Dr. Brown, a musical virtuoso from whom I took piano lessons as a girl, had just announced that I was going to be performing in an April recital. He was a keenly-intelligent man, with tortoise shell glasses and fine dark hair that flopped down on his forehead when lost in the passionate performance of a Liszt sonata.

That afternoon we were going to find something “fun” for me to play in front of 20 other students and all their friends and relatives. As a third grader, the very idea of this kind of public exposure was like swallowing ice. 

I never crossed paths with Dr. Brown’s other students, so I had no idea of what to expect. My mother just dropped me for lessons at the Brown’s split-level behind the mall and left me for 30 minutes every Friday afternoon. I wanted to please Dr. Brown, but not enough to practice. All week I’d pound out pieces I already knew and then, sick with fear, go to my lesson and stumble through the piece I hadn’t attempted since it was assigned.         

Dr. Brown always said, “I can see that you’ve practiced,” which made me wonder if Dr. Brown was testing me, being sarcastic, or was perhaps, terribly poor and in need of the $6.75 he was paid each time I showed up clutching my Bach Inventions. 

On the day of the recital, I was nauseous with anxiety. We gathered in the very utilitarian educational hall of a church on Route 2, with its linoleum floor and high windows—much like a gym. Or a prison. The piano had been angled so that the audience could see your fingers. It was blond—which seemed wrong.  

Dr. Brown’s other students sat on the aisles, scattered throughout the rows of metal chairs. I checked them out as if I’d just discovered siblings when I had hoped I was an only child.

The girl performing just ahead of me sported a silky ponytail, wore nylons and clearly practiced. She was playing “Rhapsody in Blue” with an orange. Fun! In her left hand, she grasped the leathery fruit and every time she crossed her left hand over her right to hit a note, she did it with the orange. The applause was spectacular.

I heard my name called from very far way, having pretty much left my body by then. I walked to the front of the room in my short white socks knowing I should adjust the bench but to prolong the attention would have been unbearable. 

My mother thought this experience was good for me because 1) girls should know how to play the piano and 2) she believed suffering makes you a better person. Suffering gives you substance. Depth. Wisdom. She also believed that if there are two ways of doing something, you should choose the hardest way. That too, would make you a better person.  It is a philosophy a lot of us were raised to believe.  That life is a school, adversity builds character; loss makes you real.

I’ve been unlearning this of late and it was not Dr. Brown who made me reassess this theory but my friend Ed who happens to be a minister. I was flopped on an easy chair in his office going on about how hard I was working to improve, when Ed said meditatively, “Hmmmmm, I’m pretty sure the universe doesn’t require perfection.” Ed actually said “God,” but “universe” seems more inclusive.

I walked to my car a bit stunned at the ramifications of that thought. If perfection isn’t required, maybe life isn’t a school with tests for advancement. Maybe school is an overly simplistic, very human paradigm, placed over something too great to comprehend—a perfection that has always been there, can’t be earned, that doesn’t recognize hierarchies. It just is.  

Last summer I was in my office listening to a webinar on intuition. The instructor put us through a guided meditation, and out of nowhere Dr. Brown popped into my head. I had not heard his name, nor thought of him in 45 years, but a wave of energy moved through me like music, and his name stayed with me like a refrain. 

Later that night I went online to see if I could find him. Brown is a common name, I added, “composer, performer, piano,” before I found the right man. He had died leaving behind an adopted son I remembered as an adorable little blond who played quietly in another room during my lessons. 

In May, NASA released the sonification of the black hole at the center of the Perseus Galaxy. It is spinning through space in the key of b-flat, 57 octaves below middle C. 

I read years ago that Earth itself rotates through the solar system in the key of b-flat.  I wish I could ask Dr. Brown if this is true. 

What I suspect is true, is that life is not a performance up for unforgiving review. 

It’s a symphony, it’s a ballad.

It’s a love song.  

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here. 

 

Before my grandfather died, accidentally struck by a 16-year-old driver in broad daylight as he walked to his Wednesday-afternoon bowling league, he built a 6-foot-long telescope to study the heavens. It took a year just to grind the lens. When completed, he mounted the telescope on the wheel drum of a Model A Ford so it could rotate. I was 12 when he was killed so we didn’t have a lot of time together. I wish I could have known better the man who built a telescope longer than I was tall, to see out into space and backwards in time.

I carry on his legacy as an Astro-fan—a participant in an ongoing astronomy class that originated at the local community college. We are retired NASA scientists, physicists, biologists, and one embarrassingly exuberant math-challenged writer. We seem to have nothing in common except a fascination with the grandeur of space, the beauty of the cosmos, and an unending curiosity about where it all came from and how it will end. 

Every week I learn something new about the origins of the universe, rogue planets, dark energy and quasars. Fascinating facts I presumptuously assume everyone will want to know. A charismatic writing client once asked, “What lights you up?” And I thought, “Well now, that’s a cool phrase,” and I knew the answer immediately—learning is the light– and like our ancestors before us we have learned to carry the fire when we travel, and, like Herb and Denise, who teach this course, to share the flame.

My astronomy class has seen the black hole at the center of the Milky Way and studied the evidence that smaller galaxies have merged with ours at least 7 times. 

Ten billion years ago, Gaia Enceladus crashed through the Milky Way and more recently we collided with Sagittarius Dwarf galaxy, although to say we collided is a misnomer. In the vast reaches of space, galaxies pass through each other routinely with virtually no direct impacts —just wild disruptions of orbits and redistribution of planets. It’s a cosmic dance, and our next partner, the much larger spiral galaxy Andromeda, will lead. 

Astronomers estimate there are 20 sextillion planets in the visible universe. I memorized that fact last week, so I could imagine the immensity and so I could tell you.  

So much wonder in the world. I like to stun myself with remarkable discoveries so I can experience one of the few characteristics that is unique to humans.

Self-awareness, language, altruism?  

What sets us apart is our ability to feel awe.

We grow silent in the giant redwood forest—catch our breath at a mountain vista. There is a documented universal outcry at the moment of totality in a solar eclipse and a feeling of communal euphoria afterwards. 

Wait! Did you know that our ability to witness a total solar eclipse is time-limited?  

  Cup the match. Pass the flame. 

You witness the totality of the moon blocking out all but the ring of the sun’s corona because of a mathematically uncanny synchronicity. The sun’s diameter is 400 times greater than that of the moon, while the moon orbits precisely 400 times closer to the earth than the sun. 

But the moon is moving away from the earth at a rate of 1.48 inches a year. In some distant future she will slip from earth’s embrace and set sail into infinity. Some discoveries are about letting go.

The James Webb telescope will begin sending back to earth its first pictures this week. We will be able to see almost to the beginning of time—back 13 billion years to what astronomers call the “wall of last scattering”—the impenetrable plasma that existed until some 380,000 years after the Big Bang when photons were released to begin their journey from then to now. From there to you.

Prepare to be astounded. 

Prepare to feel your intense insignificance and your connection to what is limitless at the same time. Prepare to be awed.

A friend once said to me at a dinner party, “Oh I get it. You study this stuff because you think you are special—  that you are somehow connected to something infinite.” It was simply an observation and not a wrong one. Why did it feel like a challenge? There is nothing to argue. Ever. Only new things to learn.

 Light me up.

I took a sip of my wine and admitted, “True. And I think that love powers the universe in ways we don’t understand. And that love is refracted in the human spirit.” 

So, let’s look at the numbers again because reverence is evoked by vastness. There are 7.7 billion of us on this planet—the only planet in the solar system not named for a god. That’s 7.7 billion of us looking up at 400 billion stars in a Milky-Way sky.  

It’s not that I think I am special. 

 It’s that I think you are. As is the mysterious, uncanny, ever-changing universe that holds us in its arms.

 And I’m in awe.

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

This is about cows with boundary issues, and if you read this column regularly, you’re already saying, “No it’s not.”

Five heifers from my sister’s farm recently went on the lam. The jailbreakers are young, just weaned. They don’t even eat grain yet, but they’re brave and bold and maybe highly incentivized. How’d they escape the pasture? They didn’t jump the fence (though I’ve seen this). They didn’t find a break in the fence. They went under the fence at a stream.

Now they are their own herd of guileless youngsters, out past curfew, and it’s a bigger problem than you would think. They’re black, and even this young, they weigh close to 600 pounds. If a motorist were to suddenly come across one in the road at night, it would not be a good thing. Law enforcement was notified, animal control, neighbors, a veterinarian. It took days to even figure out if they were still on the property. Proximity to an airport precluded the use of a drone and the farm’s 80 acres feature a lot of wooded hillsides and sheltered hollows of oak, maple, and pine. But eventually they were located on a neighboring farm having a drink and some recreational weed which is cow-equivalent to water and real grass though I picture them having a beer and a smoke behind the barn.

It’s a serious problem. I love my sister and brother-in-law and would fix this if I could. As a mother, my theory is that the calves are heading for their mothers on the farm where they were born 100 miles south in Amherst. But that’s because mothers want to believe they are lifetime homing beacons for their offspring when it’s likely your offspring hasn’t thought about you in weeks, maybe months, and rightly so.

So cowgate has become a thing. My other sister and I check in periodically to see if the cows have come home, but I swear every time the answer is no, there is sincere concern for my sister, new brainstorming of solutions, and (I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry), a little fist bump for the cows.

As I write this 3 have been recaptured by experienced cowhands. The mastermind heifer and his cohort are still at large. They are all going to be shipped out west. Once a jailbreaker, always a jailbreaker, my brother-in-law says, and he should know. He’s been successfully raising cattle for decades. (Irrelevant fact: he is very handsome which makes you want to believe him.)

The cows can’t run forever. We know their freedom is limited, they’re on borrowed time. But I guess there is something about an underdog we can’t help but champion.

If you are an American, you are here because of another group of rebellious underdogs. The colonies, of which Maryland was the 4th largest at the time, took on an enemy 4 times their size in terms of population and one armed with incomparable resources. American Revolutionaries endured over 1,500 military engagements with a professional army over an excruciating 8 years. And unlike conventional wars, the War of American Independence was fought for an ideal. A principle.

Once declared, there was no going back. We’d be free or die trying. And we did die trying–25,000 men lost their lives in battle or from disease.

A ragtag army fought in below-freezing temperatures without coats or adequate clothing, marched for days without shoes, without medicine, shelter, adequate weapons, or food. Recruits could enlist at 15 years old with parental permission, 16 otherwise. A lot of teenagers fought this war.

George Washington’s biography, which details these years, will bring you to your knees in awe and gratitude. When you come to understand the sacrifice exacted, you come to appreciate more fully the absolute miracle of this or any republic.

We are surely as imperfect as a nation as we are imperfect as individuals. How could it be otherwise?

Yet what an astonishing privilege it is to live in a democracy. Happy Birthday America. I’ll be grateful long after the cows come home.

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

 

I have a confession. I read my horoscope (Pisces) every day in The Washington Post because (must I really spell this out?) the ones in the Post are completely accurate!

I also read the horoscopes of former flames to see if they’re suffering. 

Capricorn: “You will want to move on today but persistent thoughts of a certain someone make it impossible.” Yes!

Also in the confession category: my best friend mispronounces my name. She’s called me “Lora” for 15 years and I’ve never corrected her. Now I can’t. But it’s worse for my writer friend Brian Doyle who has been referred to as Drain Boyle, Brain Doyle and Brian Dooley.

Besides answering to the wrong name, I listen to books on tape and report that I’ve read them. And I think keeping a secret means you only tell one other person. Okay, two.

But back to horoscopes. Do I believe this stuff? Of course not? But I do know that words are the power tools that change experience into feeling. Because it’s not what happens to us as much as what we tell ourselves about what happens to us that creates our mood and determines our futures. That’s powerful stuff. And it’s all just story. 

Remember I told you I’m a student of neuroscience?

Well, did you know that when you hear the words, “I have a story to tell you, ”your brain sends out a flood of endorphins in the belief that intriguing information is on the way?

Research shows our brain believes what it hears, even when the words contradict the facts. For instance, we are affected by false flattery, even when we know it is false! (By the way, you look terrific today.)

The placebo effect makes people get better on the power of belief alone (cool), but recent discoveries show health improves even when patients know they’re getting the sugar pill! (Cooler.)

Don’t believe me about the influence of words? 

I have found your horoscope.

You are filled with joy when a burden is lifted today. A financial windfall is coming your way. Exciting news arrives before noon.

I know what you’re thinking. She just made this up! And yet…

We are affected by the story we tell and not just about ourselves but about others. Sure, the guy who cut you off in traffic could be a jerk. But the story you can write in response as you merge onto Route 50 is this. 

His mistake was unintentional. He’s as embarrassed as you are annoyed. He’s late to pick up a frightened 4-year-old. He’s distracted by his lab results. He would give his life for his children, just as you would for yours. 

Feel the difference? You are the author of all that you feel, and it so often is a judgment when it could be a gift. 

It’s not just an emotional sleight of hand. The primal brain is ego-centric and sees all action as inner-directed. When you criticize, you feel criticized. When you forgive, you feel forgiven. When you offer understanding, you feel understood. 

I have a story to tell you…

You are exquisitely compassionate, infinitely kind. In your heart of hearts, there is only goodwill– for yourself and for others. Love prevails. Goodness and mercy shall follow you all the days of your life.

That’s a story that could heal the world. Share the news. 

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.

Have you seen this? An unshaven man in crumpled khakis and a worn shirt, sits cross-legged on a cold, DC street corner with a tin cup at his feet. In his hands, he grips a square of cardboard upon which is printed, “I’m blind. Please help.” 

Well-dressed professionals clip past in their Stuart Weitzmans and Cole Haans on their way to professional jobs in plush offices with fake Ficus trees in accent-lit lobbies. Pretty women pause, dig in shiny shoulder bags, then toss in a quarter. Other passersby rush on, eyes averted. 

A slim young woman with dark hair pulled back in a bun—maybe 18, 19– passes the man as well, but stops and turns back. Kneeling in front of him she gently pulls the cardboard from his hands, extracts a marker from her backpack, and flips his sign over. As the bewildered man waits, unable to see what she’s doing, she scrawls a new message on the reverse side, hands the sign back and walks on. 

Over the course of the day, elapsed in U-Tube time, people stream past the blind man as before, except now, nearly everyone stops to place cash in his cup. Coins drop like rain, a flood of thoughtful compassion. The afternoon wears on and the perplexed man continues to hold up the sign the young woman has written. His cup overflows.

As shadows lengthen at the end of the business day, the woman returns from the opposite direction. When she greets him, the man recognizes her voice. “What did you do to my sign?” he asks helplessly. He is confused by his new success, the magic of what she has done. She responds, I wrote the same, but in different words.

As the camera pans out, the sign becomes visible. In black block print, the girl has written, “It’s a beautiful day and I can’t see it.”

Words change everything. Luck, energy, desire, vision—the way you see the world and those with whom you share it. 

Last Christmas I had one of those circle-of-friends candleholders on my coffee table, only the ‘friends’ were 3 elves, facing inwards, their little backs to the observer, holding hands around a lit votive. As I moved them to put a pizza down, I mentioned to my friend Rick that the little guys appeared to be circled around the glow of a burning log in a cold forest. 

Rick, whose job description includes words like “covert,” “Pentagon,” and “flight schedule,” said dispassionately, “Yeah? I think they’re hiding something.”

Perspective. Like everything else, it’s a story we tell ourselves based on our experience of the past. That doesn’t make it true, nor a prediction of what’s to come. 

My three kids have lived all over this country and all over the world, and I have missed them. My son left home at 17 to live in New Zealand for more than a decade. One daughter lived in New Orleans for years, then Vermont. Another daughter moved to the United Kingdom 12 years ago, and I can’t imagine she will ever live closer than an ocean away. I have missed weddings and births. Friends with kids nearby have felt sorry for me. I felt sorry for me, too.

Then I wrote the same story but with different words. 

The kids are happy. They call home. They have created meaningful lives. They have found people they love. 

It’s a beautiful day. And I can see it. 

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.