Monday mornings are a worm that eats through books. We wake up. Sarah, usually and alone, guides the kids through preparing for school and day care. Often, if engaged enough, I warm up my incorporated trumpet playing appariti and address the instrument’s crucial fundamentals and unforgiving technique.

We move the car to avoid the sweeper and a fine. Sarah walks to and I, For the past month and a half hobble, wheel, and slowly proceed to our favorite neighborhood breakfast place. We have until about eleven thirty to discuss our week, our goals, our worries, our dreams, our love. Then the week begins.

This week, wrought by a stupid early argument, were a little less personal. Just mostly business. Still, to have this time is wonderful.

I spent the weekend in Red Hook, NY. My friend John Halle is retiring from his job as Theoriemeister of Bard College. (Check him out—he’s a cat! Has done pretty much everything. Chops like a mother!) Were opening his recital with the hardest piece I’ve ever played on trumpet, but one of the best and most beautiful too: Invisible Hand.

A real pleasure to play with and know this guy. He’s “natural tea-chin”. I find every conversation important to hear.