Music and English on offer_31 May 2012

Hi, everyone!

I’m once again spreading the word about the Music and English services I offer. I’m based in the southern suburbs of Cape Town and would appreciate it if you’d forward this to your networks when you have a few spare minutes.

GUITAR LESSONS

My focus is on “social guitar playing as a fun, stress-relieving activity”, and I work with Beginners and “rusty Intermediates”. All the chords, strumming styles and picking techniques are practised in exercises, then applied to well-known songs. Most of my students have progressed to reading music and playing little instrumental pieces. I teach from my home in Heathfield, except when it’s a bigger group: I teach a church group at their hall. If you are thinking of learning to play the guitar, remember the keywords are patience and practice. Minimum age, 10 - but no maximum age! J

Lesson Rates:

Private: R80 (30 mins)

Private: R120 (1 hour)

Semi-private (2 students): R60 pp (45 mins)

Group (3 or 4 students): R60 pp (1 hour)

LIVE JAZZ FOR EVENTS (SOLO OR DUO)

An experienced performer, I am available for live gigs at events, as well as at restaurants, hotels, etc. In either solo or duo format, I do laid-back vocal-guitar music, ideal for dinners or other events where tasteful, unobtrusive, live music simply enhances the overall experience.

FUNDRAISING PROPOSAL

I have a cost-effective, collaborative fundraising proposal for clubs and organisations, which entails my providing live music at a reduced rate at your event. Please contact me (details below) for a copy of the letter. Winter’s a good time for bringing people together with good food and music, so why not turn it into a fundraiser? You could even host it at your home and keep the gathering cosy.

LOOKING FOR A VENUE FOR A CONCERT (MUSIC & POETRY)

It’s time for me to put on my next concert, where I’ll feature guest artists and perform my original songs, continuing my journey towards the release of my first album. (My demo can be heard on Soundcloud: http://snd.sc/f7WfNt, or type in my name.) If you can recommend a nice venue, or would like me to do a concert as a fundraiser, please contact me.

ENGLISH LANGUAGE SKILLS ON OFFER

With 25 years of teaching experience, I offer English tutoring to individuals or small groups, as well as English as a Foreign Language. I also do proofreading and editing, no matter how small the document.

Thank you for reading and forwarding this letter. Peace to you and your loved ones.

Trudy

Mobile: +27 83 491 3048 E-mail: guitartrudy@gmail.com

I Could Write a Book

Written Tues. 3 April 2012

It’s the second week of the school holiday, and the children are here with me. Last night, my son decided, uncharacteristically, to read me part of a story he’d been writing recently. It was the strangest feeling. Firstly, he decided to do so at a time when we’d all settled in for the night and I was about to write in my journal, my head filled with the day’s emotions and events. Appreciating the rarity of the moment, I decided I could always journal at another time, but I wouldn’t always have this bright, talented (beyond his own awareness) young man walk into my room and say, “Mom, I’d like to read you what I’m busy writing.”
And so, in the strangest-ever reversal of roles, my son read to me while I snuggled under the covers, listening, as the rich tones of his voice unfolded the story he’d just written. I looked at him as he read, and could see how much he loved the written word, and how much he enjoyed sharing his work with me. So why am I talking as though it’s so unusual? Well, he’s been a keen writer since primary school, he’s in his fourth year at high school, and this is the first time he’s actually done this! I’ve been patient all these years, waiting for him to feel comfortable enough to do this, and the moment arrived as organically and inevitably as I always believed it would.

The dynamics in our home have been hugely impacted upon by my mom’s recent condition, and it was quite significant that my son would end up reading to me at a time when it feels like the ground is disappearing beneath my feet, that my foundation is crumbling, that I’m about to fall and I need someone to catch me. The person who read to me when I was a little girl, whose beautiful voice lulled me to sleep and reassured me that everything was right in my world, is now so confused, so disorientated, she’s been withdrawing further and further into some twilight world, a world I not only don’t understand, but a world I’m being shut out of.

At night, it’s hard for me to fall asleep (I eventually switched off my light at 4a.m.), and the light of the next day can’t come soon enough, as I can then go into my mom’s flat and see how she is. I’m okay with the fact that she wants to sleep more than anything else, but I’m really worried about her missing meals. She looks really pale and she has dark marks below her eyes. Today I’ll sit and eat with her.

The light has gone out in my mom’s eyes. There’s a poignant song that the late Eva Cassidy recorded, and some of the lyrics are, “You’ve changed. The sparkle in your eyes is gone. Your smile is just a careless yawn. It’s all over now – you’ve changed.” It’s a love song, about the end of a relationship, but it keeps haunting me. I feel like my mom has turned a corner and she’s possibly not going to be able to turn back. I feel like I need to find peace with the fact that she’s has entered a different phase of her life, and that I need to rise to the occasion by acting appropriately, doing whatever’s necessary in order to make sure she’s taken care of.

I spoke to my son last night about our possibly needing to bring her into the main house, so that I can be around her during the night, too. To me, it seems as though we’ve passed the point where she should be living alone. She forgets everything, and I’m scared that she’ll switch on the stove, etc. and something will go horribly wrong.

This, of course, has ramifications beyond what I’ve discussed with anyone so far. Once I’ve chatted to my sister, we’ll come up with a plan that makes the most sense.

And so, as the new day greets me, graciously welcoming me into its early autumn glow, I know that what lies ahead, for the next fifteen hours or so, is going to be about a whole lot more than just buying groceries, doing laundry, driving my children to their various destinations and making sure they’re fed and happy, and more than just going to the internet café to check on responses to my guitar lessons ads and catching up with friends on Facebook, more than prepping and teaching guitar lessons later in the day – today’s going to have, as its constant backtrack, my mom and how she’s doing. We’ve decided to take turns popping in, making sure she’s alright, chatting to her, spending time with her.

On Sunday we had a gathering of the clan, and it was a good thing to do. My mom was one of four sisters: one of them has passed on, and one is in East London, so it was my mom (almost 82) and her older sister (almost 84) and most of the four sisters’ children, i.e. my generation. Five of the next generation were there, as well, and it was a very pleasant afternoon. My cousins were surprised to see how much my mom had changed since they last saw her, and appreciated the opportunity to hang out and spend time together. I felt supported by the love and concern of everyone, and I’m sure my sister did, too.

There’s something scary about this time, but I know that this is exactly what life is all about. If I resist the inevitability of what’s happening, I’m fighting the natural order of life, and I’ll frustrate the hell out of myself by trying to wish reality away.

I told my son that my biggest regret was not finishing the process of interviewing my mom to write her life story on the blog I started for her, because her memory’s severely impaired now, and she doesn’t have the energy to sustain a conversation, preferring to sleep all the time. He said I should write it anyway, piecing together what I knew of her life and focusing on how she shaped my life.

I was looking through my jazz ballad song file, the other day, and there’s a really sweet song called “I Could Write a Book”. It’s a song I intend to perform more often – something very soothing and beautiful about it.

Come to think of it, I suppose I could.

In the Wee, Small Hours of the Morning

Written at 00h45, on Friday 20 April 2012

Just back from a gig. Wide awake, full of adrenalin that just won’t subside. I’m actually very tired, but I have to wait for the water to heat up. We limit our usage of the hot water geyser, switching it on just before we need to shower/bath, so I’m waiting for the water to get hot enough to shower, and then I’m going to bed.

When my most recent relationship ended, after 8 and a half years, I made a promise to myself: I would give myself exactly six months to dwell on things, feel bad about the specifics of the break-up, mourn the loss of a soul connection, and beat myself up about some bad choices; after that, I would move on, open my heart, mind and soul to possibilities, and walk with peace, joy and confidence into my future.

Well, six months have now passed, and I consciously open my eyes to everything around me, taking it all in.
Now I’ve entered a brand new phase of my life, as I decisively walk away from certain aspects of my past.
Already, in just 2 days, I’ve felt the relief and excitement of honouring myself in this way. My new, non-negotiable approach to all relationships is this: if anyone does not respect me and honour what’s important to me, I’m not interested in pursuing that friendship. I’ve had to learn this the long, hard way, but believe me, I have now learnt the importance of being true to myself and of making my boundaries and expectations clear to the people I interact with. If I live my life in a self-respecting, self-honouring way, I set the standard for how others treat me. Everyone needs to be very clear about their limits. In the past, I second-guessed myself so much, that I stopped heeding my own limits, stopped listening to that little warning voice.

But no more. For the rest of my life, I will operate differently.

It’s 10:55 now, and I’m waiting for my son to finish a physio session. On-going knee recovery stuff.

Last night’s gig definitely is one for the records, or the autobiography, which, I suppose, I’m actually writing as a series of blog articles. I got to the venue later than planned, but judging by the absence of cars outside, I gathered that there wasn’t exactly a crowd. Once inside, I was told that I would be doing two sets, and not just one, as the other band had had a family tragedy. I had two simultaneous reactions: the first, quite by habit, was to panic, because I hadn’t brought all my song files, so I felt under-equipped. The second, in the spirit of “anything’s possible”, was to take a chance and call up a guitarist I enjoyed working with and see if he was prepared, at very short notice, to join me for the second set. To my utter delight, this shot-in-the-dark request yielded a positive response! I did the first set alone, and was joined by Keith Tabisher for the second set. It worked out beautifully. Keith and I have been performing as a duo since 2003, so we slip into a mode when we perform, that smoothness that comes after years of collaboration. He recently bought a new jazz guitar, and when he plays it, you can hear how satisfying it is for him to play; wow, he played so beautifully! For one or two songs, I put my guitar down and let him do the playing, while I sang - sheer bliss.

Even though there were fewer than 10 people in the audience (ouch!), I enjoyed both sets immensely, and the people who were there responded warmly. You win some, and you win others in different ways. 

Saturday in the Park

Written at 16h45, Friday 13 April 2012

♫Pum pum papum, puuum pum papum, puuum pum papum pum pum pum pum
Pum pum papum, puuum pum papum, puuum pum papum pum ♫

I’m one of those people who fixate on a song, listen to it obsessively, until it’s run its course, then move on to the next one. The phase could last a day, a week, or even weeks. My current favourite, swimming-in-my- bloodstream song is Chicago’s “Saturday in the Park”. I absolutely love this song! Listening to it right now. I love everything about it – hard to isolate one single thing that hooks me – although the opening riff, repeated later, is funky and fun, guaranteed to put a smile on my face and get my body moving. The other day I walked to the internet café, and listened to the song on my earphones (on my phone’s playlist) the entire time.

♫Pum pum papum, puuum pum papum, puuum pum papum pum pum pum pum
Pum pum papum, puuum pum papum, puuum pum papum pum ♫

By the time I got there, I think I’d listened to it six times. I even caught myself walking to the beat – haha! I can’t seem to get enough of it. I took a train to town yesterday, and listened to the song through the earphones over and over again, closing my eyes and losing myself in a time gone by, a time I find myself yearning for, occasionally. I opened my eyes, and sitting opposite me was an old friend, smiling and gesticulating for me to sit next to her. I reluctantly took my leave of Chicago, and went over to chat. Couldn’t wait for the return trip, to listen again. In town, after my first port of call, I took a walk up to Jazz Workshop, to buy a set of strings, and once again listened to the song repeatedly. Can’t explain it. I have to fill my being with it until I’m sated. I never subject others to this, however – I wouldn’t force others to listen. I’ll be honest, though: I used to do so - before I got earphones.

Today we had berg wind conditions, which means it was stiflingly hot (mid-30’s), with a moderate wind. The sky is fascinating on days like these, as the clouds spend hours forming and gathering for the inevitable rain. This is a day to wash blankets and towels, which is what I did.

But my day had as its focus, once again, my mom. I was out for hours, yesterday, and felt really bad to have left her alone for all that time, so today I think I overdid the nurse thing. Anyway, some progress was indeed made. It’s just very tiring for me, and very confusing for my mom.

One of the breakthroughs is that I now have a referral letter from the doctor, and will be taking her to hospital on Monday morning. External examinations have shown nothing, so now it’s time to explore further. I have no idea what to expect, but I suppose it’s quite impossible that they would admit her. I actually hope they do. I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m sure she’d be better off being looked after by medically trained people who’d know what her symptoms mean.

The part that saddens me the most is how, when my mom’s clear and in the moment, she asks me, “Trudes, what IS wrong with me?” And all I can do is answer briefly and honestly, telling her two doctors have examined her, have found nothing, and that the next step is to have tests at hospital. I have two theories, and they may even conflate, once the tests have produced results.

Isn’t it funny how we need to know the name of something, before we know how to respond. I don’t need to know the name of my mother’s condition – I just need her to be looked after properly. If she needs certain medication, she needs to be given that. If she needs to be on a drip, she needs that. All I do is fret and fuss around her, trying my best, sometimes handling it calmly and what I’d call successfully, but other times I get SO frustrated, as her forgetfulness makes her suspicious of my version of things (e.g. OF COURSE I’ve eaten - how can you say I haven’t eaten all day! I MUST’VE eaten – why would I NOT eat!?) Sometimes, when I can see my presence is causing more harm than good, I quietly retire to my house, a few metres from her flatlet. Even then, it’s really hard for me to switch off.

I try to imagine how frustrating it must be for her to experience herself in this weakened state. Before the 24th of March, she was hale and hearty, full of opinions, often cynical and intolerant, but a constant force in my life, keeping me strong and showing me, by example, that, when you have music coursing through your veins, you have everything you need. And now she doesn’t even play her piano, and the only time I hear her hitting those high soprano notes, is when she does what my kids and I call her ”opera sneeze”.

I’m trying to figure out, day by day, whether I’m supposed to be saying goodbye to my mom or whether this is a temporary thing from which she’ll bounce back, after treatment. Every part of me wants her to be the feisty person she used to be. Yes, full of beans sometimes, but that was just because we both have such strong personalities and opinions, and because we’re 31 years apart, were bound to look at life differently. VERY differently, sometimes. I need to remember these lessons for when I’m older and my kids are middle-aged.

And so, as I sit at my favourite typing spot in my house - the kitchen table - with the stunning view of the southern part of the Table Mountain range through one window and Devil’s Peak through another, I can only resign myself to the cycles of nature that are part of us all of the time. Nature gives and nature takes, and we have to soften ourselves, in order to respond to the ebb and flow of life.

As the clouds continue to merge and the heat of the day subsides, I give thanks for the people in my life, and for the love they show, in different ways. I have such amazing friends, who, with just a few words in an sms or a quick phone call, remind me that they’re a heartbeat away, and that I don’t need to feel alone. A friend of mine listened sympathetically while I told her how scared and out of control I felt, with my mom’s current condition, and then she gave me a huge hug, and I realised the importance of physical contact when you’re freaked out. It has a grounding, reassuring, calming effect, even restoring some hope.

I give thanks for my sister, and pray for her safe return from her overseas trip. I miss her so much. She has a matter-of-factness about her, after years in the Nursing profession, that I wish I possessed, right now. I keep thinking, “When Wendy gets back, SHE’LL know how to handle this!” I know how to sing, write songs and play my guitar, and I’m a good teacher and a good mom, but what I’m dealing with now - I’m WAY out of my depth.

I pray for an improvement – or, at least, stability - in my mom’s condition.


♫Listen children, all is not lost!
All is not lost! Oh, no, no!
Pum pum papum, puuum pum papum, puuum pum papum pum pum pum pum
Pum pum papum, puuum pum papum, puuum pum papum pum ♫

I Can’t Give You Anything But Love

Written Fri. 30 March 2012

I’m experiencing one of the strangest times of my life. My mother, who lives in the granny flat on our premises, has become different over the past week. She’s been a remarkable octogenarian, often with so much energy, I wondered if she’d got her age wrong! Until a few weeks ago, my mom was hopping onto the train, walking around in Claremont, her favourite shopping area, and going to shows with her friends, all at least 30 years her junior. Not only did she attend shows, but she also sang at concerts. She did her own cooking, cleaning and laundry, and, every single day, played the piano, singing along in her still-beautiful soprano voice, a true legend.

I often thought about how much time she spent on her own, when she wasn’t on the go with her friends (or any of us), and I accepted that, like me, she really enjoyed being alone. As long as I heard that piano, I knew she was doing what she loved – making music.

She hasn’t played the piano since Saturday, when I first noticed that she was suddenly looking tired, very old, and that she’d become withdrawn. I asked if there was anything wrong, if she had any pain, and she assured me that she had no pain, and that she was just feeling “lazy”. In fact, that’s what she always says, but then she just continues her usual activities, like someone twenty years younger.

On Sunday she was the same, and I told her I’d make an appointment with the doctor in the morning, as she’d been talking about having a general check-up for a while. We went to the doctor the next day (Monday 26 March) and there was nothing that the doctor could pick up that indicated any sort of sickness or ailment. Her heart was fine, her blood pressure was normal, there was no diabetes - in fact, my mom was extremely healthy! After the doctor, we went to Steenberg Village for a light lunch, and she enjoyed the sunny day, constantly commenting on the view, asking me about Ou Kaapse Weg, where it went to, etc. She ordered her usual toasted chicken mayo sandwich, but finished the chips and the salad and only ate one of the toast triangles. I made sure she took the doggie bag home, this time.  She was ok, but definitely not her usual, sparkly, feisty self. I tried not to ask her every few minutes if she was ok – I could see my concern was annoying her.

My mom’s memory’s been failing, in a pronounced way, for the past two years or so, with the past year showing a dramatic increase in severity. She remembers the distant past very well, but not recent things, and conversations often double-back, as we cover the same items over and over again.

My sister and I have come to the conclusion that my mom might be depressed, as old people often do become, when they slow down to the extent where they can’t mask their depression anymore. This is a topic which I won’t write about, for now. My mom’s never been sick, other than the usual cold and flu episodes, so we’re not used to her being incapacitated at all. Seeing her like this is weird. She doesn’t want to get up, so stays in bed all the time, and when we question her, she says she’s “tired”. She hasn’t been eating properly, for at least two days, and I’m afraid things can’t go on like this without serious intervention very soon. Like tomorrow!

I’ve often been accused of being too personal in my blog posts. Well, it’s my choice not to live in denial, but rather to be in touch with all the shades of emotions I experience. Right now, I’ve hit a low point, and writing is my refuge. My kids are away, and I’m alone. My mom’s a few metres away, but in her own place. I’m worried sick about her, but all I can do is wait for the morning, to pop in and see how she is.

I know for a fact that I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life; I liked having a partner, for all the right reasons. I was happy for a long time and thought I had found “the one”. The fact that that relationship ended disastrously doesn’t make me a different person – it just makes me a lot more cautious and, yes, probably more cynical. But I’m still the person who loved someone with my entire being, who invested myself in him, who grew to know the beauty that comes from a harmonious union, and who learnt, when the power imbalance became ridiculous, that I needed to create some space in order to honour myself. The true test of that kind of ‘experiment’ is what the other person does to fill the space you’ve created. It’s quite simple, really: some people pass the test, and others don’t. I’m still the same person, though.

Right now, I feel alone. Usually that doesn’t mean the same as lonely, to me, but this time it does. I’m so freaked out by my mom’s condition, so ignorant as to the way to deal with this (my sister is busy making an appointment with people skilled in these things), so scared and so vulnerable, I wish I had someone I could lean on. It’s 1a.m., and I’m alone. This time, I’m not enjoying it. Every now and then, when the burden of staying strong in the face of adversity starts to overwhelm me, I miss having a partner to help me through the really tough times.

When the time is right, I want to share my life with someone deserving of my kind of love and loyalty, someone who’ll get the balance right between space and togetherness, without a fuss. Someone who’ll understand that music is my oxygen, and that my children are always going to come first in my life – that it never has been, and never will be, a competition: parental love is different to partner love.

I don’t want to live a life of denial. I don’t want to pretend I’m ok when I’m not. I don’t want to hide the fact that sometimes I’m insecure and sad, filled with regrets and as-yet-unfulfilled dreams.

And even though I will get up tomorrow and bravely tackle the new day, with all things wonderful and mundane, and I’ll once again smile and sincerely believe that anything’s possible, it doesn’t mean I don’t feel like shit right now.

I’ve come to realize, in the past week, that, when it matters most, when you strip away all the things that money can buy, that just don’t make a damned difference, the only thing we can really give is our love.

My mother has been there for me every step of the way, for my entire life. It’s indescribably hard to deal with her current frailty. I pray to the universe for strength and appropriateness when handling her. She’s always been fiercely independent and proud, and I don’t ever want to undermine the dignity with which she’s always conducted herself. I pray for our family to do the right thing for one of its pillars.

On Sunday were having a long-overdue Family Get-together, in honour of my mom. She’s so cute, she didn’t realize it was in her honour, and told my sister she’d really like to go, too.

Waiting for my children outside Westerford High_10 Jan. 2012

Sitting in my car, waiting for my children, who’re fetching their stationery at school. Tomorrow’s the Big Day, day 1 of the new school year. It’s even more exciting for my daughter – and all of us, as well – because it’s the day she starts high school. My son, excitedly entering his fourth year of high school, is proudly taking her around the school today, showing her where to fetch her stationery, where to check the class lists, etc.

My children are among the fortunate to be able to attend one of the best schools in South Africa, Westerford High. Yes, I’m expected to qualify that by adding the word, “public”, in my description of the school and its ranking, but I choose not to. Private schools have more money than they can use, so they’re supposed to be able to offer everything money can buy – and, hopefully, many other things that can’t be bought. Westerford is a school that operates with considerably less money than private schools do, and, admittedly, considerably more money than the majority of public schools in our country, but there’s something about this school that sets it apart, puts it in a category of its own. In fact, this school is such a model of what a good school should be, that the Western Cape Education Department approached its management and tasked it with administering the setting up of a new public school, Claremont High, which opened its doors in January 2011.

Westerford is a public school whose best ambassadors are its students. Every single one of my son’s school friends, like him, raves about the school. At their age, school is the biggest part of their lives, and they seem to be thoroughly enjoying the experience. They feel respected, acknowledged and empowered. They understand that the systems and rules of the school are for their benefit, and they seem to appreciate the delicate balance between the strict rules and the wonderful freedom they enjoy in many aspects of their school life.

Since my son started at WHS, in 2009, I have been in awe of this school. As a teacher, most of my teaching experience has been at schools that were struggling, in one way or another.

The Apartheid-related education disparities saw schools for “Non-White” children getting a lot less money than schools for the privileged “White” group. This was, cruelly and illogically, staggered along a hierarchy that saw “Coloured” and “Indian” schools getting more funding than “African” schools. Along with other visible things, like the different types of housing allocated to the different groups (all predetermined by the Group Areas Act, one of the pillars of Apartheid, introduced in the 1950s), the difference between what schools look like in our country, is one of the glaring reminders of the inequalities of the past. I get angry when people say, “Can’t we just move on and forget about Apartheid? Why do people keep harping on the past?” Well, the reality of almost every facet of our lives is evidence of the past, so it’s not as simple as that. The main difference now is that people have access to better facilities (generally, the ones that were originally built for “Whites”) based on their socio-economic situations.

Westerford, in the old South Africa, was a White school, and as such, has the kind of infra-structure (a school hall, a swimming pool, sportsfields, a gymnasium, a library, an art room, a music room, etc.) that many other schools in our country did not have in their original building plan, nor do they have today. This does predispose the school towards success, because it has so much more to offer its students, but in Westerford’s case, there’s something more: the success of any organisation lies in the effectiveness of the leadership. If you lead with vision, strength and compassion, and you treat people like the precious resources they are, you’re bound to succeed. This is what I see as one of the most important ingredients of WHS. Other important ingredients are commitment and teamwork. This is evident in every aspect of this school’s life. But what really puts this school way above so many others in our country, is that it focuses on developing its pupils holistically. It puts effort into developing well-rounded individuals. Pupils reaching the end of their high school career at Westerford will have had five years of exposure to a world of knowledge and experience, where they’ve done so much more than the bare minimum that too many other schools seem to be content with. Every matric student at WHS passes every year, a proud record for many years.

And so, in conclusion, as I sit here waiting for my children to come out of the school grounds, proudly carrying their orange Waltons stationery boxes, faces beaming with excitement and anticipation, I have a deep ache in my heart, as I acknowledge that our country has a long, long way to go before every school has all the ingredients - that winning combination of excellent physical infra-structure, teachers, management, involved parents and cherished learners - that make Westerford the successful educational facility it is.