The Conductor

Life is full. Very full. Which is good, very good. Rest assured, dear Readers, that in due time the fullness and the goodness shall be processed and expressed in these pages.

Meanwhile, as they say, Hawk is growing by leaps and bounds and has recently accomplished such feats of derring-do as walking on a balance beam and bouldering (sideways) at a rock-climbing gym (where the minimum age is four, but if Mom’s glance goes elsewhere for a moment you do what you gotta do.) His main preoccupation these days, however, is music. In fact, ever since he was a tiny little guy, Hawk has been crazy about music of almost any kind.

As soon as he hears a tune on the car stereo, the TV, wherever, his index fingers point like little batons, his hands wave to the rhythm as if conducting the whole affair, and his face lights up in a big grin that says, “Hey! It’s music!”

Hawk and I will jam while Jenifer is away somewhere on a secret yoga mission. These sessions may include the African goatskin drum or wooden xylophone he got for his birthday, the shamanic gourd-rattle, or the “jingle box” fashioned out of jingle bells and a container that once held Trader Joe’s chocolate.

Lately he’ll start conducting at the TV and DVD player, our source of CD magic, and this is my signal to put in some Dylan or U2. His other current favorite is mariachi, which he went mad for when a documentary featuring female mariachi players was on TV. In fact, whenever the interview “interrupted” the music, he grew quite angry, indeed. Usually, though, he greets the end of each song with clapping.

It’s too early to tell if he’ll be the next Gustavo Dudamel, but for now he has the requisite wild hair and self-possessed bravado, and (most important) is having a blast.