Like Picasso and Braque June 27, 2022

I met my puzzle partner Mike while singing with Marin Oratorio when I first retired, now nine years ago. In any chorus, I try to sidle up to the basses, who often sit adjacent to the sopranos, so that I can bask in our counterpoint. This cross-fertilization was a habit I developed in high school, when my buddy John Beck and I harmonized together in the back row, occasionally getting a stern look from Mr. O’Neill, our director, for perhaps harmonizing a bit too much.

During Oratorio practice, my black music folder routinely secreted a New York Times crossword puzzle in its left-hand pocket and a Pilot Precise V7 black-ink pen in its handy holder, both waiting for employment during any lull in the musical action. Mike started to look over my shoulder, curious about what was going on, and eventually he whispered a word or two for a clue that had escaped me. Ink out, solution in. Repeat.

It turns out Mike that was also a puzzler, with a wider practice than mere crosswords. He started bringing in other daily word puzzles he had saved up for me, as well as other types of brainteasers. I came to look forward to our puzzle exchange almost as much as singing. By the winter of 2015-16, we attempted – and completed – our magnum opus: solution to the GCHQ Puzzle, which I recounted in a contemporaneous post.

With time I had to end my tenure with Marin Oratorio to devote myself to architecture school, and my puzzling drifted into new dimensions. I moved on to cryptic crosswords, somehow latching onto those constructed by Joshua Kosman and Henri Picciotto in The Nation. I remained solo in this weekly endeavor, until Josh and Henri, abandoned by The Nation, portaged their puzzles to Patreon in 2020, just at the start of COVID isolation. I lured Mike into them at around this point. After all, what better way to endure a pandemic lockdown? 

My sister had also introduced me to the Saturday Variety Puzzle in the Wall Street Journal (which, despite its disturbing right-wing conviction, has some great free puzzles) and I then roped Mike into that, too. Mike quickly reciprocated with another weekly WSJ adventure – killer Sudoku – a Sudoku variant in which sums are provided for small pockets of squares rather than the numbers themselves.

Soon we craved even harder puzzles and discovered the National Puzzle League cryptics, many of which have some particular theme, pattern, or “meta” that must be conjured up, and some of which simply could not be completed by either one of us independently. Take the one written for a Boston convention, in which the trick was to discover that all the “T’s” had to be thrown overboard (but only in certain quadrants), or the one where an extra unused letter in some clues gave rise to phrase which then spelled out the title of a work, which can then be used to answer the clues themselves!

Lately, Mike became enamored of another puzzle that uses this meta strategy, the WSJ Friday “contest” crossword, though he confesses that his real motivation is the puzzler’s grail: a mug awarded to a randomly selected solver. The crossword itself is very straightforward, but the “answer” often requires several additional levels of calculus – literally each level is a derivative of the preceding one. My initial attempt at the contest was a failure, and like the  discouraged child, I threw down my metaphorical crayon in frustration. But recently I gave the contest crossword a second chance, and now that I’ve had a little success, I’m hooked, too.

These two types of meta puzzles have a certain quality that really benefits from a pair of solvers. For each level, at least one of us needs to have an insight, and then we can continue on until another insight is required. 

And now, at last, I come to relevance of the title for this post. Many years ago I grudgingly read a tome on Picasso, but there was a nugget in there I loved: At the end of each day, after working individually, Picasso and Braque had the habit of visiting each other’s studio to see what progress had been made. In this way, they developed cubism, and perhaps neither would have done it without the other. Picasso said, and I paraphrase, “We were like a pair of mountain climbers, each one talking the lead alternately, and that way, together, we reached the mountaintop.”

Carmina Burana April 24, 2022

I had already made the decision to forego my choir’s spring production of the Brahms Requiem. I had sung it in both German and English many times, and the choir had rehearsed most of it in spring 2021 before having to abort for COVID. Besides, as lovely as it is, the work is about death, and two years into the pandemic, I had had it. 

Up popped a different opportunity – singing Carmina Burana with the Marin Symphony Chorus. Carmina was not a work that I had ever aspired to sing. It is relentlessly blaring, tonal, and bawdy, not my usual cup of tea. But this year I needed something completely different. I needed the rhythmic jolt of singing my guts out!

I contacted my friend Abigail who sings with the Chorus and she encouraged me to audition. So I did, I was accepted, and we’re off. In a surprisingly small number of masked rehearsals, we learned the music, which was pretty easy, and the words, which were not. As our performances drew near, the masks came off and we joined the orchestra on the stage of the Marin County Civic Center Complex, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright.

O Fortuna! In this spin of the wheel, how lucky am I!

The Holiday Echo January 20, 2022

We all know the feeling of the holiday whoosh, from the fourth week of November to the first week in January, that predictable tsunami of celebrations from Thanksgiving to Hanukkah, Christmas to Kwanza, and then the New Year. 

Now we are on the heels of the holiday season, digesting calories and conversations. As we take down our greenery and candles, carefully replacing decorations in their boxes for another year, I gather up all the lovely cards and notes I’ve been sent with best wishes for the season and the year upcoming. I pause to look at them each again. I think about the friend or relative who has taken the time to write to me. Many share photos of their family, printed into a holiday background from Shutterfly, Minted, or Snapfish. And while selfies may seem self-absorbed, I enjoy them so much that for the past 10 years or so, I have done the same. I love seeing shots of a growing family, or an aging one, of happy times - a graduation perhaps, a new home, an engagement, or a college acceptance. Sometimes the annual note bears news of life struggles – the loss of a parent or a pet, perhaps an illness. It is a reminder of the ups and downs we all face, sooner or later. If last year was rough, the next may be much better, and if it was a good year, a reminder to never take it for granted.

My mailbox filled with artists’ renderings of persimmons and pomegranates, or cardinals in the snow. There were pretty cards from various organizations I support – an old photo of KQED headquarters, a sunny snowman from the California State Parks, a sheep from West Marin, a snazzy hot-pink design from Docomomo. Some cards are handmade – a watercolor, a woodland photograph, a lino block print – and all the more cherished.

The season is over now and I will have to wait another year to hear from some friends. Yet it will be as though no time has gone by at all.

The Daily Reflection January 10, 2022

I spent the first year of the pandemic in a mental bunker, just trying to survive without sinking into a major depression by filling my otherwise isolated life with art projects, word puzzles, books, and hikes. It was very lonely. 

The second year, post-vaccination, was a bit perkier. I started to teach high school. The opera and the symphony, restaurants and art museums - all have come back to life. Even our choir is singing in person.

And yet, I’m not fully “there” (who is?). I have a system in place, but I fritter away vast expanses of time in the effort to simply keep calm and hold depression at bay. “Just do something to get through this,” I say to myself, anesthetizing myself with the expansiveness of cryptic crosswords or the abyss of the internet.

Now, as we approach Covid’s second anniversary, I’m thinking it is time to get back on track, to make myself accountable on a daily basis. My friend Carl once told me that when he has a goal in mind, he asks himself everyday what he might do on that very day, however small, to move the plot forward. It strikes me as a noble practice, if one can develop the discipline to do it. 

Some goals may have a defined end-point, like knitting a sweater, while others may simply be to not lose ground, like exercising to keep the body in working order. And so I have been thinking about what is important to me and what would be the ingredients of a good day.

What have I done today to move the planet forward? This is my very strong Athena Goddess poking at my heels with her spear. Have I done something today that supports the greater good, like teaching, or writing about science, or making a financial contribution?

What have I done today to bask in nature? There is wonder and sustenance in Mother Earth. The moon, sun, smell of grass, ocean, rain – what have I done today to appreciate our amazing planet?

What have I done today that increased my joy? Did I laugh? Did I have a nice conversation? Did I see artwork? Did I make artwork? Did I eat something delicious? Did I listen to music? Did I dance? 

What have I done today to advance my own skills? Golfing? Tennis? Artwork? Singing? Writing? The list goes on and on.

What have I done today to increase my connection? Call a friend, write a letter, meet someone for coffee. 

This is aspirational. And by tomorrow, I fear, I will have forgotten I ever made these intentions.

The Fortieth Anniversary October 15, 2021

It has now been four decades since I first set foot in San Francisco. I moved here from Cambridge with my first husband who embarked on a fellowship at UCSF. I had no job and no prospects. That quickly changed when I landed a post-doc at the fledgling company Genentech. But that is another story for another day. 

The city seemed fresh and exciting with so many hills to climb and so many cheap restaurants to try. Even Chez Panisse was affordable for a special occasion. One of my first stops was San Francisco Opera. Birgit Nielsen was singing in Die Walkure. I spent what seemed to me a fortune, $35, on an orchestra ticket. Cars stopped for pedestrians. With a little perseverance, I could find a free parking spot almost anywhere. And then there was the Bridge – ah, what an experience! 

My plan was to get in and to get out before a big earthquake, but my husband and I both had succeeded in our work and were offered faculty jobs in the Bay Area in 1985.  Even then San Francisco was known for its exorbitant housing prices, but my Genentech stock had escalated and we could roll that into a down payment. We decided to stay. 

In the 36 years since then, I’ve retraced so many steps. I’ve owned three houses and five cars. I’ve been divorced, remarried, and widowed. I’ve adopted one child and three cats. I’ve worked my way from the lowliest assistant professor to professor emeritus. I’ve received two additional degrees, sung with a dozen different musical groups, and completed most of the Bay Area Ridge Trail. I’ve lost both parents and almost lost my daughter. And I’ve seen almost every production at the Opera house in all of these years. 

I can’t ever be a native, but so much of me is woven into San Francisco, and California in general. As long as I might live in the US, this will be my home.

The Long Day Closes October 11, 2021

I was heavy into binge-watching on Wednesday night when Julie called me with the startling news that the music director of the Marin Oratorio had died of a heart attack that evening, just as he was preparing for rehearsal. We knew that Boyd had a few health issues, but we weren’t prepared for this. Boyd Jarrell was a man of energy and enthusiasm, generosity and kindness. We were all enriched by knowing him. 

In Chamber Singers, with Boyd at the music stand, I had learned The Long Day Closes by Arthur Sullivan. It is a beautiful and haunting elegy that I cannot sing without the sting of tears. And though we sing it for others, we are made aware of the finiteness of our own lives and how our own day will close soon enough. 

And so it is those words and that beautiful tune that have been consuming me this past week, as I reflect on Boyd and his legacy – the Oratorio and the deep friendships made because of it. 

No star is o'er the lake 

Its pale watch keeping 

The moon is half awake 

Through gray mist creeping 

The last red leaves fall round 

The porch of roses 

The clock hath ceased to sound 

The long day closes 

Sit by the silent hearth 

In calm endeavour 

To count the sounds of mirth 

Now dumb forever 

Heed not how hope believes 

And fate disposes: 

Shadow is round the eaves 

The long day closes 

The lighted windows dim 

Are fading slowly 

The fire that was so trim 

Now quivers lowly 

Go to the dreamless bed 

Where grief reposes; 

Thy book of toil is read 

The long day closes

Finding One's Formant August 14, 2021

One of the few reliable pleasures of my pandemic experience is the semi-weekly vocal workout offered by San Francisco voice teacher Julia Nielsen. On Mondays and Wednesdays at 6 pm, I and other home-bound singers join Julia for a thirty-minute journey through imaginative exercises designed to improve our range, control, flexibility, and consonant production. 

Last week Julia introduced “vocal formants,” a concept that was new to me. The idea is that parts of our vocal tract – the mouth, the pharynx – resonate at certain frequencies depending on the vowel we are trying to form, because the formation of the vowel itself determines the size and shape of the cavities. When the chambers’ resonant frequency matches the pitch being produced by the vocal folds, we generate a richer and more focused sound. 

It occurred to me that the formant could serve as a metaphor for success in many of life’s endeavors. It is as though we are each producing our own pitch, but in order to really be successful, we need to find a formant that supports and amplifies our effort. Perhaps the formant lies in a parent or a partner, who is a receptive to our needs and ambitions and who supports our growth. Perhaps it rests in our education, where a certain teacher or class inspires and challenges us, or in a job that matches our abilities and propels us to a new level of expertise. 

In many aspects of life, our success is supported by another type of formant – as the old saw says, “being at the right place at the right time.” Knowing this encourages us to raise our antennae, to be aware of what is working for us, to look elsewhere if it isn’t, and to seize wholeheartedly on the gift that occasionally comes our way. 

A young person strides through school and college, meeting an enormous number of people along the way. Job opportunities are myriad for the youth, energy is high, the world lies like a smorgasbord of opportunity for the younger person. 

But in my experience, as we get older, formants are inherently harder to find. There is no NSF program for “old” scientists, no “way-past-emerging” artists program at the art school. And so I’m struggling to find my formant, especially during COVID. Like all of you, I’m dipping my toe in many waters, looking for that vessel that will support my needs, resonate with my values, and nurture my abilities. Oh formant, where art thou?

This changes everything July 16, 2021

I got the job. The one teaching at a local high school. Not just any local high school, but the one my daughter attended. The only school in the US to be located in a National Park, and a school with Buddhist precepts, at that. 

Kindly, the associate head of school reached out to me the day before my decision was due to address any concerns I might have. My biggest issue: I wanted to work part-time, specifically, I wanted to teach only Bio 2. I knew that it would be a challenge to adjust to high school teaching, especially at a progressive school, and I wanted to do a good job while still having some freedom. After all, I’ve just turned 68, for God’s sake! 

You could have knocked my socks off (if I wore any), but she found someone to teach the two sections of regular Bio. She asked if I’d like to be the sponsor for the Science Club – are you kidding me? Of course.

What a turn-around this job offer has given me. I feel as though I have a structure and a challenge going forward; I might even have a purpose. I will make some new friends. 

The spillover to the rest of my life has been remarkable. I don’t think it’s just being vaccinated against COVID or seeing my daughter more often that has put a spring in my step. I think it’s knowing there is something that needs me in the near future. 

Max Cowan, the late and exacting vice-president of the Howard Hughes Medical Institute, seemed to have a fondness for me, possibly because he knew my late husband. He once told me that in life one needs someone to love, something to do, and something to look forward to. I am still missing the partner, but I suddenly feel less lonely because I feel less despair. I have something to do and something to look forward to. Two out of three ain’t bad.

The home stretch June 20, 2021

Last August I wrote about my 101 Books Project, and I am now on the home stretch. It looks like I will have completed my goal of reading Yann Martel’s 101 recommendations to a Prime Minister within the year. Excepting those books that I couldn’t find at a local library or cheaply online - about a dozen - or those that I had already read and chose not to re-read - another dozen or so -, I will have polished off the remaining few within the week. They are pretty short, and I have nothing else to do. 

I am already sad that this journey is ending. Just within the last few weeks, the books I’ve devoured are explosions of creativity and meaning: One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Solzhenitsyn, Chess Story by Stefan Zweig, and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie. Added to that were three captivating plays, Caligula by Camus, Six Characters in Search of an Author by Pirandello, and Scorched by Wajdi Mouawad, and one quirky “novel in verse”, Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson. 

Yet, how I wish that another person would have been game for this literary adventure and savored these books with me. Somewhat understandably, my friends and family pooh-poohed the idea of plowing through someone else’s list of recommendations, but for me, during COVID especially, Martel’s guidance was a godsend. 

One never knows the impact one might have on another, so thank you, Yann Martel for reaching out from Saskatoon to Point Reyes Station. You may not have made a dent on the Prime Minister, but you’ve led me on a book odyssey, and I’m all the better for it.

To Teach June 16, 2021

Following the ordeal of architecture school, I intended to take off six months to recover my energy and to chart a course for my future, presumably one that involved an actual job in architecture. But the advent of COVID and its staying power edged me into a suspended state of inaction. 

I used the lull to reflect on the arc of my life and how I might best and productively employ whatever time I have left. I started to notice that my intellectual interest still lay in science, not architecture. I came to appreciate what a uniquely good fit science was for me and considered how I might exploit my expertise. More and more, teaching high school science or math emerged as a path forward, and I applied for a few positions in private schools (as public schools require a teaching credential). 

I was drawn to high-school teaching as a job worthy of my diminishing time. I remember one of my daughter’s elementary school teachers passing away (after 23 years on the job) and thinking to myself, “That was a life worth living.” During my stint as an interviews editor, I noticed a recurring theme of my interviewees, namely, the influence of a high school science teacher. I, too, had been strongly supported by two outstanding math teachers. 

Luckily, this spring I was offered the chance to help out with the science curriculum in a local high school, and I grabbed it. It was indeed as good as I had hoped for, with friendly and encouraging colleagues, students alert and ready for business, and my own mind stimulated. Coincidentally, one of the biology teachers opted not to return for the fall, and suddenly there was a real possibility of joining the faculty, including the opportunity to develop my own curriculum in advanced biology. Stay tuned.