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This is a photo of me at age nine or ten pretending to play the French Horn.  Even though it was almost seventy years ago I can tell that I’m not really playing the instrument because I’m smiling, and also because I’m looking directly at the camera.  When you’re really playing the French Horn you can’t smile (because you have to purse your lips) and your eyes would be focused either on the music in front of you or on the conductor, not the camera off to your upper right.

Why is this important?

My father was a professional French Horn player. Though I didn’t realize it when I was young, he was also the best brass instrument teacher in the world. Musicians traveled from all over to study with him. The principles he shared with his students, and that I learned from him as a child, still apply directly to many aspects of my life and serve me well to this day.

Dad is now 103 years old, and is at home recovering from a recent major surgery. Even so, he remains the consummate teacher. Last week he reminded me of an important concept that he always imparts to his students.

“If you are on a desert island with no hope of rescue, and no other human being exists within a thousand miles, when you practice playing your instrument you must always focus on what you’re doing, and always do your very best.  Always.  That’s the habit you must cultivate to play your very best when you really need to.  You are a professional.  A professional never settles for less than his or her very best.  Nothing else is acceptable.”

It has taken me many years to apply this lesson to my writing.  I’m very quick, and discovered in school that ninety percent of my best was usually good enough for an “A”.  Why bother trudging that difficult trail from ninety percent toward one hundred percent?  It was always easier for me to just take a mental nap.

For the past four or five years I’ve become more serious, and more professional, about my writing.  I don’t settle any more for a “good” first draft.  As Robert Graves wrote years ago, “There is no such thing as good writing. Only good rewriting.”  I have to admit that, like a diamond, my best work never reveals itself in a blinding flash of insight.  It must be thought out, then cut, then polished.  That process takes time and energy. But I’m not looking for “A’s” on my report card anymore.  Now I’m aiming for the top of the mountain, and by that I mean the very best I can do.

I’m sure you have already thought of other applications for this “desert island” principal.  At work?  Do your very best even when no one is looking.  In a relationship?  Do your very best even when no one may notice or appreciate it.  With a hobby?  Do your very best to satisfy yourself.

From now on whenever you contemplate whether or not your performance is good enough, I invite you to use my father’s secret code and ask yourself:

“Desert Island?”

Thanks, Dad.

Alan

In 1991 I flew to the big island of Hawaii to witness a total eclipse of the sun.  The hotel required a six night stay, which was pleasant enough, but the highlight, or one could say the highdark, of my visit was the total eclipse of the sun scheduled for the next-to-last day.

The west coast of the big island of Hawaii boasts three hundred and sixty sunny days a year, so I didn’t even consider the possibility of clouds.  The first five days were bright and beautiful, but when I woke up on the day of the eclipse I was dumbfounded to see an overcast sky.

I’m an optimist.  I was certain the clouds would disappear before the moon blotted out the sun.  But no.  I stood on a hotel room balcony, desperately looking up at . . . clouds.  I watched the eclipse on CNN and I’ve been disappointed ever since.

So when my son suggested that we take the family to see the eclipse scheduled to cross the entire continental United States on August 21, 2017, my answer was an enthusiastic “Yes.”

At 8:30 am on the appointed day thirteen of my family members landed at the busy airport in Casper, Wyoming.  We bought a few souvenirs then headed downtown where there was a festival.

For the previous ten days all of us had studied the weather reports for Casper.  Every forecast predicted full sunshine all day, so we were confident.

We parked near downtown – free parking (unlike Los Angeles where the parking meters gobble quarters as if the existence of the city depended on the income) –and walked to the festival where three or four hundred people had gathered. We passed the time by shopping.  I bought a special “Total Eclipse” baseball cap from an artist who had created his own special design for the event.

The day remained bright.  We used our eclipse glasses to watch the moon take its first bite out of the sun.  Gradually, the sun was transformed into a crescent moon.  Finally the crowd counted down toward totality.

“Three . . . two . . . one . . .,” and there we were, eyes uncovered, looking at the dark spot where the sun had shone.  We observed the sun’s corona, a bright ring which surrounded the mask of the moon.

I was struck by two thoughts.

First, how rare it must be in the entire universe for a small moon to blot out a much larger sun in precisely this way so that we are able to observe the sun’s corona.  As a layman it seems to me that while there may be life on many other planets there can’t be many other total eclipses that happen in exactly this way.  I stood at a special place in the universe witnessing a unique event.

Second, I was alive on a planet in a solar system where the sun and planets move in predictable, immutable orbits, each separate, yet all bound together by gravity, a pervasive force we cannot see or touch.

I recalled words from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam:

“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on, nor all thy Piety nor Wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”

In a little more than two minutes the sun and warmth returned.  Light clouds appeared as we enjoyed a fine outdoor lunch before flying back to Los Angeles to continue living out our more ordinary days.

Alan

Suppose you knew that you had one year to live.

I’m not going to ask what you would do with your remaining year.  I’m going to share with you what I wouldn’t do with mine.

I wouldn’t buy a new car.  I love my red Tesla. It accelerates so quickly that I don’t ever push the pedal to the floor because I’m afraid of what might happen.

I wouldn’t start any new relationships.  I’d spend my time deepening the friendships I already have.

I wouldn’t be silent about political issues.  Expressing my strongly held beliefs might not change a thing, but I’d rather go out as a rabble rouser.

I wouldn’t spend time with people who bore me (and I wouldn’t be indirect about it).

I wouldn’t spend so much time at the office.

I wouldn’t pay attention to the news.  I would read books instead.  I would watch shows on TV that entertained me, rather than news shows on CNN, Fox News, or MSNBC that scare me.

I wouldn’t set an alarm to wake up in the morning, ever.  I would wake up whenever I wanted to.

I wouldn’t be afraid of rejection.  What the heck, it would only last for less than a year.

I wouldn’t care so much about the size of my bank account (not that I would be irresponsible).  Well, maybe a little.

I wouldn’t seek approval.  I would let it all hang out.

I wouldn’t buy any new clothes.  The ones I have are just fine.

I wouldn’t be so “polite” in my relationships.  I would get to the essence of what matters to me.

I wouldn’t tell anyone except my wife when I was going to die until the very last month.  It would be interesting for me to see how people not in on “the secret” treated the new me.

I wouldn’t start any new projects unless I knew I was going to be able to finish them.  My computer already stores too many half-written ideas.

I wouldn’t beg or bargain for more time. I wouldn’t bemoan my single year.  My time here always was limited.  The only difference – now I would know the expiration date.

I wouldn’t spend much time on the superficial.  I would spend more time on introspection.

I wouldn’t be as much of a couch potato.

I wouldn’t hang out with adults so much.  Maybe I’d help out by teaching fourth grade.

I wouldn’t read any weather forecasts.  I would just enjoy whatever comes.

I wouldn’t stop writing my blog.  The weekly deadline imposes a structure in my life that I like.

I’m sure, if you thought about it, you also have a valuable “wouldn’t” list.  Of course, the final “wouldn’t” for each of us should be:

I wouldn’t wait for tomorrow to fully be the person I would like to be today.

Alan