With the coming of the New Year, I've been reflecting on what my decision, back in my 20's, to accept performing music as a calling has meant, and continues to mean. I was already playing music full time, starting in my teenage years. But it was more by default than on (or with a sense of) purpose. When I came to this place, I was back in college, finishing my degree part time (having dropped out for a couple of years after my freshman year. I was playing usually 6 nights/week, along with carrying a sizable load of private students. The path out of and back to college is a blog post for another time). I essentially realized that to be a musician was to be who I am, so rather than do it because I could, I decided to do it because I felt I should. Purposefully. At points along the way, there has been some turbulence about staying the course. Whenever that would come, I would find myself falling back into the sense that a life of making music was the life I was meant to lead (if for no other reason, by virtue of who I am), and would keep going. What I'm coming to realize now is that what I was actually falling back on (each time I did) was the commitment itself. I will often speak lightheartedly to say that "The artistic temperament, depending on your view of the universe, is either a calling or a disease. Either way you're stuck with it." I'll say that not to be flippant, but to set up that I do accept it as a calling. And to accept a calling is, indeed, to make a commitment.

The picture above was taken last night, on board the American Constitution, after finishing a show. JoAnne Funk and Steve Marking, from St. Paul, MN, were the resident entertainers on board, and career full time performers, like myself. It was nice to meet them and share thoughts and stories. There are many paths that a commitment to this life/calling can take. Seldom does the path of an artistic calling lead to fame or fortune, and that (certainly) isn't why we make it. We make it because we believe that we have something to contribute, that this contribution has value, and that there will always be a path to making it work (even with the sacrifices that often accompany accepting a calling). This can be said to be idealistic, but perhaps, as it is now dawning on me, it is really something much deeper. What if accepting a calling is really an acknowledgement that this calling has (first) accepted us? And the commitment to this path is met with a commitment to us that a path will be there? It can be very hard at times, and easy to come to the decision that a "normal" life would be better. During those times, I may not have understood that I had made a commitment to my calling (at least in those terms), but nonetheless I couldn't bring myself to step away from it (even during the periods of significant pressure). And I wasn't always sticking with it because I felt it made sense. I just never could bring myself to walk away, no matter what the circumstance. I could never stop believing. Reflecting on it now, I suppose I did understand (albeit tacitly) all along that this calling had made a commitment to me. and that I would always be provided for (though not necessarily in the manner I would choose) as I remained on the path. Actually, of course I did. From the place I am now, over 40 years from beginning the journey, this is abundantly clear. And really only scratches the surface, because, as I've come to learn more and more over the years, and is reflected throughout this journal/blog, this is bigger than just being about me. Of course it is. And Amen.  

Here's a trip back to the 1980's and my gig as "Picnic Pianist" in the Cherry Hill Mall (NJ) Food Court. The article above (click to enlarge) was a feature in the Courier Post (the South Jersey newspaper. A feature in the Phila. Inquirer came later) from 1986. For several years I played the piano by the fountain 5-6 days a week, later intermittently, for a total of 11 years. When it was steady, the Rouse company marketing manager told me that I held the record for the longest continuous musical engagement in retail. True or not, I pretty much lived in the mall. I got the gig initially because I worked in the (mall) store that sold the mall the piano as they were building the new (1000 seat, at the time the largest in the country) Food Court. And, coincidentally, this was the same mall where my parents shopped on many a Saturday night when I was young (my routine was the candy store and the arcade). Needless to say, the Cherry Hill Mall was a familiar place. And whatever time I would spend in the mall otherwise was augmented by the 2 hour shift each day (often over lunch), where I would play songs chosen from a "music menu" placed on the tables. When the Christmas season came (marked by the arrival of Santa Claus), I had to switch to wall to wall holiday music, keeping in sync with the rest of the mall. On the occasion I had to put in a sub during the holiday season, it would often provoke a bit of complaining (or at least groaning) from the sub pianist, but as for me, I didn't mind a bit. I would challenge myself not to repeat anything each shift, then try to change it up as best I could the next day. But I'm often reminded that I'm not in the mainstream of musicians regarding this. Every Christmas season, in fact. Whether traditional carols and hymns (I was an active church organist and music director during this time, and this music has a special place within me), or the fun "cultural Christmas" stuff, I'm happy to play it all day, while many of the musicians around me reach the "Are we done yet?" place after 2 or 3 holiday tunes. Speaking of Christmas carols, a friend who plays in a contemporary church band told me that a couple of their younger singers didn't know "The First Noel" when presented with it in rehearsal for a Christmas service. It's a different world now, but that's another subject. Speaking for myself, it's ho, ho, ho and off we go!    

Some years ago, my heart would go on a journey, as my feet walked the mile from my house to the Chester River Bridge, then over into town, usually before sunrise each morning. The journey was not to the river, or town, or any other physical destination, ultimately. The journey was to places where my heart traveled, and found, and eventually began to recognize. As my heart learned to look out, my eyes followed. I took advantage of my first smartphone with an 8 mp camera, about 6 years ago, to begin taking pictures of what I saw, and eventually, (learned to recognize and capture) what I felt. As I can understand it now, I was entering a new season of life; one that has brought me to be positioned and better equipped to connect with those around me, particularly with music, and make perhaps, a deeper contribution. Or to approach it from another angle, to realize more of my potential. Or yet another angle, to become more deeply who I am. It's been a few years since I lived near the bridge. These days I'm more inclined to be found walking near my current house, especially at night, taking advantage of a secluded location, an open sky, and little light pollution. I'm especially happy when the moon is in a visible phase. My heart jumps, as it did recently, when I see the bright moon rising in the sky as I pull in my driveway, or walk out my front door. One night, as I walked out and encountered the moon, I blurted out "Hi buddy!" Another reason to be glad that I don't have neighbors.
Back when I would walk over the bridge, I was on display, but it didn't bother me (usually. I wasn't keen on the occasional pickup truck of rednecks who would yell out to startle me, probably to see if they could make me drop my phone). Both sunrises and sunsets could be stunning from the bridge, and I was absorbed. These days, however, I am happier to be in my secluded, private space and leave being "on display" for when I'm at the piano, or on the stage. And thanks to my heart exercises, my "display window" from the piano/stage is quite a bit less foggy than before this season of life began. A time for everything, and a season for everything, as one season follows another.