Why Jazz?

My jazz choir met for the first time today. Monday mornings are tough. I asked them the question "Why jazz?" I wanted to know why they were interested in it, and why it was worth their time. As I went through my day, I kept returning to the question myself. Why is jazz something I'm interested in, and why is it worthy MY time?

One of the young men came up with a good answer...Jazz is America's music. It was born and raised right here, fairly recently when compared to other music worthy of studying. An article I read also mentioned that it is the product of America's greatest songwriters. Still another mentioned that it helps build aural skills and musicianship. All of these are very good reasons for the study of jazz, but why is it worthy MY time?

For me, listening to jazz is like visiting another country. The melody is the climate....The sunshine and warm breezes of my happiest thoughts, or the overcast dismal quality reserved for my moodiest moments. Just as each country has it's own cuisine, jazz chords become a unique seasoning for a gourmet feast for my ears. The language is what fascinates me most. Those who improvise are telling a story, carrying on a conversation even, in a language only they can translate, yet anyone can understand. When I allow myself to be immersed in jazz, I not only want to listen to it...I want to do it...Participate in this creative magic.

Does this love of jazz go back to yesterday's question of who I am? If I had to choose a type of music to describe me, would it be jazz? Or the predictable verse refrain hymn, always returning to the same pattern, never venturing beyond well-defined boundaries? Oh how wonderful it would be to be an inspired improvisation! Can I learn to enjoy and appreciate the dissonances in my life for what they are, rather than trying to fix them? Can I take the familiar and rearrange it to suit my particular mood like a modern-day chanteuse with an old standard? Can I create my own melody from the chord structure of my obligations and others expectations? And speaking of those expectations, can I throw in an element of surprise to delight rather than dismay those in my "audience"?

The house is finally quiet, except for the last load of laundry tumbling in my tired clothes dryer. This "moment of escape" must give way to an even more necessary escape....Sweet, restful sleep....

Who Am I?

A writing exercise given to us in a workshop this week was to begin with a blank piece of paper and write "I am what I am." at the top, then just write from there. I thought of several things--wife, mother, teacher...and realized that I'm not sure who I am without it being in the context of other people. Is this enough?

"I am what I am....but what is THAT?

I am a wife to a man who is alternatively non-communicative and a wonderful friend and helpmate. At times I just want to hold on to him and never let go, and other times, I want to leave and not come back...

I am a mother to three sons who are sometimes bright, witty and charming, and other times cold, cruel, and just plain awful. These are boys who have wrecked a van, kicked holes in the wall, put bug spray in my Diet Pepsi and couldn't hit the toilet if their lives depended on it. They are also talented and gifted, on the honor roll, well-liked by their friends and very charming when they choose to be.

I am a teacher to elementary music students who are loving, enthusiastic, with a short attention span, and very loud voices. I also work with high school music students who sometimes have voices like angels, and others sound like they have just found their voices after a long period of muteness.

I am a poor housekeeper, but love a clean house...a lazy gardener who loves fresh flowers and vegetables from my own small plot...an avid reader who has not finished a book in weeks (but I've started about four)...but does any of this make me ME?"

It is my hope that by writing a little each day, I might discover the me that either hasn't appeared yet, or has been buried under other people's expectations. Right now, my sons are throwing apple peeling at each other....This moment of escape must end.