“Music is a mistress of order and good manners [who] makes the people milder and gentler, more moral and more reasonable.”

Martin Luther King, Jr.

There seems to be a controversy over the suspicion that Nero fiddled while Rome burned. Some say it was propaganda released by his enemies. Others say it’s true, representing Nero’s cruel disregard for his people. 

That catchphrase about fiddling while Rome burned might be the earliest one I remember. In either case, lie or truth, it has a nice ring to it. Whoever came up with it deserves an Oscar or whatever it is they award to advertising copywriters for catchy slogans like “you’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent.” Or “Brylcreem, a little dab will do ya, Brylcreem, the girls will all pursue ya.” Or “Just Do It.” Fiddling while Rome burns is right up there.

That phrase came ringing into my ears recently when a person who was very disturbed by the Constitutional crisis being perpetrated by the current Administration’s apparent blatant disregard for the rule of law called asking for help. She was very disturbed, not always successfully fighting off tears, and said she was dealing with serious depression. 

After reminding her it only raises havoc with one’s sensibilities to become frantic over things one can’t control — a logical but not very useful suggestion to a disturbed person — I had to think about how I was dealing with the daily shovels full of manure that were being carelessly heaved into the giant fan that has been installed in the White House garden where roses once bloomed. And there it was: fiddling.  

Music has been a vital part of my life since I started taking piano lessons at age 8. I remember liking a song on the radio called Tonight We Love, and asking my father if he could find the record. He knew the fellow who ran the music store. Dad came home with a recording of a piece by some Russian guy with the unpronounceable name of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. It was called the 1st Piano Concerto in B-flat minor, Opus 23, whatever that meant. I figured my father had blown it. Fathers aren’t cool when you are ten years old. 

I decided to play it anyway, what the heck and it changed my life. I still believe it’s one of the greatest pieces ever written. I must have listened to it 50 times since then, and it never gets old, never ceases to be emotionally stirring. And sure enough, Tonight We Love is in there, the songwriter having borrowed one of the 1st Piano’s most powerful themes and written lyrics to it. Some nerve. But that’s how I found it.

Tchaikovsky’s 1st Piano led me to his Swan Lake masterpiece and all the rest. It also generated a more intense application to the piano. I never got very good, but it is still marginally satisfying. I took music courses in college, developing a great affection for Brahms, Wagner, Chopin, Beethoven, Rachmaninov, Bruch, and Richard Stauss, among others. That helped when I interviewed the late conductors Seiji Ozawa (Boston Symphony) and Herbert von Karajan (Berlin Philharmonic). It was on the Ozawa project when I sat before the Boston Symphony’s powerful Director of Artistic Planning, a man with exhaustive knowledge of the repertoire who had a lot to say about the programs the orchestra played. His question of who my favorite composer was hung in the air while I summoned my courage to say Tchaikovsky. I hesitated, then apologized for my “top 40” response. This learned gentleman just produced a thin smile and said that Tchaikovsky is top 40 for good reason.

But I digress. Back to my friend asking for help. I shared with her how I was planning to get through this dark period in our history. I read a certain amount of news each day, keeping up with the depredation of the government – the unmitigated dismantling of departments and agencies created by Congress — because it feels like a responsible thing to do. But in this time when I find the new music unhummable, more like digitized noise accompanied by a sweaty presentation that looks more like an athletic workout than dancing, my pleasure – my life, my attitude – are gratefully enriched by revisiting the great music of the past. 

It’s a very deep well, widely varied for all tastes. It’s not just classical. 

Little Richard, Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, Bo Diddly, and a few others got rock ‘n roll started. Elvis made it personal. The Beatles and the Stones took it mass market, and The Eagles, Linda Ronstadt, Harry Nilsson, Leon Russell, Creedence Clearwater, Aretha Franklin, Ray Charles, Otis Redding, Bob Dylan, The Band, Mick Jagger, Elton John, Joe Cocker, Jimmy Hendrix, Count Basie, Jackson Browne, Randy Newman are just part of a very long list of incredibly talented musicians and their bands who elegantly hybridized it. And there’s Gospel, R&B, Country and Western, musicals, etc. Not to mention the array of inspired composers and artists from the 1940s, when romance – “Falling in love with love” — was a popular theme. Take your pick. 

Just browsing Facebook one can encounter a bursting cornucopia of accomplished players (like Tuba Skinny), and a score of stunning, very young prodigies. And singers Kelli O’Hara and Lady Gaga. MacCartney 3-2-1 is an uplifting video series. On the beyond-brilliant side, we’re lucky to have rare videos (YouTube) available of the late pianist Erroll Garner and brand new ones of Joscho Stephan from the Gypsy Guitar Academy, both of them playing music at a level that’s hard to believe is possible. 

Fiddling. Maybe Nero just needed a break. 

Music from the past provides a welcome distraction from the dissonance currently coming out of our nation’s capital. While it won’t quite override the racket, the great music is a reminder that our species can be impressively and beautifully creative as well as mean-spirited and greedy. 

That’s a useful thing to remember. 

Roger Vaughan, a Massachusetts native, began writing, photographing, playing music, and sailing at a young age, pursuits that shaped his lifelong career. After earning a BA in English from Brown University, he worked as an editor and writer for Saturday Evening Post and Life magazines, covering major cultural events of the 1960s and 70s. His first book, The Grand Gesture (1973), launched a prolific freelance writing career. He’s written more than 20 books, including numerous biographies, films, and many videos. Since 1980, Vaughan has lived on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, where he continues his work documenting remarkable individuals and events.

   

 

I was at Walmart, at the customer service desk. Two peopl messing with the printer, and a woman helping another customer. The woman had to leave the desk to help a customer out in the store. As she left I heard her say, “God freakin’ help you, hon.”

So, I stood there, with my mouth hanging open, wondering WHY ON EARTH she would say that to me? I know Walmart customer service is often bad, but really? Then I turned to the guy working on the printer and saw his name tag. His name was Godfrey.

For almost a decade, I’ve laughed about this tale which belongs to my friend, Stephanie (shared with permission). We’ve all been there—hearing things that weren’t said, saying things that weren’t meant.Like the night my pseudo sous chef thought I said we were having snake for dinner.Or the story I read about someone asking a new roommate if they enjoyed watching p*rn movies when they were actually asking about foreign (“for’n”) movies. Or the long conversation I had with a woman about her Westy and how much we both loved them. It wasn’t until I told her ours was red that she gave me a funny look. She’d never heard of that color, while I thought of it as common. That was the point when we realized she’d been talking about her West Highland Terrier, and I’d been talking about our old Volkswagen Westfalia. I miss that ride.

These mix-ups ended with hearty chuckling and some great anecdotes, but can you imagine the seismic shift that might have been provoked with a subtle change in tone?

God freakin’ WHAT??!

Everyday, we stand on countless interpersonal fault lines, babbling Rings of Fire on the brink of conversational disaster. When things get wobbly, most of us manage to keep our shit together—stabilizing, soothing, regrouping. Except when we don’t. Then, shots are fired, and someone ends up getting hurt. Though we can’t predict what another person will bring to a discussion, generally speaking, we know how to play nicely in the sandbox, or how to not run with verbal scissors. It boils down to basic stuff we’ve been taught repeatedly.

Listen more. Talk less. Ask clarifying questions. Choose words thoughtfully.

Probably, we heard it first as a short axiom: Think before you speak. More recently, a version called T.H.I.N.K. has surfaced.

• T = Is it true?
• H = Is it helpful?
• I = Is it inspiring?
• N = Is it necessary?
• K = Is it kind?

While I haven’t been able to pinpoint when it came into being or who authored it, like its older cousin, it is meant to help us help ourselves, and others by association. The newer one seems to appear most often in educational settings, LinkedIn essays, and Pinterest images. One site calls it an acronym for kinder, more effective communications. I’d argue that it’s more of a mnemonic device than an acronym, but I suppose I shouldn’t be arguing at all, considering. You see how this goes?

In truth, nothing here is new. Tenets very similar to these were set down in a Victorian-era poem in 1872, and in the Buddhist Pali Canon, nearly 2,000 years earlier.

Monks, a statement endowed with five factors is well-spoken, not ill-spoken. It is blameless & unfaulted by knowledgeable people. Which five?

“It is spoken at the right time. It is spoken in truth. It is spoken affectionately. It is spoken beneficially. It is spoken with a mind of good-will.” — Anguttara Nikaya 5.198

Think. Before. You. Speak.

It is a topic I keep coming back to. If practice really did make perfect, I’d be the shiniest, most flawless example of perfection this side of the Mississippi. Maybe both sides. In reality, nothing could be farther from the truth. With greater frequency than I wish, I am a bumbling, fumbling, foot-in-mouthed numpty. And that doesn’t count the times I’ve been utterly unaware of my blunders. I bet my husband could help me tally up some of those. I’m at expert level in the slow learner’s game.

Evidently, holding back on verbal projectiles is a lifelong lesson, for me anyway. But we all know communication can get even messier when we take it to the virtual realm. Though the ‘think first’ principle still applies, the likelihood of flawed interactions increases when we’re on an electronic device. All those typos, the lack of punctuation, disjointed timelines, and anonymity are like dropping a Mark-77 on an arsenal of dormant missiles. It’s called the online disinhibition effect which, in laypeople’s terms, means if I’m communicating through a screen, I’m much more inclined to become an asshat.

In recent past, I found myself immersed in reactions to a post on Civil Discourse with Joyce Vance. One participant took exception to parts of the original essay and to several comments that followed. They shared their disagreements repeatedly. Their name turned up so often that I started to suspect a troll. (Do we still call them that? Or is that disrespectful to trolls? Serious question.)

But there was more to this person. There was evidence of respect. There was an admission of being in post-operative pain. Amid the dissent and cynicism was an earnestness and something that felt like sadness. Several people, who only saw the former, wrote back with sharp, dismissive comments. Others tried to find points of agreement. One respondent stood out from the rest. He noted their shared experience as disabled military veterans and built his remarks from there.

The tone of the disgruntled individual shifted markedly. Finally, someone who understood! Finally, someone willing to notice and connect! The exchange nearly brought me to tears.

Respondent: Look at my profile–disabled vet like you. I “low crawl” in bed every night. I get VA counseling every week to get my head tuned up. I feel the same way you do. I see it coming. I am majorly frustrated by how any veteran or active duty can [believe that way] and how the weapon we used professionally is easily available to anyone. Or how, in a dark future, our active duty brothers and sisters will be deployed against Americans!

Please, please, don’t become a casualty a second time. WE NEED YOU! Pull it together Troop–fall in, the enemy is in the wire!

p.s. I got the cats too. They got me through a year and half total lock-down.

Respondent: Use your anger, man. That’s how I got out of my chair. The batteries are long dead, and the van is gone. I replaced it with a 25 year old pickup that somehow, by God, I get into and out of (but the bed, no way!)

There’s lots of energy in anger. Welcome Home….

Frustrated commenter…what a great couple of replies! Thanks for reminding me of the camaraderie I miss every day.

Perception changes everything. Where we notice value, we direct attention. Where we direct attention, we notice value. This is the symbiosis in civil discourse. This is the genesis of cooperation. This is how we make space for our differences and for what we have in common.

Godfrey can help us.

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Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported digital publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber here.

This time, the weather gods mean business.

At least twice already, we harvested what we thought was the last of the fragrant and flavorful bounty of summer, only to find the host plants still upright and serviceable the next morning. But this time, the forecast leaves no room for doubt.

In anticipation, we dismantle the vegetable plots, cutting away strappy vines and woody sprigs, stacking wire cages, setting aside to save tomatoes of any appreciable size, in hopes of future ripening. Even plucked green, homegrown fruits have more potential than the road-weary options at the store. Or, we tell ourselves they do, which might be more important.

We snip incandescent marigold blossoms from weary stems, leaving some petals behind as an offering, bringing some inside to dry. Poor man’s saffron they call it, but it feels rich to me.

After dodging a full blown freeze right up to the cusp of December, it finally arrives and unburdens itself all over everything. Begonia melts, colocasia slumps, trailing tradescantia flops in a flaccid mess. The fig, which only a day before clung resolutely to its frock, denudes itself in real time, leaves letting go like skydivers.

I’ve always been reluctant to transition my gardens from one season to the next, but it grew more noticeable when weekly market sales were no longer a driver. Professionals swap out plants proactively, knowing one is about to become less productive. The farmer can’t afford to wait until the current crop is completely spent before replacing it. She is an editor with a red pen and a looming deadline.

I’m fine with eliminating plants that have produced their last. But these days, and this day, as any day when I am in command of such life-reducing decisions, I feel twinges of guilt for ripping out these beating hearts. To compensate, I give thanks. For real. I say, “Thank you, tomatoes. Thank you, marigolds.” I follow with something truthful about how hard they’ve worked, how much they’ve provided, the elegance or ease they’ve added to my days. It is a gratitude practice that transports me from myopia to interconnection. I need it.

Once the space is clear, I’m able to embrace the full potential of this seasonal evolution. My husband fills the area with leaves, a father zipping up his child’s coat on a blustery day, to insulate the exposed earth from the ravages of wind and rain. Soil is the lifeblood of the garden, and we are determined to protect it.

Determination and protection are words I hear a lot right now, in the context of warding off political and cultural changes that feel threatening. The world is in turmoil and we, its human inhabitants, are both cause and cure. Resistance, we’re told, is imperative.

What we’re not told is the shape that resistance is meant to take or how we’re supposed to manifest it. How we do what we’re told we must do is entirely up to us, an opportunity for agency, and no great surprise that every process looks different. Some are leaving swords where they lie, some, while going it alone, are forging connection.

I’ve heard some people say, recently, that they’re practicing self-care as an act of resistance, as if they must maintain the pretense of fighting while they’re struggling to regroup. Friends, most of us don’t need permission to breathe all the way in and back out again. Please, practice self-care for its own sake. Dread is our constant companion, but so is delight. I can think of nothing more transformative than finding new ways to flourish, despite the times.

For me, the natural world offers guidance. Just look at it! Freed, for a time, from doing anything obvious, the garden is, nonetheless, engaged. It’s protecting an army of living creatures right where it is. It’s rebuilding from the long growing season, using the resources it has available. What it produced in its active phase continues to provide physical and emotional energy now.

The last few mornings, I’ve carried a kettle of boiling water outside to mix into the frozen bird baths I’ll maintain as best I can this winter. As I take in the garden, like the friend that it is, I don’t see resistance. What I see is resilience.

Elizabeth Beggins is a communications and outreach specialist focused on regional agriculture. She is a former farmer, recovering sailor, and committed over-thinker who appreciates opportunities to kindle conversation and invite connection. On “Chicken Scratch,” a reader-supported digital publication hosted by Substack, she writes non-fiction essays rooted in optimism. To receive her weekly posts and support her work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber here.