I have begun to learn one of my favorite Chopin ballades, Ballade #1 in G minor. Click on the following link to hear one of piano's greatest, Vladimir Horowitz, perform this masterpiece in Carnegie Hall. It is lengthy, but it is worth the time.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XhnRIuGZ_dc
This is an incredibly difficult piece so it could take some serious time for me to learn it. I will never play it like Horowitz. Yet, when I sit down to practice it, I thrill at the challenge and am transported by the dissonance and gritty harmony of the work. It's one of those experiences that defies description.
I first fell in love with this piece one weekend night when I was a senior in college. My roommate Jolee and I had decided that we weren't in the mood to participate in the party that was happening in our townhouse that evening and opted instead to curl up on the floor in our room and watch a flick. I don't remember how we decided on the Pianist or where we even got it, but I do remember that we made comfy beds on the floor, propped Jolee's laptop on a chair so that the screen was angled just right, connected my computer speakers to the thing, and settled in for what we hoped would be an inspirational film.
We were not at all disappointed but had no idea beforehand what we were getting ourselves into. The movie was incredibly sad. It followed the life of a Polish Jew who was a renowned pianist during the late 1930s. Once the Nazi deportation of the Jews began, the Pianist fled and hid over and over again until he nearly came to the end of his sanity, becoming completely hungry, frigid, and all but hopeless.
At that point, he stumbled into a deserted, tattered house that boasted a grand piano. There, a Nazi soldier ran him down, presumably in order to deport or kill him until he discovered the Pianist's unbelievable piano talent. When he heard the battered man play, the soldier was moved by the performance and showed mercy to the Pianist.
The first part of this clip shows the front end of this scene before cutting to a different video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEuWoa4bwLw&feature=related The full scene used to be available on YouTube but I couldn't find it today. It's too bad.
One thing I remember for sure: that scene rocked my world. Jolee and I were both a mess of tears watching that movie, especially at that point. The amount of emotion in Chopin's music by itself is significant, but when it was coupled with a heartbreaking true story, the experience was overpowering. The ballade stuck with me and I remember searching to find out what it was some time after watching that movie. I had to hear it again.
It's been six years since I was introduced to this Ballade in G minor. It's time I tried my hand at it. And so it is that I will tackle it the best I can. It's my musical goal for this semester. I'm both excited and curious about this venture. Excited to learn an enchanting piece of music; curious to see if I'm capable. No matter the outcome, the challenge of the experience alone will be worth the time and effort. Of that I'm sure.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Happy New School Year!
I don't like semi-colons. I never have. They are a confusing punctuation mark for me. Though I know I learned about how to appropriately use them over and over growing up, I still feel like the semi-colon and I just don't click very well. Plus, I think it's an unbecoming and cluttery-looking thing. I'm just not a fan.
I do, however, really like parentheses. Parentheses allow for both random and informal side notes. They grace writing with flexibility and flamboyance. Where would the world be without them? I think the semi-colon could be archived in a heartbeat. The parentheses, on the other hand, would be sorely missed if they were to disappear.
On the way up to Denver yesterday to meet up with a college pal of ours, my friend Lindsay and I bantered back and forth for a good twenty minutes about punctuation marks. It was a riveting conversation. Seriously! Discussing such an unusual subject proved to be a fascinating stimulant for my brain and, I'm pretty sure, also worked to grease up some rusty synapses.
Speaking of rusty synapses and punctuation marks, school starts tomorrow. Actually, only 6th graders come tomorrow, but it is school nonetheless. I am always thankful for the easier load the first day. It definitely helps me to ease back into the school schedule.
I also love the first day with just 6th graders because it gives me time to pour into the students who are scared beyond belief to be facing a new situation. My heart goes out to them each year. Middle school is terrifying, especially at a place as big as where I teach. Tomorrow, I will have to open numerous lockers, pat many backs, croon soothing words of comfort, and give clear directions multiple times throughout the day. There will be both tears and hyper excitement in the eyes of the sweet little pumpkins.
Though I honestly never thought I would have been teaching for this many years and sometimes wonder why the Lord keeps me at this job, I am ready. I am ready to face the new year. I am ready to pour into students and to learn new and better ways to approach my job. I hope I always remember what both a privilege and responsibility my job is. I hope I treat it with the integrity and seriousness that it deserves.
Here's to a new school year! May God give me the grace and strength to live each day to the fullest!
I do, however, really like parentheses. Parentheses allow for both random and informal side notes. They grace writing with flexibility and flamboyance. Where would the world be without them? I think the semi-colon could be archived in a heartbeat. The parentheses, on the other hand, would be sorely missed if they were to disappear.
On the way up to Denver yesterday to meet up with a college pal of ours, my friend Lindsay and I bantered back and forth for a good twenty minutes about punctuation marks. It was a riveting conversation. Seriously! Discussing such an unusual subject proved to be a fascinating stimulant for my brain and, I'm pretty sure, also worked to grease up some rusty synapses.
Speaking of rusty synapses and punctuation marks, school starts tomorrow. Actually, only 6th graders come tomorrow, but it is school nonetheless. I am always thankful for the easier load the first day. It definitely helps me to ease back into the school schedule.
I also love the first day with just 6th graders because it gives me time to pour into the students who are scared beyond belief to be facing a new situation. My heart goes out to them each year. Middle school is terrifying, especially at a place as big as where I teach. Tomorrow, I will have to open numerous lockers, pat many backs, croon soothing words of comfort, and give clear directions multiple times throughout the day. There will be both tears and hyper excitement in the eyes of the sweet little pumpkins.
Though I honestly never thought I would have been teaching for this many years and sometimes wonder why the Lord keeps me at this job, I am ready. I am ready to face the new year. I am ready to pour into students and to learn new and better ways to approach my job. I hope I always remember what both a privilege and responsibility my job is. I hope I treat it with the integrity and seriousness that it deserves.
Here's to a new school year! May God give me the grace and strength to live each day to the fullest!
Monday, August 9, 2010
Mom's 24-hour Theory
Toting as many bags and items from my car as I possibly could, I unlocked the door to my condo last night and stepped into a place I had not seen for a few months. The crisscrossing vacuum tracks on the carpet and the crisp edge to the air told me that my roommate Heather had thoroughly cleaned the place before departing on her vacation. The place seemed welcoming but vacant, as it was.
I wasn't too productive last night and ended up inviting a friend over to watch a movie. I was exhausted from traveling and told myself I would unpack in the morning. Plus, without anyone in the place, I knew having someone come over would help me transition back to my Colorado Springs world.
This morning dawned with cloudy skies and a coolness I have not experienced for some time. I felt invigorated and immediately went about my day, brewing some thick coffee to add a little kick to my step. After reading for a bit, I tore into the huge stack of mail that had accumulated while I was away (sadly, only two or three pieces were of a personal nature). That alone took a significant chunk of time. I then turned my attention to a million little things...paid a bill, wrote an email, made a phone call, checked on this, checked on that...and thus accomplished a copious number of mundane but necessary tasks.
Through this all, I have been thinking about how surreal life in transition is. Of course, this is nothing new and I am reminded of my mother's famous 24-hour theory. She always says it takes at least 24 hours after a vacation or any significant event to feel like things are back to "normal". This theory of hers also contains some addendems such as her suggestion that if one travels across time zones, it may take 24 hours per time zone to recover. She always refers to her theories with a slight tongue-in-cheek approach, but I think there's definitely truth to this theory. I'm claiming it because I'm feeling the 24-hour funk.
I just bought a bunch of fruits and veggies at the store that I'm going to spend some time washing, chopping, etc. That will be a good, mindless activity for me. Oh, and I just heard the rumble of some thunder. Ahhh. Love it. Maybe I can read a bit later to the sound of rain. That sounds fantastic! The perfect way to spend such a day.
Yours truly from the 24-hour recovery zone,
Jessica
I wasn't too productive last night and ended up inviting a friend over to watch a movie. I was exhausted from traveling and told myself I would unpack in the morning. Plus, without anyone in the place, I knew having someone come over would help me transition back to my Colorado Springs world.
This morning dawned with cloudy skies and a coolness I have not experienced for some time. I felt invigorated and immediately went about my day, brewing some thick coffee to add a little kick to my step. After reading for a bit, I tore into the huge stack of mail that had accumulated while I was away (sadly, only two or three pieces were of a personal nature). That alone took a significant chunk of time. I then turned my attention to a million little things...paid a bill, wrote an email, made a phone call, checked on this, checked on that...and thus accomplished a copious number of mundane but necessary tasks.
Through this all, I have been thinking about how surreal life in transition is. Of course, this is nothing new and I am reminded of my mother's famous 24-hour theory. She always says it takes at least 24 hours after a vacation or any significant event to feel like things are back to "normal". This theory of hers also contains some addendems such as her suggestion that if one travels across time zones, it may take 24 hours per time zone to recover. She always refers to her theories with a slight tongue-in-cheek approach, but I think there's definitely truth to this theory. I'm claiming it because I'm feeling the 24-hour funk.
I just bought a bunch of fruits and veggies at the store that I'm going to spend some time washing, chopping, etc. That will be a good, mindless activity for me. Oh, and I just heard the rumble of some thunder. Ahhh. Love it. Maybe I can read a bit later to the sound of rain. That sounds fantastic! The perfect way to spend such a day.
Yours truly from the 24-hour recovery zone,
Jessica
Friday, August 6, 2010
Coffee Should Stay in a Cup
This may be a record for me: two posts in one day. I'm cozied up in bed at my grandparents' house. I've already checked under the sheets for spiders (a long-held and ridiculous ritual of mine) and so have the all-clear to lounge and type a few things before giving in to sleep.
Earlier today, as I left Omaha, I was experiencing Food-Choice Indecisiveness, a condition that causes me to be confused about what I want to feed myself. It began when I filled my car up with gas. I decided it would be fun to have some soda to drink while I cruised down the highway. So, I popped into the convenience store and got some toxic Diet Pepsi mixed with Diet Mountain Dew from the fountain drink station. Check.
As I strolled to the checkout counter, I felt a slight rumble in my stomach. Hmm...a bit early for dinner, but I am quite hungry. I passed a little case of deli sandwiches and decided to buy a dainty turkey sandwich on wheat bread. It appeared decently healthy and I thought it would save me from taking time to get something later. I grabbed it. Check.
Diet soda and sandwich in hand, I got into my loaded Taurus and went on my way. I was soon reminded why gas station sandwiches are not touted as fine dining. The one I had carefully selected was a disaster. The bread was stale on one side and soggy on the other. Yum. I choked it down though because I wasn't going to let it go to waste. Really, Jessica?
So, being small and unpalatable, the sandwich just didn't satiate me. As I drew closer to the interstate, I decided I should get something else. Hmm...but what? It was a struggle, let me tell you. I wasted a good five or ten minutes in deciding, even parking and going into a convenience store only to walk back out because I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what I should eat.
Finally, I decided that something sweet would be perfect. At the same time, I concluded that my diet soda concoction would have to go to make room for my first beverage love: coffee. There was a McDonald's next to the interstate. Mmm...a hot fudge sundae with black coffee. That sounded heavenly and like it would slide down nice and easy. I figured I deserved something fun to eat to celebrate the end of my summer (I won't tell you how many other times I've celebrated with food this week.)
I whipped Miss Ruby, Jr. into the drive-thru. Though the line was long, I didn't have to be too patient. That's one thing about McDonald's. Their food may be a bit simulated, but they rock at drive-thrus. I was so impressed that I smiled at the braces-laden teenage girl who handed me my food. "You guys are slick!" I exclaimed, full of chipper good-will toward all. Who wouldn't be when about to indulge in ice-cream and hot-fudge goodness? The girl grinned back at me.
As I pulled forward, I paused by the trashcans to dump my toxic soda (sorry to be wasteful, but I did eat the sandwich.) as well as some old coffee that was sitting in my car. As I reached to put the old coffee in the trash, it slipped from my hands, did an acrobatic flip, and splashed unceremoniously all over my shorts, legs, and door. The good news is that it was room temperature, but it was still WET! I just had to laugh at myself for being so clumsy. Ridiculous.
Three and a half hours later, when I arrived in NP, I was still wet. I was too lazy to change along the way and really didn't notice the damp too much. I still had a grand time singing and dancing to music, talking on the phone, and dreaming about whatever as I crusied down the road. My coffee-stained legs combined with the murky-brown wet spots on my shorts were not becoming, but it was no big deal. I was riding solo.
That is all I will take the time to relate tonight. I love sleeping at my grandparents' house, and it's time to give in to my drooping eyelids. Over and out.
Earlier today, as I left Omaha, I was experiencing Food-Choice Indecisiveness, a condition that causes me to be confused about what I want to feed myself. It began when I filled my car up with gas. I decided it would be fun to have some soda to drink while I cruised down the highway. So, I popped into the convenience store and got some toxic Diet Pepsi mixed with Diet Mountain Dew from the fountain drink station. Check.
As I strolled to the checkout counter, I felt a slight rumble in my stomach. Hmm...a bit early for dinner, but I am quite hungry. I passed a little case of deli sandwiches and decided to buy a dainty turkey sandwich on wheat bread. It appeared decently healthy and I thought it would save me from taking time to get something later. I grabbed it. Check.
Diet soda and sandwich in hand, I got into my loaded Taurus and went on my way. I was soon reminded why gas station sandwiches are not touted as fine dining. The one I had carefully selected was a disaster. The bread was stale on one side and soggy on the other. Yum. I choked it down though because I wasn't going to let it go to waste. Really, Jessica?
So, being small and unpalatable, the sandwich just didn't satiate me. As I drew closer to the interstate, I decided I should get something else. Hmm...but what? It was a struggle, let me tell you. I wasted a good five or ten minutes in deciding, even parking and going into a convenience store only to walk back out because I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out what I should eat.
Finally, I decided that something sweet would be perfect. At the same time, I concluded that my diet soda concoction would have to go to make room for my first beverage love: coffee. There was a McDonald's next to the interstate. Mmm...a hot fudge sundae with black coffee. That sounded heavenly and like it would slide down nice and easy. I figured I deserved something fun to eat to celebrate the end of my summer (I won't tell you how many other times I've celebrated with food this week.)
I whipped Miss Ruby, Jr. into the drive-thru. Though the line was long, I didn't have to be too patient. That's one thing about McDonald's. Their food may be a bit simulated, but they rock at drive-thrus. I was so impressed that I smiled at the braces-laden teenage girl who handed me my food. "You guys are slick!" I exclaimed, full of chipper good-will toward all. Who wouldn't be when about to indulge in ice-cream and hot-fudge goodness? The girl grinned back at me.
As I pulled forward, I paused by the trashcans to dump my toxic soda (sorry to be wasteful, but I did eat the sandwich.) as well as some old coffee that was sitting in my car. As I reached to put the old coffee in the trash, it slipped from my hands, did an acrobatic flip, and splashed unceremoniously all over my shorts, legs, and door. The good news is that it was room temperature, but it was still WET! I just had to laugh at myself for being so clumsy. Ridiculous.
Three and a half hours later, when I arrived in NP, I was still wet. I was too lazy to change along the way and really didn't notice the damp too much. I still had a grand time singing and dancing to music, talking on the phone, and dreaming about whatever as I crusied down the road. My coffee-stained legs combined with the murky-brown wet spots on my shorts were not becoming, but it was no big deal. I was riding solo.
That is all I will take the time to relate tonight. I love sleeping at my grandparents' house, and it's time to give in to my drooping eyelids. Over and out.
A Chapter Ends
I just hugged my cousin Abbie goodbye. She was the last family member for me to say farewell to here in Omaha. Sad.
Now, I have one more day with the girls I nanny. We're going to lunch with their mom in an hour or two. I'm excited about that. But, when 5:00 rolls around, I'll hug the girls goodbye, drive on past the townhouse I've called home all summer, and point my car west on the interstate. I'll probably have some inspiring tunes rocking my Taurus, but I'm sure I'll glance in the rear-view mirror on my way out of town in recognition that I'm driving away from a place that's worked its way into my heart. It's surreal now, but I can bank on emotions showing up sooner or later.
I'll be driving toward Colorado. I'll stop for a day in North Platte to spend precious time with my grandparents. I'll be experiencing that strange no-man's land of life between chapters. One will have closed but the next one will still be mysterious. Anticipation, curiosity, and a touch of uncertainty will line the thoughts of the future while sentimentality, fondness, and a touch of sadness will flood the thoughts of the past. Yep, that's where I will be in a few short hours.
God has been exceedingly good to me in giving me this summer in Nebraska. I am thankful. I have more precious memories from my time here than I can digest at once. My cup overflows and I'm drinking from my saucer (I'd like to give a shout out to my Uncle Ken and Grandpa for that saying).
These kinds of days make me wish that everyone I love so dearly all lived in Colorado. I don't like having to say goodbye. Then I think of heaven and feel jazzed. There will be no farewells in heaven. It will be amazing, sweet fellowship with those most dear to me. Uninterrupted. Unpolluted. Perfect.
So, here's to cornfields, lakes, family, friends, music, laughter, crying, lounging, game-playing, movie-watching, cooking, baking, dancing, brainstorming, running, swimming, kayaking, storm-watching, town-exploring, and every other thing that has been a part of my summer in 2010. It will not be forgotten.
Now, I have one more day with the girls I nanny. We're going to lunch with their mom in an hour or two. I'm excited about that. But, when 5:00 rolls around, I'll hug the girls goodbye, drive on past the townhouse I've called home all summer, and point my car west on the interstate. I'll probably have some inspiring tunes rocking my Taurus, but I'm sure I'll glance in the rear-view mirror on my way out of town in recognition that I'm driving away from a place that's worked its way into my heart. It's surreal now, but I can bank on emotions showing up sooner or later.
I'll be driving toward Colorado. I'll stop for a day in North Platte to spend precious time with my grandparents. I'll be experiencing that strange no-man's land of life between chapters. One will have closed but the next one will still be mysterious. Anticipation, curiosity, and a touch of uncertainty will line the thoughts of the future while sentimentality, fondness, and a touch of sadness will flood the thoughts of the past. Yep, that's where I will be in a few short hours.
God has been exceedingly good to me in giving me this summer in Nebraska. I am thankful. I have more precious memories from my time here than I can digest at once. My cup overflows and I'm drinking from my saucer (I'd like to give a shout out to my Uncle Ken and Grandpa for that saying).
These kinds of days make me wish that everyone I love so dearly all lived in Colorado. I don't like having to say goodbye. Then I think of heaven and feel jazzed. There will be no farewells in heaven. It will be amazing, sweet fellowship with those most dear to me. Uninterrupted. Unpolluted. Perfect.
So, here's to cornfields, lakes, family, friends, music, laughter, crying, lounging, game-playing, movie-watching, cooking, baking, dancing, brainstorming, running, swimming, kayaking, storm-watching, town-exploring, and every other thing that has been a part of my summer in 2010. It will not be forgotten.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
My Dream Led Me to Holland
Last night, I dreamt that I was in Corrie Ten Boom's house in Holland. I've never been there, but I've seen pictures and diagrams of the house where she and her family hid Jews during World War II. In my dream, I drifted through the watch shop on the main floor and then walked up a small flight of stairs to the kitchen at the rear of the house. My dream ended shortly thereafter, but the experience up to that point was quite vivid in my mind as I can still picture how things were arranged in the house. I even remember trying to imagine in my dream what life was like for the Ten Boom's.
As is often the case with dreams, I am not sure why I dreamt about that house last night. I do know that The Hiding Place is one of my favorite books and that Corrie Ten Boom is someone whom I admire greatly. I think I like The Hiding Place so much because Corrie is so authentic in the way she retells the events of her life. She does not put on a religious or pious air. She is honest. She doesn't disguise her struggles with anger or even hatred when she and her family are brutally mistreated by the Nazis. She doesn't puff herself up when she tells how God breaks through the darkness in remarkable ways.
The beauty in her story lies in the fact that God used despair to reach both Corrie and the people in her life. Through every fear, He proved Himself a source of strength, comfort, and joy in her life. His work in her led those around her to want a relationship with Christ too. Her story is profound and completely blows me away.
Today, Corrie is famous and her story is an inspiration to many. Hmm. Did she have any inkling that she would be famous when she was sharing a lice-ridden wooden bunk with far too many other women? Did she know that her faith in Christ would comfort strangers years later when she had to stand in freezing conditions without proper nourishment or clothing for hours before the break of day? Did she know that Christ's work in her life would eventually be used to minister to others at the moment she heard the news that her dear sister Betsy had died in the camp? Did she know any of that when the darkness of her life was suffocating?
No. All she had to carry her through those moments was Jesus Christ. All she had was His hand, His comfort, His promises. All she had was the hope of His salvation and the joy of His ultimate victory. That was all she had and it was enough. Though her situation was grim, she and her sister Betsy made use of each moment to share the love of Christ. They did not languish in the dark. They had Jesus Christ. They lived for Him still.
Her life reminds me of Joseph and David in the Bible. Both of these men spent years being treated unfairly in obscurity before the Lord made them great rulers. Even so, these men did not react in human indignation. They knew not what great tasks the Lord had for them in the future, but that didn't stop them from living with integrity in the "now" of their lives. They were diligent and faithful and the Lord never left their side.
If these stories don't prove to those in Christ that human circumstances are no reason for fear or doubt, than what would? "Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and today, and forever." (Hebrews 13:8). He is always the same and He never leaves or forsakes us (Hebrews 13:5). Amazing truth.
As is often the case with dreams, I am not sure why I dreamt about that house last night. I do know that The Hiding Place is one of my favorite books and that Corrie Ten Boom is someone whom I admire greatly. I think I like The Hiding Place so much because Corrie is so authentic in the way she retells the events of her life. She does not put on a religious or pious air. She is honest. She doesn't disguise her struggles with anger or even hatred when she and her family are brutally mistreated by the Nazis. She doesn't puff herself up when she tells how God breaks through the darkness in remarkable ways.
The beauty in her story lies in the fact that God used despair to reach both Corrie and the people in her life. Through every fear, He proved Himself a source of strength, comfort, and joy in her life. His work in her led those around her to want a relationship with Christ too. Her story is profound and completely blows me away.
Today, Corrie is famous and her story is an inspiration to many. Hmm. Did she have any inkling that she would be famous when she was sharing a lice-ridden wooden bunk with far too many other women? Did she know that her faith in Christ would comfort strangers years later when she had to stand in freezing conditions without proper nourishment or clothing for hours before the break of day? Did she know that Christ's work in her life would eventually be used to minister to others at the moment she heard the news that her dear sister Betsy had died in the camp? Did she know any of that when the darkness of her life was suffocating?
No. All she had to carry her through those moments was Jesus Christ. All she had was His hand, His comfort, His promises. All she had was the hope of His salvation and the joy of His ultimate victory. That was all she had and it was enough. Though her situation was grim, she and her sister Betsy made use of each moment to share the love of Christ. They did not languish in the dark. They had Jesus Christ. They lived for Him still.
Her life reminds me of Joseph and David in the Bible. Both of these men spent years being treated unfairly in obscurity before the Lord made them great rulers. Even so, these men did not react in human indignation. They knew not what great tasks the Lord had for them in the future, but that didn't stop them from living with integrity in the "now" of their lives. They were diligent and faithful and the Lord never left their side.
If these stories don't prove to those in Christ that human circumstances are no reason for fear or doubt, than what would? "Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and today, and forever." (Hebrews 13:8). He is always the same and He never leaves or forsakes us (Hebrews 13:5). Amazing truth.
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