tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84189392024-03-13T00:35:54.524-04:00May Day CafeOnline musings by Nerissa & Katryna Nields
Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.comBlogger395125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-31492108798802112392015-03-05T10:33:00.001-05:002015-03-05T10:33:46.948-05:00This Blog is Moving!After over ten years of being a grateful Blogger blogger, I am moving to WordPress. Please click <a href="http://nerissanields.com/the-blog/">here</a> to find all future posts. This site remains as an archive. Thanks, friends, for reading!<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mHvnm7BoSYQ/SDbMIHsOL6I/AAAAAAAAADo/pDXcVN5_Wko/s1600/BLog%2Bheader.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mHvnm7BoSYQ/SDbMIHsOL6I/AAAAAAAAADo/pDXcVN5_Wko/s320/BLog%2Bheader.jpg" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5nlhloBCUaE/Sdi5TgCajOI/AAAAAAAAAO0/V8jhefPWISk/s1600/DSC_0886.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5nlhloBCUaE/Sdi5TgCajOI/AAAAAAAAAO0/V8jhefPWISk/s320/DSC_0886.JPG" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xAl7hZOgZrE/TL9y_VNzueI/AAAAAAAAA5s/UC2T8WThhsY/s1600/33787_1701026925934_1245756033_1893952_7078865_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xAl7hZOgZrE/TL9y_VNzueI/AAAAAAAAA5s/UC2T8WThhsY/s320/33787_1701026925934_1245756033_1893952_7078865_n.jpg" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5T9FvJmx_E4/TWfpxG7rPaI/AAAAAAAAA-0/BHlmdRXBBbU/s1600/DSC_0834.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5T9FvJmx_E4/TWfpxG7rPaI/AAAAAAAAA-0/BHlmdRXBBbU/s320/DSC_0834.JPG" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eYXz40qXNN8/TbikDhrWptI/AAAAAAAABCE/qZCWrpba9kE/s1600/IMG_4670.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eYXz40qXNN8/TbikDhrWptI/AAAAAAAABCE/qZCWrpba9kE/s320/IMG_4670.JPG" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WmEALLHuAEo/TfqSssytBNI/AAAAAAAABM8/Vu0CjrOStSk/s1600/248727_2088856549062_1474661046_2404380_2851153_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WmEALLHuAEo/TfqSssytBNI/AAAAAAAABM8/Vu0CjrOStSk/s320/248727_2088856549062_1474661046_2404380_2851153_n.jpg" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qJiRB2vzRDE/TfqUEWjdm9I/AAAAAAAABNM/JTw283tCcmI/s1600/IMG_5123.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qJiRB2vzRDE/TfqUEWjdm9I/AAAAAAAABNM/JTw283tCcmI/s320/IMG_5123.JPG" /></a>Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-22834541559988261362015-02-26T13:50:00.001-05:002015-02-26T13:50:47.475-05:00Radio PlayThe Nields - XVII <br />
STATION CITY STATE FORMAT <br />
WRSI Springfield MA <br />
WXRV Haverhill MA <br />
WUMB Boston MA <br />
WERS Boston MA <br />
WMBR Cambridge MA <br />
WMVY Martha's Vineyard MA <br />
WRIU Kingston RI <br />
WMWV Conway NH <br />
WCLZ Portland ME <br />
WERU Bangor ME <br />
MPR Bangor ME <br />
WMUD Burlington VT <br />
WNCS Montpelier VT <br />
WKZE Sharon CT <br />
WWUH W. Hartford CT <br />
WCNI New London CT <br />
MUSIC CHOICE National <br />
WFDU Teaneck NJ <br />
WNTI Hackettstown NJ <br />
WBJB Lincroft NJ <br />
WEXT Albany NY AAA <br />
WFUV New York NY <br />
WXPK White Plains NY. <br />
WEHM East Hampton NY <br />
WDST Woodstock NY <br />
WYEP Pittsburgh PA <br />
WQBR McElhattan PA. <br />
WDIY Bethlehem PA <br />
WAMU Washington DC. <br />
World Café Syndicated <br />
WXPN Philadelphia PA <br />
WLVR Bethlehem PA. <br />
Sirius Satellite <br />
XM Satellite <br />
WRNR Annapolis MD <br />
WTMD Towson MD <br />
WOCM Ocean City MD <br />
WTYD Norfolk VA <br />
WHRV Norfolk VA <br />
WNRN Charlottesville VA <br />
WCNR Charlottesville VA <br />
WVMP Roanoke VA <br />
WRRW Williamsburg VA <br />
WHEE Martinsville VA <br />
RadioFreeAmericana Internet VA <br />
WOXL Asheville NC <br />
WVOD Manteo NC <br />
WNCW Spindale NC <br />
WGWG Boiling Springs NC <br />
WSGE Dallas/Charlotte NC <br />
WUIN Wilmington NC <br />
PUBLIC RADIO EAST New Bern NC <br />
WCOO Charleston SC <br />
WWNU Columbia SC <br />
FolkAlley/WKSU Kent OH <br />
WMLB Atlanta GA <br />
WUSM Hattiesburg MS <br />
gotradio.com Internet <br />
WZNN Birmingham AL <br />
WZEW Mobile AL <br />
WMS Internet AL. <br />
WMNF Tampa FL <br />
WIKX Charlotte Harbor FL<br />
WFIT Melbourne FL AAA <br />
Countrybear.com Internet Amer. <br />
WRLT Nashville TN Comm <br />
Billy Block Nashville TN Amer. <br />
WSM Nashville TN Amer. <br />
WUTC Chattanooga TN Noncomm <br />
WETS Johnson City TN Amer. <br />
WFIV Knoxville TN Comm <br />
WDVX Knoxville TN Amer. <br />
WEVL Memphis TN Noncomm <br />
WFPK Louisville KY Noncomm <br />
WMKY Morehead KY Noncomm <br />
WUKY Lexington KY Noncomm <br />
WNKU Highland Hts. KY Noncomm <br />
WHAY Whitley City KY Comm <br />
WMMT Whitesburg KY Amer. <br />
WJCU Cleveland OH Noncomm <br />
WAPS Akron OH AAA <br />
WCBE Columbus OH Noncomm <br />
WYSO Yellow Springs OH Noncomm <br />
WOUB Athens OH Noncomm A <br />
WTTS Indianapolis IN Comm <br />
WFHB Bloomington IN Noncomm <br />
WGCS Goshen IN Amer. <br />
ACOUSTIC CAFE Syndicated Noncomm <br />
CIDR Detroit MI Comm. AAA <br />
WDBM E. Lansing MI Amer. <br />
WYCE Grand Rapids MI Noncomm <br />
KUNI Cedar Falls IA Noncomm <br />
KFMG Des Moines IA AAA <br />
KDEC Decorah IA AAA <br />
WBSD Milwaukee WI Noncomm <br />
WYMS Milwaukee WI Noncomm <br />
WMMM Madison WI Comm <br />
WORT Madison WI Noncomm <br />
WJMQ Clintonville WI Amer. <br />
KCMP Minneapolis MN Noncomm <br />
KTCZ Minneapolis MN Comm <br />
KAXE Grand Rapids MN Noncomm <br />
KMMS Bozeman MT Comm <br />
KDTR Missoula MT Comm <br />
KRVO Kalispell MT AAA <br />
WXRT Chicago IL Comm <br />
WWCT Peoria IL AAA <br />
WLCE Springfield IL Comm <br />
KOPN Columbia MO Amer. A <br />
KCKC Kansas City MO Comm <br />
KDBB St. Louis MO AAA <br />
KDHX St. Louis MO Amer. <br />
KCLC St. Louis MO Noncomm <br />
KTBG Warrensburg MO Noncomm <br />
KROK DeRidder LA Comm <br />
KSLU Hammond LA Noncomm <br />
KDRP Dripping Springs TX Amer. <br />
KPFT Houston TX AAA/Am <br />
KTRU Houston TX Amer <br />
KHYI Dallas TX Comm <br />
KKXT Dallas TX Noncomm <br />
KNBT New Braunfels TX Comm <br />
KUT-FM Austin TX Noncomm <br />
KGSR Austin TX Comm <br />
KSYM San Antonio TX Noncomm <br />
KCCT Corpus Christi TX Amer. <br />
KBCO Denver CO Comm <br />
RADIO VAGABOND Denver CO Internet <br />
KGNU Boulder CO Noncomm <br />
KFMU Steamboat Spgs. CO Comm <br />
KSPN Aspen CO Comm <br />
KSNO Aspen CO AAA <br />
KZYR Vail CO AAA <br />
KSMT Breckenridge CO AAA <br />
KYSL Frisco CO Comm <br />
KUNC Greeley CO Noncomm <br />
KRCC Colorado Spgs. CO Noncomm <br />
KRFC Ft. Collins CO AAA <br />
KSUT Ignacio CO Noncomm <br />
KVNF Paonia CO Noncomm <br />
KDNK Carbondale CO Noncomm <br />
INDIE 1015 Internet <br />
KUWR Laramie WY Noncomm <br />
KMTN Jackson WY Comm <br />
KPND Sandpoint ID Comm <br />
KRVB Boise ID AAA <br />
KSKI Hailey ID Comm. <br />
KRCL Salt Lake City UT Noncomm <br />
KXCI Tucson AZ Noncomm <br />
KBAC Santa Fe NM <br />
KTAO Taos NM Comm <br />
KTHX Reno NV Comm <br />
Altville <br />
DMX Noncomm <br />
DMX AAA National Noncomm <br />
KCRW Los Angeles CA Noncomm <br />
Folkscene Los Angeles CA <br />
KCSN Northridge CA Amer. <br />
KFOG San Francisco CA Comm <br />
KZSU Stanford CA Amer. <br />
KRCB Rohnert Park CA Noncomm <br />
KWMR Point Reyes CA Noncomm <br />
KPRI San Diego CA Comm <br />
KPIG Monterey CA Comm <br />
KFJC San Jose CA Amer. <br />
KRSH Santa Rosa CA Comm <br />
KOZT Ft. Bragg CA Comm <br />
KHUM Humboldt CA Comm <br />
KVMR Nevada City CA Noncomm <br />
KKCR Hanalei HI Noncomm <br />
KPUR Forest Grove OR Noncomm <br />
KINK Portland OR AAA <br />
KRVM Eugene OR Noncomm <br />
KLCC Eugene OR Noncomm <br />
KSMF Ashland OR Noncomm A <br />
KLRR Bend OR Comm <br />
KBCS Bellevue WA Amer. <br />
KOHO Leavenworth WA Comm <br />
KEXP Seattle WA Noncomm <br />
KNBA Anchorage AK Noncomm <br />
WVGN St. Thomas VINerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-1304803663206329162015-02-12T10:55:00.001-05:002015-02-12T10:55:59.393-05:00My Treadmill Studio: Yes, I Know I Am Ridiculous<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5iAD6uvtQvM/VNpKjcb-QsI/AAAAAAAAD00/CsSwflV3xxk/s1600/IMG_0862.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5iAD6uvtQvM/VNpKjcb-QsI/AAAAAAAAD00/CsSwflV3xxk/s400/IMG_0862.jpg" /></a></div>The snow, oh, the snow. One must have a mind of winter, to paraphrase Wallace Stevens (as a certain folk-rock band once did), not to think of the inherent misery of the extreme cold, the extreme inhospitableness, the extreme annoyance of snow. But I am pretty sure Mr. Stevens was not a working parent who had to stay home with stir crazy, and often ill, children who have tasted of the fruits of Good and Evil (AKA ipads and other screens), and who have been given a deathtrap (AKA a mini tramp) by their foolish parents, and who are screaming for blood, (AKA more Harry Potter movies, especially those way above their Screens Guild Suggested Rating).<br />
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As I type this, my 6 year old just got up from his fever-induced nap. My 8 year old daughter is bringing me her 5-6 sheets of "homework" I discovered this morning in her knapsack. She watched Harry Potter 5 this morning while my son slept. Now she wants to watch HP7-A, but I insisted she do her homework first. And I? I am trying to write, even just a little fluff post on my treadmill. I am trying to care for my dear ones, while at the same time working an album release schedule replete with radio interviews, press set ups, and gigs. I have a retreat in Florida next week THANK GOD!, and I need to send out an email to the participants to see how many are vegetarians and how many are cave people, or whatever you call those paleo-types. (I am one of those, which is why I can hurl slurs around like this.)(Speaking of cave people, my kids turned me on to the movie The Croods, which I love! It's by John Cleese, Monty Python alum, but I digress...)<br />
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My big insurrection against the winter was the vision and eventual purchase of a treadmill so that I could create a treadmill desk situation. My friend Gayle Huntress came over a few weeks ago and gave me a major organization consultation for my small office space. As we poked around my ridiculous amounts of stuff, I mentioned, almost off-hand, that my dream was to set up a treadmill with a desk so I could shuffle my feet and be standing for more of the day. Though I am a regular runner (AKA "plodder") and visit the gym three times a week for weight training, plus do my daily sun salutation, I am extremely sedentary otherwise. I work from home, so I don't even have a walk from the parking lot to my office. The most exercise I get outside of my 20 minute a day workout is when I go to the co-op for groceries. Since the weather's been so horrible, I haven't even gone out for my run. Instead, I've been trotting up and down my stairs for 20 minutes, usually while talking on the phone or texting to people, but also listening to audiobooks on my iphone (I am re-listening to Cheryl Strayed's wonderful "Tiny Beautiful Things" right now. Highly recommended.)I should also say that for the past 6 years, I have bundled up and run in every kind of weather, doing my 20 minute plod no matter what. This year I began to wonder if this behavior had any correlation to my tendency to get sick and stay stick for six weeks each time I caught a cold. I am happy to report that, with the new stay-inside-and-climb-stairs regime, so far I have had only one cold, and it has only lasted for 10 days.<br />
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Gayle looked alarmed as I told her all this, mostly out of concern that in my stair-climbing workout I would take a tumble while texting. "Go on Craigslist," she said. "You can get a great treadmill there." And together we made an algorithm of the steps I would need to take to get from where I was (a hugely cluttered office with two desks, two desk chairs and a closet full of clothes I never wear) to the office of my dreams, with treadmill and treadmill desk.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pC1LriEtjPY/VNzJWJePoUI/AAAAAAAAD1I/mRwDr0bRPFs/s1600/IMG_0771.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pC1LriEtjPY/VNzJWJePoUI/AAAAAAAAD1I/mRwDr0bRPFs/s320/IMG_0771.jpg" /></a><br />
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I searched craigslist for a few weeks. My eye caught on an affordable NordicTrack c900 that seemed the right balance of serious and...well, affordable. I consulted with my sister Abigail, expert on both treadmills and buying stuff in general. My husband warned me that, while he supported the purchase and general concept of a treadmill/desk set up, he would under no circumstances participate in getting the behemoth into our house and up the stairs to my office. Fair enough; his back is as valuable to me as it is to him. So I re-checked the Nordic post and saw that the poster promised "may be able to help with transport." So I called him. Long story short, the treadmill of my dreams was...right next door. My neighbors have recently moved out of state, and they left all their stuff in their house for this guy I was on the phone with to sell. Top of his list was this gigantic treadmill.<br />
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All that was left was writing a check and trying to figure out how to get it up the stairs. My poster immediately rescinded his offer to help, citing a hernia, and I called Smooth Movers. After about three days of moving the treadmill incrementally closer to my office, it's finally here. And today, I found a loose board in the attic that fits perfectly into the odd armholes.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PWcoAusKJzM/VNzKIwpYzsI/AAAAAAAAD1Q/bDAb4Tu0Q0g/s1600/IMG_0866.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PWcoAusKJzM/VNzKIwpYzsI/AAAAAAAAD1Q/bDAb4Tu0Q0g/s320/IMG_0866.JPG" /></a></div><br />
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A few words about treadmills, that I should have voiced before I let my kids on it. Treadmills are NOT for kids! This caused a lot of tears and consternation. Both kids had been huge cheerleaders of the treadmill as it rose on our horizon. But on day one, Jay shot backwards right into the door jamb and got whacked in the buttocks. An inch or so to the right and he would have jammed his spine. This is unfortunate. The kids really do need exercise, and I wish there were a safer way to get them moving when it's so cold out.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BgwBO8Zc66s/VNzKZ7XRe9I/AAAAAAAAD1Y/QKhKE_ZIVmU/s1600/IMG_0829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BgwBO8Zc66s/VNzKZ7XRe9I/AAAAAAAAD1Y/QKhKE_ZIVmU/s320/IMG_0829.jpg" /></a></div><br />
A few weeks ago, they started a snow shoveling business. Maybe I should hire them again. When they get well. Anyway, Abigail tells me that treadmills' belts go, and they will need to be repaired. I will keep you posted on my progress. Do you have a treadmill? Do you use yours? Since it took three entire days to get the thing up the stairs, I fully intend on ponying up and making this thing work––before the snow melts. Next up: I am going to buy a keyboard and practice piano as I plod!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xsJ-4Je8wo8/VNzKj3jLk7I/AAAAAAAAD1g/fWR0Zt8_xCM/s1600/IMG_0870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xsJ-4Je8wo8/VNzKj3jLk7I/AAAAAAAAD1g/fWR0Zt8_xCM/s320/IMG_0870.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-5066426053742472182015-01-27T16:56:00.002-05:002015-01-27T16:56:26.908-05:00SNOMG! And Our Traumatic Ecstatic Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zP94IJhjyLU/VMf_MwBkYHI/AAAAAAAADyM/8KKo3CGaEYE/s1600/IMG_0657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zP94IJhjyLU/VMf_MwBkYHI/AAAAAAAADyM/8KKo3CGaEYE/s400/IMG_0657.JPG" /></a></div><br />
I discovered yesterday that Patty, our longtime manager, doesn’t believe in indoor heating. I figure this has something to do with her obsession with women's basketball and subsequent wardrobe of extremely thick Connecticut Sun sweatsuits. Or maybe it's because she drinks so much hot coffee that she is inured to the cold. This was the only explanation I could come up with yesterday, as I sat on her living room floor with my fingerless gloves and my polar fleece balaklava and my filthy yellow parka, addressing envelopes, stamping envelopes with Katryna’s super cool woodblock stamp that says “XVII”, signing copies of the new CD in one of the mirrors of the mirror barn that lays out on the booklet as one opens it. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rrZZxurKDKs/VMgC52STBJI/AAAAAAAADyw/Xn-I1Fhq5_E/s1600/IMG_0654_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rrZZxurKDKs/VMgC52STBJI/AAAAAAAADyw/Xn-I1Fhq5_E/s320/IMG_0654_2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I put a CD into an envelope, sealed it, and looked at the address. Fans from Missouri. Fans from Texas. Fans from Florida. Several from Seattle. One from Wisconsin. Many from CT, NY, MD, VA. Too many to count from MA. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for these fans, some whose names I knew well; some whose names I’d never heard, though perhaps if I saw their faces I would recognize them. I saw names of friends, and names of cousins I rarely see. All four of my aunts pledged, and to see each of their names on our packages warmed me to the point where I almost felt like I could take off my balaklava. And in that cold living room, with Patty’s daughter and granddaughter (one helping, one charming) and Katryna, my kids (also helping, charming) I felt a solid completion, even though we didn’t get every label onto every envelope, and there are still boxes of CDs, a few books and bags scattered around. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VV_6D3DIOpE/VMf_y2coQjI/AAAAAAAADyU/bQbAu7gngiA/s1600/IMG_0626_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VV_6D3DIOpE/VMf_y2coQjI/AAAAAAAADyU/bQbAu7gngiA/s400/IMG_0626_2.jpg" /></a></div>It had already been A Day. Jay’s first cavity filling that morning had gone from bad to worse. He has a gag reflex, and is not such a fan of dentist in the best of times, but having been assured by Elle and me that fillings were no big deal, he was not prepared for the horror he encountered. “They are actually DWILLING MY TOOTH!” he wailed, putting his hand up to stop them, to take the horrible beige laughing gas mask off his sweet little tear-stained face. “Don’t cry!” the dental assistant kept saying. “The gas can’t work if you get all stuffed up and breathe through your mouth instead of your nose!” <br />
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I wanted to hit her. Instead, I held his two hands and kept murmuring, “Mama’s here. Mama loves you,” as he became incrementally traumatized. Having read Peter Levine’s <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waking_the_Tiger">Waking the Tiger</a>, I suggested he shake himself off like a dog when he finally got up, trembling, from the dentist’s chair, but all he wanted to do was be held. So I held him.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZqZCyT1yAYo/VMgAA_V3N8I/AAAAAAAADyc/B2EGVSq-ECQ/s1600/IMG_0655.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZqZCyT1yAYo/VMgAA_V3N8I/AAAAAAAADyc/B2EGVSq-ECQ/s400/IMG_0655.jpg" /></a></div><br />
When we arrived at Patty’s, I was starving, having had to take my kids to both Berkshire Yogurt (closed) AND GoBerri, because of the dentist (naturally, if one has cavities, and then fillings, one needs more sugar to get over the affront). But just as I heated up my meal and was sitting down to eat it, both Katryna and Patty’s daughter Ashley took one look at Jay and shouted, “He’s having an allergic reaction to novocaine! Go get him some Benedryl!” I hesitated, fork halfway to mouth. But these two Supermoms had no mercy. “NOW! Get him Benedryl NOW!” So, I gave one more reluctant glance at my warm food and made Jay put his coat back on (well, actually, given Patty’s no heat rule, he’d never taken it off) and we set back out to the van.<br />
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Couldn't there just be one less thing to worry about? Here we are in the midst of Blizzageddon, trying both to get our Pledge packages out AND prepare for possible power outages. We have no fireplace, wood stove or any other way to stay warm should we lose power. I was planning to get my van filled up with gas and make it to Radio Shack in between the PO and Elle’s violin lesson, plus the requisite trip to the grocery store for extra bananas. So in the van, out of sight of the Supermoms, I decided to call the dentist before driving to the Rite Aid. <br />
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“Is it just on one side of his mouth, “the receptionist asked immediately. “Take a picture and email it to me.” I did so, while still on the phone with her. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LXxi5EGVs3E/VMgA2GFsoeI/AAAAAAAADyk/cgLnzOe5RmI/s1600/IMG_0656_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LXxi5EGVs3E/VMgA2GFsoeI/AAAAAAAADyk/cgLnzOe5RmI/s400/IMG_0656_2.jpg" /></a></div>AH! The joys of a smart phone!<br />
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“No worries. He’s bitten his lip because he’s numb. Tell him to stop.” She said, and I brought my traumatized son back into Patty's cold house.<br />
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Even with all of us signing, stamping, stuffing, we had to dash to fill Patty’s Prius with the boxes of envelopes to make it to Patty's appointment with the Easthampton PO for 3-5pm. As we were loading up her car with boxes full of stuffed envelopes, she discovered that her Prius's latch was broken, so she called AAA. Finally, latched fixed, Elle and Jay and I helped Patty get the boxes into the small car. We got to the PO at five of, only to find that they were closing because of Snowcapolyse. The four of us stood there with huge boxes of stuffed envelopes in our arms, Jay holding the “special” ones as Patty had instructed him to do. The employees were all refusing to make eye contact with Patty, who was fuming. But we prevailed. I'm sure the kids' cuteness didn't hurt. Who can resist a couple of kids in snow parkas being helpers? So finally, the Postmaster General of Easthampton had no choice but to accept our many (like 500) packages. They might sit there until Snowgas Khan has retreated, but at least they are out of Patty’s Prius. <br />
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Snowgas Khan, or SNOMG! turned out to be a bust. Just as well. I am going to close this almost pointless post with a couple of observations. <br />
#1.Patty totally rocks, and we won the jackpot in tricking her to be our manager lo these 20 odd years ago.<br />
#2.My dear friend Anne emailed me this picture to prove that we were smart in our choice of album cover. Cool People, a piano, a tree. Nuff said.<br />
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Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-4608178710485764302015-01-04T13:43:00.001-05:002015-01-04T13:43:38.180-05:00New Year's Fire Pit and The Basement Tapes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-07SGSwiYbU8/VKb0rAz9kCI/AAAAAAAADts/iohjpKe8l4M/s1600/IMG_0550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-07SGSwiYbU8/VKb0rAz9kCI/AAAAAAAADts/iohjpKe8l4M/s400/IMG_0550.jpg" /></a></div>Last night, we lit a fire in our backyard fire pit and huddled around it, jostling each other to find the back end of the breeze. It was a crisp 19 degrees with a waxing moon, clear and solemn in the star speckled sky. We don't have a fireplace or a wood stove, but this backyard pit has its advantages (though one can't hang stockings around it.) Jay and Elle found sticks and persuaded us to haul out the marshmallows. So on January first, we inaugurated a new tradition: the New Year's Fire Pit Intentions Ceremony.<br />
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Sitting in the cold, taking much solace in the warmth from the flames, I couldn't help but think of how these evening fires created our civilization. "Mom, who invented fire?" Jay asked. "Or, who discovered it," Tom wondered. "Prometheus," I offered, and told them the story of the demi-god sacrificing his liver (daily) in recompense for sharing this element with humankind. "Gross," said Elle. "Yes,"I agreed. And then I commenced to stare into the fire. How exactly has the TV improved on this practice of gathering in the evening and spacing out, transfixed, on this vision of flames dancing, receding, expanding to frightening levels that threaten to lash out of their container, and then finally diminishing again into brilliant red edges along blackened bits of wood? This is where story telling began: around a fire. Same with songs, I am sure. (Probably the first stories were songs, and/or vice versa). How did the expanding and contracting of the flames influence the storyteller as she spun her tale to her fire-bound audience? Did the leaping flames have an effect on the character's actions? Did dying embers offer an alternate plot twist?<br />
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Perhaps my favorite Christmas present this year was a copy of the revised Bob Dylan/The Band <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Basement-Tapes-Raw-Bootleg-Vol/dp/B00MXILUH4/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1420222690&sr=8-2&keywords=bob+dylan+basement+tapes">Basement Tapes</a> (the "raw" version which is substantially shorter than the deluxe version.) Huge Dylan fan that I am, and Band fan too*, I never cared for the Basement Tapes, at least not the version that came out in 1975. It struck me as a bunch of pot-influenced drunken music. I am embarrassed now by that assessment, as I am completely obsessed with the tenor of this new release. It's like being in the living room with these guys as they surround us with the sounds of carnival. (How I love Richard Manuel's piano! And voice!) I can't stop listening to this record. I feel as though I have discovered gold. How could I not have known all of these songs before? Well, many I did, and many I sang ("You Ain't Going Nowhere," "I Shall Be Released,") but others I am just discovering ("Open the Door, Homer," "900 Miles from Home," "Apple Suckling Tree.") They seem already like old friends, and I am looking forward to delving into the layers of lyric Dylan always provides. <br />
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A couple of days ago, someone flamed me on Facebook. I won't get into why; suffice it to say that it was unexpected and strange, and while I took in the criticism and tried to see my part in it and how I could make amends to this person, I also just felt burned. When it happened, I sat, powerbook on my lap, and felt the heat infuse my body. This is what shame feels like to me: hot, consuming, total. Because of years of therapy, I was able to do this: to just feel the feelings apart from the story of who said what. I concentrated on the raw feeling. As Thich Naht Hahn says, "When your house is burning down, put the fire out. Don't go looking for who lit it." After a few minutes, I noticed the heat abating in my body. I pictured the person who flamed me; fortunately I had known her when she was a young girl, so I pictured her sweet adolescent face. I thought about the pain she must be in today to do something like what she did. I lifted a prayer to her. Then I got up and told my husband about it. "Why do you even go online?" he asked. "People are insane." <br />
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Maybe. But they're also wonderful.<br />
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Back at the intentions ceremony, Elle announced that hers was to help her cousin William get a dog. Tom's was to accept more the daily things he has to do. Jay's was a long speech about how he hoped people would be less greedy and recycle more. Also that they would be "mostly happy." Mine was about commencing to outgrow fear. I know I will never be successful, but I'm digging in my heels this year and trying a little harder. I am tired of being afraid of what others think of me. I am tired of my greedy little inner bean-counter who thinks perpetually she's getting the raw end of the deal. I am tired of that cold metallic pinchy feeling I get when I sense I am losing control of my kids. (Which happens hourly.) I am going to experiment with faith. I am going to play with trusting and relying on a much more generous spirit than the one I possess on my own, cut off from the rest of you. I'm going to embrace my age--47 at this moment--and try to act like a wise, confident grown up, and also let loose more often and play like a kid. Or my dog. I want to channel some of that joyous non-sensical spirit of those Basement Tapes and make some fun music with my friends. I am going to practice my piano, and use that growth mindset everyone's talking about to stick with it when it gets hard.<br />
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*We opened for the Band in 1995 at Mass MoCA. Though we did not get an encore and we sold a pathetic 1 (one) CD that night, more folks than I can count have come up to us since and told us they discovered us at that show. "The Weight" was one of the first songs we covered as a band. Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-48981499978632557002014-12-09T14:54:00.000-05:002014-12-09T15:21:45.238-05:00Gospel of John, Lennon: Darkness and Light<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FduQ53V40vk/VIdZyaTXO_I/AAAAAAAADp4/w1R7qx91H9g/s1600/John%26Yokoflag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FduQ53V40vk/VIdZyaTXO_I/AAAAAAAADp4/w1R7qx91H9g/s400/John%26Yokoflag.jpg" /></a></div>Can it really be thirty-five years ago that John Lennon was murdered? He was 40 at his death; soon he will be 40 years gone. I keep checking my math, and it's undeniable. I was in eighth grade in 1980, finally shedding some of my insecurity, and just beginning to express myself as a singer and songwriter. John's death had a dramatic effect on me; I responded by immersing myself in his biography, learning everything I could about him and Yoko. Something in his outlaw identity matched my own adolescent mood, perhaps. At any rate, in reading about him and his courage in the late 60s when he took an idiosyncratic stand for peace (think bed-ins, think "Christ, you know it ain't easy"), it occurred to me that I didn't need to spend all my energy, as I had been, worrying about what everyone thought of me. I began the slow process of understanding that I was an artist, and therefore had a mission for the world. I wore black to school (instead of the requisite blue uniform), spoke out for peace, and came home to close myself in my bedroom with my Beatles and Lennon LPs. After months of this, I emerged a different person: braver, more ridiculous, perhaps, but definitely braver.<br />
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Of course, Lennon's death meant something to millions of people. And certainly thousands if not millions of 13 year olds. I could have told this story very differently. I could have said that during this same time my grandfather was dying of cancer, and that my deep grief for the former Beatle was simply a mask for my sadness over losing my grandfather. I could have interpreted my reaction as plain old adolescent drama, but the fact that I claimed it as a positive personal myth shaped the way I have grown into a person. I am glad I saw things the way I saw them.<br />
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My Underground Seminary has been reading Richard Rohr's meditations for Advent this December, and today's reading was on darkness and light. The Gospel of John says "The light shines on inside the darkness, and the darkness will not overcome it." (1:5). Rohr goes on to say that "We must all hope, and work to eliminate darkness...but at a certain point, we have to surrender to the fact that the darkness has always been here, and the only real question is how to receive the light and spread the light...What we need to do is recognize what is, in fact, darkness, and then learn how to live in creative and courageous relationship to it. In other words, don't name darkness <i>light</i>. Don't name darkness <i>good</i>."<br />
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This is a challenge to me and my theology. I want there to be a silver lining in all darkness, and I want to go farther than that. I want the silver lining to actually redeem the darkness, make the darkness worth it. But how dare I say that Lennon's death was worth it because I got inspired? Or that the deaths of Michael Brown and Eric Garner might lead to a national re-thinking of racial profiling? The people who love them might want that too, but I bet they want their son or brother or friend back more. I wanted to think that something would change after Columbine, after Sandy Hook. But nothing changed that I could see (though my optimistic self wants to cry, "But the story isn't over yet!").<br />
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How do we tell the story? A baby was born in a manger, born into the generosity of the barnyard animals; born in the cold shrug of the innkeeper who wouldn't give a room to a pregnant woman in labor. A prophet healed the sick and cured the lame and made the blind to see, and preached liberation theology and encouraged the believers to question the authorities and pluck grains on the Sabbath, and was executed by the Roman government in a hideous, slow, public way. And then his words got twisted for millennia and millions were murdered in his name. And along the way, many people derived great consolation from his teachings and the example of his life. Many found enlightenment through following him.<br />
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My son has had a difficult fall, in some ways. For the first three months of school, he dragged his feet every morning, clinging to his Legos, our legs, refusing to get dressed some days, even weeping as he trudged up the stairs and through the school doors every morning. We held him, we comforted him, we gave him consequences. We talked it over with his teacher, a wonderful women whom our older daughter had had, and whom we loved. Maybe she was the wrong fit for our son. We considered asking the school to switch him to a different class room. I fantasized about home schooling him (for about three seconds.) Finally, I consulted my parenting Bible, How to Talk so Kids Will Listen and Listen so Kids Will Talk by Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish. The next time he threw himself on the carpet during morning violin practice and yelled, "School is stupid! I hate school! Teachers are stupid!" I took a page from the book, and instead of trying to reason with him, as I usually did, ("Well, you might not like school, but it actually is the opposite of stupid," and "it's not very nice to use that word about anyone!"), I gave him a piece of paper and said, "I am so interested in how you are feeling! Could you show me so I could understand? Why don't you draw a picture of that!" So he did. He drew a stick figure of himself, and then a bigger stick figure of his teacher. Then he drew a line from his hand to her head. He paused and said, "How do you spell 'lightning?'" I paused too. Anger was one thing. Homicide another. But as I looked at my boy, I thought, he needs to know his anger is okay, and this is exactly the way I want him to express himself. So I gave him the correct spelling, and when he took his marker and scribbled out the teacher's face with it (because, of course, the lightning had blown her head up!), I said, "Wow, you are so mad at her!" and nodded. He looked up at me, a satisfied look coming into his little face. This was right before Thanksgiving vacation. I didn't hear any more complaints after that, and in fact noticed that he was a lot lighter and easier going. Last Friday as I was kneeling in front of him to zip up his winter coat, he said, "I love school, mama. I don't hate it any more. I can't wait to go to school!" <br />
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"Really," I said mildly. "What changed?"<br />
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He shrugged. "I just grew into it."<br />
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Yet as I write this, I know that, for myriad reasons, some mothers don't have the freedom to trust their son's (or daughter's) darkness. I don't claim to have the solutions to how we eradicate racism or violence. I just know that the frame that the story comes in is extremely important. And I would add to Rohr's admonition to call the darkness darkness and light light, that some of that discernment is in the eye of the beholder. And that, as we all have darkness, we need to stop being so afraid of it. I think it helped my son immensely to have me come into his darkness and witness it and not tell him that he needed to be afraid. Maybe by saying, "Wow, you are really mad!" I was simply naming the darkness, and affirming that "mad" was an overlay. "You" are full of light, and this is just a dark spot on your essentially light background.<br />
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I have been lucky enough to outlive my own fears of the dark––of my own dark, anyway. Over the weekend, Katryna and I played a show in Virginia and got to hang out with my parents who are two of my favorite people who ever lived. Long gone are my adolescent conflicts, my petty criticisms of what I once called their bourgeois lifestyle. All that's left is sweet, gentle, tender love, and more gratitude for them and to them than I can ever communicate. When I went through my own series of crises in my late twenties and early thirties, I was taught how to shine a light in my own darkness and untangle the stories, see them as just stories, frame them appropriately and make my amends; move on. Once I did that, forgiveness ceased being a choice; it became as obvious and necessary as breathing. Forgiveness seems to me a river at the base of it all, underground, like the river Styx, perhaps, and that when I get baptized in that river, I come out clean, and able to endure the beams of love, which were there all along. We all shine on, as John Lennon said. Shine, baby, shine.Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-18074933517500389102014-11-11T08:25:00.001-05:002014-11-11T08:25:39.954-05:00First Fundraiser of the Week for our PledgeMusic Campaign: MotherWoman!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hkJkFkgYO04/VGFTlcRyAwI/AAAAAAAADYY/F6kugyy5a2w/s1600/song%2Bin%2Bmy%2Bheart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hkJkFkgYO04/VGFTlcRyAwI/AAAAAAAADYY/F6kugyy5a2w/s400/song%2Bin%2Bmy%2Bheart.jpg" /></a></div>Back in 2011, Beth Spong, then-executive director of MotherWoman, asked us to write a song for Mother's Day, and MotherWoman made a beautiful video of it (see below), using photos by our friend and photographer <a href="http://www.sarahprall.com/">Sarah Prall</a>. But today we are calling your attention to this wonderful organization which supports mothers in myriad ways, by making them our first Fundraiser of the Week for our <a href="http://www.pledgemusic.com/projects/thenields">Pledge Campaign</a>. This means that if we raise 10% of our total between November 10-17, we will donate a concert in which all proceeds will go to their organization. <br />
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MotherWoman supports mothers on every level, creates support groups designed to be inclusive of women of all backgrounds, makes a space for women to speak ALL of their truth in a supportive environment. They are also dedicated to building community safety nets, and impacting family policy at the national, state and local levels. We have been deeply moved by their principles; their "Universal Realities of Motherhood". To support the MotherWoman Performance, all you have to do is <a href="http://www.pledgemusic.com/projects/thenields">pledge</a> between Nov. 10-17.<br />
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Universal Realities of Motherhood:<br />
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* Parenting impacts every aspect of our lives; physical, emotional, interpersonal, and spiritual <br />
* Parenting creates stress and difficulty in many areas; relationships with partners, parents, friends, concerns about money, work, physical needs for sleep, food, exercise, leisure time, etc. <br />
* Becoming a mother brings up issues from a woman's past such as how she was parented, past trauma, mental health history, relationships with her own mother, grief, losses, etc <br />
* Parenting can make us see ourselves more clearly- the good, bad and the ugly. <br />
* Becoming a mother can motivate us to make necessary changes in our lives. <br />
* Motherhood can motivate and encourage a woman to become her best self. <br />
* Becoming a mother can overwhelm us with joy and challenges. <br />
* Parenting is an emotional rollercoaster of highs and lows. <br />
* Parenting can make us feel very insecure. Mothers are typically very hard on themselves. <br />
* We go into parenting totally unprepared and yet are expected to be "experts." <br />
* Self care is essential in mothering and, for many reasons, seems impossible.<br />
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I like the Reality that "Parenting can make us see ourselves more clearly--the good, bad and the ugly." I always joke that before I became a mother I was *this close* to enlightenment. That's because, before I became a mother, I wouldn't let anyone get *this close* to me, not even my husband. Well, OK, my husband. But, you see, my husband is a really nice, polite, well-bred guy with excellent boundaries and infinite patience. When I annoy him, he takes three deep breaths and asks God for help, or something. My kids, not so much. when I annoy my kids, which I do on an hourly basis, they yell at me, roll their eyes, or ignore me, depending on the extent of my annoyingness. Lately, both kids are practicing their teen-ager 'tude. They have learned what sarcasm is and are going to town practicing sarcasms many applications. I do not like this and tell them sarcasm is very unattractive. Somehow that doesn't convince them to stop.<br />
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The problem seems to be that I want them to do stuff they don't really care to do--everything from taking a bath to eating something other than chips-and-bread for dinner, to cleaning up the fifty bazillion lego pieces off the floor. But that's all par for the course; every mother knows she will struggle with that. Where it gets really wiggy and unenlightened is when I sit down with them to witness their violin practice. <br />
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We do the Suzuki Method, and I explain why in great detail on my other blog, <a href="http://nields.wordpress.com/">Singing in the Kitchen</a>, which is all about our adventures in family music-making. If you don't know the Suzuki method, I'll just say it involves the kid taking lessons, which the parent goes to (and does not get to play on her iPhone while she is there.) Then the kid practices for a half hour to an hour a day, and the parent not only makes sure s/he practices, but actually kind of coaches the kid. So if, for example, the teacher tells the kid to play eight pieces and a scale and do some sight reading, all the while focusing on keeping her wrist straight, it's understood that the parent is supposed to watch the whole practice, and intone "wrist, wrist" when the wrist (inevitably) goes floppy. <br />
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A few weeks ago. after we'd come home from New York, we had one of those famous terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days, which you can read about <a href="http://nerissanields.blogspot.com/2014/10/music-alone-shall-live-or-perfect.html">here</a>. On Monday, my son Jay refused to practice violin. In fact, he quit. I was so cooked, I actually let him quit, even though it's long been my feeling that kids don't get to quit math, so why should they quit music? But I was done with the tantrums and the forced practices, the bribes, the legos (which were the bribe, usually). For ten days, he was in official Quit mode, which for us meant he still had to practice every day, because his wise teacher Emily had encouraged him to work toward a finale: a One-Half Book One Recital in which he would perform all 16 of his pieces, then take a final bow around mid-December and give back his tiny violin to Stamell's String Shop for good. But something strange happened during those ten days. I felt really sad and mad at <i>myself</i> for quitting, and for letting him quit. What ever happened to my commitment to <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/18/magazine/what-if-the-secret-to-success-is-failure.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0">raise gritty kids</a>? There were so many pros to sticking with violin. 1. He is actually really good. 2. It's helped his fine motor skills tremendously. 3. The local Suzuki community is fantastic, supportive and fun. 4. Some of his best friends are doing Suzuki. <br />
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I felt as though a dark cloud had settled over his whole future, and it was all my fault. All my own issues of musical perfectionism come to the surface in that half hour to an hour of practice. That was me with the little fiddle and the floppy wrist. And somehow, when I'm sitting on the witness couch, all my own critical voices come swooping down, so afraid of being anything less than musically perfect. But why couldn't I just let him play the little fiddle and dance around the room with it the way he wants to? Isn't that where I ended up as a musician? Dancing around the stage with my guitar making a big, imperfect sound? I looked carefully at the way I'd been sitting with him as he played, my eyes glued to his bow hold, ready to pounce as soon as I saw it slip. "Bow hold!" I'd shout, as if I were going to be in trouble if I missed it. Not for the first time, a voice in my head said, "It might be better to be a B minus student than to not be in the class at all." (And I'm not talking about Jay being the B minus student. I'm talking about his Suzuki Mom somehow not being the shining star). Why couldn't I let him progress at his own rate? What if he stayed in Book One for 4 years? Would that be so bad?<br />
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On the tenth day of Quitting, I sat with my older daughter as she practiced. She'd gotten into trying to pick out the theme from the Harry Potter movie ("Hedwig's Theme"), so I'd printed it out for her, and her teacher had told her to read it for sight-reading practice. She picked out the notes, hung up her violin, and I called Jay over for his practice. He got out his tiny violin and brought his bow to the strings. Incredibly, he too picked out the melody for "Hedwig's Theme," which, you may know, is not easy. <br />
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My eyes filled with tears. He looked up at me, over the neck of his violin, with big shy eyes, a pleased smile on his lips. And though I knew I shouldn't say things like this, I couldn't help it: "Oh, Jay, I wish you wouldn't quit. I am going to miss you playing violin."<br />
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"Ok," he said. "I won't quit. I don't want to quit!"<br />
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"You don't?" I practically shouted. "You don't? That's great! Let's tell Emily!"<br />
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He took my iPhone and stared at Emily's picture. "Hi Emily," he said into the phone. "If it's OK, I'm going to keep playing violin. I'm becoming a better violin player. It's inside of me."<br />
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Being a Suzuki parent is like the MotherWoman Reality exponentially. I see the good, bad and ugly every time I sit down with the kids to practice. We see each other's good, bad and ugly. And we grow. And at the end of the day, there's music. <br />
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<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/GTXBLyp7_Dw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-66205740260641076672014-10-22T21:21:00.001-04:002014-10-22T21:21:43.096-04:00Music Alone Shall Live, or A Perfect Weekend In NYC Has a Tiny Cost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EsClj2t2em8/VEhW16R-R8I/AAAAAAAADWo/RHZmi5sjW8Y/s1600/IMG_0586.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EsClj2t2em8/VEhW16R-R8I/AAAAAAAADWo/RHZmi5sjW8Y/s400/IMG_0586.JPG" /></a></div>On the Monday after we got back from NYC, these things happened:<br />
-The Jetta went in to be drained because one of us put gas in its diesel engine. Yes, we drove it.<br />
-Jay quit violin, and more importantly, <i>I</i> quit violin.<br />
-While talking to his violin teacher about how to manage his quitting so he feels good about his experience, I hooked my iPhone on a kitchen drawer pull and it fell to the ground, the screen shattered, and the home button stopped working.<br />
-Stella refused to pee or poop all morning.<br />
-Instead of going for the run I desperately needed, I had to spend that hour on the phone with Apple and AT&T, getting misinformation about whether I could get an upgrade for $99. (No, I can't. It would cost me $23/month for 18 months instead. Can anyone out there tell me why I shouldn't switch to Verizon? Besides that they are the devil? And that I don't need to waste anymore time stuck on hold by a corporation when I should be going for a run?)<br />
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Anyhow, I thought of the people I love who are struggling with way worse problems, like cancer and MS and divorce and serious concerns about their kids (way worse than a 6 year-old's tantrum and throwing of his violin on the floor thereby breaking the bridge), and I found some packing tape and taped my phone's screen. There's this neat work-around you can do where you go to the accessibility settings and get a "soft" home button which floats around your screen. So now the phone works, well enough. It's kind of hard to read on account of the multiple shards of glass, but it'll do.<br />
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All this happened, I know, because we had fantastic gigs in New York. I say this, not in a kind of morbid "when good things happen, they're inevitably followed by bad things" way. On the contrary, I firmly believe that good comes from good. What I mean is this: we had a full house in Manhattan at the Rockwood (just south of Houston), and we had my sweet, amazingly talented 30 year-old cousin John Colonna playing piano with us for two of the songs. My other cousins came; my aunt Elizabeth came; fantastic NYC fans whom we haven't seen in years came; Armando did a fabulous job on the sound, and in short, we were inspired to sing our hearts out. It was one of those shows that lifts my energy so high I have trouble falling asleep afterwards. Which was fine, as we stayed up late at the club talking with our cousins and Aunt, had a hilarious drive back to Brooklyn where we were staying, and when I got home, there was an email from our videographer with the latest version of our video for the PledgeMusic campaign we're launching Monday Oct. 27 (THIS MONDAY!). I stayed up to watch it. And then I lay in bed and listened to the sounds of Brooklyn, my head full of John's playing. It was well after 1am.<br />
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The kids got me up at 7:30, which is so not enough sleep for me. They insisted on breakfast, so I skipped my yoga. We walked the three Jack Russell terriers, we played with blocks and remote control cars, we rehearsed some more with John Colonna, Katryna went to see her mother-in-law in a play, the kids and I went trolling for Halloween costumes, and then we had a show at <a href="http://www.jalopy.biz">Jalopy</a> in Brooklyn. And another full house, five songs to play with John, another reunion with fans we haven't seen in years, deep connections with family, and another extremely (for me) (and the kids) late night. And early rise to walk to the soccer fields on Brooklyn Bridge Park, visit with Kathy Chalfant, hang out and have lunch with our aunts and uncle and cousins, load up our van and return to MA, via hours of traffic, kids screaming over who had the better iPad in the backseat. <br />
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The fantastic gigs and fantastic time with family drained us. We used ourselves up, over the weekend, and that's not a bad thing. As I once said, What are we for if not for this? We're here to love the people we love, and that takes time and energy. We're here to sing the songs we wrote, to deliver them to the people who are supposed to hear them, and that takes time and energy. We needed a day or two to recover, and we did not figure that into the equation. (Next time I will know better.) Getting what you wanted means you are frequently exhausted--I've known this for years. What we want now is to raise money for this new album XVII so we can perform more often with other musicians like our cousin John, like the Daves of yore, like Kit and Chip, our production team. We want to see our old fans, and we want to make new ones. I live for moments like the ones I had on stage Saturday when John played "Normandies", and I felt something pure and clean in me fly up to the top of the room––for joy, for music. I love to hear from fans who tell me their daughter refused to read anything but <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Plastic-Angel-Nerissa-Nields/dp/043970913X">Plastic Angel</a> for two years. I love to hear from fans who discovered us with <a href="http://www.last.fm/music/The+Nields/Bob+on+the+Ceiling">Bob on the Ceiling</a>. <br />
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And I also love my routine, of morning yoga, meditation, running with Stella, practicing violin with the kids, practicing my own piano, going to River Valley Market, writing with my writers, meeting with my spiritual buddies, staring up at the sky, walking my labyrinth, going to bed next to my husband and sleeping for 8 hours. It's a good life. I know it. And this life sustains me so that I can exhaust myself on occasion, destroy my property, and shrug. It's just money. We'll fix these problems which are not really problems. But, as the song says, music alone shall live. Everyone needs to live for something greater than oneself. Yes, I live for my kids, for my family, for my community. I also live for music.<br />
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Addendum:<br />
The Jetta ended up costing us less than $500 to fix. It seems good as ever. Jay did quit violin, but he has agreed to play through December and have a 1/2 Book One Graduation. We are exploring the possibility of Bass lessons. (He wants to play "Bass Guitar, which is a bass with five stwings, Mama. A bass with four stwings is just a bass.") The home button on my phone magically started to work, so I might just go to a kiosk and get them to replace the glass. Stella did eventually pee. But as for me, I can't shake the feeling that what I most need is to go to the Adirondacks for three days with only my husband for company, sit on the couch and watch the leaves fall with a cup of hot tea in my hand.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7W0P4m0svP0/VEhXtBGBp3I/AAAAAAAADW0/GjY2XtzGsbE/s1600/IMG_4888.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7W0P4m0svP0/VEhXtBGBp3I/AAAAAAAADW0/GjY2XtzGsbE/s400/IMG_4888.jpg" /></a></div>Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-52848398052403433972014-10-16T10:32:00.000-04:002014-10-16T10:34:29.266-04:00What It Means to Do Work<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ce8rdL9XHV8/VD8IisODtmI/AAAAAAAADVg/Y_IRotHk-ks/s1600/IMG_7149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ce8rdL9XHV8/VD8IisODtmI/AAAAAAAADVg/Y_IRotHk-ks/s400/IMG_7149.jpg" /></a></div>I am sticking my head up for a moment to say I am here. We are playing two shows in NYC area this weekend: Friday at <a href="http://www.rockwoodmusichall.com/">Rockwood Music Hall</a> on the lower East Side, and Saturday at <a href="http://www.jalopy.biz">Jalopy</a> in Red Hook (Brooklyn). I am bringing both kids with me to the City, and my beloved aunt and uncle are taking care of them. (In between gigs, we are going shopping for items for Elle's Mad-Eye Moody costume). I say "sticking my head up" because I have been spending the bulk of my time gearing up to release our new album XVII. Though the official release date is not till Feb 2, 2015 (Groundhog's Day! Imbolc! St. Bridget's Day! Midwinter!), our Pledge Music Campaign starts October 27, and we are scrambling to film our video, write our copy, meet with our team, post the new photos by the amazing Kris McCue to the page, prepare the newsletter, send it out, pray for donations, etc. etc. Kit (our producer) is mixing tracks as we speak, and as soon as he sends them to us, we'll be scrutinizing them (or whatever the aural equivalent of "scrutinizing" is) to make sure they are note-perfect. Meanwhile, the world goes on. Part of me wants to stay away from NYC because of Ebola (my kids are terrified about getting it), and most of me just feels so deflated that people are dying and their loved ones are standing by, helpless. This is just what the Climate Change scientists predicted, back in the innocent 00's. Tuesday, in my guitar class, we played through Pete Seeger's "Quite Early Morning," and as I was singing the lyrics, I realized that though this song is about the Cold War, and the fear of nuclear annihilation, we're now facing an entirely different form of annihilation with climate change. The more I learn about climate change, the more I want to hide my head in the sand, which is another reason I am sticking my head up now. A folksinger who hides her head in the sand, who doesn't stay current, is not doing her job.<br />
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But neither can she do nothing but worry. We hiked in the Adirondacks last weekend, bringing almost-10-year-old cousin William with us. He is on Harry Potter 5, and even though Elle has technically finished all 7 books, most of them were read to her several years ago, and thus she does not have the same grasp of the details that William does. So as they marched up and down Hurricane Mountain, he instructed them on all the different spells they could cast with the wands they fashioned out of twigs (only certain twig shapes could be wands, of course. There was much searching for wands as we hiked.) They also decided to speak only in British accents. I, meanwhile, had downloaded a free pedometer app. Interestingly, while I now know I am way more sedentary than I'd previously thought, and though before the download I would have maintained to anyone who cared to listen that at 47 I am in the best shape of my life, after I downloaded and saw with dismay the meager number of steps I take on a daily basis, I immediately gained three pounds. But even though I am sorely tempted by the new Apple Watch, I am instead going to save my pennies for a treadmill desk. <br />
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As much as I do want an Apple Watch--and oh, doesn't it delivers the promise we all had as kids, fantasizing about watching TV on our wrists?--I have some concerns about turning my body over to a device, or perhaps <i>into<i></i></i> a device. I have a strong feeling that Apple has already taken over the better part of my brain. Plus, I don't want my kids to see just how obsessive I would be if all the answers to my potential questions were actually <i>on my body at all times</i>. Which is the problem with the pedometer and why I have resisted for so long in getting a Fitbit or any such thing. I'd rather just shoot for getting outdoors every day, breathing the air at its various temperatures and consistencies, feeling if my jeans are getting baggy or tight and adjusting accordingly. <br />
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As for Hurricane, it's a pretty big mountain, and when we started out around noon, I felt ambivalent about ascending. What was wrong with a long walk in the woods with Stella and the kids? I had no need to actually go to the top of a peak. It was overcast, and there was no view. But as we hiked, and especially as we neared the summit, some internal chemistry shifted, and I was overcome with the desire to touch the fire tower at the top. <br />
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I wanted to pause, up there in the clouds, put my hands on my hips and sigh, turning 360 degrees to see what I could see. I wanted to say "I did it."<br />
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Turns out there was a view after all.<br />
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We have to raise $30,000 for our new album, XVII. I guess we don't HAVE to. We have to eradicate Ebola and figure out a way to consume less fossil fuel and save the planet and try not to kill off any more other species. But it would be nice to raise $30,000 too. I could just as easily go with a plan where we do the bare minimum, like we did with our last album, The Full Catastrophe. In that case, we made 1500 copies, did a super cheap cover (in fact, I took the picture. If we'd asked Katryna--an actual photographer--it would have cost more.) We did almost no publicity, and certainly no radio. We did exactly one CD release show with a band. Releasing that way, low budget, felt like going for a long walk in the woods. There is merit in climbing to the top inherent in the climbing. We artists are communicators. If we don't do our job as fully and as well as we can, we feel we have failed, even as the work stands strong and proud (and I firmly believe that <a href="http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/thenields">The Full Catastrophe</a> is a strong, proud, truthful, helpful, beautiful record.) If you are reading this, we have already succeeded in communicating with you. But there are people who love the Nields and don't know it yet. We need to reach them. This money that we are raising, we hope, will do just this. Someone's life will be saved by "Witness" or "Princess." Someone needs to hear "Victory" and "River." Someone will be changed by "Dave Hayes the Weather Guy." To paraphrase Pete Seeger: we want to put our one grain of sand on the beach we believe in. We really really really love this record and we firmly believe you will too.<br />
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Last winter, when faced with the choice of writing new songs or starting a new book project, I wrote new songs. When the first one wasn't great, I wrote a better one. When that one didn't totally get at the issue, I wrote another. I wrote until Katryna said, "You've written the album. Let's record. These are the best songs you've ever composed." I hope they tell the truth, that they bring hope, that you can dance to them, that kids will learn them on their guitars and pianos and that one day I will hear them being covered. Then I will feel as though I have done my job.<br />
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<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/gw-XxbLKaH0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-66897277926870138012014-09-24T10:29:00.000-04:002014-09-24T10:29:14.985-04:00Why You Should Think About Your Fans Instead of Your CriticsPeople want to like you. They want to like your band. They want to like your novel.<br />
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When I am listening to the radio, I am not in critic mode. I am in consumer mode. I am looking for the next artist to fall in love with. I am listening for a song I might want to download onto my iPhone.<br />
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When I walk into <a href="http://www.broadsidebooks.com/">Broadside Bookstore</a>, I am looking for my next great read. I want to find it. When I pick up a novel and read the first paragraph, I am not hoping it will disappoint me. I want to be captivated. I want to take the book home with me and make it keep me from going to bed on time. I want to be caught.<br />
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I want to like it, in the same way when I walk into a clothing shop I am looking for what might work, rather than what won’t work. I am hopeful. I want to leave the store with something in my hand.<br />
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I say all this because too many of the writers I know (myself included) go at their writing with the idea that the whole world is holding its proverbial breath, just waiting to pounce on your questionable plot, your clunky dialogue, your too-long beginning, your two-dimensional side character. We songwriters think everyone’s going to notice that the tenses changed in the third verse, and so dismiss the song outright. <br />
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Wrong. <br />
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There are people out there who will love your book. There are people out there who will love your song. They have been waiting for it. When they see it, or hear it, they will come to full attention and dive in. They are your fan tribe, and they want to like what you have written. They are looking for what’s good in your work. They want to take you home with them. They are waiting for the next thing you might have to say.<br />
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Here at <a href="http://nerissanields.com/garden-groups.html">Big Yellow</a> (the name my retreatants have given my house, where I hold Writing it Up in the Garden workshops and retreats), we train participants to listen like fans, not critics, because it’s ultimately the fans that count—not the critics. Critics don’t buy books. They get given books. It’s their job to point out what doesn’t work. Editors don’t buy books. They get paid to see what doesn’t work and make your book better. They have their place, don’t get me wrong. But they are not your fans, and they are (therefore) not your employer. Your employer is the one who pays you. That would be your fans.<br />
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So when listening to a writer’s new work, I ask my retreatants and workshop participants to listen like a fan. What works? What phrase are you going to take away with you? What part do you want to hear again? What intrigues you? The amazing thing about this process is that when we listen for what works instead of for what doesn’t work, we not only seem to fall in love a bit more with the other writer, but more importantly, we gain trust in our own ability. When we sit in a room full of enthusiasm, we see (eventually) that folks might just find something to love in our own work. And that maybe it’s selfish, and even a little mean, not to share that song, that poem, that book, with those fans out there. <br />
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You will find each other. But only if you keep writing and putting it out there.<br />
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Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-3411152724648864882014-09-20T16:33:00.001-04:002014-09-20T16:37:47.331-04:00Equinox<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wgpPM03i8_4/VB3hlAEtiGI/AAAAAAAADSo/PZ3Z20xqeqg/s1600/IMG_6969.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wgpPM03i8_4/VB3hlAEtiGI/AAAAAAAADSo/PZ3Z20xqeqg/s400/IMG_6969.JPG" /></a><br />
I am writing this during my September Equinox retreat. It's already chilly--I put my wool socks on last weekend when we played the Turtle Hill Festival, and I haven't traded back for cotton since. My sweaters are down from the attic, neatly folded in my closet, like old friends. I haven't written in a few weeks, and I almost don't remember how. Katryna and I have been so immersed in our new record, my mind is there, among the tracks, listening for lines we could use as the title, listening for places we'd like to ask our fiddler to fill in, thinking about the photo shoot we're doing Sunday. But fall is a time for rooting, and as tempting as it (always) is for me to live with my head in the clouds, now is a time when I want to be digging into known routines. Routine--root, right? So alongside the scheming and dreaming about our album, I am also trying to get back to my novel, this blog, my spiritual writing, the daily practice of putting my fingers on the keyboard, or gripping a pen in my imperfect way (the second grade teacher always tried to correct my grip, which is, I admit, inefficient and clumsy) and scribbling out some words, not knowing where I am going, just trusting that something inside of me is smarter than I am.It felt good to clean up the summer clothes, let go what I don't need anymore, fold the winter ones into my drawers and closets, weed the yard, prepare the food for the retreat. These things ground me.<br />
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Stella has helped with the rooting and grounding too. Stella, oh, Stella! Dog of my life! Stella has proved to be the right dog at the right time. For one thing, Elle is head over heels for her. For some girls, a dog feels like some kind of divine completion. So it is with mine. Elle comes down in the morning and the two of them roll around together in a big human/canine cuddle. Stella rarely barks, is housebroken, seems to take well to her doggie obedience class, keeps up with Tom and me when we take her on our runs, and mostly doesn't chew stuff. She did destroy the cable to our Roku box, but I don't hold that against her. (By the way, if you chew the Roku cable, Radio Shack will tell you that you can't replace it. It goes with the Roku, and you will have to buy a whole new unit. Sorry, they will say.)<br />
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To add to our tech woes, our printer is not talking to our new Comcast router/modem. My receiver still sometimes can't handle pumping music out of four speakers. The Facebook app on my iPad regularly goes so slowly that I give up before I can see what my friends are up to. These irritations burrow deep inside me and color my mood for the rest of the day. It goes the other way too; when I solve a techno problem, I am elated for the day. But it doesn't pay, in the long run, to attach one's moods to whether your gear works well or not.<br />
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Ten days ago, my father fell while running and broke a rib, tore a muscle and had to be flown home from Miami, where he'd been working on a case. He spent a week on heavy painkillers, resting at home. Now he is up and about, working 14 hour days from home on the phone. But while this was unfolding--while we were wondering if he would be ok--I couldn't stop crying. I felt paralyzed, too. What did any of this (Roku, Comcast, Best Buy stereo, even our CD) matter when my dad was suffering? What if this did him in? I rode the grief to its natural conclusion, which was that I didn't really care to live in a world where my father was not. The pain in my chest, in my brain, was too much, just thinking about this. How do people survive the loss of their parents? <br />
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Fortunately, I still don't know. For now, it seems, he will make a good recovery. But sometime during the weekend in Rochester, a weekend we spent surrounded by folk music lovers, people whose values were sweetly and groundingly familiar,the grip on my heart eased up. I knew I would survive that loss, and that I had to. It was my duty. It was part of the agreement. Besides, my kids needed me to.<br />
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Katryna and I saw a movie called <a href="http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/chef_2014/">Chef</a> last Saturday night, a movie I can neither recommend nor denounce. It was gorgeous food porn, gorgeous actors (mostly the women were gorgeous, which was kind of my issue with the whole thing), a cute kid, some fun social media sidelines, and most of all a really cool road trip from Miami to New Orleans to Austin, TX, plus a killer soundtrack. But we both left the theatre kind of empty, even though we should have felt full. Here, after all, was a film that had gotten a very good rating on Rotten Tomatoes, was chock full of notable actors (Scarlett Johansson, Dustin Hoffman, Amy Sedaris, Oliver Platt, Robert Downey, Jr, Sofia Veraga--the most beautiful woman on the planet), and besides which it was a total coup that we'd actually gone to the movies, which we never get to do. But still, I have to say: WTF? It was a story of a workaholic divorcé (it was never explained why his marriage failed), pathetic and stereotypically negligent dad, who was sort of having a relationship with an incredibly patient and wise hostess for his 4 star restaurant. He gets into a fight with a food critic, loses his temper and then his job, finally listens to his ex-wife who, mysteriously, knows that the cure to what ails him it to drive a food truck around the Southeast and make Cubanos (sandwiches) (she is of Cuban descent) and sell them to hoards of people. This is a fine plot, but the main character evinces absolutely zero development or motive to change or any kind of likeability. He just seems to be an average guy upon whom luck and lovely women regularly rain down.<br />
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If the protagonist were a woman, would I be complaining? I don't know. And as I write this critique, something inside of me twists away from it. As my late mother-in-law Mary Duffy used to say to her kids when they'd complain about dinner, "It's better than the dinner you made." I have never written or starred in a film. Could I really do better than Jon Favreau? I think I am going to end with this: I am glad I went to that movie. The images and music will stick with me. And I loved the kid.<br />
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An equinox is the time of year when life should pause, just for a moment, balancing like the proverbial egg on its end, as we say goodbye to summer and greet the autumn. We should all be gazing out the window at the last of the tomatoes, at the strange appearance of some random tulip tree blossoms (see above), or at the n ext super moon. Instead, most of us just keep zooming along. I am no different. But I am trying, as I sit here surrounded by other writers, to just be. To breathe. To give thanks. To feel the grief of the inevitable loss. Losses. Writing affords us that, if we stay in the moment, with our characters, waiting for them to tell us what to put down on the page. Dogs help, since they are nothing but present. Tonight I am going to pull out my guitar and sing our Big Yellow songs (there's a playlist on Spotify in my account, or whatever you call it.) We'll follow the lyrics on paper, or through the good old oral tradition, and only look them up if we are really desperate on our iPhones. The leaves are still here. For one more night, it's still summer.Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-53837044141177666112014-08-30T14:19:00.001-04:002014-08-30T14:19:21.046-04:00We Got a DogAt Falcon Ridge, my kids busked with their little violins, and filled their fiddle cases with dollars and quarters. At one point, their cousin shouted "Donations!" to the passers-by. Horrified, Tom gathered the kids and told them they had to pick a charity to give the money to, and that charity could not (only) be their Nutella Crepe fund. So they chose the <a href="http://www.dpvhs.org/">Dakin Animal Shelter</a>. <br />
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The money has been sitting in a brown paper bag for the past four weeks. "What are we going to do with this?" I said to Tom. "It's $18 in cash and coins!"<br />
"Take it to Dakin, of course," he said.<br />
"No way," I said. "If I go to Dakin, I am coming back with a dog."<br />
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Elle has been militating for a dog for about three years. She wears dog socks. She reads only books about dogs. She stops to pat any dog she sees. She cries herself to sleep at night because the day of the dog has not yet arrived in our house. She has pledged what every dog-loving child pledges: when we get the dog, she will walk it and feed it and bathe it and save all her pennies for the vet bills. Her last birthday was a dog-themed party. Her friends all gave her birthday cards with pictures of dogs on them. When she grabs my iPhone, it's not to play video games, but to look up her favorite breeds' puppy pictures. <br />
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Last Thursday, the last possible day for me to do anything, I took the brown paper bag and the kids to Dakin in Leverett. I prayed hard. Let them all be ugly. And barky. And smelly. I prayed to be stopped from getting a dog; unless, of course, we were supposed to get a dog.<br />
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We gave them our brown paper bag, and they let us see the dogs. The first dog we saw was a tiny dainty Husky-like critter, like what would happen if you mixed a basenji with a chihuahua and painted it with husky colors. Three years old, a dixie dog from Texas, total beta dog, non-barking or jumping, sweet and cuddly. Eighteen pounds. Delicate and graceful as a greyhound. And I was done.<br />
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Or at least, I spilled the beans, showed my hand, or whatever you want to say. I let the kids know I was smitten, and they dug in with all twenty nails. We walked her, we played with her, she never barked (except at the guinea pigs), and we put a deposit down on her and went home to tell Tom he needed to stop us.<br />
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But Tom came back with us and said, "We could never handle a puppy. This dog even Jay can handle. It's inevitable. Let's do it."<br />
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I proceeded to not sleep that night. What if this wasn't MY dog? What about all the other dogs I want to get? The ruby King Charles Cavalier puppy my aunt's dog might whelp next spring? The Aussie pup I've always dreamed of? The big soft Bernese Mountain dog I want to snuggle up next to on a cold winter night? When your dream comes true, you're out one dream. Now I don't get to fantasize about my dog. I will have my dog. Plus, what if Jay is allergic to her? What if she eats the guinea pigs? What if she isn't housebroken? What if she continues to smell (because she did smell. This is because she has not been bathed in anyone's memory.) And if I had doubts, did that mean I should not go forward? Was this like choosing a husband? Would the doubts form a cold wet coating in the pit of my stomach, and remain there for years? Plus there was the cost.<br />
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Also, I got hung up on this other dog that Dakin had. A fluffy-haired one-year-old with giant brown eyes and soft shepherd fur. A dog with a retriever muzzle, a dog who looked like all the dogs I've ever had. But my kids were not interested in this dog. They wanted Stella, the miniature husky.<br />
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So we put Stella in the van. As we drove, she came up between the two front seats and put her paws on the console and panted in that nervous ways dogs pant when they are in the car. And I don't know why, but suddenly she was my dog. My doubts went away. We went to Dave's and bought hundreds of dollars worth of dog stuff, including a great shampoo. We brought her home and romped around with her. We let her sniff around our park, and I explained to the kids that dogs sniffing in the park is as pleasurable to them as Facebook is to us. It's how they get the local news. We gave her a bath, which she tolerated. After, I put my arms around my sweet smelling pooch and proceeded to sneeze. She crawled into my lap.<br />
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Elle slept in the kitchen on the floor next to Stella's crate. When we went to bed, we looked down at our daughter's face, totally peaceful, one hand curled under the gate of the crate, the dog's sharp little nose pointed at her fingers. <br />
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This may not be MY dog. But this is my kids' dog. And I will do anything to support them getting to have this dog.<br />
<br />
Fingers crossed that we are not allergic.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-osTdT9BF_9s/VAITjgO3ZBI/AAAAAAAADQ4/f5m2l_mHKEU/s1600/IMG_6906.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-osTdT9BF_9s/VAITjgO3ZBI/AAAAAAAADQ4/f5m2l_mHKEU/s400/IMG_6906.jpg" /></a></div>Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-71941151330945628052014-08-30T13:22:00.000-04:002014-08-30T13:22:53.553-04:00The Snag of Not Forever<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SKLH7sB3CC8/VAIIYN1xUVI/AAAAAAAADQo/VxjFfF3uxGc/s1600/IMG_6672.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SKLH7sB3CC8/VAIIYN1xUVI/AAAAAAAADQo/VxjFfF3uxGc/s320/IMG_6672.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
It’s the last day in the studio, at least until September. Truthfully, we are almost done. I have to do vocals on the choruses of “Dave Hayes,” the chorus of “Witness,” the choruses of “You Don’t Have that Kind of Time” and backgrounds on “Normandies,” plus a few other tiny things. Katryna is completely done. Kit is going to take the project back home with him to Virginia where he and his studio partner Chip Johnson will add some more gorgeousness. Then Kit will return in September and we’ll see what else we all want and need—for surely much will come to the surface as we listen through to all the tracks over the next two weeks.<br />
<br />
The album is beyond—far beyond—what I thought it could be. I had liked the songs, coming in, but what they’ve grown into is …well, words fail. I probably say this every time (though I didn’t say it about Full Catastrophe), but this is my favorite record ever. <br />
<br />
Making it has been interesting. In the past 10 years, we’ve mostly taken our time with our CD-making. We had that luxury, since Dave Chalfant was our producer, and it was his studio, and we had no label clamoring for a next release. But after Catastrophe (that sounds so ominous!), we learned our lesson. We need a deadline! Plus, we need to make a living, and suspending our lives while we focused on one CD seemed wiser than prolonging it all indefinitely. In short, we could only afford to take a month off. And we have families who want vacations: these dictated the beginning (when Katryna and her family got back from theirs) as well as the end (when my family wants to go on ours) of the recording window. <br />
<br />
Here are the tracks on the new CD, plus some bonus material for a little Kickstarter premium:<br />
Princess<br />
Wasn’t That a Time<br />
Love Love Love<br />
Normandies<br />
As Big as I Am<br />
I Put My Treasure in the Rock<br />
Victory (Turn it Around)<br />
Delilah<br />
Witness<br />
You Don’t Have that Kind of Time<br />
Dave Hayes the Weather Guy<br />
Joe Hill<br />
River<br />
Bonus tracks:<br />
I’m Pretty Sure That My iPhone Is Making Me Sick<br />
Acoustic Joe Hill<br />
Lonesome Valley<br />
Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream<br />
<br />
Earlier this week, the world learned that Robin Williams had hanged himself. For some reason, this hit me very hard. Perhaps because he was in recovery. Perhaps because he came on the scene when I was a certain age (eleven), and was old enough to be struck by his unusual talent and brilliance, and the right age for his first hit, “Mork and Mindy.” <br />
What must it have been like for him to be catapulted to superstardom at the age of 27? Intoxicating, surely. And for a bi-polar self-proclaimed alcoholic, this high must have always felt wobbly. Or maybe not. I have no idea what happened, why he would kill himself, but I do know that the worst pain I ever suffered was when I harmed myself and others, doing things without my permission. Rumors get piped in through every channel: Parkinson’s, relapse, mental illness. We will all take this story and project our own experience onto it. I think that’s part of the reason so many are fascinated by celebrity dramas. For me, it brings up a theme I’ve been struggling with of late.<br />
<br />
What happens when you get to a point in your life when you see the big view? I am not arrogant enough to think I see the whole view—but I am at midlife. The top of the “Hill,” over which I will (arguably) soon be. We get to this place where we see how far we’ve come—look! Our kids are getting more independent! Look! The paint on the house is peeling. Look! Our marriage is settling into deeply rutted routines. Look! The audiences are dwindling. Pretty soon….fill in the blank. The kids won’t need us. The house will need a paint job we can’t afford. We’ll be taking each other for granted. The performing career will be over. It’s the snag; the hook of nothing lasts forever. <br />
<br />
This summer is the summer of Whoa. Not yet.<br />
<br />
Playing at Falcon Ridge on the main stage with a full band was a sharp reminder that there is still plenty of juice in the old girl, or girls as the case may be. We still rock. This new CD is proof of that. I thought the worst thing that could ever happen would be that Dave Chalfant would stop producing us. I thought no one could get our ideas into digital grooves the way he could. I thought his departure from the engineering throne would be our demise. It turns out what we really needed was fresh ears, new hands, an objective view of our 23 year career. <br />
<br />
This morning my almost 6 year old climbed into bed with us. He still does this, fairly regularly, and when I am not living in my head, I notice that I actually still have two cuddly little kids; they are not yet teenagers, and they still need me, play with my hair, snuggle in my lap. I am still alive. <br />
Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-39854597243276248442014-08-07T13:30:00.000-04:002014-08-07T15:00:11.641-04:00Falcon Ridge 2014 Highlights<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C5LaACQZlJw/U-Ozh3BsNXI/AAAAAAAADNM/7kpvU023sn8/s1600/FRFF_mainstage_2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C5LaACQZlJw/U-Ozh3BsNXI/AAAAAAAADNM/7kpvU023sn8/s400/FRFF_mainstage_2014.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The weather. No rain! This is the first time in my memory that that's been the case. Usually it's a mud bath.<br />
<br />
Amelia playing with us on the main stage. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YW0DLLULcWk/U-O0n203HII/AAAAAAAADNc/nYbMwd085UE/s1600/DSC_0548.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YW0DLLULcWk/U-O0n203HII/AAAAAAAADNc/nYbMwd085UE/s320/DSC_0548.JPG" /></a></div>Kit Karlson, our producer, playing bass and accordion on the main stage.<br />
<br />
Sturgis Cunningham playing with us on the main stage.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IbKZq2gGZRI/U-O00qSAjeI/AAAAAAAADNk/W31oEIw92qo/s1600/DSC_0510+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IbKZq2gGZRI/U-O00qSAjeI/AAAAAAAADNk/W31oEIw92qo/s640/DSC_0510+(1).JPG" /></a></div>Longtime Nields fans really getting "Wasn't That a Time." Not to mention, playing that song for the first time ever in front of an audience and not crying through it. Singing that song to those people felt like a pure communication.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zmGPB7TPuNk/U-O2-sZX2EI/AAAAAAAADOA/OI_UqwriKcM/s1600/DSC_0591.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zmGPB7TPuNk/U-O2-sZX2EI/AAAAAAAADOA/OI_UqwriKcM/s400/DSC_0591.JPG" /></a></div><br />
My aunt Elizabeth surprising us. She has never come to Falcon Ridge before. Oddly, my father and I had just been talking about how she wonderfully surprises us all the time by showing up unexpectedly. <br />
<br />
Seeing Cheryl Wheeler, Christine Lavin, Don White and Tom Paxton at lunch.<br />
<br />
The Pete Seeger workshop on the workshop stage. Here's what was sung:<br />
<br />
Annie Wentz: Guantantamera<br />
Tom Paxton: Ramblin' Boy<br />
Ann Armstrong & Stephen Hughes: Lonesome Valley<br />
Joe Jenks: original song for Pete, based on his HUAC testimony. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ElZr0pNu5Ow">SO COOL</a>!<br />
Louise Mosrie: Down by the Riverside<br />
Magpie: Letters to Eve<br />
Radoslav: Viva la Quince Brigada<br />
John Gorka: The Water is Wide<br />
Us Nields: Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream (I played piano for the first time ever at FR!)<br />
Kim and Reggie: original song for Pete "High Over the Hudson"<br />
SINGALONG PORTION:<br />
Where have all the flowers gone<br />
This Land<br />
We Shall Overcome<br />
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Going out to dinner with my whole family, including Aunt Sarah, Aunt Elizabeth, her boyfriend Marcus, his son Jason and grandson Max. Seeing my parents. Spending the night with them and my mom's lifetime best friend, Joan Wallstein, who is my kids' adopted grandmother.Getting to go for a run with my wonderful dad. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C0LZvwMJjBo/U-O1WqTgbYI/AAAAAAAADNs/mgBVwLwHCXU/s1600/DSC_0636.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-C0LZvwMJjBo/U-O1WqTgbYI/AAAAAAAADNs/mgBVwLwHCXU/s400/DSC_0636.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Amelia joining us on the family stage to sing her awesome "Speak Up." Elle joined in on violin. Elle and Jay made about $50 busking, and they spent all of it on nutella crepes. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kt252zSahEo/U-O3Qf-fe8I/AAAAAAAADOI/yVTSjU9AECQ/s1600/DSC_0598.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kt252zSahEo/U-O3Qf-fe8I/AAAAAAAADOI/yVTSjU9AECQ/s320/DSC_0598.JPG" /></a></div><br />
My mother racing up to the stage at the end of "Going to the Zoo" when we couldn't wake up Katryna, and the only thing that could rouse her was the promise that her Mama would take her to the zoo tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KpKldH3-0CI/U-O5HW1If2I/AAAAAAAADOs/FmmO5_bxgOc/s1600/IMG_6635.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KpKldH3-0CI/U-O5HW1If2I/AAAAAAAADOs/FmmO5_bxgOc/s640/IMG_6635.JPG" /></a></div>The last workshop at FR where we played "Which Side are you On", "Irene Goodnight" and a finale with The Grand Slambovians playing "You Can't Always Get What You Want."<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Thr0sxXe6MQ/U-O3d_203SI/AAAAAAAADOQ/gGesmFXGRlo/s1600/DSC_0741.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Thr0sxXe6MQ/U-O3d_203SI/AAAAAAAADOQ/gGesmFXGRlo/s200/DSC_0741.jpg" /></a></div>Me channelling inner Janis.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S17MmzQgkHM/U-O4PB6nd_I/AAAAAAAADOg/fNuCgU3iZ3A/s1600/IMG_6640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S17MmzQgkHM/U-O4PB6nd_I/AAAAAAAADOg/fNuCgU3iZ3A/s320/IMG_6640.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Seeing the Duhks, an amazing band we met at Winnipeg in 2007. I love them!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DkKatUp8Kj0/U-O2QSNu4ZI/AAAAAAAADN4/SMJS3Ny_nuU/s1600/Never+Turning+Back.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DkKatUp8Kj0/U-O2QSNu4ZI/AAAAAAAADN4/SMJS3Ny_nuU/s400/Never+Turning+Back.jpg" /></a></div>Holding Jay in my arms for "Never Turning Back," possibly for the last time. (The above photo is right before he climbed into my arms. Here it is with him. Thanks, Rhiannon!)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Oh_ArrFebcE/U-PMP_ib5qI/AAAAAAAADO8/Wc1a2g8nEI8/s1600/Never+turning+back+with+Johnny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Oh_ArrFebcE/U-PMP_ib5qI/AAAAAAAADO8/Wc1a2g8nEI8/s400/Never+turning+back+with+Johnny.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Now. Back to work in the studio!Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-24318110500512056082014-07-29T21:10:00.003-04:002014-07-29T21:10:47.925-04:00Tracking PrincessKit arrived yesterday, and he and Katryna and I got straight to work, running through all the songs, and refining some vocal arrangements. Kit's first instrument is the piano, and it was a joy hearing him play "Normandies" and "As Big As I Am." Also, we are organizing the Pete Seeger workshop at Falcon Ridge, so we spent part of the day emailing with the other participants. And we finished our newsletter. Today Sturgis and Chip arrived, and we spent the morning getting drum sounds. Kay is coming to take some footage, and bring us tea, help xerox the songbook for the musicians<br />
<br />
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From left to right: Dave Chalfant, Sturgis Cunningham (drummer), Kit Karlson (producer), Chip Johnson (genius boy). <br />
<br />
It's 2:49, and I think we've wrapped up Princess. Yahoo!! Also, to my great surprise, Kit chose my Martin over my 1993 Taylor and Dave's excellent Guild, which I used for both <a href="http://www.nields.com/store-content/sister-holler/">Sister Holler</a> and <a href="http://www.nields.com/store-content/the-full-catastrophe/">The Full Catastrophe</a>.<br />
<br />
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We took about an hour and a half and maybe 7 takes to nail I Put My Treasure in the Rock. Chip and Sturgis are GENIUSES!!! I love playing with them. It reminds me of playing tennis when I was a kid. I am as happy as I have ever been.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-64183823129980433212014-07-24T11:12:00.000-04:002014-07-24T11:12:02.067-04:00Pre-Production Week<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AdzEKMPsgv0/U9Ebl4u0a5I/AAAAAAAADKg/Pi292PGBSzo/s1600/N&Kprepro1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AdzEKMPsgv0/U9Ebl4u0a5I/AAAAAAAADKg/Pi292PGBSzo/s320/N&Kprepro1.JPG" /></a></div><br />
Things I love about what's happened so far:<br />
<br />
Monday, we met with Michele Marotta, awesome fundraiser for <a href="http://www.cancer-connection.org/">The Cancer Connection</a>, to brainstorm about ways to raise money to pay for this album. More to come on this. But I feel we now have some great ideas, and I don't feel totally sick to my stomach about asking for money.<br />
-We arranged "Love Love Love" at my house. We both started out in bad moods, and the ease with which we got the arrangement cheered us both up.<br />
<br />
Tuesday. I drove up to Sackamusic, and we arranged "Wasn't That a Time," "As Big As I Am," and started on "Victory (Turn It Around)". Also, we talked about our Falcon Ridge set. Kit Karlson, our producer, is playing bass on the songs Amelia isn't playing. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5Qm1mbjVZbA/U9Eh65kRszI/AAAAAAAADK4/kicy4xJsAvw/s1600/FR-rehearse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5Qm1mbjVZbA/U9Eh65kRszI/AAAAAAAADK4/kicy4xJsAvw/s400/FR-rehearse.jpg" /></a></div><br />
We came back to my house, where our intern Kay was updating our mailing list and entering our shows into Artist Data. She rocks! Here she is:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s0N9ilZkMmc/U9EbPlAmjyI/AAAAAAAADKY/8vNpF9yW74Y/s1600/Kay.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s0N9ilZkMmc/U9EbPlAmjyI/AAAAAAAADKY/8vNpF9yW74Y/s320/Kay.JPG" /></a></div><br />
And here is a poem she wrote at my retreat:<br />
<blockquote>On Being a Millennial:<br />
What gets me <br />
What really gets me<br />
Is that in my years of<br />
Emotional pampering, of<br />
Participational trophies,<br />
Dozens of selfies<br />
Of being told I can be anything<br />
Now people can make a living telling me <br />
How I'm ugly on the inside<br />
-Kay Carambia</blockquote><br />
Wednesday. Back to Sackamusic. It's 90 degrees, and the guys are working on the roof. We figured out our Falcon Ridge set, after much musing on the requests we got on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/TheNields?focus_composer=true&ref_type=bookmark">Facebook</a>. We worked up "Joe Hill," "You Don't Have that Kind of Time," "Dave Hayes the Weather Guy," and had Dave come in to coach us on "Witness," "Wasn't That a Time," "Love3" and "Delilah." All we have left now is "Normandies" and "Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream." Dave wants me to Travis pick "Delilah!" Whoa! I haven't Travis picked on a song since <a href="http://www.allmusic.com/album/sister-holler-mw0000811945">Sister Holler</a>. So now I am going out to watch the thunderstorm and practice my Travis picking.<br />
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Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-36929334853420386192014-07-22T17:02:00.001-04:002014-07-22T17:05:42.237-04:00Writing It Up in the Garden Summer Camp<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2d0tZgjtHus/U87Qc8CvFdI/AAAAAAAADKI/b5_1YlLz_Xs/s1600/IMG_6463.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2d0tZgjtHus/U87Qc8CvFdI/AAAAAAAADKI/b5_1YlLz_Xs/s320/IMG_6463.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Words can't really begin to express how much I loved the <a href="http://nerissanields.com/garden-retreats.html">Writing It Up in the Garden Summer Camp</a> experience. I am homesick for it already, even though I am still in the same home the retreatants gathered in. It was so much fun to gather daily, to keep my house clean (with the help of Liz Bedell and my wonderful new intern Kailey Carambia), to try out fresh summer recipes, to walk the labyrinth in the morning, to take a vigorous post-lunch power walk with the other writers in the park across the street, to hear the new work, to immerse myself in my own writing. I can't wait for next summer.<br />
Here is something offered by poet KC Ryan on the last afternoon we were together. I wish you could have seen her as she performed this for us, approaching each of her compadres with a verse, like a gift. Thank you, KC!<br />
<br />
A Hip-Hop Poem from an Unlikely Source<br />
Ann:<br />
crack the day open<br />
writing up some hope when<br />
curled up spirit<br />
needs the Feast you're offerin'<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
<br />
Beth:<br />
writing up Sweeney<br />
tortured though he may be<br />
thoughtful chronicle<br />
offers back his dignity<br />
<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
Janell:<br />
writing dissertation<br />
too much information!<br />
glad you shared Morocco<br />
we'll await your publication<br />
<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
Jen:<br />
two on Death's row<br />
write him in her bed, yo!<br />
wanna hear the rest of<br />
how they're gonna let go<br />
<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
Jennie:<br />
break up, break down<br />
draggin' wounded Heart around<br />
writing up the pain helps<br />
point the way to solid ground<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
<br />
Laurel:<br />
takin’ on Cancer!<br />
questioning the “answers”<br />
writing bittersweet show<br />
free to take the chance here<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
<br />
Liz:<br />
unmoored un-poem<br />
searching for your True Home<br />
brought it to The Garden<br />
anchored by the writers’ bond<br />
<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
<br />
Nerissa:<br />
singer’s voice, writer’s voice<br />
supporting us in this choice<br />
gentle shove to “Write It Up!”<br />
and a Place to rejoice<br />
<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
<br />
Robin:<br />
you were only fifteen<br />
had to run away from Mean<br />
writing wit and wisdom<br />
a glimpse into the L.A. scene<br />
<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
<br />
Sarah:<br />
gotta get it just right<br />
might crash, might fly!<br />
wrote it up and took us with<br />
two as one, finding Sky<br />
<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
<br />
Sierra:<br />
princess, warrior!<br />
wrote so that we Saw ya<br />
saved your own pierced heart<br />
brighter future lies before ya<br />
<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
<br />
KC:<br />
feelin’ terror walkin’ toward ya<br />
what if my writing bored ya?<br />
hid behind a pseudonym –<br />
my real name’s Victorya!<br />
<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
Write It Up In The Garden!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vfj-vTbsbsw/U87QG6pytyI/AAAAAAAADJo/nFfy0RhUqKg/s1600/IMG_6457.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vfj-vTbsbsw/U87QG6pytyI/AAAAAAAADJo/nFfy0RhUqKg/s320/IMG_6457.jpg" /></a><br />
written July 10 & 11, 2014<br />
in celebration of an indescribably delicious week of Writing It Up In The Garden<br />
by KC Ryan a/k/a Victorya McEvoy<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GdaB6Qvqo-s/U87QQsJItKI/AAAAAAAADJ4/_Qm1sVsT-9o/s1600/IMG_6462.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GdaB6Qvqo-s/U87QQsJItKI/AAAAAAAADJ4/_Qm1sVsT-9o/s320/IMG_6462.jpg" /></a><br />
Writing on the porch!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lesStlTmj-g/U87QXp-z5aI/AAAAAAAADKA/DL6TCuCyAds/s1600/IMG_6469.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lesStlTmj-g/U87QXp-z5aI/AAAAAAAADKA/DL6TCuCyAds/s320/IMG_6469.jpg" /></a><br />
This is me with two of my oldest friends, Liz Bedell and Jennie DeGarmo Wilhelm, both of whom attended and wrote beautifully. So grateful for friends, especially those who have seen us through thick and thin.<br />
<br />
Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-29724422580587170212014-07-20T16:54:00.002-04:002014-07-20T16:57:01.300-04:00Weeds and Wheat and Suzuki Camp<i>My sermon today at West Cummington Church</i><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mji6i7DoKm0/U8wqZc2WCDI/AAAAAAAADJI/-EF1gq86T2c/s1600/IMG_6477.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mji6i7DoKm0/U8wqZc2WCDI/AAAAAAAADJI/-EF1gq86T2c/s320/IMG_6477.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Elle and Jay and I spent the week at Suzuki Camp, lugging our violins, soccer ball and a gigantic cooler full of snacks into the air-conditioned sanctuary of Easthampton High School. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shinichi_Suzuki_(violinist)">Shinichi Suzuki’s</a> breakthrough was the realization that music is a language, and like any language acquisition, can best be learned from a very early age. As we learn to talk before we learn to read, so young musicians can learn to make music well before they learn how to read music; hence the stereotype of Suzuki kids playing Bach before they enter kindergarten. But Suzuki’s most appealing legacy is his insistence that music creates a beautiful heart, and that “tone is the living soul.” We parents support the kids in their practice primarily by ensuring that they create a space for these qualities. And we teach the children—or more accurately, they teach us—that music is the most direct and clear language of feelings there is. Children from every country in the world can gather together and play "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" or "O Come Little Children" and perfectly understand each other. We can play with joy, with sorrow, with anger, with humor, and (more often) with a mix that cannot be named by words.<br />
<br />
It’s been my experience of reading the gospels that Jesus’s parables operate in a similar post-verbal way, that the language of the parables, as with Zen koans, is designed to override our logical brains and hit us in the same emotional solar plexus that music hits us in. As Steve said a few weeks ago, Jesus was a shock jock. The stories he tells are intended to jolt us out of our regular patterns and think in a new way, away from dualism good/bad, black/white, to seeing things in a third way, having to do with inner experience rather than a set of rules and regulations. Like all his “Kingdom of Heaven” passages, we need to start with the present moment. And that means we need to include the body.<br />
But what happens when we’ve heard a passage so many times that it just seems like wallpaper? What if we think we know what it’s about? Love your neighbor as yourself. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just as with music, some great song might lose its appeal when played 24/7 on the radio station (or Pandora, or Spotify, or every single day in Suzuki practice.)<br />
<br />
Last week, Steve read us <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew+13">Jesus’s parable</a> of the sower who sowed his seed in four different places: rocky ground where it could not take, shallow soil where it started to grow but couldn’t make it through the periods of hot sun, among the weeds and brambles where it was choked, and finally in the good soil, where it grew and yielded a hundredfold. When the disciples ask why he speaks in parables, Jesus quotes Isaiah, saying <br />
“Though seeing, they do not see;<br />
though hearing, they do not hear or understand.<br />
<br />
And then he emphasizes that if they <i>can</i> hear, see and understand, they can be healed.<br />
<br />
So, when I first heard this passage, at age 14 years old, playing Judas Iscariot in a production of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Godspell">Godspell</a> (Godspell is basically the gospel of Matthew, with a lot of 70s music and dance numbers,) I was filled with remorse. I was the seed on the rock! I was the seed in the shallow soil! I was the seed who got strangled by the weeds! It never occurred to me that I was also the seed that fell into good soil. And it never occurred to me that––as Steve said last week––Jesus would often respond as an observer rather than an authority figure. So that when Jesus says “Those who have ears hear. Those who have nothing will have less. Those with an abundance will have more,” he was not endorsing this; just articulating a truth. <br />
<br />
I want to approach this weed and wheat parable through a similar lens. I think a lot of us come to these parables with the attitude of, “OK, I am going to figure this out. I am going to listen and get it right! I am going to be good soil, damn it! I am going to pull out all the weeds. I will be vigilant.” And so we meditate, we pray, we do good deeds, we cook meals for friends in the hospital, we practice our listening skills, we compost, we use organic fertilizers, we drive Priuses. And then our friend gets cancer. Our partner leaves us. We get bitten by a tick and our brains don’t work any more. We lose a child. We lose our faith. Our soil turns rocky, or scorched or weedy. Why? Is it our fault?<br />
<br />
No way. We are powerless over all these things. I know this when I witness other people in their tragedies, but when the seed falls in the wrong places in me, I still think “It’s my fault. I should have had softer, deeper, weed-free soil." But <i>I am the soil</i>. God made this soil! I cannot weed myself! The conditions aren’t always up to me. <br />
<br />
I know and work with a lot of addicts, in recovery as well as addicts who are out there, dying, making their loved ones miserable, and these parables remind me how hard we are on our addicts. We try to control them, rope them in, force them to listen. If only you would listen! If only you would be like that recovered person over there, who followed directions. Just Said No! We put chains on their feet, we do urine tests, we make the conditions of their freedom so narrow in the hopes that we can keep the weeds out. Because our hearts break every time they use, and we think the solution is ever more control. But this last parable, the wheat and the weeds, gives the lie to this. We’re not the ones who get to rip the weeds out. That’s God’s work, and much of the time, it doesn’t get to happen in this lifetime. Those parts of ourselves that are weedy are often so entwined with the parts of ourselves that are big, wonderful, heartful, hilarious, loving people that we would destroy ourselves if we were able to uproot our weeds. And sometimes those aspects of ourselves that we find weedy are really useful to other people. I have a friend who is extremely organized, and she always sees the way to get the task done. Alongside of that gift, she can be kind of bossy and controlling––a trait she sees in herself and hates. She wants so much to be serene and mellow. But when she’s serene and mellow, nothing gets done. We all like it much better when she’s bossy and controlling, even though it makes her unhappy. <br />
<br />
It’s also dangerous to try to do the weeding for someone else. How do you really know that weed isn’t wheat in disguise? (The word in the Bible is “darnel” which is a kind of weed that closely resembles wheat, by the way.) In another case of “Everything Nerissa Knows She Learned from The Beatles,” I’d like to point out that John Lennon’s aunt Mimi hated John’s guitar so much that when he finally got rich and famous, he made her a plaque that read, “The guitar’s all right, John, but you’ll never make your living with it.” Now, what if she’d succeeded in weeding out his bad guitar habit?<br />
<br />
We’re all this way; a glorious mixture of weeds and wheat. If I weren’t so spaced out and unfocused, I’d never write songs, let alone get up and sing and play guitar. If Bill Clinton weren’t such a womanizing swine, he probably never would have gotten elected. If my kids weren’t so opinionated and obstinate, they would not be the strong, healthy, passionate people they are growing to be. And if Suzuki practice weren’t hard, boring, repetitive, frought with discord, my kids wouldn’t be able to stand up with fifty other kids and play “O Come Little Children,” let alone the Bach Bourrée.<br />
<br />
In the <a href="http://www.rajanaka.com/">Tantric</a> tradition, there is a story about a demon named Rakta bija, whose name means Blood Seed. He is really bad. But every time one of the gods tries to chop his head off, every drop of his blood creates a new Raktabija—kind of like a dandelion. Pretty soon, the world is overrun with Raktabiji—terrifying demons! Finally, the gods call Kali, who is the most fearsome goddess of all. She wears a necklace of skulls and has big vampire teeth, and she comes into town riding on the back of a lioness. She lifts her sword and chops Raktabija’s head off—and then she sticks out her enormously long tongue and drinks up all the blood drops before they can hit the ground. <br />
It is in turning toward our demons, our weeds, our addictions, our most shameful places, taking them in to our core selves, that we begin to heal. Remember, Jesus was all about healing, getting us to see with our eyes, hear with our ears, understand with our hearts––oh, yeah! It’s a body thing!––so he might heal us. We can’t heal the body without the body. And we can’t just cut off the offending body part. <br />
<br />
So what about the fiery furnace? Is this hell? Is this damnation? Again, in the yogic tradition that I study, fire—agni—is an internal feature (often having implications of digestion). When we take our weeds and wheat in at harvest time—when we get to that place where we can look back at our experience with our seeing eyes and hearing ears and understanding hearts, with honesty and compassion—and I’d add, when the conditions are right (bonfire season=wet, not when we’re in California in forest fire season) we really can burn up the weeds and feast on the wheat. When we look back on our lives this way, everything gets used. We make amends for the harms done. We learn from our mistakes. Yes, we all want to be light and bright, positive and happy all the time. It doesn’t work that way, at least it doesn’t for me. My work is not to reject myself when I’m less than light and bright, but to take those parts in, with love and compassion, learn from them, digest them, use them as compost, and then use what I’ve learned to heal others, if I have experienced some healing.<br />
<br />
And boy, do I need healing. I have to say, this passage speaks directly to me as a Suzuki mom, where my role is to go with the kids to their lessons and group classes and play ins, and most significantly, be their practice coach every single day while they practice the long list of tasks their teacher gives them. This means I am sitting for an hour and half a day with my two kids, asking them to do what is occasionally boring, repetitive work, certainly as boring as weeding a garden. <i>Play "Twinkle" again. Ok, now with your pinky like this. That was great! Now do it with a tall head.</i> The practice goes well when I can be playful and creative. <i>Pinky! Jay is working so hard! Help him out here! </i>Sometimes they come to practice with joy and enthusiasm and we laugh and I dance the minuet like Martha Washington, or Elle just plays something so well the hairs on my arms raise up, or Jay suddenly gets that he can play “Long Long Ago" as if he’s Idina Menzel from the <i>Frozen</i> soundtrack. And sometimes all of us cry in frustration, someone throws their bow on the floor, Elle stomps out of the room, Jay falls into his wet noodle position, <i>I </i>storm out of the room and resolve to quit this idiotic practice that will certainly, definitely kill their love for music.<br />
<br />
But I hear over and over an over again, from grown up musicians, “I am so glad my parents made me practice.” Or “I wish my parents had made me practice.” There are some musicians who are completely internally motivated, but just as many are not, or are not so at first. I have no real faith, most days, that what I am doing with and for my kids is the ultimate best. I don’t know if they’re going to go in to psychotherapy when they’re adults to deal with their PTSD from having to play Bach Minuets till their heads exploded. That will have to be dealt with at harvest time, whenever that is. <br />
<br />
Whenever that is. It might come sooner, it might come later. I started the week resolved to quit because Jay was so impossible and said he hated violin. The week ended with Jay declaring Suzuki Camp an “infinity” on a scale of 1-10, and telling me he wanted to play every piece through Book 8 (he’s on Book One.) Elle said she wished Suzuki Camp went for four weeks instead of one. And I got to see that the biggest problems with our practice had to do with me and my insistence that we do things the “right” way. I think my job is to help them weed out their bad alignment and wrong notes, when it’s really just to create the space for them to explore what their teacher has given them. <br />
<br />
And The Kingdom of Heaven is here and now. It’s not “when the kids get into Harvard on a music scholarship.” It’s certainly not “when the kids play the Bach Double.” As Jesus says at the beginning of our text, "<i>This</i> is what the Kingdom of Heaven is like: weeds mixed with wheat. We sort them out later.” It’s this moment: Elle concentrating so hard on her orchestra part. Learning how to deliver a punch line she learned from a joke told to her by two older kids. Jay running in his soccer cleats down the long corridors of Easthampton High School because he’s figured out his schedule and knows where to go to get to his next class. Elle handing out notes of appreciation to her friends, saying good job on your piece at the recital. Jay handing out flowers to his teachers, and kissing his fiddle goodnight. This, to me, is our weedy, wonderful Kingdom of Heaven.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wGrgNZ4X204/U8wqHHRCJRI/AAAAAAAADJA/qfjEcml1Y4g/s1600/IMG_6537.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wGrgNZ4X204/U8wqHHRCJRI/AAAAAAAADJA/qfjEcml1Y4g/s320/IMG_6537.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
Texts:<br />
Matthew 13:12 “Because the knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of heaven has been given to you, but not to them. 12 Whoever has will be given more, and they will have an abundance. Whoever does not have, even what they have will be taken from them. 13 This is why I speak to them in parables:<br />
“Though seeing, they do not see;<br />
though hearing, they do not hear or understand.<br />
14 In them is fulfilled the prophecy of Isaiah:<br />
<br />
“‘You will be ever hearing but never understanding;<br />
you will be ever seeing but never perceiving.<br />
15 For this people’s heart has become calloused;<br />
they hardly hear with their ears,<br />
and they have closed their eyes.<br />
Otherwise they might see with their eyes,<br />
hear with their ears,<br />
understand with their hearts<br />
and turn, and I would heal them.’[a]<br />
<br />
Matt 13: 24 Jesus told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seed in his field. 25 But while everyone was sleeping, his enemy came and sowed weeds among the wheat, and went away. 26 When the wheat sprouted and formed heads, then the weeds also appeared.<br />
27 “The owner’s servants came to him and said, ‘Sir, didn’t you sow good seed in your field? Where then did the weeds come from?’<br />
28 “‘An enemy did this,’ he replied.<br />
“The servants asked him, ‘Do you want us to go and pull them up?’<br />
29 “‘No,’ he answered, ‘because while you are pulling the weeds, you may uproot the wheat with them. 30 Let both grow together until the harvest. At that time I will tell the harvesters: First collect the weeds and tie them in bundles to be burned; then gather the wheat and bring it into my barn.’”<br />
******<br />
40 “As the weeds are pulled up and burned in the fiery furnace, so it will be at the end of the age.41 <br />
*******<br />
Mulla Nasrudin decided to start a flower garden. He prepared the soil and planted the seeds of many beautiful flowers. But when they came up, his garden was filled not just with his chosen flowers but was also overrun by dandelions.<br />
He sought advice from gardeners all over and tried every method known to get rid of them but to no avail. Finally, he walked all the way to the capital to speak to the royal gardener at the sheik’s palace. The wise old man had counseled many gardeners before and suggested a variety of remedies to expel the dandelions but Mulla had tried them all.<br />
They sat together in silence for some time and finally the gardener looked over at Nasrudin and said slowly, “Well, then I suggest you learn to love them… I suggest you learn to love them.”<br />
Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-57676174379489008102014-07-10T11:04:00.000-04:002014-07-10T11:04:35.264-04:00Summer Writing Retreat Day 4<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--d6FRxKN6nM/U76rNgwSQ0I/AAAAAAAADII/jl1pZjD5l_Q/s1600/IMG_6480.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--d6FRxKN6nM/U76rNgwSQ0I/AAAAAAAADII/jl1pZjD5l_Q/s400/IMG_6480.jpg" /></a><br />
It's Day Four of the retreat, and already I am telling myself the lie that there isn't enough time. This is my favorite lie, and I beat myself up with it regularly. A week isn't nearly long enough to write everything that I want to write (my novel, a blog post a day, one more song, a sermon...) To get to write the way I want to write, I'll need weeks! Eternity! How can I get more? I have many varieties of greed, but this lust for more time is unparalleled. <br />
<br />
And the truth is, my poor kids are at their wits ends because when I am not writing, I am madly cleaning the house, doing the laundry (cloth napkins!!!) and weeding the labyrinth, trying to get them to practice their violins, cooking tomorrow's meal for the writers and not letting them have as much of it as they want. <br />
<br />
I have two friends here whom I have known since before we were ten years old. <br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AUy_mmw_Dpk/U76q-2Q5SCI/AAAAAAAADIA/oIxbROhGp00/s1600/IMG_6469.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AUy_mmw_Dpk/U76q-2Q5SCI/AAAAAAAADIA/oIxbROhGp00/s400/IMG_6469.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
In the mornings, we all gather in what most people would call the living room, but what my kids call the writing room. I give them a prompt, and then we all do 20 minutes or so of Brain Drain longhand. This exercise (Natalie Goldberg calls it Writing Practice and Julia Cameron calls it Morning Pages) creates a hive-like effect in the room, all of us scratching and humming away before we each get up and find a new spot to settle in for the morning's work. All of us are working on our own projects. There's a memoirist (or five), several poets, a phD dissertation writer. Some are beginning projects, some finishing. I feed off the energy of this hive, and I've made good progress on the Big Idea, my novel, though it feels hopeless and impossible, as impossible as trying to keep the weeds out of my labyrinth. The root systems are invincible. ("Salt water and vinegar," says Sierra, whose grandmother is one of those wise women who knows everything, and who has a labyrinth and also raises bees.)<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1RNW3M0m-Rg/U76ql4rJSvI/AAAAAAAADH4/z_IRzZbelLE/s1600/IMG_6477.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1RNW3M0m-Rg/U76ql4rJSvI/AAAAAAAADH4/z_IRzZbelLE/s400/IMG_6477.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I'm working on my sermon. Katryna is finally home from England, and I got to talk to her today. My eyes welled up as I heard that voice on the other end of the phone, and I wondered how I had managed to live without her for the past 10 days? The answer: barely. But I did.<br />
<br />
It's beautiful weather. We get to sing a show on Saturday at my church. We are the luckiest. Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-13619851207143626782014-07-08T09:52:00.000-04:002014-07-08T09:53:04.713-04:00Summer Writing Camp, The Fiery Furnace and Sugar Snaps<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fDCdgllybn8/U7vy4e3GEYI/AAAAAAAADHc/TI-iieh1PN0/s1600/IMG_6461.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fDCdgllybn8/U7vy4e3GEYI/AAAAAAAADHc/TI-iieh1PN0/s400/IMG_6461.JPG" /></a>It's Day Two of my Summer Writing Camp. The writers are just finishing their 3 pages of brain drain and are moving around the house, finding the perfect place to settle in for the morning. I just read them a passage from Dani Shapiro's wonderful book, <a href="http://danishapiro.com/books/still-writing/">Still Writing</a>. In it, she reminds us that many fiction writers have no idea where their novel is going when they sit down to write. Part of the fun is in watching the characters lead on.<br />
<br />
This is exactly what I need to hear. In my revision of The Big Idea, I still don't know what happens to my characters by the end of the book. I have ideas, but I know from bitter experience that when I tried to boss them around, the results rang false. I am still excavating the first half of the book, trying to get the voices just right. One of my main characters recently underwent a name change. Somehow, this changes everything about her--the color of her skin, her diction, her whole sense of self. <br />
<br />
Writing this novel is hard.<br />
<br />
And so I am distracting myself by thinking of the sermon I am to give later this month. I looked up the passage from the lectionary: <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew+13%3A24-45&version=NKJV">Matthew 13</a>. It's a tough one, full of images of sinners being cast into the fiery furnace where there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Did Jesus really say this? Fire and brimstone! Yikes! I don't want to preach on this, and I don't have to--West Cummington is not exactly a lectionary following church. Yet something in the passage speaks to me. I want to explore it a bit before I give up. Jesus, as Steve points out, was something of a shock jock in his time. I want to sit with the shock. More tomorrow.<br />
<br />
The last of the sugar snap peas, visible from the kitchen window. The vines are yellowed. Last night, the rain came gentle at first, then forceful. I ran outside with my kids and we whooped and danced. Jay stripped off his clothes and followed me over to the garden, where I gathered what was left--the still-green peas, and the shriveled yellowing ones. Violin practice is a struggle right now. Not enough time. No one--especially me--is behaving well. It's OK. We are learning. We are showing up, very imperfectly. I think that's our main job.Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-59109480509144550672014-06-28T10:11:00.000-04:002014-07-05T09:07:37.321-04:00Nike and Rainbow FlagsThough I'd intended to blog daily in the weeks leading up to the making of our 17th CD, June found me in a whirl of end-of-the-year parties, potlucks, celebrations, graduations, baby showers, the World Cup, birthdays and most germanely, songwriting. I wrote three new songs for the CD; songs which may have effectively changed the nature of the album. We are now unsure what the title will be. Stay tuned. Meanwhile, here are some of my musings.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h9wlKBo1tM8/U67KCEqnb4I/AAAAAAAADGc/xcbsp3_RDeM/s1600/IMG_6343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-h9wlKBo1tM8/U67KCEqnb4I/AAAAAAAADGc/xcbsp3_RDeM/s320/IMG_6343.jpg" /></a></div>It’s Sunday evening at La Veracruzana, a Salvadorian restaurant in downtown Northampton. My family dragged me here (on a school night!) to watch the US play Portugal in the second round of the World Cup. The restaurant's main TV is broken, so everyone has pulled tables and chairs toward the west side of the room to see the TV on the eastern wall, craning their necks and jockeying for position in order to watch. My back is to the screen. I am watching the watchers.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lYcNfhAnUcU/U67KuByoA4I/AAAAAAAADGo/srXNrSgrYyg/s1600/IMG_6344.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lYcNfhAnUcU/U67KuByoA4I/AAAAAAAADGo/srXNrSgrYyg/s320/IMG_6344.jpg" /></a></div>I did slip around at one point to get our dinners from the counter, and this afforded me a good look at the screen. It was still pre-game, and there was a lovely shot from the stadium of the Rio sky, almost violet, with wisps of clouds floating through in the shape of the Nike logo.<br />
<br />
“What a sky,” I murmured to no one. <br />
<br />
“Ehhn, it’s OK,” said the young man standing next to me. He was wearing a black tee shirt and looked a little like <a href="http://www.jian.ca/">Jian Ghomeshi</a>. “Better than Massachusetts. New England skies don’t impress me.”<br />
<br />
I pulled down the corners of my mouth. “I like them.”<br />
<br />
“I’m from Colorado,” he shook his head. “No contest.”<br />
<br />
I nodded. “I’ll give you that.”<br />
<br />
But, he conceded. “I will say that yesterday I drove back here from Boston. Right into the sunset. Now that was a sky.”<br />
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Today in church, Steve preached on two different texts. The first was a parable of the Buddha’s, the one about the guy who comes to a river and builds a raft to cross it. He is so thrilled to have crossed safely that he carries the raft with him wherever he goes. “This is not a skillful use of the raft,” says the Buddha.<br />
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Then he preached on the end of <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke+9:57-62">Luke 9</a>. Jesus tells a guy to follow him. The guy says, “First let me go and bury my father.” <br />
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“Let the dead bury their dead,” says Jesus. “But you go and proclaim the kingdom of God.”<br />
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Harsh. But effective. Jesus and the Buddha are essentially saying the same thing: let it go. Move on. Don’t cling. In the Jesus passage, the message is even more direct: get over your parents. Whether they were “good” parents or “bad” parents, get over them. Move on. Live your life.<br />
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Jay is obsessed with all things soccer, not necessarily in this order: playing it; watching the World Cup; Messi; and anything that has the Nike logo on it. For those who know my son, it’s just one in a long line of obsessions: The Beatles, cars, birds of prey, guitars, Thomas trains, Ninjago, cheetahs, this band from the 90s called The Nields, Colossal Squid.<br />
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The Nike thing started a few weeks ago when we went to Famous Footwear to get Elle some shoes. Jay felt deprived, so I threw him a bone; a pack of socks. I might have noticed they were Nikes, and I might have rolled my eyes and shrugged at my unfortunate choice; the latest in my own long line of eco-transgressions. For many years, Nike has been a target for activists wanting to put an end to sweat shop conditions. <a href="http://www.globalexchange.org/sweatfree/nike/faq">Here’s</a> more on why Nike is Bad. I used to do pretty well with my consumer boycotts, but eight long years of motherhood has worn me down. <br />
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Besides, the more I oppose him about Nike, the more appealing it surely would be to him. I started on about the sweat shops, but somehow he could not draw a connection between the logo that all his favorite kindergarten pals have on their sneakers and the stories I was telling him about unfairness on the other side of the globe. <br />
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And why should I? Recently, I’ve come to the sad conclusion that I don’t get to boss everyone around. I’ve been noticing that without my excellent advice and bits of wisdom, other people do just fine. Especially my family members. Sometime in the last month, the mild voice of my beloved uncle Brian keeps popping into my head. “They’ll figure it out.” That’s my new motto. He'll find out about bad Nike on his own. We live in Northampton.<br />
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My other new motto is, “Everyone is doing the absolute best they can at any given moment.” Even though I might be mightily disappointed with their behavior (or my own), we really are, most of us, doing the best we can with the resources we have. I don’t know if I am right about this, but I do know that when I adopt this attitude, I relax and stop being a pain in other people’s necks. <br />
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On the last day of school, Jay announced, “I am going to wear all things that have Nike on them.” He showed up dressed completely in Nike garb, which meant, on a hot June day, he wore a shiny red nylon swim suit top, a pair of navy blue and orange fleecy sweatpants, his royal blue socks, and his sister’s pink and black sports sandals. He could not have been more pleased with himself. Indeed, all items were branded. I looked at him solemnly and nodded. “You are all in Nike.” <br />
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He turned on his heel and started out the door; realized it was too hot for the fleecy pants. He ran upstairs and traded them for his favorite pair of Nike shorts, which happen to be hot pink. Satisfied, he left for the day, racing off in his too-big sandals. His last day of Kindergarten. The day before, his class spent all day painting rainbow pride flags. Someone had stolen the school’s Pride flag earlier that week, ripping it down from where it flew underneath the stars and stripes. No problem. The teachers and students of Jackson Street covered the front of the school with rainbows. In the last issue of the JSS Gazette, and 8 year old wrote an editorial about how she thought it was wrong how some people said men couldn’t marry men, or women couldn’t marry women. “Adults should be able to marry anyone they want,” she opined. <br />
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So I let my son go to school in his un-PC Nike wear, not worried about what my friends would say about my logo-worshipping son, nor worried that anyone would tease him for wearing pink sandals. He lives in Northampton. These are some of the blessings. Later in the morning, I joined him and his classmates and some of their parents for a last lunch next to the playground. He was racing around the jungle gym. He saw me, and approached the fence, all big eyes and dirty knees. “Can I keep playing, Mama?”<br />
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“Of course,” I said and kissed him before he could get away completely. Kindergarten. Over in a flash. His birthday is at the end of August and he wants to invite Messi. “I know he will come,” he says. “He loves soccer, and I am having a soccer party.” I just nod. Why disappoint him now? That would be just trying to protect him from a later disappointment. If disappointment is inevitable (and it always is, isn’t it?) it’s better to let him have the joy now and the disappointment later. I'm thinking that's the proper use of the raft. <br />
Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-13843294497443445402014-06-06T13:48:00.000-04:002014-06-06T13:49:45.676-04:00Lean InI am reading Sheryl Sandberg's excellent book <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Lean-Women-Work-Will-Lead/dp/0385349947/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1402076294&sr=1-1&keywords=lean+in">Lean In</a>. I understand that she makes some people mad. I am not one of those people, even though, at times as I am reading it, I feel inadequate because I am certainly guilty (again, at times) of NOT leaning in. But usually I feel that I lean in too much, so it's nice to have a breather from that particular Jiminy Cricket.<br />
<br />
Patty came across this list of our tour dates circa 2002, when <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Love-China-Nerissa-Nields-Katryna/dp/B000060OJ9">Love and China</a> came out. Katryna's daughter was seven months old at the beginning of 2002, and by the end she was 19 months old. Katryna was most certainly leaning in.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VXXyGpxEeQo/U5H89C3xLvI/AAAAAAAADEs/BASpKB1ZB4o/s1600/Love+&China.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VXXyGpxEeQo/U5H89C3xLvI/AAAAAAAADEs/BASpKB1ZB4o/s320/Love+&China.jpg" /></a><br />
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January 5, 2002 Circle of Friends Coffeehouse - Franklin, MA<br />
January 12, 2002 Barns of Wolftrap - Vienna, VA<br />
January 24, 2002 Club Helsinki - Great Barrington, MA<br />
January 25, 2002 Sanders Theater - Cambridge, MA<br />
January 26, 2002 Woodland Coffeehouse<br />
January 27, 2002 House Party- Holyoke, MA (tent) <br />
February 2, 2002 Mass College of Liberal Arts - North Adams, MA<br />
February 4, 2002 Taft Theater - Cincinnati, OH (o/f CAKE)<br />
February 5, 2002 Palace Theater - Louisville,KY (o/f CAKE)<br />
February 8, 2002 University of Rochester - Rochester, NY<br />
February 9, 2002 Cornel Folk Music Society - Ithaca, NY<br />
February 13, 2002 The Mint (Nerissa & Pam) - Los Angeles, CA<br />
February 21, 2002 Makor, NYC<br />
February 22, 2002 Wilde Auditorium - Hartford, CT<br />
February 23, 2002 Owings Mills, MD (o/f Cheryl Wheeler)<br />
February 24, 2002 Cherry Tree, Philly<br />
March 4, 2002 Homegrown - TV in Greenfield, MA<br />
March 5, 2002 CD Release Date<br />
March 5, 2002 3:30pm For the Record - Amherst, MA<br />
March 5, 2002 6:00pm B-Side Records - Northampton, MA<br />
March 6, 2002 3:00pm Cutlers - New Haven<br />
March 8, 2002 College- Gardner, MA<br />
March 20, 2002 All Ground Up- Elyria, OH <br />
March 22, 2002 12:30 WYSO Phone Interview<br />
March 22, 2002 3:00pm WFPK - Radio Interview<br />
March 22, 2002 5:30pm Ear Ecstasy - Louisville, KY<br />
March 23, 2002 Canal Street - Dayton, OH<br />
March 24, 2002 York Street - Cincinnati, OH<br />
March 24, 2002 2:30pm WNKU -KY Radio (arrive by 2:15pm)<br />
March 27, 2002 One Trick Pony - Grand Rapids, MI<br />
March 27, 2002 3:45 pm WYCE (arrive at 3:15pm)<br />
March 28, 2002 4:00pm Acoustic Cafe Radio - Ann Arbor, MI<br />
March 28, 2002 The Ark - Ann Arbor, MI<br />
March 29, 2002 Earlham College, Richmond, IN<br />
March 30, 2002 Club Cafe - Pittsburg, PA<br />
April 5, 2002 Pres House - Madison, WI<br />
April 6, 2002 Washington Univ. - St Louis, MO<br />
April 10, 2002 9:00am WFUV - New York City (arrive at 8:30am)<br />
April 11, 2002 5:00pm WRSI, Northampton (arrive 4:45pm)<br />
April 12, 2002 Valley Players Theater - Waitsfield, VT<br />
April 13, 2002 Iron Horse - Northampton, MA<br />
April 17, 2002 The Fez - NYC<br />
April 19, 2002 The Fez - NYC<br />
April 20, 2002 Towne Crier Cafe - Pawling, NY<br />
April 21, 2002 United Church on the Green - New Haven, CT<br />
April 24, 2002 12:00 (noon) WUMB - Dorchester, MA<br />
April 26, 2002 Emerson Umbrella - Concord, MA<br />
April 27, 2002 Wells College - Aurora, NY<br />
April 28, 2002 Daffodil Festival - Meriden, CT<br />
April 30, 2002 Rehearsal with the Kennedys in NYC<br />
May 2, 2002 Cats Cradle - Carborro, NC <br />
May 3, 2002 Birchmere - Alexandria, VA<br />
May 4, 2002 Dar's Wedding<br />
May 7, 2002 Reich Benefit Show<br />
May 8, 2002 Brandies University - Waltham, MA<br />
May 11, 2002 Sedgwick, Philadelphia, PA<br />
May 15, 2002 2pm - Scholastic Book Meeting 557 Broadway (between prince & spring)<br />
May 16, 2002 3:00pm WDIY <br />
May 16, 2002 Godfrey Daniels - Bethlehem, PA<br />
May 18, 2002 Unity Centre for the Perf Arts - Unity, ME<br />
May 19, 2002 Iron Horse/Dylan Event<br />
May 20, 2002 Amelia's Birthday<br />
May 28, 2002 9:00am Meeting with Brian<br />
May 28, 2002 6:00pm - Dinner with Philip<br />
May 31, 2002 Democratic State Convention<br />
June 1, 2002 Appel Farm - Elmer, NJ<br />
June 2, 2002 NERISSA'S BIRTHDAY<br />
June 3, 2002 LORI'S BIRTHDAY<br />
June 7, 2002 Uptown Concerts - Baltimore, MD<br />
June 8, 2002 PATTY'S BIRTHDAY<br />
June 15, 2002 Clearwater Festival<br />
June 16, 2002 King of Prussia<br />
June 20, 2002 Club Helsinki - Great Barrington, MA<br />
June 22, 2002 Ruth Eckard Hall- Clearwater, FL<br />
June 29, 2002 Forksville Folk Festival, Forksville, PA<br />
July 3, 2002 Kennedy Center- Washington, DC<br />
July 5, 2002 The Garage - Winston Salem<br />
July 6, 2002 ENO - Festival<br />
July 18, 2002 The Palms- Davis, CA<br />
July 19, 2002 Freight and Salvage - Berkeley, CA<br />
July 20, 2002 California World Music Festival - first show at 1:30pm<br />
July 21, 2002 California World Music Festival 11:30am<br />
July 27, 2002 Falcon Ridge Folk Festival<br />
July 28, 2002 Falcon Ridge Folk Festival<br />
August 2, 2002 IMAC - Huntington, NY opening for Dar ($200)<br />
August 7, 2002 Red Sox vs. Oakland A's<br />
August 17, 2002 Levitt Pavillion- Westport, CT<br />
August 18, 2002 House Concert- Falls River, MA<br />
August 23, 2002 Ottawa Folk Festival<br />
August 24, 2002 Ottawa Folk Festival<br />
August 25, 2002 Ottawa Folk Festival<br />
August 27, 2002 Transperformance - CANADA<br />
September 2, 2002 LABOR DAY<br />
September 6, 2002 Acoustic Cafe - Bridgeport, CT<br />
September 7, 2002 Alfred University - Alfred, NY<br />
September 13, 2002 Long Island House Concert<br />
September 14, 2002 Harvest Moon Festival - Warwick, NY<br />
September 24, 2002 Towsen University - Towsen, MD $1900<br />
September 27, 2002 FEZ - NYC<br />
September 28, 2002 Stone Soup - Providence, RI<br />
October 4, 2002 South Shore Folk Music Club - Kingston, MA<br />
October 5, 2002 Iron Horse - Northampton, MA<br />
October 9, 2002 Paul Smiths College<br />
October 12, 2002 Somerville Theater - Somerville, MA<br />
October 13, 2002 Grey Goose<br />
October 18, 2002 WAMC - Albany, NY<br />
October 19, 2002 Towne Crier-Pawling, NY<br />
October 20, 2002 Night Eagle - Oxford, NY<br />
October 25, 2002 Me and Thee - Marblehead, MA<br />
November 1, 2002 Tin Angel - Philadelphia, PA<br />
November 2, 2002 Roaring Brook Concerts - Canton, CT<br />
November 14, 2002 Penn State Dubios<br />
November 15, 2002 Club Cafe - Pittsburgh<br />
November 16, 2002 12 corners coffeehouse Rochester<br />
November 22, 2002 McCabe - Los Angles<br />
November 23, 2002 Tracktor- Seattle<br />
November 28, 2002 THANKSGIVING<br />
December 6, 2002 Birchmere-Alexandria VA<br />
December 7, 2002 Titusville, NJ<br />
December 13, 2002 Opera House - Newport, HN<br />
December 14, 2002 Joyful Noise Coffeehouse-Lexington, MA<br />
December 31, 2002 First Night Northampton<br />
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Now, when I was having my first baby, this is what we sent out to fans:<br />
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A picture (or touring schedule) is worth a thousand words. I can't believe how hard we worked twelve years ago when our first duo CD came out. And at the time, it seemed we were slacking, since it was way fewer dates than we'd played as a band. I saw my bed (and my dog) a lot more in 2002 than I had in 2000, or 1998. But today, just looking at this list makes me exhausted. <br />
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I will (I hope) say something more intelligent about <i>Lean In</i> when I finish it, but right now I have to get our Nields News out to you. (If you don't get Nields News, go to our web page <a href="http://www.nields.com">www.nields.com</a> and subscribe!) For now I will leave you with this, from Sheryl Sandberg (though not original with her):<br />
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<blockquote>Done is better than perfect.</blockquote><br />
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Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-20711232793906016542014-05-30T12:32:00.000-04:002014-05-30T12:32:07.439-04:00Last Word on Yale ReunionAbout Spotify. I get why musicians who hope the CD will somehow make a comeback are doomed to disappointment. As a consumer, I cannot believe how great Spotify is. And yet...<br />
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Amelia, Elle and I left for my Yale reunion on Friday afternoon, and as we made our way onto 91 South, I handed my iPhone to my 13 year old niece and asked her to play my new mix, 1989. She did so, and for a few songs, we rocked along to the melange of tunes. But pretty soon, someone told a story which led me to mention Jay's obsession with "Brave," at which point Elle insisted we listen to it right away. Since we could, we did. And then Amelia wanted to play us something from HER iPod touch, and then we were basically playing DJ. Which is cool. But I realized that we are now in a world where the music is <i>completely</i> in the hands of the consumer. Even the "artist" who does nothing more than create a playlist gets compromised by the handler of the device. It's all singles, all the time.<br />
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So what of the writer who conceives of a full-length CD? Are there any listeners out there generous enough with their time to actually listen through it? I am not sure I am that generous. I just want to hear my favorite songs. Maybe when I was 15 I was willing to listen to all of Paul Simon's pre-Graceland <i>Hearts & Bones</i>, which is wonderful but requires some patience, but not today. Today, I want that one song ("René and Georgette Magritte With Their Dog After The War"), and I am totally going to buy it on iTunes. I might pay for it five times before I'd buy the entire album's worth of songs.<br />
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I had hoped to blog daily about my reunion, a sort of on-the-scene reporting. As I clambered up the five flights of Lawrence Hall to get to our dorm suite, I was composing the blog. As I found out for the second or third time that two friends of mine had married each other (that's the great thing about losing your memory--you get to be happily surprised over and over again), I was writing the blog. As I recognized my suite mates, and as we made a wonderful connection around being Suzuki violin parents, I was writing this blog (and taking pictures--see below.) As I took the girls to the Drama School's fantastic workshop in which two freshly graduated drama students were working a scene from Henry VI Part 1, I was composing in my head. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w1hZGIeNZtU/U4iuMaBbEjI/AAAAAAAADEU/B4WkyQ3XhTI/s1600/Maya_Lin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w1hZGIeNZtU/U4iuMaBbEjI/AAAAAAAADEU/B4WkyQ3XhTI/s400/Maya_Lin.JPG" /></a></div>As we studied Maya Lin's <a href="http://www.yale.edu/womenatyale/WomensTable.html">Table</a>, as I was thinking about how hard it was to be a woman at Yale only 20 years after co-education, as I revisited the beautiful Sterling Library where I spent so many hours studying Shakespeare and old microfiche for my theatre classes, all this time I was writing to you. But I had not brought my computer, and even if I had, I would have been too busy talking to old friends (and too tired when I wasn't talking) to write. In fact, I was so completely exhausted by the reunion that I left early and went home with Tom and Jay, who came down to watch my panel on Saturday afternoon. <br />
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The panel was the reason I was there. I love seeing old friends, and I love nothing more than sitting around and talking, but I probably wouldn't have gone if the reunion committee hadn't asked me to participate on a panel. The one in question,“Making Music: An Inside Look at the Music Business/ Creative Process," consisted of an amazing clarinetist/composer named <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Derek_Bermel">Derek Bermel</a> who is currently Artistic Director of the American Composers Orchestra at Carnegie Hall, and the beloved musical hero of my class, <a href="http://ism.yale.edu/people/mark-miller">Mark Miller</a>, Minister of Music at Christ Church in Summit, New Jersey and teacher of sacred music at the Yale Institute of Sacred Music, who also serves on the faculty of Drew Theological School. We knew him as Bubba, the guy who could make Woolsey Hall shake on Halloween when he played the organ. And then me. I brought Katryna for reinforcements. Jen Jacobsen, one of the best singers and people I know, was the moderator for our group, and she did a fabulous job interviewing us, creating a sense of cohesion to our panel, and keeping us on time--an incredible feat, considering we talked and each performed several songs or pieces. Jen is a lawyer for Sony Music who is currently working on legislation to make the Spotifys of the world pay artists and labels a fare percent. So there is hope for us musicians, and I don't have to feel guilty using Spotify.<br />
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How awesome is this? And what is better than musical collaboration? <br />
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Eric Rosin, one of my classmates, said, "At Harvard, everyone who shows up Freshman year looks around and goes, 'Why are all these people here at my school?' whereas at Yale, the incoming freshman looks around says, 'How the hell did I get in here?'" I can't speak to the Harvard experience––and I suspect they actually feel the same––but certainly I and everyone I knew at Yale lived in fear of being discovered as the admissions committee mistake. (I have heard Yale admission folks say that if they took the entire admitted group of 1400 and replaced them with the next 1400 on the list, they'd have just as strong a class.) On our panel, we each shared experiences of being rejected from groups, crushed by reactions of faculty to our work, or--in my case--refusing to try out for any singing groups at all, because I was positive I would not get in. "Yale did kind of try to crush us," Derek said. "But the other side of the story is that I was tremendously lifted up by my classmates. In the end, that's what I took from the place."<br />
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Yes. That was my experience too. It was a highly competitive world at Yale, but it was also highly collegial, and everyone (mostly) had tremendous respect for the talents of their colleagues and peers. When I had the notion to start a singing group to be accompanied by my acoustic guitar and sing folk songs, I was absolutely astounded by the enthusiasm my crazy idea drew. On the first day of rehearsal, the Calhoun Common Room was crowded with my friend Trex Proffitt's entire Freshman Outdoor Orientation Trip contingent. For the next three years, I'd like to say that I put my head down and worked to make <a href="http://www.yaletuib.com/">Tangled Up in Blue</a> a singing group that people would want to join. But the truth is, I was just having fun, and doing the thing the admissions people had hoped I would do with my little basket of talents. All around me, sophomores were lifting up their heads too, after the Big Crush of freshman year, and discovering their own talents––that gift only they could give––and finding ways to express themselves. <br />
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I found my old year book, and next to my photo I'd used as my quotation Dylan's line from "Tangled Up In Blue," "All of these people we used to know/They're an illusion to me now." And I'd thought of that line again, in the week leading up to the reunion. Who <i>were</i> those people? Did they matter to me?<br />
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Yes, it turns out. They did. Even the ones I barely knew--even the ones I never knew. <i>They</i> were the school I went to, far more so than the buildings or the classes or the professors. My peers educated me, through their courage--for every one of them, I am sure, had the experience of being crushed by Yale at some point in their four year career--through their ambition, world view, passion and commitment. I would not be who I am today if I hadn't been lucky enough to go there. All those people I used to know--they are amazing.<br />
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And--Yale is not the be-all and end-all. Being at Yale even for 24 hours re-infected me briefly with the idea that Yale was it, that probably no one else had ever had a good idea. But of course I have met thousands of people in the past 25 years who have proved to me that you don't need an ivy education to be inspiring, funny, brilliant, insightful, big-hearted, courageous, talented and charismatic. In fact, what I was struck by at the reunion was not so much the dazzling achievements but the quiet contentment, that feeling that I was having of contributing appropriately to the world, based on one's true talents. <br />
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And when the panel was over, I knew I was ready to go home. I was full to the brim. I got to see my dear friend <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leon_Dewan">Leon Dewan</a>. I spent a lovely twenty minutes hanging out with Trex and his wife Beth and their fantastic kids. I jumped on stage at Woolsey Hall and sang with the Glee Club. We let Jay kick the soccer ball around Old Campus with some other kids who had, in a few hours, become his new best friends. But instead of dressing up and eating the fancy dinner at Commons, we dragged our stuff over to Claire's Corner Copia, a vegetarian deli where I had practically lived senior year. It was at Claire's, back in 1989, over my usual meal of soup, salad and bread–– plus the occasional Lithuanian coffeecake and hazelnut coffee––that I first conceived of moving to Western Mass. As I have said previously, I don't know where I got the idea, but it was probably from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alice's_Restaurant">Alice's Restaurant</a>. <br />
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I had this vague notion that Western Ma (I didn't even know there was a town called Northampton, except as it was home to Smith) was hip and full of artists and musicians and intellectuals and liberal do-gooders. So I set my sites on one day living there.<br />
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And I am here to say...Susan Chua was right. The food at Claire's is really not good. But I didn't care. I wanted to sit one more time in that red bricked room, eat my expensive salad with its meager portion of tofu and elderly cooked vegetables, bus my dish and then hit the road back home, ready to dive back into my life. Goodbye, 1989. And thank you.<br />
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Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-51576405930518094822014-05-23T10:21:00.000-04:002014-05-23T10:21:19.717-04:00Yale Reunion and Spotify 1989<br />
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This is a bad formula: rainy day, PMS, and a nostalgia mix from 1989. I upgraded to Spotify Premium (though I am not sure what I gain, since I don't listen to Spotify that much. I did it mostly to support those musicians, like me, who want those Spotify royalties.) "Luka" is on, and whoa, does it bring me back. Magic, music is, and more evocative even than the sense of smell, which is what usually slams me back in time. Right now, I am back in 1987, home from college, late May, a rare Virginia rain. Hopes in my heart to have a career like Suzanne Vega's, though I couldn't even have articulated that then. Waiting to hear what my Words & Music College Seminar professor thought of my 50 page paper on the apocalyptic imagery in Dylan's "Desolation Row." Going to the mailbox every day with baited breath, the way we all approach our inboxes today. What on earth is it like to be a college student today, what with FaceBook and texting? Do people even miss their pals when they go home for the summer? Back in '87, we had the telephone, and the newly invented...what were they called? Oh, yeah, answering machines.<br />
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Today, I don't want to do anything. Gmail changed its inbox, and I just spent ten fruitless minutes trying to restore it to the old system. My new crown hurts, and I chickened out in the dentist's chair when she asked me if she thought it needed to be adjusted yet again. I said I was fine. I wasn't. What is it in me that makes me want everyone to think I am more OK than I really am? I have totally unsexy things to do on my list: edit a scene from The Big Idea, practice piano, and beyond that, tidy my office. I don't want to do anything. So I should probably do just nothing. Or, perhaps, there is some big feeling I need to feel that I don't want to. The gloomies have got me. I lie back on the couch and do some nothing for awhile.<br />
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Then I go back to focusing on my Spotify mix. I put on Tracy Chapman, and I remember John at Record Works, my supplier in Virginia who shared my love of the Beatles and insisted I buy Tracy's debut album, produced by Joni Mitchell's then-husband Larry Klein (who also produced Shawn Colvin's Fat City, my favorite of her albums, but I am getting ahead of myself.) Shivers up my spine, thinking of how that CD changed my life, how I played it over and over on my elaborate multi-unit stereo which I lugged back and forth from Virginia to New Haven, up and down the Jersey TPKE, up and down four flights of stairs to my dorm room. I hear Bonnie Raitt's "Something To Talk About," and think about our first summer as a band, playing at Williamstown Theatre Festival, discovering the fabulousness of Bonnie Raitt and loving her guitar playing. I put on "Bohemian Rhapsody" and am in the audience of a Trinity Pipes show, watching my amazing sister sing with some of the best singers I've ever heard, with this incredible guitarist they all call "Guitar Dave" playing along. Neil Young's "Ohio" was a song we covered in Tangled Up in Blue, and here I am, next to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leon_Dewan">Leon Dewan</a>, proudly flatpicking that riff, while my crazygreat tenor friend Joe Shieber sings the shit out of "Tin soldier's and Nixon coming..." <br />
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There is no better track in the history of the world than the original "Knocking on Heaven's Door." TUIB also covered this, and when we sang it at my aunt Elizabeth's house in upstate NY on our 1989 cross-country tour, five year old John Colonna, her son stood up after the applause and shouted, "But heaven doesn't HAVE a door!"<br />
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"Cactus Tree" by Joni Mitchell felt to me, in the fall of '88, as though Joni had crawled inside my head and had catalogued every boy I was dating. I had a Sony Walkman, and my job in the afternoon's was in the Dean's office, often delivering mail. I'd make my rounds in the New Haven rain, with this song playing in my ears. It took me years to figure out how Joni had tuned her guitar for that song. <br />
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When I first heard of Suzanne Vega, I was jealous. She had done what I wanted to do, and so my first reaction was to pretend she didn't exist. Then I heard "Luka" and immediately wrote my own song ("Tripping the Light Fantastic"--better left unheard, folks.) Same with the Indigo Girls. I was so jealous that they had stolen my idea of being two women singers that I refused to like them for several years, even though I bought and listened to all their CDs. Now, I kiss the ground they trod upon. <br />
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I stuck on Sinead O'Connor's "Mandinka" just because it was produced by our Greta producer Kevin Moloney, whose picture I will put here to freak out Katryna:<br />
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And then I stuck on a bunch of random 80s songs, some of which I hated at the time (Tears for Fears) but have now been around so long they have worn me down from sheer exposure and corporate nostalgia. In fact, I am so old now that I am not sure some of my memories are truly my memories; I might have borrowed some of them from the movies or have them confused with the memories of some of my contemporaries who drank too much at the time. Either way, I now like the song "Everybody Wants to Rule the World." So shoot me.<br />
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This is a work in progress. I am hoping some of my classmates will help me remember what else needs to be on this mix. Oh! Like ALL of <i>Graceland</i>! And the Neville Brothers' <i>Yellow Moon</i>. And the Folkways Woody Guthrie/Ledbelly tribute. And Sweet Honey and the Rock. And <i>Vladimir Horowitz Plays Mozart</i>. But this is just my slice of the late 80s. <br />
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After I make the mix, I call a friend and cry. I pick up Johnny for violin, and on the way, I see a woman who looks like my best friend from 20 years ago, in my Loomis Chaffee days. And there on the streets of Florence, it IS my best friend, Gwendolyn. I pull the car over and screech her name. I jump out of my car and she grabs me by the shoulders and we both jump up and down like little kids. We make plans to see each other when I get back from reunions; I jump back in my car and continue to violin. At dinner, we listen to the mix and let the music rock us back to the past and forward to the present. It works on me like water, gently washing me clean again, massaging my heart, preparing me for whatever is next.<br />
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To hear the mix, you'll have to follow me on Spotify, apparently, though I have no earthly idea how to do that. But you probably do. The mix is called "1989."<br />
Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8418939.post-76843804536775557322014-05-21T14:52:00.001-04:002014-05-21T14:52:48.131-04:00Reunion Part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZrqY7BQP3Rk/U3znrVkFBrI/AAAAAAAADB4/rSIpC11HxFA/s1600/Nerissa_Silliman_88.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZrqY7BQP3Rk/U3znrVkFBrI/AAAAAAAADB4/rSIpC11HxFA/s320/Nerissa_Silliman_88.JPG" /></a></div>I have a fear that the pet store was not totally accurate in their presentation of the genders of these guinea pigs. It's just a feeling I have; plus last night's dream about finding giant white mice, the size of lop-eared rabbits living in my refrigerator on top of the lettuce and the eggs. Also, the diagrams on the internet to demonstrate the sexes of guinea pigs are troubling. That's all I'll say about that for now. But if we end up having a litter of baby guineas, I am going to take them babies back to Dave's Soda and Pet shop and politely inquire how much it costs to neuter adult guinea pigs.<br />
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My kids are in heaven, though. The guineas make very sweet chirpy sounds. They purr and cuddle and eat kale leaves out of the kids' hands. <br />
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I am in heaven because Jay now sings pop songs, like "Let it Go" and "Brave" and "Sir Duke" in his sweet little soprano. Elle whistles along, or plays songs on her violin for the rodents. Not every day is like this, or to be more precise, every day has its share of screaming fits and dramatic exclamations about the torture of being so bored by life in our house that Tom and I should be seized and have our parental licenses taken away. But I know how fleeting these golden years will be, these years when the kids would mostly rather be with us than off on their own. And so I breathe and try to remember to look up at the sky and really pay attention.<br />
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But this is not my forte. On the weekends, I try to take it all in and be one giant pincushion of appreciation, and usually by 9am all of us are yelling at each other. Then we have to lower our expectations, have some tearful apologies, and go on about our business. By afternoon, we are all friends again, and by Sunday we are exhausted as though we did not just have two days "off." (Of course we didn't have two days off!)<br />
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I am getting ready to go to my 25th Yale reunion. I am sick with anxiety about the whole thing, though a part of me is full of healthy anticipation and curiosity. Back in 1985 (!!!!!) I was, to put it mildly, anxious to be going away to college, even though I went with the ultimate security blanket: my high school boyfriend, an excellent guy who was very patient with my extreme co-dependence and neuroses for almost five years. I look back at pictures of myself and cringe. Not so much for the 80s fashions (white flats, balloon pants, bad perms) as the look in my face. I so desperately wanted people to like me, and I didn't yet know that I was pretty much OK. The first two years of college are a wash of misery, conviction that I was the mistake in the admission process, and overeating. The second two years I climbed (or was lifted) out of the muck and mire and fell so deeply in love with the place that all I wanted upon graduation was to figure out a way to stay in New Haven for the rest of my life. Failing that, I got engaged and started a rock band.<br />
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In anticipation of my reunion, I just listened to "Tangled up in Blue," the song I loved so much I named my singing group at Yale after it. Listening today, that song is clearly about Bob Dylan's 25th college reunion! I am pretty sure Dylan went to Yale and was writing about all the same people I used to know who are (somewhat of) an illusion to me now. But many of these people will quickly prove themselves real on Friday when I see them again, 25 years later, and I may well fall in love with New Haven again. <br />
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Nerissa Nieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07681807422024958132noreply@blogger.com4