.

I always think of Perlman when I hear the Mendelssohn concerto and of Gil Shaham when I hear Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen. Thoughts of Perlman made me recall Youtube footage of a master class he taught in Russia. What a great “bedside manner!” He was supportive of his students, acknowledged them as musicians without being condescending, and offered corrections in a way that was so clearly meant to help the musician be the best he or she could be. Watching one of Heifetz’s master classes (the clip I saw is no longer up) gave me a totally different feeling – intimidated, threatened, disdained, like my hard work and efforts would cause the guy nothing but exasperation. It was like reliving residency all over again. He’s such an unbelievable technical wonder, though.

I believe teaching should come from a love of what is being taught and a desire to transmit that love to one’s students, and with it the commitment to strive for excellence. I believe in respecting students, whatever their abilities or background, and in approaching them with an attitude that says, “I believe you can learn this, and it’s my job to help you do that, and it’s okay if you have a hard time with it at first.” No condescension, put-downs, scorn, resentment, or rage when something is not known or understood or immediately done well by the student. In other words, the opposite of most medical education, at least in my experience.

I hope when I teach I come across more like Perlman.

***

We spent the afternoon at the Shrine of the North American Martyrs in Auriesville, NY – a peaceful place with a gigantic round church surrounded by meadows and trees. It was a personal pilgrimage of sorts for me – the patron saint of anesthetists, St. René Goupil, died there after being tortured for weeks with his fellow-captives. I was surprised that a place with such a sad and violent history should have such tranquility about it. My husband and children were very supportive of my desire to visit this place, “where Mommy’s special saint died.” Our favorite part of the visit as a family walking down the ravine where René was killed by two natives and later buried, in an unknown location, by his friend St. Isaac Jogues. Posted for visitors to read on the trail down were excerpts of Jogues’s first-hand account of René’s death. It was an indescribably peaceful walk, despite the tragic story, and at the bottom the trail suddenly opened up into a beautiful clearing, where we spent several minutes just enjoying the sacred atmosphere of the place. It was strange to think part of him was still physically there, somewhere in that clearing, and wonderful to enjoy the silence of the place. It’s not often any of us has a chance to enter into some quiet contemplation on our own, much less as a family, so this moment of tranquility and renewal was like a drink of water in the desert.

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Addendum, July 11, 2007:

Found this description from a reflection by William McNichols, S.J.: "Walking down the pathway into the ravine at Auriesville where it is said René was murdered, one knows why pilgrims come especially to the ravine, and will always come there. For it is in the ravine that one senses something of God - some touch, some peace, some blessing. This place does not attract the sensation seeker, looking for the morbid or the macabre. Rather, one finds that the earth there, sown in red seeds, has brought forth a verdant, shimmering landscape Pope Pius XII called 'Nature's Reliquary.' " Jesuit Bulletin. Fall 1984. p.12-14.

Gabriel's Oboe / The Mission Revisited

Watched most of The Mission again last night just to revisit the film and the roots of my oboe longings. I remember seeing this movie in the theaters when I was in middle school and being incredibly affected by it. Seeing it as an adult has just added more layers of association and meaning to the experience. Wow. I thought it was amazing back then, young as I was, but now I can really appreciate what Robert Bolt as a writer, Roland Joffé as director, and Jeremy Irons as an actor did to bring the story to life. Irons really co-created the character of Gabriel, who became my ideal for The Guy to Look For (sans the vow of celibacy, of course). (Actually, I wanted a combination of Gabriel and Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird, with maybe a little Russell Quinn from The Seventh Sign thrown in - and I gotta say, I found a guy who fit the bill pretty well!). Gabriel has it all - he is strong but gentle, quiet but courageous, deep-thinking but with a capacity for humor and playfulness, a man with intelligence and faith and who fights passionately for the rights of children and disadvantaged human beings. Plus he's cute, multilingual, and has musical talent. Take out the name Gabriel and insert my husband's name, and it's all still true. Wow.

There's a great chapter in The Oboe by Geoffrey Burgess and Bruce Haynes about that powerful scene in which Gabriel keeps playing his oboe despite the Guarani spears pointed in his direction. The authors write about the symbolic power of the oboe, of its music representing the penetration of Gabriel's message into the Guarani spirit. My 6-year-old happened to be watching with me, and he was completely riveted (just for that scene - then I tucked him into bed before watching the rest of the film). What is it about a scene that is compelling to a viewer whether he's 6 or 60? Well, here, first of all, the hero scaled a rocky cliff with an oboe strapped to his back. Okay, that got my attention. Then, later on in the scene, it was the music that mesmerized us, and Gabriel's courage in the face of life-threatening danger, his dignity, his faith, his creativity, and his respect for the Guarani.

There are so many other treasures in this movie for me. I've always had a special affection for the Jesuit order. I love how the Jesuits value education and the intellect, and actually put some THOUGHT into their faith. Ignatian spirituality, too, is full of gifts - reminders to see God in all things, to do things for the greater glory of God, to reflect on moments in which God's presence is palpable, to labor out of love "and not count the cost." And, speaking of Jesuits, I got such an insight into what my beloved saint, René Goupil, must have gone through as a missionary to the natives of Canada, traversing rough terrain and encountering all sorts of perils, hostility, and suffering. I also appreciated the glimpse into colonial life - the societal norms, the architecture, the religious customs - having come from a country which was a colony of Spain for hundreds of years.

People eagerly criticize institutional religion so much, and I would be the first to admit that I have dealt with many, intense frustrations with regard to the deep wounds it can inflict. But this movie shows the precious heart of religious faith as I think its founders would have wished it to continue. It's at the grassroots level, with remarkable individuals like Gabriel - with the "little" people - that religious faith can shake off all the encumbrances and formalities that weigh it down, and the things that really matter can shine through. Love always, do not pass judgment or count yourself above another, show mercy, abhor violence, take care of each other...these are the "laws" that govern the truest followers of Jesus exemplified in the fictional character of Gabriel.

I was so exhausted from work yesterday that I didn't get to practice (I was kind of using The Mission as my vicarious oboe dose for the day). Today I tried a long F and got a renewed appreciation for the purity of that adagio in Albinoni's concerto in D. I doubt I could ever be advanced enough to play anything like that, but a girl can have SOME goals and dreams, right? So my little goals are to get some good basics down this year. Already I think I figured out how to make my starting notes a little better (I was able to do that tonguing thing, albeit inconsistently, better on notes that were in the middle of a measure, but initial notes - the "attack"- had always been a problem). It does work to think of saying "Tu." I confess after exercises I indulged again and sight-read the first half of O Come O Come Emmanuel just to see if I could do it. Can't wait till I can do it smoothly and make it SOUND like it's coming from an oboe!

I found a video clip on Youtube of Ennio Morricone conducting an orchestral version of Gabriel's Oboe. *sigh* Like I've said, a girl can dream, right?