Well, then.

Time to put pen to paper, metaphorically speaking, to clear my head a bit.

Where am I? Well, I'm just not sure, really. I think I've lost myself. Taking a couple of weeks to find the map. I run the danger of goofing off or playing games or watching TV or staring into space long enough to just go back to being lost again when it's all over. So, paper. Pen.

To whom am I writing? Not you, dear reader, though I do hope you take some comfort here, recognizing some struggle of our common humanity. Not God, for that relationship has been difficult lately. Not my husband Dave, though he is the human who understands me best of all. He already knows, so there's no point in that. Not my employer/ministry, for that relationship is wonderful and honest and complex and challenging and part of the problem and part of the solution, and the closest people to me there already know my crisis. Not my students, for I have stopped being vulnerable with them. Not my friends, as I don't have a many left. Not even my family, because they have their own stuff and I'm not completely sure anyone can understand the spiritual trauma (not to sound too dramatic) of my current condition unless you've lived it. Who does that leave? Me. I'm writing to me.

I'm writing to me because I have the propensity toward the creation of my own 12-step program, a sure-fire way to tackle my problem. I can clearly see all the things I should do to fix myself--busy, busy, busy--but I have the feeling that I need time. Space. Freedom. I hope to write myself a trail of stream-of-conscience bread crumbs which circles back to myself. Because somewhere along this way, I have lost something significant. But I don't know where, and I'm not really sure what.

So this is my 2-step program. Think, and write. And maybe shop.

A Note

My greatest memory of personal music moments hovers with a single note. Every musician plays thousands upon thousands of notes in a lifetime; for me, this note resonates more loudly than all the rest. It sings of discipline, of talent, of tenacity, and of inspiration. A single note defines a lifetime of artistry. This note sprung upon me the summer preceding my senior year in high school. I was a flutist, and following a grueling audition I was chosen for North Carolina’s Governor’s School, a six-week summer program for gifted students. The palpable excitement of being away from home for so extended a period heightened my awareness and lent a sense of adventure to music.

In the auditorium, the environment that would become a familiar and welcome part of my life enveloped me for the first time. I breathed in the slightly musty smell of a public place which was not used everyday, and while my eyes adjusted to the yellow light that played across our music, I thrilled to hear the cacophonous sound of seventy instrumentalists warming up together. How could order come from this writhing, living, feral sound? Then, at the conductor’s bidding, the first notes of unified music drifted upward from our instruments. Having only played in wind bands previously, the rich and resonant sound of strings surrounding me was shocking. The vibrations of the music pulsed through me and changed me fundamentally and permanently.

It was here that the note was etched into my character. While reading a Mahler symphony, I stumbled upon a lengthy tone perched two octaves above middle C. It sprawled across several measures of the page. I eyed it nervously, and as it approached, I realized that it was not supported by the safety of section upon section of foundation. Instead, it rode freely above a passage of music that was sparse, with only flitting woodwind accompaniment reminiscent of tranquil pastoral scenes. I dug in and played the note. Its lifelessness belied the serene and sparkling movement beneath it. The conductor asked for more animation. How could I give more life to a single note whose length tested endurance and whose register challenged intonation?

I worked harder on that single note than on many of the difficult passages I undertook that summer. I defeated the trial of intonation by mastering the subtleties of my instrument. I gained endurance by playing this single note again and again, each time broadening the capacity of my lungs. Most of all, I learned the difference between playing a note and performing it; I discovered the soul of an artist. Happily, that soul was mine.

The evening of performance arrived. People and perfume modified the musty smell of the auditorium. The dark void in front of the stage was filled with light and audience. The adrenaline usually reserved for sports or fear coursed through me. The note haunted me. As it drew nearer, I could feel my stomach tighten.

It arrived. Following a deep breath, I released the note. It hovered there, a living thing, floating gingerly above the wind section before gliding to the ears of the audience. As my lungs began to deflate, I grappled with intonation and won. The note soared to its conclusion. As the rest of the movement unwound around me, I realized that I had accomplished the making of music, and joy bubbled up in me and nearly spilled over in happy laughter. I channeled that energy into a wonderful performance. I treasure the memory of a single note that defined my musicianship.

Winter

The chief problem with engaging in one's own winter of discontent is that one never sees the leaves falling.

I dream of Tuscan skies I haven't seen, of catalog-perfect cocoons of warmth that have yet to materialize; where is my peaceful gray-blue wall with perfect view framed by vases of gently blooming hibiscus to perfume the breeze, and in what fiction-life will I have time to enjoy it? Is it possible to de-busy, to embrace the doing as well as the outcome? Can one re-engage one's own heart after so long an abesence, or like a lover forgotten, is one's own humanity as unfamiliar as the winding streets of an unkown village?

The winter of our discontent. The cold breeze of loneliness, the chill of having devoted many of the best years to something other than self. Is this to die righteously or to be blinded to the simplicity of the reverse of loving neighbor as self? To neglect to warm oneself with heart pleasures is only to loathe the cold, the neigbor, and the self. Has the fire spun out for good? How to rekindle the loveliness? How to shut out the cold?

A Peaceful, Easy Feeling

OK, so everybody over 30 will probably smile at that title. I guess I'm showing my age! This is one of those nights when I feel like I should have some profound truth to share with you, my dear readers, but instead I must admit to feeling relaxed and wonderful and not one tiny iota of profound. Though we've been on vacation for quite a while now (officially over a month, but there was much work in the middle), I'm now really settling in and feeling comfortable with the fact that it's really OK to relax.

I've been dealing with some difficult emotional things lately. Much of my previous post skirts around the issue. You see, this past year was completely draining in every emotional, physical, and spiritual way. Most of our friendships and community ties simply had to be put on the back burner because, plainly stated, we had no time. Any free time I had, I slept. Now, point number one: I don't want to live another 2 years like the ones I just lived through. It's too much and I am not able to care for others the way I want to when my mind is constantly clicking through panic-stricken mental lists of things that I have to get done before my head strikes my pillow at night or the world just may fall apart. It's wonderful to have such a sense of responsibility - and to be trusted to come through time and again - but it will absolutely eat you alive if you aren't careful.

Point number two: when our hectic academic year came to an end, I really didn't want to see anyone or do anything. And I mean ANY thing. Doing yardwork was too much. Vacuuming the carpet? Too much. I could barely change the toilet roll! Seriously, In the past two weeks, I have spent some quality time on my duff. I felt like a flower or some beautiful growing green thing that you think has been damaged beyond repair, is dead and rootless and lifeless with no substance and no hope of regeneration. Then, one morning after a long wait in forgetfulness, one morning that is slightly brighter, sunnier, and warmer than any you've felt for a long time, on that morning one tiny bit of green pops out. That tiny green token represents a life that refuses to end, a spirit which longs to renew itself and grow strong and beautiful.

This week, I have seen one tiny green point in myself. For the first time in many months, I think that I have not destroyed the most beautiful parts of me, but instead only buried them for a winter that could not be avoided so that they could spring again, alive, and more vibrant than before.

Point number three: when the smoke cleared from the battle that was our year, and we looked around, only then did we see the devastation of the battle field. Where we were once a part of a vital and loving community, we saw only dead relationships. The Word says we are all members of the same body, and the emotional pain that I felt when feeling so lonely and so forgotten, having spiritual members cut from my own body - simply because we had to do what we had to do this year - was excruciating. A sniper hidden in a nearby tree on our particular battlefield, the enemy immediately fired upon my every insecurity: there must be something wrong with me. I lose people in relationships all the time. I never get invited to anything.

It was difficult and I was emotionally devastated.

But a friend - the one I mentioned in my last post - gave me a shield: the truth. Now I can recognize both the lies and the concerns which are legitimate and need to be addressed. I am happy to say that I spent some great time with my friend last night, and had old friends - whom we haven't really seen in months - over for dinner tonight, and it was wonderful to reconnect and find that our relationship is still there and viable.

So now I am left with a peaceful, easy feeling, knowing that God does have a place for me in this community, and I only need to be vulnerable enough to remind everyone that I'm here.

See my little bit of green showing?

The Fragility of Friendship

So I was napping on the couch last night and woke up with a ringing thought in my mind: my closest friend doesn't like me any more. Now, I ask you, dear reader: what are the chances of that? I mean really. This is the person I have laughed and cried with over the course of several years. We've seen each other at our lowest points and rejoiced in the choicest victories together. We've worked hard and relaxed lazily. We've traded secrets and know more than most people about each other's pasts. Now can you imagine what cause I might have to believe that in the span of a half-hour nap, she had turned against me and abandoned her love of me?

Neither can I. But you know, I bought it hook, line, and sinker.

It's like when you have a dream that someone you care about makes fun of you or does something terrible like pour ketchup in your cereal (of course, in your dream, your cereal represents your deepest vulnerabilities). As you wake up, the affront somehow moves from the sleeping world into the waking; you are more than a little perturbed with the dream-perpetrator, even though you really have no reason.

Well, that was me. Though there was no dream, there was old hurt from yesterday, from years past, from other cities and other circumstances and from my own back yard. I went to bed snarly and sour. I arose miserable and depressed. I played over and over again in my mind all of the (untrue) reasons why our friendship was over. Naturally, in all of them I was victimized and helpless, with no one to come to my rescue. The more I pondered, the darker my thoughts became.

Which is the point of this particular little musing. You see, we are constantly being blown back and forth by the wind of opinion, interpretation, our own insecurities, and of course, little whispered lies from our enemy. When we let those things marinate in our mental stew of how we perceive ourselves and others, we often forget to find the truth of the matter. We obsess on the dire implications of our dark thoughts and care not one bit that we are embracing a wrong mindset that taints our thoughts about others and engenders a completely false opinion in the end.

This troublesome inclination is only compounded when we open our mouths to speak these half-truths and filtered perceptions to another human being - and might I dare say it is usually not to the person with whom you are mentally wrestling. Then, I am sorry to say, we have planted our own (often incorrect) conclusions into the next person, in whom those conclusions will root and splinter and twist.

How do we combat this? The Word is pretty simple. Check out James 3 - it's pretty clear about the destruction the tongue can bring about. And what drives the tongue? Our mind, our thoughts, our spirits when not bent to and focused on the great, magnificent Father. But oh, the simple beauty of this passage: "For the rest, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is worthy of reverence and is honorable and seemly, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely and lovable, whatever is kind and winsome and gracious, if there is any virtue and excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think on and weigh and take account of these things [fix your minds on them]" (Phillipians 4:8, Amplified).

Lovely. So peaceful. So far away from the turmoil that we all put ourselves through.

Don't misunderstand me. I have some legitimate issues and some hurt feelings. Happily, my friend and I are committed to each other and to making sure that we work this stuff out. But the giant, unscalable, knarled, blackened, twisted tree of my "thruth" comes nowhere near resembling the tiny seed of hurt that is reality.

So I will weigh and take account of the lovely and lovable, the kind and winsome and gracious. And I will keep my dearest friend

Independence Day

Well, happy Independence Day to us.

There are so many things from which we can obtain Independence. I think the biggest is fear: what people will say (or worse, think) about us; that we might do the Christian F-word (that's "fail," in case you were wondering); that we might be rejected and find ourselve friendless and alone. That we will never find "true love" and wander aimlessly with a broken and withering heart guarded in our pitifully hopeful and outstretched hands.

Some of these, I continue to deal with. Some I have overcome. I was reminded today that Jesus is the answer. Pretty simple, huh? When we focus our being, our living, the in and out of our breathing on the Creator-God whose whisper ignited our first respiration, and who will capture our last; when we focus our essence - thoughtmindspiritsoulactionreactionlovefearhope - on The One Who Created...well, those fears begin to melt. Perhaps that's an incorrect analogy. Fears are not like ice cubes, whose fate it is to freeze us out until the warmth of God can finally overcome them.

Fears are more like skyscrapers. When I stood at the base of the Sears Tower in Chicago on a frigid January morning, it was daunting in its pure monstrous height. Had I stood there until a millineum had passed, and like a scene from "A.I." or "The Day After Tomorrow," the whole of the building had frozen over and my bones long since withered away, the tower would still have retained its black, looming overwhelming-ness.

So perhaps fear is like that. But God is like an airplane. I can jump onto his lap/seat and strap in with the truth of his protection. I can relax in him, enjoy a sip of God-soda and nibble on some Jesus-pretzels and let him whisk me off to a new realitiy. You see, from my seat in my protected God-craft, yeah, for a while I can still see the Sears Tower. But what's that? It seems to be getting smaller. I'm certainly above it. It's no longer an oppressive hulk; now it's a 18-wheeler standing on end. I look again and it's the size of a pencil; then, perhaps a thumbtack. I can't be sure, it's getting hard to make out. Now, as I try to find it in the enormity of God's creation, it's just the head of a pin that blinks out of existence - or my ability to comprehend it - while I'm not looking.

Perhaps it still exists; perhaps I don't care. I'm too busy perusing the in-flight catalog of wonderful things that the owner/operator of this craft has in mind for me. The very essence of God's ability has wiped fear from my existence.

And so we have choice. We stand, freezing and sickly awestruck, staring up at the tower, or we refocus our attention on something much larger and enjoy the ride. People get ready, there's a plane a-comin'.

. . . "Remember that [by submission] you magnify God's work, of which men have sung. All men have looked upon God's work; man may behold it afar off. Behold, God is great, and we know Him not! The number of His years is unsearchable."

- Job 36:24-26

A wonderful description

As I continue my journey into sacred musicology, I have noticed that I am less and less concernd with the music itself - its harmonic intricacies, melodic nuances, instrumentation and purpose - and more with its cultural and spiritual influence and significance. Having mused on this for a few days, I was delighted when I friend of mine jokingly coined this following description. It is profound. For your reading pleasure and to know me better, here I am: Shannon Kropf, queen of rhetoric, specializing in culture with an emphasis in music.

Lovely!

Fear and Love

I had a dream last night that I did not recall until I was chatting comfortably with my husband this morning. I do not remember much of this dream, just one little scene and a whisper that there was quite a bit before. In this dream, I was in love - in the most pure, holy, wonderful, gentle way - with a man who was pure, holy, wonderful and gentle. He was beautiful of face and lovely of soul, and the yearning that I felt for him was of a sort that epic stories and fairy tale daydreams have only hinted at.

But the great tragedy of my dream was that despite what seemed to be a mutual admiration of the sort that could lead to the most original and pure kind of love, a love that cares not for itself but sacrifices unendingly, bursts open with renewal of new love, a love that is not afraid, the greatest potential for the purest human love that is born from the very heart of God, despite these things, he reserved himself from me.

I cried when I remembered the longing unfulfilled.

I believe that the biggest hindrance of purest love is fear. We are fearful that we will mess up, chose the wrong person, end up embroiled in the sticky tentacles of repulsion, or sadder yet, numbed by uncaring whose days march on into the infinite.

But what if...?

What if we were courageous enough to forget the hurts of the past? What if we embraced hope as the handmaiden of love? What if we believed that God is eager to give us the same kind of relationship He has with himself, deep and fundamentally fulfilling in its very nature? What if we threw our human wisdom and over-caution to the wind and embraced the great adventure of God like the eager children for which he wrote it? What if we could truly be ourselves, love ourselves? What if we could trust another human being so fundamentally that there was never a question?

What if we gave ourselves permission to try?

The great love is worth the cost.

"My lover spoke and said to me, 'Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come with me. See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. The fig tree forms its early fruit; the blossoming vines spread their fragrance. Arise, come, my darling; my beautiful one, come with me.'"

-Song of Solomon 2:10-13

Random Thoughts

I need to hit the sack. Boy, do I. I just finished another section of another chapter of the Visible School music theory book. I'm getting quite swift at it now; I write the text and place the examples in Finale, and Dave gets the pages laid out in InDesign. All told, right now it takes me 1-2 hours to write a section, and about an hour to compose the example figures and homework exercises. Which comes out to 6-9 hours a week working on this. It's a bit of pressure, but I am hoping that the end result is a work of excellence without the unnecessary over-academia.

I am excited to say that I am going to get cranking on some new music and new creative projects soon. I have a rehearsal with my dear friend Cam and a new friend, Bryan, on Tuesday. God has placed a new sound in my heart, a worship and expression of life that simply...grooves. I hope we have fun. I simply want to sing and play and have a good time.

I am feeling generally healthier lately, which is lovely. Last week was quite rough. I was really on an emotional roller coaster and simply feeling overwhelmed with the amount of things that I must accomplish - there is no choice to fail - within the next three months. I know that God has been a faithful provider of time, energy, and resources for two years now as I have taught full time, written a theory textboon, gone to school full time, and been involved in some creative musical outlets. I can see relief coming in the form of a long break over the upcoming summer. I just pray that I can make it that long.

I think that's it. I'm trying to give myself permission to make mistakes. A big mistake for me right now would be to not go to bed this very minute.

Goodnight.

(Poopy old Patriots. Boooooooh.)

-S

Blue Man Group and Chicago Chop House

Promptly at 3pm today, we headed down to the lobby to find Darron, our helpful hotel staffer, and Abraham, our driver for the evening, waiting for us. I think Mama and Daddy were surprised, and Mama gave us a big hug when she saw the car. We made our way toward the Briar Street Theatre and Blue Man Group. It was great to drive north along Lakeshore Drive and see the parks, buildings, and frozen lake on the way up to the Northside. Abraham dropped us right at the front door and we waltzed right in. After picking up the tickets at will-call, we stood in the lobby, tightly packed, for quite a bit. It was very cool, with tubing running everywhere along the ceilings and walls. Mama and I went to the restroom. This next bit is going somewhere, so don't tune out. I was in the stall, finishing up my rest stop and noticing several things about the bathroom when suddenly I turned an ear to the "wallpaper" music. Much to my amusement, I realized that it was Blue Man Group music with vocals playfully singing "bathroom...bathroom." It was really charming and quite funny.

The doors opened and we slowly filed in. We had absolutely spectacular seats, on the sixth row, which is the first row of stadium seating, in the center. It was an amazing show! At one point, they do some spontaneous painting, and when they did, I thought, "I wonder what they do with that. I would love to have it." Happily, even though we were some of the last folks out of the theatre, it was still for sale and I bought it without one moment's hesitation. The show was fabulous, stirring, vibrant, funny, endearing, joyful, and engaging. The 1 hour, 45 minute show whizzed by. I highly recommend it for those who love edgy artistic experiences.

We came out and our car picked us up and took us down to Chicago Chophouse. Frankly, at first I wasn't sure about it. For the amount of money I knew we were preparing to drop, it felt a bit...um, I dunno...mob-ish. Or something. Anyway, we journeyed up to to the third floor of the historic building (amazing archive pictures lined the stairs all the way up) and were immediately seated.

The decor was deep hunter green with dark brown wood accents. Pictures of historic scenes from music to architecture adorned every wall, and from the front windows we viewed a residential high rise and some other buildings. Our service by Blanch and the wait staff was very good. The salads were average, but my wine was excellent. I ordered the house signature steak, a cut of prime rib which is seasoned and seared. It was both huge and magnificent. It was actually the tenderest steak I have ever experienced. Dave got a filet mignon which was absolutely incredibly huge. Daddy got lobster and filet which he seemed to enjoy, and Mama got some pork chops which were simply succulent and amazing. Despite our full tummies, we did manage to eat some delicious desert.

After leaving the restaurant, we asked our driver to take us down Michigan Avenue for a bit, which was wonderfully lit and lovely. We returned to the hotel happy and satisfied to find our Blue Man Group painting sitting safely in the room. How lovely!

An enjoyable day!

I still need to write about our day at Navy Pier, which I will do. It was quite fun, really. But my eyelids are getting a bit heavy now. Goodnight.

-S