After not flying for nearly 14 years, I've flown commercially twice in the span of 6 months; first, a transatlantic flight, then a cross country route. On the 8 hour flights to and from Europe, I took advantage of the bells and whistles of individually controlled entertainment options. It was fun to do once. On the cross country flight (en route to the jazz festival in Pismo) there were fewer options, which was okay. Old school works for me. So when a bit of conceptual clarity entered my mind (I call these moments "balls of yarn", given to be pondered, as they are unwound) I pulled out my clipboard, opened the tray table, and began writing. This is usually a slow process for me, which is actually good on a long flight. I took out that clipboard the other day and tried to clean it up a bit. Here is an example of what may randomly enter my view (or leave it) at any moment: 

"Anything that can be measured, or considered as going from here to there, on any level, is a measurement of, or response to the created/temporal realm. From our vantage point, time is, perhaps, the most unique measurement in that it is seen as a moving target. To capture a place within time requires that you “freeze” it. These frozen memories, or single frames of experience, turn our focus, at least to some extent, away from acknowledging that these experiences are cumulative, contextual, interconnected and interdependent. “Cumulative time”, as opposed to the frozen frame, reflects more truly the reality in which we live. Cumulative time paints a landscape that gives unique meaning to the individual features; each park bench, tree, puddle and pebble, to whatever extent, or not, you are inclined to ponder these things. Often, though, our pondering (becoming more like imagining or projecting or worrying) fails to consider, or even acknowledge the landscape of context, as we hold a single frame of experience in our hand, staring at only that. As our awareness settles in this manner, whether in memory, current experience, or anticipation; we may retreat into ourselves, holding our frames, disconnected from cumulative time. This works to constructs our own unique version of reality, into which we may imprison ourselves.

Cumulative time allows context to be seen. Without seeing, or knowing the context (in any particular situation), we are inclined to respond to the frame in view, or whatever we are clutching. Admonitions such as to “not worry about tomorrow” or to be “thankful in all things”, rely on some sense of acknowledgement of cumulative time. We disconnect ourselves from context/greater reality when we fail to do this and more so (and to our determent) when we act on our disconnection.

Modern science is beginning to construct a framework for what spiritual and religious teachers have been bringing to our attention through the ages.  Scientific explanations, however, may lack the necessary emphasis to allow us to loosen our grip on the freeze frames; as scientific explanations, in isolation, tend to create their own. The necessary path of connection to the sense of living in cumulative time, with larger purpose, in an interconnected universe, at a place where self (and the frames it clutches) can move to the back seat, is faith."      

A bit of an illustration of what it's like to live with my mind. And why there are few straight lines in my experience.   ;)      

 On the Pismo (Jazz Jubilee By the Sea) festival with the Midiri Brothers band a few weeks ago, I learned a bit more about myself (or received some additional clarity) as the layers of discovery continue to be puled back. Here is what I posted on Facebook when the situation happened:

"When we arrived at the venue for the livestream set today, I was thrown into a bit of a panic. Have never seen a piano with this (first picture) done to it. And when it's on one end of the stage, and the rest of the band is on the other side of it, for me, whenever I play, all of my sound is hitting me in the face and canceling out the sound of the band. Being an accompanist by nature, it's more important to hear the other player(s) than it is to hear myself, because what I'm playing is entirely connected to, even dependent on, what everyone else is doing. What to do? I realized that the several additional piano folders (in addition to the main book) could be put to good use (bottom picture). Problem solved. But now most in the audience saw it, which I was made aware of after our set. So now, perhaps I buy some additional colorful folders and make this my signature look. ;)"

Also, the night before, the band had a late evening set at one of the smaller venues, where an electric piano was in place. The pianist in the band prior to us had the volume way up. It wasn't quite deafening from the audience, but certainly noticeable (and to me, distracting). When it was time to reset the stage before we went on, I discovered that the monitor speaker was actually behind the pianist, facing the audience (which is the wrong direction) and the source of much of the volume. I immediately understood why the band before us was not playing cohesively, as if they weren't listening to each other (I know that I wouldn't have been able to hear much of anything beyond myself if I had play in that circumstance). I didn't think much of it in the moment of readjustment, other than to make sure my speaker situation was adjusted to something appropriate (for which another musician in the band thanked me, once we started playing). But pondering later on these 2 situations brought me to realize (even more so than I had already) just how much of an accompanist/collaborator I am.

 Something I always say, when setting the stage to play behind singers, is that I can't accompany what I can't hear. Until now, I wouldn't have thought about myself as an accompanist (at least in the same way) inside the rhythm section of a band, but really, isn't that exactly what it is? My job is to be in the collective moment at all times, right? Of course, I understand that you have to be able to hear yourself on stage, which was the motivation for the well meaning woodworker to surgically alter (or mutilate) the piano casing. But you also have to clearly hear everyone else, or at least I do. I'm still working on the more global takeaway from this, but what is clear to me (and perhaps all that really can be) is the reinforcement of who I am and what I'm about (and what music is all about, Charlie Brown): connection. Connection with the music, with the other musicians on stage, with the audience, and ultimately, all that makes it go.