20 years ago, big bands were still working. And one of our favorite recurring family adventures were the several off season weekends a year when we stayed at the Golden Inn, in Avalon NJ, while I (dad) played with the Midiri Brother's groups for the hotel's Big Band getaway weekend packages. There were also several years where we had longer (3 or 4 night, can't remember) New Year's packages. The Golden Inn was the only hotel in town that stayed open all year (with a variety of package weekends, among other events, covering the entire off season. This allowed them to be the only hotel to keep its employees year round, which set it apart from all the other places in town). On occasion, there were also clumps of weekday packages (those were the commuter trips, driving there and back from Maryland every night). But of course, the family weekends were the best, giving us an opportunity to do something we wouldn't get to otherwise (or at least, not nearly as often). When my kids were young, they didn't really have the sense that growing up with a gigging musician for a dad was not the norm (though they would figure it out soon enough). Didn't every kid occasionally sit on his dad's lap on the bandstand, during outdoor concerts in the summer? Or hit the dance floor at 4 years old, with the grown up jitterbuggers? Or hear bedtime stories about trombone players (one of Joe Jr's stuffed animals was actually named after one)? Or hear the piano played at home at all hours of the day (and night)? Or spend (much) more time at the beach in the off season than in the Summer, when everyone else would be there (and everything was open)? But it was our normal. You can still collect shells at the beach, or bring along your metal detector, or even plop down on a beach chair (while wearing a coat) in the winter. And hang out in the lobby (or sometimes alongside the bandstand, or even on the dance floor) while the music plays at night. There are still pizzas, fries, fudge and buckets of caramel popcorn to be found (if you know where to look).When the family can do it all together, it's all good. There is always a provision, as long as you are willing to see it that way.  

A reality of being a free lance musician is that few of us have the guarantees afforded to many employees: sick pay, vacation pay, unemployment or health insurance. No one is mandated to "have our backs", or really, to look out for us in any way. We are on our own. And for many if not most of us, this is by choice. Self employment is (with few exception) the only road I've traveled; the only landscape I know. Do many others have it easier than I, in some regards circumstantial? Yes. Am I sacrificing to be who and where I am? No. The person I am, the relationships I have, the treasures (not necessarily material) I possess are directly tied to what I do, and the freedom that I have to do it. I would be sacrificing these most important things to be anywhere else. 
When I look around me, to the culture at large, I see a different landscape, one seemingly of entitlement. This can quickly become a topic grounded in political quicksand, which I have no intention of stepping in. So I'll limit this observation to saying that many seem to view a job as an entitlement, without any sense of commitment or responsibility to it. This touches one of the fundamental principles that I taught my children (to prepare them for responsible adulthood); that the reason we are paid for something is because someone else (or a group of someone elses) benefits from it. Our work has value because it adds value to the space around us. We may increase the pay/compensation by finding ways to increase the benefit. For those of us in the arts and entertainment fields, a primary way to do this is to grow our audience. This principle explains why actors and star athletes can command huge sums of money, as their performances can provide benefit, in some way, to scores of people (who fill stadiums, stream movies and athletic events, buy merchandise and so on). Yes, these stars make money for executives and businesses, so this is anything but a simple or straightforward equation that emphasizes only everything that is good in the world. The music industry, in particular, is its own ball of dark wax, but that's for another time, as it is not my focus here, it is simply on the job I do. Some years ago, I threw out my existing "business plan" (yes, I've always had one) in favor of a simple goal, that cuts to the heart of everything; to grow my space. My first priority, every day, is to open up the space at the piano (which is a process, and that doesn't happen on its own), so that when it is time to perform, the deeper connections are already there for me to find and make. Or, put another way, to show up at the gig with the space already open, ready to touch and welcome others to it. Or put another way, to provide benefit. For me, a job is something to earn, even from one day to the next, by providing a skill or service that has value to others. The opportunity to work another day is something I can earn by how I do my job today. Of course, sometimes there are disruptions to the established order. And this is one of those times, as I clear my schedule of just about everything on it over the next few weeks, at least. I've been given the gift of a sabbatical of sorts, to devote additional time to practicing and growth (among other things). I am not worried that my income slows down to a trickle (if not stopping altogether) for awhile. I'm thankful for the enhanced opportunity to deepen the contributions I can make (benefit I can provide) moving forward. The life of the freelance musician is the only life I've known for myself. I know and want no other. So I will endure the disruption for the moment. And enjoy the opportunity to step up my practice time and catch up on office work. And be grateful in all things.

I suppose an indication that one is arriving at a particular phase of life is that the AARP magazines become interesting. A recent issue featured an interview with Smokey Robinson. He puts words to something that I've tried to communicate to others, often without much success, so I'll let them (his words) help me now: 
"I think I feel songs. Whitney Houston was a great singer. Celine Dion is a great singer. Aretha Franklin was a great singer. I'm not in that category. I won't fool myself. But I feel what I sing, and I think people can feel what I feel when I do." 
For me, this simple statement resonates, and even is grounded in the profound. This level of communication; that we can influence and become a part of how others will feel through our creative expression is, in many ways, where I find my center of gravity. After being brought, years ago, to understand that my purpose when playing is to focus outside of myself, on others, and the connections that are made, I was finally able to put my finger on what is shared through this connection, which is, what we feel. As I continue to grow in the ability to segregate "thoughts" from "feelings" (head from heart), I find the connection with my audience strengthening. This connection has always been there, but it has been something, in the past, that I had struggled to manage. And especially so before I more fully grasped what the connection is about. When we feel what we are doing, we put ourselves in a different place than when we are simply (or primarily) thinking about it. And these feelings (which I would separate, at least on some level, from emotions), as Smokey says, will connect us with others.

To most deeply connect with others, we need to get ourselves out of the way. Much of this blog, started in 2005, is a documentation of the journey of learning to get myself out of the way. What I feel will always be there, even if I am overthinking. But the more I can open, or clear the pathway, the deeper my connection to it can be. When I am fully out of my own way, I can be fully open to who I am. And as I embrace who I am, I continue to find more in that person (myself) than I was previously able to understand. The road into one's self is a lifelong journey.

The 15 year run of the Women Helping Women fundraising show is now over. It has been a most special annual event, reflecting the very best of Kent County MD (and beyond) culture and community. This show has been one of our area's most important, and most loved endeavors. In addition to the causes it has supported, It also serves as a performers showcase, playing a bit of an Americas's Got Talent role for our area. Performers each sing or present one selection, and they bring their A game. Anyone who knocks it out of the park will have the town talking about it for weeks. And I accompany almost all 20+ of them. But I'm still speaking in the present tense here, which now needs to be reset. There is a time and season for everything. It has been a privilege to have been inside this process for most of the run, providing support to so many wonderfully talented performing artists. It also created for me the most stressful 2 weeks (leading up to the event) of every year. Am I relieved it's over? A little. Am I grateful to have had this opportunity to apply (and better understand) my skill set, lift up others and make a difference? A lot.

Here we go again. No matter what I will ever do in music, on whatever scale, nothing will have more importance, or be of more meaning to me than those special experiences in senior care centers (often that no one else sees). I have felt this on many occasions over the last couple of decades, often when wearing my Music Therapy hat. This time I was playing a memorial service at Heron Point in Chestertown. I have been playing at Heron Point since beginning in the care center in 1994. And most of that time Miss Anne (not her real name) would be seated in the group in front of me, waiting for me to play Stardust. I can't remember when she wasn't, actually. I would like to say that it was "our" thing, but I knew that Anne would extract Stardust from any situation that she could. But still, it was our thing. She knew what was coming when I walked into the room, and soon learned that she didn't have to ask. Which didn't stop her from reminding me, or me from reminding her that it was coming. Sometimes I'd play it right away, sometimes I'd build the suspense and make her wait. But I always played it. And for years, the music sessions in the health care center pretty much revolved around Miss Anne and Stardust. And without fail, she was always ridiculously happy hearing and singing along to it, often recognizing the tune after the first two or (at most) three notes. She would often recall her mother saying that she loved Stardust so much that at her funeral she would jump out of her coffin and ask for it to be played. Anne never lost that love, though as she approached (and passed) 100 years, her difficulty in hearing would amplify her increased detachment in group settings, and her response to (any) music would be hit and miss. But she never let go of that special song. A year or two ago we were having a hymn sing in the health care center, and as a hymnal was handed to Miss Anne she asked, "Is Stardust in there?" Miss Anne left this life a couple of weeks ago. I had the privilege of playing her memorial service, and the opportunity of playing Stardust for her one last time. And, by not having to ask, she proved her mother right.