Cosmic Prose

Natasha Regehr

Tag: teaching (Page 2 of 2)

Start, Stop, and the Sounds in Between

June 6, 2016 / / 1 Comment

Let me tell you the story of a class.

When I met them in September, I was perturbed. I was more than perturbed. I dreaded Thursday mornings, when I knew that they would tumble through my door with raucous disregard for my precious routines and expectations.

You see, I expect my classes to line up quietly outside my door and wait to be invited in. I expect them to walk quietly, single file, to the blue line on my floor, and wait quietly to be invited to sit on the carpet in alphabetical order. I expect them to sit quietly while I read over my class list, study their (very similar) faces, and practice their (very similar) names. I expect them to remain still and silent until I can say every name without looking at my list. This may not sound like a stupendous feat to you, but believe me, it is, when you are new to a foreign school and you have four hundred nearly identical students that you only see for 50 minutes a week.

But back to my story. In September, we had to practice lining up outside my door over and over every single time the students came to class. It took five or six tries to walk to the blue line and get settled at the carpet. And it took an agonizingly long time for me to practice their names, because I couldn’t concentrate with all the hooliganism going on before me. At one point one of the students blurted out insolently, “This isn’t music! This is just names!” And, wearily, I agreed. Perturbed, indeed. Continue reading

Homing In

March 8, 2016 / / 3 Comments

As if I promised my mom I’d quit blogging in airports.

Forget that. I am in an airport with two big, empty hours between me and my flight, and I have thoughts in my head. Blog I will.

What sorts of thoughts, you ask? Travelling thoughts, of course. I am thinking about the first time I entered this airport in Casablanca, six months (years? decades?) ago. Ah, the idealism of youth: the naïve vision of a sparkling future ahead, with dreams wide open, waiting to be absorbed into ever brighter, ever-evolving realities…

Well, okay. It was half a year ago, and not entirely sparkly. I stepped off the plane onto the melting tarmac (Tarmac? Seriously? No portable space-age tunnels to beam me from one climate-controlled existence to the next? And what? I have to walk?). I entered a shabby building stuffed with jostling, djellaba-ed strangers. The signs on the walls were incomprehensible. I had no idea where to go. Which “line” do I join? This mob, or that one? Hey, how did all those people get in front of me? It’s hot. I’m dirty. I’m sweaty. Everyone is. Welcome to the new reality.

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Sound-Off!

November 29, 2015 / / 0 Comments

A sonic environment can be a powerful thing. It can take you places, or leave you places; its presences and absences can be more telling than the most articulate guide.

Notable absences from the sonic environment I have enjoyed without interruption for the past three days: the impoverished bleating of sheep and goats; the mournful mooing of cows; the soulful, yet soulless call to prayer; the sprightly chattering of hundreds of little mischief-makers; the vigilant ringing of schoolbells, cell phones and alarm clocks; the guttural exoticism of the Arabic tongue; the overly-welcoming harassment of preying street vendors and slick Don Juans; in short, the persistently present reminders that this Moroccan mayhem is my life.

And in their place? Zamfir interpretations of Celine Dion hits piped through the poolside surround sound system in the morning, and perky American party playlists in the afternoon; the perpetual, muted gurgling of the heated pool’s water filtration system, and the satisfied splashes of swimmers who are neither hot nor cold; canned ocean waves lapping through the massage room speakers, and real ocean waves wooing one beachward; the dignified German, English and French conversations of fat, white Europeans in speedos and bikinis, or their skinny white counterparts, also in speedos and bikinis (I, incidentally, fall squarely in between the two); the distant clattering of silverware being moved from one place to another by hands that exist to satisfy one’s every gastronomical whim; in short, all that is most certainly not Moroccan.

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2015 Gratitude List

November 26, 2015 / / 2 Comments

My dear Canadian friends have had to wait a full six weeks longer than usual to read my annual Gratitude List.  Sorry, guys.  I was in the desert while you were being thankful, so I’ve jumped on the American bandwagon and given thanks today instead.

For those of you who are new to this quirky tradition of mine, here’s the scoop: Every night before I go to sleep, I write down a few causes for gratitude.  I try not to repeat myself (keeps the thankfulness muscles limber!) but I’m certain you’ll notice an emerging theme or two.  Each Thanksgiving, I post the list for the world to ponder and puzzle over.  For me, it’s a grounding practice of putting days and years in perspective.  For you, it’s either funny, or inspiring, or TMI.  Whatever.  It’s not about you.

I suspect that no one but my mom actually reads the list from start to finish, but should you wish to try, godspeed!

Beginning in October, 2014, here is my year, chronicled in thanks!

A hearth, a family, a sharing of lives

A new form of freedom

Eschatological laughter

Acceptance and openness

What I have is enough

Decisions made = settledness. There is security in having chosen.

Fiction fabulousness Continue reading

How Do You Solve a Problem Like…

September 20, 2015 / / 4 Comments

Sound-of-music-nuns-630x315This is what it’s like to audition for a choir in Casablanca.

First, you email the director, in impeccable French (or, should I say, infantile French that has been nicely elevated by your conveniently bilingual pal back in pleasantly predictable Canada). The director emails you back –eventually– in a casual French that lacks the standards of punctuation and capitalization to which you have grown accustomed in such exchanges. No matter. She is a native speaker. You will allow her this linguistic license.

The content of her message is, essentially, “call me, maybe.”

The second step in auditioning for a choir in Casablanca is a brief moment of panic. Continue reading

Swan Song

May 11, 2015 / / 2 Comments

“Hey, are these guys any good?” I asked, gesturing at the Peterborough Singers brochures on the counter. It was February, 2008, and I was hauling yet another load of mistreated school band instruments to B Flat Music for a little TLC.

“Oh, yes, very good!” declared Peg McCracken.

“You’ve heard them, then?” I asked skeptically.

“Heard them? I’ve sung with them for eighteen years!”

Undaunted, I pressed her further. “What kind of music do they sing?” I was not into the flaky schmaltz that so many community choirs seem to thrive on. I made that immediately and unapologetically clear.

“Well, we’re singing Bach’s St. Matthew Passion in our next concert. You should join us!”

Wait. A. Minute. Are you telling me that a place exists in Peterborough where I can go and sing exclusively Bach for two hours a week, every single week, until May? Pinch me hard; I must be dreaming.

“Start by coming to our concert this weekend. If you like it, we can set up an audition.”

I went. The moment the choir started singing, Continue reading

I am Moving to Morocco!

April 2, 2015 / / 9 Comments

No, really, I am.

I have been tormenting my friends and acquaintances for days now with cryptic comments about exciting new developments in my mundane little life, and the day has finally come when I can shout it from the rooftops: I’m moving!

I just signed a two-year teaching contract with an international school in the legendary city of Casablanca. I’ll be teaching music to students from Kindergarten to Grade 5: my dream job, my dream climate, my dream of dreams in every way.

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