Last week, we celebrated Independence Day here in the U.S. 🇺🇸

We went canoeing with Rory, I made a red, white, and blue charcuterie platter, and we reflected on the meaning of freedom, democracy, and independence and how this plays into our work as musicians and teachers.

And that led me to Benjamin Franklin. 

Franklin was a Founding Father of the United States, signing the Declaration of Independence, the Treaty of Paris, and the U.S. Constitution. There's also the famous story of flying a kite in a thunderstorm with a key attached to test his theory of electricity. 🔑

But it turns out there's a lot more to learn.

I climbed onto the stage, my black patent leather Mary Jane’s clacking across the hardwood floor. I sat down at the Kawai piano and placed my hands in C position. I was performing “A Short Story” from Suzuki Piano School, Vol. 2, which my teacher said was a challenging recital piece (I refused to listen).

I was 10 and perhaps overly confident because as I entered the final section, I caught a glimpse of the audience. The stage lights were bright and the room was dark—too dark to see anyone’s faces, thankfully, but it was impossible to miss the steady red light of the shoulder-mount camcorder my dad had perched on his left shoulder (remember those??).

The room grew quiet for a moment when the lights dimmed, but applause quickly broke out as soon as he stepped onto the stage.

This was the ninth and final concert in a year-long journey through the Beethoven Piano Sonatas (all 32 of them) performed by Eastman faculty member Alexander Kobrin.

Since September, he's presented a program of 4-5 sonatas in consecutive order on the 1st of each month, all from memory.

We were about to hear his first attempted public performance of Sonata No. 29 in B-flat major, Op. 106 (known as the Hammerklavier).

I watched an online symposium recently about musical creativity and AI and… I have thoughts. 

In one sense, it's incredible how fast the technology is developing, its current capabilities, and its potential in the future.

It's also disconcerting.

There's no denying the powerful capabilities of Generative AI and its potential to support and enable our work as musicians, teachers, thinkers, writers, and creators. But I think it's important for us to consider: Is it helpful or hurtful?

Here we are, five weeks into the New Year. 

Maybe you're settled back into your routine or maybe you're still adjusting to the changes this year brought. Maybe you've abandoned your New Year's resolutions (studies indicate that 80% of people have by now) or maybe you're using February as an opportunity to restart. 

Wherever you find yourself, here are three things I've been thinking about recently that may inspire or encourage you in this season:

A few weeks ago, we spent a few days in NYC (our first visit in years!).

The holiday decorations were going up, Central Park was a dreamy late-fall landscape with a distinctly European feel, and I loved noting all the Art Deco details throughout the city (the doors, the signs, the tree grates).

The Holiday Market was in full swing in Bryant Park (side note: have you seen Something From Tiffany's? A great feel-good holiday movie set in NYC) and we saw at least three ice skating rinks and too many hot chocolate stands to count.

There's something magical about New York at Christmas and I found myself caught up in the sights and sounds, the wonder of it all (a little like Buddy and Jovie's date in NYC from my favorite holiday movie Elf).

This month marks the 50th anniversary of the classic TV special A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.

Synopsis: Peppermint Patty invites herself and a few friends to Charlie Brown's house for Thanksgiving dinner. The only problem is Charlie Brown can't cook. Still wanting to be a good host, Linus and Snoopy step in to help and together, they serve an unconventional feast of jelly beans, popcorn, pretzels, and toast and learn that maybe Thanksgiving is not about the turkey and mashed potatoes after all.

Maybe you grew up reading the Peanuts in the newspaper or watching the animated shows on TV. Maybe you had a favorite character (Snoopy!) or learned Vince Guaraldi's "O Tannenbaum" on the piano to entertain guests at holiday parties.

“If you're just tuning in, you might be surprised by the score,” the announcer said as the players jogged off the field at Sanford Stadium at halftime.

He was right. 14-3, University of South Carolina vs. No. 1 University of Georgia.

Those of us watching, in person or at home, were surely thinking the same thing: What's happening? Can Georgia turn this around in the second half?

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it means to be rooted in community.

There are the neighborly hellos on our morning walk: Lucy weeding in the garden, Amy walking Peter to school, Tony tending to his dahlias, and Darren walking Buster, the 11-year-old Golden Retriever.

But it’s those moments when you stop to talk—to ask how someone is doing, how you can help—that the roots of community grow a little deeper.

It was a late-summer afternoon in Georgia and we were buckled in the backseat of our red Astro van on our way to piano lessons.

As we pulled out of the driveway, my mother announced that today, I would navigate us to the piano teacher's house, turn by turn.

I felt my cheeks flush as panic set in. "But I don't know how to get there!" I said, my tone escalating. "We're going to be late!" (Yes, this was me, even at the age of eight.)