Lee Russell:
Boy giving recitation in program at end of school term. FSA
(Farm Security Administration) labor camp. Caldwell, Idaho (1941)

"We only have everything to lose otherwise."

Lest I forget the purpose for which I started writing this series forty-five days ago, The Universe has been conspiring to remind me. In my experience, if I set my mind on something, the universe sets about reminding me when I misplace my focus. My part in the circus seems to come from forgetting that focus and generously accepting reminders. I tend to wander and weave my way, whichever way I've chosen. The universe always seems to be conspiring to remind me, and I don't mind. I appreciate that I inhabit a universe so generously disposed to focus on somebody as genuinely insignificant as little old me. I can use the reinforcement, especially when I'd committed to write about hope and coping. How have I been doing? I've been wandering and weaving, as is typically my way. I rarely travel via straight lines. I've even proven myself to be more than capable of going backwards when pursuing something, even when that something seems as essential to my well-being as coping and hope. I've proven myself more than capable of losing my way, so I sincerely appreciate this universe when it seems to nudge me back into awareness.

It's been a rough time, with interference appearing almost every morning. I've encountered at least forty-five good reasons to abandon my search for hope and coping since I started this search. Thanks to our self-correcting universe, I've also found at least forty-five decent-enough reasons to continue pursuing, with varying degrees of passion. I have not once lost hope or abandoned it, though I've encountered ample excuses to encourage such poor choices. The buffering proves wearing. Complete discouragement, though, might require a tad more cynicism than I'm likely to experience. I equate cynicism with acquiescence. It's a cheap form of giving up, a cop-out, so my sins seem more akin to omission than cynicism. I too easily forget the possibilities readily available to me. I starve with a full larder. I suffocate in the open air.

I need reminders of the possibilities available to me, and this seems to be where the universe chooses to step in. I have proven myself fully capable of losing focus and mistakenly taking that narrow perspective as somehow definitive. I try to keep my eyes open, but sometimes experience blindness anyway. This is why I so appreciate this universe coming to my assistance. Each day, whether or not I'm paying close attention, something has managed to slip in through my hardening defenses. I'm in a defensive crouch because our incumbent continues his incredibly inept assaults on everything any decent person should hold dear. It's not just me, and certainly not simply anybody's delicate sensibilities that have made this time seem so damned discouraging. What previously required no coping whatsoever now requires near constant vigilance and twice-daily showers to inoculate against. What formerly demanded little attention from me now seems to demand continuous surveillance. It's a painful and delicate dance. It would be easy for anybody to feel like a victim when subjected to such seemingly endless insults. Life itself seems to have become either offensive assaults or defensive crouches, both of which take a considerable toll on anyone's experience.

The Muse has been focusing on learning as her means for coping with these ongoing insults. Her lessons have demanded the bulk of her attention. If she's practicing her piano or studying her foreign language, she's at least not doomscrolling. She's attending to her future instead of obsessing over this disconcerting present. She's the sort who benefits from taking classes. Her elementary education didn't encourage cynicism but optimism, for she successfully learned things in school. Since then, she's enrolled in a variety of classes. Last quarter, it was a watercolor class. She brought home fresh creations after each session, like any other elementary school student. She also continued studying German, a pursuit through which she swears she's making headway. She also began piano lessons, given by a woman down the street.

I felt surprised when The Muse announced she had a recital scheduled. I'd forgotten about recitals. I am dutiful enough to have quickly agreed to attend. I figured it might be in her teacher's living room with at most a half-dozen attending. The Saturday morning came, and she asked me again if I was planning on attending. Of course, I would. I learned it would not be in the teacher's living room when The Muse insisted we'd have to drive. It was in a church instead, and judging from the parking lot, this recital would be exceptionally well attended. More than a dozen students and their extended families awaited us when we arrived. They kept setting out more chairs because the audience stretched more than just standing room. The Muse was scheduled to be the final performer on the program, as if the roster had been created in age-of-performer order. Most of the others appeared to be in about third grade. The Muse was older than most of their grandmothers, but also their peers

The first performer produced all of sixteen notes, after which, the audience showed great appreciation. The next performer played perhaps twice the number of notes as the first. His performance, too, received a wildly enthusiastic reception. The RecitalRules had become obvious. Regardless of the mastery exhibited, enthusiastic appreciation was passed. The terror accompanying each performer to the keyboard was duly rewarded in turn. Risk lurked only in not performing. Appreciation required no more than engagement. To be truthful, not every performer was equally prepared. One or two might have introduced a sour note into their performance, but flawlessness was apparently not the purpose and not required for any performer to receive an enthusiastic reception. Each returned to their seat a master of their craft, a celebrity among family and friends.

The Muse, too, in her turn, received an enthusiastic reception. True, she performed more notes than most of the prior performers combined, but she had more than half a century more experience performing, if not piano playing, than the most experienced of those. She had just as much to lose and an equal amount to gain from her almost flawless performance. I consider the whole recital to have been one of those Come To Jesus Moments, an event steeped in forgiveness.

Our incumbent pretends to be tough. He mostly seems to beat himself up, though he aims his blows as low as they can possibly go and away from himself. He earns no respect from the disrespect he shows. His reputation takes the beating rather than the people's he's denigrating. Satisfying performance presents as a choice. Anyone can produce one, or sometimes it seems that nobody can. Those most satisfying times when every performer seems to satisfy my highest aspirations, I might take credit for adopting amenable standards. The Muse's performance, like every other one on the program, eked genuine courage. Who among us would willingly stand before even a jury of third graders and their extended families and show off what we'd learned, knowing full well that we'd not yet achieved complete mastery? Well, this is precisely what each of us does daily, continually, though not always to the most appreciative possible audience.

If I want to feel satisfied, I might be required to accept responsibility for satisfying myself. When I hold my standards above my performance potential, I do not often encourage further striving. I tend to discourage myself instead. I never initiated one of my performances, however prepared I felt, to further discourage me. I performed because I needed some strokes. I required some encouragement. I haven't always received it, but I also haven't very often quit on myself as a result. I could be a more overtly appreciative audience member. It's a small effort to appreciate even a lousy performance, and, however it went, admit it, the performer deserved it. They stood on the stage and exposed their secret. They'd almost learned their piece by heart. This performance wouldn't be the end of anything, but perhaps the beginning, depending upon the appreciation shown by the always undeserving audience. This whole universe is performing every second. It's not always aware of its inflection points. In the absence of explicit direction, we might insist that this is that moment and this is also that performance. Make of it what you need it to be, rather than finding disappointment nobody ever needs in it. See another beginning rather than another unneeded and unnecessary ending to anything. Let RecitalRules apply to everything. We only have everything to lose otherwise.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #CHope , #PureSchmaltz