Teachers, by Phillip Hoyle

Teachers: I’ve had a lot of them. Some I recall for their
names, others for their engaging communications, still others for the lack of
impact they made on me. From grade school I recall Miss Weenes whom we second
graders called Miss Weenie, although not in class, and Mrs. Schaffer who read
“Treasure Island” to us, my first novel; there were others whose names escape
me, but I do recall the woman who taught us cursive writing in fifth grade leaving
me with a rather readable hand and the rather effeminate man who taught music
in fourth and fifth grades introducing us to Bizet’s “Carmen.” From junior high
I recall Mr. Moon who at the board always pointed with his middle finger and
who told memorable stories about science, Miss Oliver who taught Latin not only
to me but to my older sisters and to my mother, the effective algebra teacher who
also taught my mom and started geraniums in the windows of her classroom, and
Miss Costello who sent home a mustard plaster recipe when too many students got
colds. From high school I remember Mr. Martin the choir director, Mr. Snodgrass
the band director, Miss Perkins the Latin teacher and drama coach, and Mr. Unruh
the football coach and government teacher. In college, I remember Dr. Van Buren,
President Lown, Mr. Secrest, and Professor Jamie Morgan; in graduate school,
Mrs. Kiesgen and Dr. Lee; in seminary Dr. Duke, Dr. Routt, Dr. Hoehn, and Dr.
Rowell. But that’s only the beginning of the list. I also had music teachers in
piano and voice studios, art teachers at the Oklahoma Art Workshops, leaders of
numerous seminars and workshops at hotels and conference centers, and informal
mentors whose revelations and advice paved the way for a rich life of learning,
work, and enjoyment. Trying to list all my teachers indicates I learned many
things from many different instructors over a long life. I owe a lot to these
people.
Mother taught us kids to respect our teachers although she
well knew they had feet of clay. She supported them through her tireless work
in the PTA but also challenged them when their behavior overstepped their role
of teacher and nurturer of young people. So when I heard harangues from the
pulpit that some faithless people scandalously thought of Jesus as only a
teacher, I felt unsettled. Mom taught us that being a teacher was one of the
very best occupations anyone could pursue. Of course, those preachers were
defending the orthodox doctrine of the divinity of Christ. I was not concerned with
orthodoxy and thought if Jesus back then or as a spiritual presence could teach
anyone, he could be my teacher as well and earn my deepest respect. Like Mom, I
liked my teachers. Two, though, stand out as the most influential: the first
for inspiration, the second for technique.
I knew Dr. James Van Buren by reputation long before I got
to school and took his demanding class, “Survey of Biblical Literature.” After
that there were other classes in biblical studies, philosophy, theology, sociology,
and literature. Studying in a small college, I got to make a rather thorough
study of this professor who was both the hardest one to get good grades from
and the one who opened worlds of knowledge most widely. I can say confidently
that Dr. Van taught me how to run successfully on the liberal edge of
conservatism. By ‘successfully’ I mean not only getting beyond political
hurdles but also doing so while maintaining theological self-respect and
integrity. He taught me to read broadly, to think openly, and to communicate
creatively. For instance, he lectured on Christian humanism, Christian
hedonism, Christian stoicism, and Christian Epicureanism insisting that
Christian thought was not a complete philosophy in itself but a base from which
one examined and utilized perspectives of the ages. He taught humor as an
essential ingredient in the most serious communications and sex as a broadly
celebrative dynamic of life. In Dr. Van’s approach God as the creator and
approver of creation served as the starting point and essential part of a
healthy approach to life, morality, and ethics. He insisted that creative and
playful thinking stands as a necessary component in one’s life and insisted
religion should never become a wooden legal transaction or set of rigid laws.
He taught an appreciation for beauty through arts, literature, science, and everyday
interactions with fancy and plain people. Poetry, storytelling, drama, and
lively insights transformed theology into a process for living. The arts
pointed to dynamic creativity in the name of the Creator.
This overweight professor rested a little notebook on his
stomach as if it were a lectern. This enthusiastic professor lectured from the
book of Job on the dances of whales in the ocean, leaping about like one of
them himself. This insightful professor opened the way to Shakespeare, Milton, and
Whitman. This scholarly professor had been granted a DD and then earned a PhD
in English Literature, his dissertation an examination of Old Testament Apocryphal
references in John Milton’s poetry. This superlative teacher supported in me my
love for books and libraries and my proclivity toward creative thinking in
matters of education and religion. I continue to think about Dr. Van Buren’s
advice, knowledge, and approach whenever I try to solve problems or speak from
my own heart.
I knew Dr. Karen Bartman years before she was conferred a
doctoral degree in piano pedagogy. She served as the church’s music coordinator
and organist where I worked as associate minister and director of the Chancel
Choir. We made music together for several years before I studied in her piano
studio. I recall this teacher for both her pianistic and pedagogical techniques—carried
out with consistency, musical depth, and always the encouragement to keep
making beautiful music. I’ll never know if I could have learned piano technique
at an earlier age, but I did learn it in my late thirties under her tutelage.
When I approached my 40s crisis (a la Goldberg and Sheehe), I became
“angry with the gods of literature” as my friend Gerald put it and went on a yearlong
book fast. I joined Karen’s studio to learn to play piano, knowing I’d have
about three hours a day to practice, time I would not be reading books. I
remained a student in her studio for two and a half years. Since childhood I had
played—my father said banged—the piano but always with great limitation. Gerald
once said I was quite musical but had no technique. After two years of Karen’s
discipline I played a piece for my dad. He declared, “She’s a miracle worker;
you’re not pounding.” Even Gerald seemed impressed at her work and my response,
and Dr. Bartman said what she appreciated about teaching me—an adult—was that I
always played musically.
This physically fit teacher sat at the keyboard with
perfect posture and insisted I do so as well. This enthusiastic teacher with
beautifully strong hands didn’t just give me scales and arpeggios to strengthen
my hands but showed me how to execute them in ways that engaged listening,
phrasing, and trusting that my hands would know where they were on the
keyboard. This insightful teacher showed me how to ground myself at any point
in a phrase, a measure, or a beat giving life to the composition in
performance. This scholarly teacher helped me know Bach, Mozart, Brahms,
Schubert, Schumann, Chopin, Debussy, Mompou, Shostakovich, and Prokofiev in
ways I had never grasped even after extensive graduate study in musical style
analysis. This superlative teacher inspired me to practice with confidence that
I could play effectively and beautifully. Eventually I quit piano instruction
and returned to books and writing. Still, I continued to practice and put to
use my grasp of her technique when I played. From her I learned the value of
technical proficiency. Her consistent teaching encouraged me to continue to
develop as an artist and to bring artistry to bear in all my work.
In summary, Dr. Van Buren taught me to love life and the
arts, Dr. Bartman encouraged me to find consistent techniques for any creative
work I undertook. My life as a learner continues inspired and enabled by these
two great teachers. There have been plenty more teachers, loads of learning,
and lots of creative outcomes that today I celebrate along with this litany of my
teachers’ names.
© 1 Nov 2011 
About the Author 
Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com 

Passion, by Betsy

Passion: an intense desire or enthusiasm for something.
Passion is energy, – feel the power that comes from focusing on
what excites you. – Oprah Winfrey
I have a passion for a few things:  First, for certain people; namely, my loved
ones—my partner, my children and grandchildren.
Second, I have a passion for music–not all music.  Mostly for the classical of the baroque, classical,
and romantic styles and a little contemporary. 
I am very limited in my ability to perform music.  I do like being a part of a choral group and
have been doing this for much of my life. 
But listening is stirring and inspiring. 
I use my iPod when exercising. 
Nothing like a Schubert or Brahms quartet to keep me moving and working
hard on the stationary bicycle, elliptical or rowing machine. Some music does
excite me and gives me energy. Often fellow exercisers ask me what I’m
listening to.  When I tell them, they
give me a very strange look as if to say, “Don’t you know about rock!  You poor thing.”
My greatest passion is for sports. That is doing, not
watching. I am a mediocre spectator fan—well, that’s probably an
exaggeration.   I don’t pay a lot of
attention to which teams are winning or losing. 
Occasionally I’ll watch a tennis match on TV or even a Broncos
game.  But given the opportunity I would
a thousand times prefer to play, compete, or do most any activity
involving  physical action, motion,
skill, and/or a desire for adventure.
I must mention one other passion I have.  Now in my later years, I have become aware
that I have a great respect – I think it qualifies as a passionate respect for
the truth.  Perhaps that is because I
spent a good portion of my adult life living a lie.
I have noticed that what may appear to be a person’s passion
turns out to be short lived and it is no time before the individual appears to
be passionate about something else.  This
is particularly manifested in children and young adults.  They jump from one interest to another, I
suppose, exploring different areas of interest until one of those areas becomes
their deepest passion.
As I was giving this subject further consideration, I came to
the conclusion that passion and obsession are very closely related.  I had this thought when I realized that I had
made a glaring grammatical error in last week’s writing and I actually read it
using the wrong part of speech and didn’t even notice.  The realization hit me in the middle of the
night the next night as I lay in bed. I thought, “Surely I didn’t write it that
way.”  So I jumped out of bed at 3:00Am
and checked my paper.  Yes, I had written
it that way and read it that way.  Very
upset with myself, I had to wake Gill up and tell her.  “I can’t believe I did that,” I said.  At that moment I realized I have a passion
for the correct usage of the English language and its rules of grammar.
Understand.  I DO NOT have a passion for
writing, but the use of the language definitely intrigues me. This goes back to
my high school days when my English teacher, who taught me for all 3 years of
high school English, exposed us to very little literature.  Mostly we studied grammar and a little
writing.  Most in the class thought the
grammar was rather boring, but I loved it. 
I guess I have the kind of mind which loves to analyze and that’s what
we did.  We analyzed sentences most of
the time and learned rules of grammar and word usage. So…..When does passion
become obsession?  At 3:00AM.  Ask Gill. Passion becomes obsession when one
becomes dis-eased over what she thinks she has a passion for.  (Oh, oh, there I go, ending a sentence with a
preposition.) 
© 22 April 2015 
About the Author 
Betsy has been active in the GLBT community
including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for
Change).  She has been retired from the
Human Services field for about 15 years. 
Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping,
traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports
Center for the Disabled, and learning. 
Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close
relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four
grandchildren.  Betsy says her greatest
and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of
25 years, Gillian Edwards.

Passion by Betsy

Passion: an intense desire or
enthusiasm for something.
“Passion is energy, feel the  power that comes from focusing on what
excites you.” — Oprah Winfrey
I have a passion for a few things: First, for
certain people; namely, my loved ones—my partner, my children and g-children.
My second passion is for music;
namely, classical music of the baroque, classical , and romantic styles and a
little contemporary.  I am very limited
in my ability to perform music.  I do
like being a part of a choral group and have been doing this for much of my
life.  But listening is stirring and
inspiring and I usually never forget something I have heard that has touched my
soul.  I use my ipod  when exercising.  Nothing like a Schubert or Brahms quartet to
keep me moving and working hard on the stationary bicycle, elliptical or rowing
machine. I do mix in some fast-paced Abba for variety most of which I find very
energizing.  My music does excite me and
gives me energy. Often fellow exercisers ask me what I’m listening to.  When I tell them, they give me a very strange
look as if to say, “Don’t you know about rock? You poor thing.”
My greatest passion is for sports.
That is doing not watching. I am a less than mediocre spectator fan.   I don’t pay much attention to which teams
are winning or losing.  Occasionally, I’ll watch a tennis match on TV or even a football game.  But given the opportunity I would a thousand
times prefer to play, compete or do most any activity that requires physical action, motion, and either some
skill, or a desire for adventure.
My deepest passion?  I had to search my soul a bit for this.  Now in my later years, I have become aware
that I have a deep passion for the
truth.  Perhaps that is because earlier I
spent a good portion of my adult life living a lie.  After all, until I came out, that’s what I
was doing. Since we do not know the truth about most things from mundane items
that come to us through mainstream media, to metaphysical questions such as
what lies beyond this life—since we do not know the truth about these things, I
have become very conscientious about separating fact from belief.  Since this is all my brain is capable of at
this point, I leave it there.  
I would like to mention one last point
about passion in general.
As I was giving this subject further
consideration, I came to the conclusion that passion and obsession are very
closely related.  To illustrate: I DO NOT
have a passion for writing, which does not always come easily. But the use of
the English language and the application of its rules of grammar is near and
dear to my heart.  This goes back to my
high school days when my English teacher Miss Dunn who taught me for all three
years of high school English, exposed us to very little literature.  Mostly we studied grammar and a little
writing.  Most in the class thought the 3
years of grammar was rather boring, but I loved it.  I guess I have the kind of mind which loves
to analyze and that’s what we did.  We
analyzed sentences most of the time and learned rules of grammar and word
usage.  I, therefore was quite horrified
when I realized that I had made a glaring grammatical error in last week’s
writing and I actually read it using the wrong part of speech and didn’t even
notice.  The realization hit me in the
middle of the night—the night following our session here–as I lay in bed. I
thought,”Surely I didn’t write it that way.” 
So I jumped out of bed at 3:00Am and checked my paper.  Yes, I had written it that way and read it
that way.  Very upset with myself, I had
to wake Gill up and tell her.  “I can’t
believe I did that,” I said.  Later,
thinking about passion I decided I do believe I have a passion for properly
applying the  rules of  English grammar….Or is it a passion?  Some would call it an obsession.  So, where do we draw the line between passion
and obsession? I believe that passion is actually obsession when one says to
oneself, “I wish I could have let that go.” 
To put it another way.  When one
becomes dis-eased over what she THINKS she has a passion for. (Oops! Did anyone
notice that!  I just ended a sentence
with a preposition.)
© 24 Oct 2014
About the Author
Betsy has been active in the
GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians
Organizing for Change).  She has been
retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years.  Since her retirement, her major activities
include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor
with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning.  Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of
marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys
spending time with her four grandchildren. 
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing
her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

Opera – Love and Hate by Betsy

I
love opera.  I hate opera.  I guess that means I have one of those
love/hate relationships that makes people neurotic, usually about another
person.  But in this case I am neurotic
about an art form.  And a beautiful art
form it is.  There is nothing that stirs
my emotions more intensely than a great piece of music.  A symphony, concerto, string quartet created
by one of the masters.  I don’t care what
period it is from–Rococo, Baroque, Classical, Romantic–any of it can put me
in a  listening trance.  The better I know the music, the more
stirring it is and the more it does for me. 
I
can say this about some opera, but not all opera.  I am a fan of, I  think, what is commonly considered popular
opera.  A Puccini area a la La Boheme will
bring me to tears faster than any Beethoven piano concerto or Schubert string
trio.
Unfortunately,
I don’t know the names of the arias so familiar to opera fans.  I’m really not interested in their titles,
nor do I feel any need to learn the unfamiliar words.  Suffice it to say that I love dramatic
music. 
There
is plenty to say about my hatred of opera, in spite of the love feelings.  I remember one time as a very young adult–20
something–I was in New York City and decided to take advantage of some spare
time, raise my level of cultural exposure, and attend an opera at the Met.  I was very excited about this and just knew
that the experience would increase my developing interest and appreciation of
good music.  I was learning to really
appreciate Russian music so why wouldn’t I enjoy this Mussorgsky
masterpiece.  What I didn’t know is that
Boris Gudanov is probably the longest opera ever written.  And heavy is the only word that comes to mind
when I try to recall this experience. 
The truth is I do not really remember much about it because I slept
through at least one half of it.  The
entire opera is  4 hours and 15 minutes
long not including intermission.
I realize I do not sound like much of a music
lover when I use words like heavy and boring to describe what I truly feel
about some opera–the heavy, boring kind. 
Not to mention names, but I’m thinking of the Wagner-esque type of
opera.  

And
so the development of my appreciation for opera was arrested sometime around the
age of 20 something.  But no
problem.  There are the few stirring
well-known arias that still bring me to tears.
I
must mention another point for love.  The
performers are my heroes–well, more likely my heroines.  In my dreams I am an opera singer.  In my next life I am an opera singer.  Oh, to be able to open my mouth and produce
such sound. Why do I always fall in love with these women?  Perhaps it is their bosoms.  Maybe I love them because they remind me so
much of my grandmother, an accomplished contralto, who often held me as a young
child next to her ever so soft, cuddly bosom.
There
is really nothing I can do to resolve the love/hate situation here.  Just to admit that I probably will never be
an opera-goer and stick to only those few arias I love.

© 7 June 2011

About the Author 

Betsy has been active in the
GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians
Organizing for Change).  She has been
retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years.  Since her retirement, her major activities
include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor
with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning.  Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of
marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys
spending time with her four grandchildren. 
Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing
her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.