Creating an Imaginative Life

Copyright 2006 Michael Jones.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Note for Librarians: A cataloguing record for this book is available from Library and Archives Canada at www.collectionscanada.ca/amicus/index-e.html

ISBN 1-4120-9489-5

ISBN: 978-1-4669-3412-2 (ebook)

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Contents

Permissions

Acknowledgments

Following The Songlines Of The Heart

Dancing With The Animals

Casey On The Beach

Wild Horses On The Plains

Meeting The Dragon

Music Of The Spheres

Visitors By The Fire

The Quinte Hotel

Wings On The Wind

Songs Of The Earth

One Summer In Chimo

Who Will Play Your Music?

Images On The Reel

Finding My Own Way

One Voice To Sing

Everywhere We Are Is Called Home

Finding A Musical Intelligence

Living What We Love

Joining The Dance Of Creation

There is a story living in us

that speaks of our place

in the world.

It is a story that invites us to

love what we love

and simply be ourselves.

The story is not given to us,

it flows naturally from within;

to hear it we have only to be silent

for a moment

and turn our face to the wind.

Michael Jones

PERMISSIONS

Thanks to the authors and publishers who gave permission to excerpt from the following works:

Excerpts from A River Runs Through It by Norman McLean. Copyright © 1976 by University of Chicago ©1989 Pennyroyal Press, Inc. Reprinted by permission of The University of Chicago Press. Excerpts from the Pleasures of Music edited by Jacques Barzun. Pages 96—97. Copyright © 1951,1977 by Jacques Barzun. Reprinted by permission of The University of Chicago Press. Excerpts from the poem Two Kinds of Intelligence by Jelaluddin Rumi from This Longing. Translated by Coleman Barks and John Moyne, Copyright © 1988 Threshold Books, RD 4 Box 600, Putney, VT 05346. Used by permission of Threshold Books. Content by David Ignatow from Say Pardon © 1961, Wesleyan University Press. Reprinted by permission of University Press of New England. Selections from the Rumi poems love plays and plays and is the music played and When have you ever been made less by dying excerpted from The Way of Passion: A Celebration of Rumi by Andrew Harvey (Berkeley, CA: Frog, Ltd., 1994). Used by permission of the publisher. I Am Not I by Juan Ramón Jiménez reprinted from horca and Jimenez: Selected Poems, translated by Robert Bly, Beacon Press, 1973. Copyright 1973 by Robert Bly. Reprinted with his permission. Excerpts from Chopin: Pianist and Teacher by Jean-Jacques Eigeldinger, edited by Roy Howat, translated by Krysia Osostowicz (1987). Copyright © 1986 by Cambridge University Press. Reprinted by permission of Cambridge University Press. Excerpt from the poem Wild Grapes by Robert Frost from The Poetry of Robert Frost edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Copyright © 1923, 1951 by Robert Frost, Copyright © 1969 by Henry Holt and Co., Inc. Reprinted by permission of Henry Holt and Co., Inc. From the poem Her Grave from New and Selected Poems by Mary Oliver. Copyright © 1992 by Mary Oliver. Reprinted by permission of Beacon Press. Excerpt from the poem Out on the Ocean from the work Songs for Coming Home by David Whyte. Copyright © 1989 by David Whyte. Reprinted with kind permission of Many Rivers Company, PO. Box 868, Langley, WA 98260, (360)221-1324. Excerpt from the poem Ten years ago… from The Heart Aroused. Currency Doubleday Copyright © 1994 by David Whyte. Reprinted with kind permission of Many Rivers Company, PO. Box 868, Langley, WA 98260, (360)221-1324. A Man Lost by a River from Days We Would Rather Know by Michael Blumenthal. Copyright © Michael C. Blumenthal, Viking-Penquin, 1984. Reprinted with permission of Michael C. Blumenthal. Excerpts from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, by Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell. Translation Copyright © 1982, 1983 by Stephen Mitchell. Reprinted from the Vintage International Edition, December 1990 by permission of Random House Inc. Credit is given to HarperCollins Publishers for permission to reprint excerpts from the following publications: Peripheral Visions Mary Catherine Bateson. Copyright © 1994 by Mary Catherine Bateson. The Enlightened Mind, An Anthology of Sacred Prose Stephen Mitchell, Harper Perennial. Copyright © 1991 by Stephen Mitchell. The Enlightened Heart, An Anthology of Sacred Poetry Stephen Mitchell, Harper Perennial. Copyright © 1989 by Stephen Mitchell. The Writing Life by Annie Dillard. Copyright © 1989 by Annie Dillard. Selected Poems of Rainier Marie Rilke translated by Robert Bly. Copyright © 1981 by Robert Bly. The Art Spirit by Robert Henri. Copyright © 1923 by J. B. Lippincott Company, renewed 1951 by Violet Organ, Copyright renewed 1958 by Forbes Watson. Excerpts from A Mantis Carol by Laurens van der Post. Copyright © 1975 by Laurens van der Post. Excerpts from Rainer Maria Rilke; Rilke On Love and Other Difficulties, translations and considerations by J. L. Mook. Copyright © 1975 by W. W. Norton Co.

An exhaustive effort has been made to clear all reprint permissions for this book. If any required acknowledgments have been omitted, it is unintentional. If notified, the publishers will be pleased to rectify omissions in future editions.

For Judy

Acknowledgments

Writing, like piano playing, is a solitary activity, yet I rarely feel that I create alone. These words and thoughts carry within them the inspiration of many people. Although there is not nearly enough space to acknowledge them all, 1 would like to mention a few:

John Morey and Diane Almond, who first suggested the idea of writing this book; Andrea Malinkovitch, who brought me back to the stories while editing many of the early versions of the manuscript; Jean Donelson, who offered the light of clarity when my writing went too far off track; Mary Jane Ryan, whose final editing suggestions made the book much better than I could have on my own; Dawna Markova, who guided the book to a welcoming home; James Fadiman, who reacquainted me with my storytelling voice; Gary Diggins, for pointing out that I don’t cage the animalsl dance with them; Toby Simon, who introduced me to the writings of John Gardner and first asked how I would describe my musical intelligence; David Whyte, who reminded me that I had a poetic voice within my own soul; and William Isaacs, who invited me to join the Dialogue Project at the Organization Learning Center at M.I.T. where I could share this voice with others and bring along my piano as well.

I also want to thank all of those who offered insight and encouragement as the manuscript progressed: Kelly Anderson, Anne Aufderheide, Judy Brown, Andy Bryner, Jerry Cellilo, Rita Cleary, Diane Cory, Linda Crawford, Lynn Dhority, Karyn DiCastri, Gary Dover, Sheryl Erickson, Betty Sue Flowers, Sandra Friedman, Ted Fullerton, Connie Gage, Barb Gale, Ben Garber, Christine Harris,

Sue Miller Hurst, Kathy Lanser, Eric Lindert, Connie McDermott, Robert Miley, Lucky Paul, Irene Perikhal, Florence Riley, Suzanne Robinson, Stephanie Ryan, and Wesley Van Linda.

I would also like to thank Carol Wright and Marilyn McGuire for editing and publishing an early version of The Quinte Hotel in the NAPRA Journal, and Peter Hawes and Bonnie Insull for editing and reprinting a version of Dancing with the Animals in Connections, published by the Music for People Foundation.

Most important, I offer my heartfelt appreciation to my wife, Judy, whose moon has been a constant reflection of my own sun, and to my parents, Allen and Laura, who encouraged each of us to live original and imaginative lives.

All good things … come by grace and grace comes by art and art does not come easy.

Norman Maclean

A River Runs Through It

Following the Songlines of the Heart

Several years ago, I spent some time at an educational center on a remote part of the California coast. I was leaving soon for Japan to give several concerts, so occasionally I used the old upright piano in the corner of the busy dining room to practice after dinner. Behind me there was the steady hum of animated conversation.

Most people were familiar with me and my piano recordings. But there was also a regular turnover of attendees. The young man who joined me on the bench one evening was one of these.

I enjoy your music, he said when I had finished playing.

I thanked him. I was about to get up from the bench when he added quickly, There’s just one thing …

What’s that? I asked.

You sound too much like Michael Jones. Then after pausing for a moment, he added, You really should develop your own style.

I hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say.

"I am Michael Jones," I said finally, wondering what reaction this might provoke.

He thought about this for the longest time. Then he said, No you’re not! The certainty in his voice left little room for debate.

For the next few moments we sat on the bench, arguing about who I was; an argument that I was sure I was about to lose.

Here, I said finally, pulling out my wallet with the driver’s license from my hip pocket and pushing it into his hand.

He examined the picture carefully and then looked back at me.

"You really are Michael Jones," he said with a whisper. Quickly he apologized, shook my hand vigorously, and rushed off to tell his friends.

I took this opportunity to step outside and listen to the surf breaking up on the rocks below, recalling a similar encounter at a conference a few months before.

Do you know who you are? someone had said to me there. He was halfway through a bite of vegetarian lasagna when our conversation turned to music and to one of my recordings that he knew well.

It was an important question, because there was a time in my life when I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know how my subtle trust in the instinctive and imaginative world fit within the context of the rational and orderly world I inhabited each day. How was I to speak of this realm to others, who were convinced that it either did not exist or, if it did, was simply a world of fantasy that was trivial and irrelevant?

I remembered, as a child, when I wrote my first song. Unsure of its outcome, I worked on it secretly for several days. Once it was done, I was amazed with the sound. It had a melody, a rhythm, a key signature; it had a beginning and an end, and I loved it so much that I played it every day. And yet, while this accomplishment filled my life to the brim, the hours of concentrated effort that I brought to the task seemed irrelevant when seen in the context of the more urgent demands that were then being asked of me. There was homework to do and errands to run. I was the oldest son, with three younger brothers to tend. Even at this early age, there were many things I was being asked to do that had more importance in the world than my little song. And yet, for me this was probably the most significant thing I had ever done. Not only did it signal the value that music was to have in my life, but—perhaps of even more importance—I was being made aware that even in the midst of the demands of the world, I was also being invited to respond to what seemed to be the impractical and useless calls from within.

There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain, writer Annie Dillard says to us. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

What I have come to see through my own life and those of others is that each life is given something, a question perhaps or a curiosity, one not yet fully formed, but one whose nature is so compelling that we are drawn to it like a gravity pull. We live in service of it, sometimes blindly following its trail, even if we are offered only a few subtle cues to guide our way. The trick, of course, for each of us is to discover how to follow the clues.

The most demanding part of living a lifetime as an artist,

Annie Dillard goes on to say, quoting the words of sculptor Annie Truitt, is the strict discipline of forcing oneself to work steadfastly along the nerve of one’s own intimate sensitivity.

What does it mean to follow the nerve of our own intimate sensitivity? What is it that has true heart and meaning in our life? Is there something that we can be steadfast about, something that so attracts our curiosity, interest, and passion that we are willing to stand with that above all else? Is it possible to uncover the doubts and uncertainties that so often disguise these mysterious attractions and curiosities with vague feelings of dissatisfaction and a business that dulls our senses and claims our lives?

For many years, I resisted these questions. I am a pianist, I would say I don’t know how to speak of this in words. I was content to simply sit at the piano, to let it be my oasis, a place to which I could retreat from the chaos and pain of the world. But life had other ideas. One evening, I sat in the Green Room in a small concert hall in New England. It was intermission. I had a few moments to plan the second half of the evening. Generally, I didn’t submit program notes in advance, preferring instead to play through the music as I felt it, rather than try to force my program to fit some preset plan.

So, I was using this opportunity to sketch out some ideas on the back of an envelope before the second part of the evening began.

What about Swallows in Space? I mused to myself. No, just a minute, I played that one in the first set… . Well, okay then, how about Aspen Summer; that would be a good start, and then I could go on to … Spring Song. Suddenly, my throat became very dry. I had played all of these compositions in the first half of the evening.

No, that’s impossible; how could I have? I said to myself.

Although I had played only a few concerts, I had never run short of music before. I knew I was a little nervous tonight, but did I play them that fast? My mind was racing. As soon as 1 noticed its rapid pace, I realized that perhaps I had. But there was no further time to waste trying to figure it out. The lights were flickering on the stage, and in a few moments, four or five hundred people would be returning to their seats in the hall. They would be expecting me to return to the stage as well. But I didn’t want to go—I didn’t have any more music left to play.

Slowly I walked across the stage and sat at the piano. My mind was foggy, but fortunately my voice was clear. I turned to look across the darkened hall. I was able to make out some faces in the front two rows, so I spoke to them. This relaxed me.

People sometimes ask where the inspiration for my music comes from, I began. I have sometimes wondered the same thing. As I talked, I surprised myself with how quickly I warmed to the task. What came to me to speak of were not so much theories or ideas, but stories, ones that spoke about my life and where the music had come from. What was so significant about the stories I chose to share was that I had forgotten that they were there. They were not the ones that I usually told. In fact, these had been so distant from my mind that I could no longer be sure that they were true.

Perhaps the stories that hold the most significance for us work this way. They are experienced and then forgotten. When they are recalled, they are no longer simply a part of our