Month: January 2024

A Concert is More Than the Music

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

A free concert at Benaroya, Seattle’s premier performance venue. Knowing there’d be a crowd, my neighbor and I left plenty early for our walk to the event commemorating International Holocaust Remembrance Day (Jan. 27). We ended up with time to visit the Garden of Remembrance, which stretches along the west side of Benaroya.

More than eight thousand names of Washington State citizens who died in service to our country since 1941 are etched into the granite walls. Names include people who served in World War II, the Korean War, Vietnam, Gulf War and continuing through post-9/11. I immediately went to the Vietnam section and gently placed my fingertips on the name Keith Henrickson, a high school friend. It’s a gesture I’ve made before, first at the Vietnam memorial wall in Washington, D.C., and again when a traveling replica of that wall visited the Colville Indian Reservation, near my former home. 

I thought about how I’ve lived fifty-five years longer than Keith, who was killed at age twenty-four in Quang Tri province. Yet his name, etched in granite, is an enduring presence that will last long after I’m gone. His and all the other names are an ongoing witness to the tragedies of war. 

Scattered raindrops accented my somber mood as we left the garden and entered the hall. The concert was presented by Music of Remembrance, a nonprofit organization that addresses issues of human rights and social justice through music. As I read the program, I readied myself to shed tears. Many of the pieces were attributed to poets and composers who perished in Nazi concentration camps. 

I wondered about the quartet of pre- and teen siblings a couple rows ahead of me. Would they “get” it? They were jostling and elbowing each other in normal but disruptive ways. Their parents were seated like bookends with their offspring between. I hoped that Mom and Dad could/would keep the kids under control. Then, just as the lights were dimming, I heard the rustle of newcomers settling into the row directly behind us. I looked around to spot a young couple with two children, ages about three and one. 

I immediately flashed back to a free, noon organ concert that my late husband and I attended decades ago at the Mormon Tabernacle in Salt Lake City. The place was packed with tourists. The organist began with a brief welcome and firm direction: “If your child becomes disruptive or makes any kind of noise, do not hesitate to remove them immediately.” I don’t recall the organist’s name, but I have silently evoked his instruction whenever concerts get disrupted by crying or rambunctious children.

The audience dropped into silence for the opening “Intermezzo for Strings,” a floating, ethereal piece performed by The University of Washington Chamber Orchestra. The Jewish composer, Franz Schreker, had been forced from his position as director of an important music conservatory. But he cheated the Nazis out of killing him by dying after a stroke in 1933. 

The program continued, the youngsters in front of me quietly absorbed, the baby behind uttering only an occasional coo that was quickly muffled by her mother. About halfway through came a duet for violin and cello by Gideon Klein, a brilliant musicology student who died in the Fürstengrube camp at age twenty-two. The mournful, longing music ends suddenly mid-phrase, as did Klein’s incomplete life. In the silence that followed, before the audience could gather itself to applaud, the baby let out an anguished wail. Her cry said far more than our applause. Nonetheless, Mom gathered her up and exited the hall.

She missed the grand finale, “Farewell, Auschwitz,” a defiantly jubilant piece commissioned by Music of Remembrance. It was performed by The Seattle Girls Choir and Northwest Boychoir, along with instrumentalists and adult soloists. I was heartened by the discipline and beauty of the young voices. They were learning in a powerful way about an historical truth that too many try to deny.

Upon leaving the hall, I spotted Mom and baby seated on a bench. I perched next to them, the baby giving me a bouncing grin as I told her mom, “I’m sorry you had to miss the end of the concert. She was so good for so long, and I’m glad you brought her. She has that music embedded in her soul now.” Just as I finished speaking, another woman approached.

“Good for you for bringing the children to the concert,” she said. “They’re never too young.” 

Never too young — nor too old — to learn, to change, to grow, to remember.

Who Keeps Us Safe? (sometimes we never know)

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized1 Comment

Savoring my morning coffee, scrolling through email, I suddenly became aware of a red rope slowly snaking downward outside my thirteenth floor window. What the …!? No way of telling where it came from or where it was going. Before long it was joined by a blue rope, the two of them swaying in the breeze, a sinuous tango, occasionally touching, then parting.

Mystified, I went about my morning ablutions. When I emerged from my bathroom, I discovered a man in a boatswain’s chair outside my window, expertly clearing away soap with his squeegee. I’ve long admired the efficiency of professional window washers. With just a few graceful swoops, they make the world brighter and more clear than it was. Still, I prefer to watch them work when they have both feet planted on the ground, or on a low ladder. Because of my own exaggerated fear of heights, I don’t like to see anyone in precariously high locations.

The window washer, noticing me, smiled and waved. I placed my hands over my heart to signal both apprehension and appreciation. He put his hands together and gave a bow. Then, as he began to lower himself to the twelfth floor, he pantomimed falling, first with a startled expression that gave way to a big grin. Obviously an act he’s perfected over the years.

I can’t shake from my mind how relaxed, at ease he was, trusting his life to just two ropes. No doubt he regularly scrutinizes them with an eagle eye. Still, it’s a leap of faith, not only in his equipment, but faith in whoever ran the machine that braided those ropes in the first place. He’s vitally connected with someone he’ll likely never meet.

Window cleaning isn’t on the list of the hundred most dangerous occupations, compiled by the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health. OSHA reports eighty-eight window cleaning accidents over a fifteen-year period, sixty-two of them fatal. That’s out of millions and millions of windows washed. Squeegee Squad, a commercial window cleaning firm, claims that “statistically speaking, it’s safer to be a high rise window cleaner than it is to drive a cab.”

Or, safer than driving on rural two-lane highways, which is where I’ve driven most of my life. A federal safety initiative reports that more than twelve thousand deaths occur each year on rural roadways because drivers cross the center line or run off the road. That’s about a third of all annual highway fatalities, even though the interstates and city roads handle way more vehicles.

I used to think about that in my frequent travels along SR97, the north-south highway that bisects Washington state. I’d watch vehicles hurtling toward me at sixty mph (usually more) and think, I’ll never meet that driver, but my life depends entirely on their sobriety and attention. I’d silently message them: be aware, be safe. Then there were the occasional heart-in-throat moments when drivers passed recklessly, forcing others to brake and pull onto the shoulder. My messages were less silent and not kind.

“We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny,” wrote Martin Luther King Jr. in his remarkable Letter from Birmingham Jail. “What affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”

We think we’re such independent individuals. But whether we’re washing windows on the thirteenth floor or driving along a two-lane highway or just reading words on a screen, we’re all as closely connected as one heart beat, one breath.

When It’s Time to Take Flight

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Inquiring minds have been asking: with dozens of retirement communities to choose from, how did I select Horizon House on Seattle’s First Hill? Simple. When I moved here two months ago, I was following Raven, who’s a significant totem in Northwest native stories. A stunning yet obstreperous bird, Raven has magical power — both good and bad. In my case, all good.

I refer to Raven as represented in a magnificent mask created by British Columbia native carver Garry Rice. I first saw the mask when it hung in the oceanside home of my longtime friend Jill. Despite the hypnotizing view of the vast Pacific, it was the raven mask that dominated her living room. Extending five feet from thatched topknot to forceful beak, its eyes declare “you are being watched.” The beak agape suggests an oracle about to speak.

The late writer and clairvoyant Ted Andrews, in his book “Animal-Speak,” said Raven was credited with bringing forth life and order by stealing the sunlight “from one who would keep the world in darkness.” 

Winter is an ideal season for people whose totem is Raven, Andrews wrote. After Winter Solstice, the light lingers a little longer each day — symbolic of Raven’s influence: “It teaches how to go into the dark and bring forth the light. With each trip in, we develop the ability to bring more light out.” Raven’s black feathers are especially significant, Andrews suggested: “In blackness, everything mingles until drawn forth, out into the light. Because of this, raven can help you shape-shift your life or your being.”

Apropos for carver Rice, who was originally a fisherman and logger. Injuries forced a career-change at midlife, and he became a respected and renowned creator of indigenous art. Last year it was time for me, too, to shape-shift my life and being.

A few years ago Jill had left the ocean and moved to a retirement community. Her new apartment was too small for the mask, but that establishment declined her offer to hang it for public viewing. She decided to donate it to Horizon House, which boasts a stunning, curated collection of art throughout all public areas. Much of it has been donated by residents who faced the same pickle as Jill. She mentioned the donation to me at the time. I’d never heard of Horizon House, but the seed was planted. Some day, I thought, I might want to live there. 

When that some day dawned last year, I knew I might be inclined to make a hasty or emotional decision. I invited my niece — a wise and successful businesswoman — to tour Horizon House with me. While I repeatedly veered off-course to study yet another sculpture or painting, Sandy stayed on-point, asking significant questions I’d never thought of. Ultimately we reached the corridor where Raven once again is a dominating force. Exquisite lighting allows the mask’s reflection to appear on interior windows across the hall. A few steps away from Raven, our tour guide opened the door to the serene aqua of a salt-water swimming pool. 

Art! Raven! Salt-water pool! Where do I sign?

Twice since I moved into my thirteenth story apartment, a crow has landed on the air conditioner ledge outside my window. Crows and ravens are cousins in the Corvidae family. On both those visits, the crow peered through the window just long enough to observe, “Okay. You seem to be settling in,” before flying off. 

***

NOTE: For those who may want more, uhm, straightforward information about choosing a retirement community, I recommend (for Washington residents) this information page on the Washington Continuing Care Residents Association site or outside Washington, the National Continuing Care Residents Association.