bertha, wilfred, and a cup of strong black coffee

7:00 AM.  I roll into the music building parking lot (lucky for me, there is no competition for parking spots at this early hour).  I unload my three bags (one for my lunch, one for my teaching materials, and one for my 6 binders of music) and trudge into the building.  There is a bit of fumbling and muttering as I attempt...for the 40th time...to remember which of the 9 keys on my ring opens the recital hall door.  Lights on.  Piano cover off. Lid up.  Good morning to Big Bertha (our 9-ft concert grand).  Bench adjusted.  Metronome and pencil ready.  Binders unloaded.   Coffee cup within an arm's reach.

Ready.

Set.

Play.

I begin with choir music.  I am playing for 2 choirs this year, at two different universities.  Most of their music will be sung a cappella - but there are a couple of pieces with some hefty piano solos.  I work them slowly, at first, saying fingerings aloud to myself, isolating one hand at a time, listening and repeating until the voicing is just right.  I make the same mistake three times in a row.  The coffee must not be kicking in yet.  I pause to take another swig.

By 8 AM, I have moved on to my four (soon-to-be five) binders of solo music for my 75 singers. I start with the music I will be playing in lessons tomorrow and flip through the binder, making a mental note of which ones I need to look at more in depth.  Played that one.  Sightreadable. Sightreadable.  Played that one.  Played that one in a different key - probably should go through it once.   Sightreadable.  Played that one.  Oh, new one.

Out comes the metronome (Wilfred Jr.).  I find a ridiculously slow speed and have a go at it, pausing every now and then to mark fingerings or add accidentals.  I trod along, attempting to sing the vocal line as I work through my own part.  It's slow going, but I'm in no rush.  

This is my time.

This is my home.

This is my sanctuary.

The first few weeks of school were crazy.  I stayed afloat, and managed to arrive at each class, lesson and rehearsal at least mostly-prepared.   But I knew I was floating.  I knew I wasn't fully present, fully grounded. And it took me a few weeks to discern what the real root of my unsettledness was:

I have not worked hard enough to guard this time, this sacred space.  

A few more minutes in my bed...and 7:00 becomes 7:30, and 7:30, 8:00. Lesson planning and photocopying that should have been done the day before is put off until the hour before my first class....and 10:00 becomes 9:30, and 9:30, 9:00. Before I know it, 3 hours has become 1 hour...or has even disappeared completely.

But this time is precious, necessary.  My body relaxes as my fingers find their way across the familiar black and white terrain.  My mind is drawn into focus as I tune out the to-do list for the remainder of the day - and I work to concentrate all my energy on this moment, this song, this chord. My soul sighs as I soak in the energy of the empty hall, inhaling the quiet, exhaling each phrase.

10:00 AM.  Binders, pencil and metronome returned to their homes.  Lid down.  Piano cover on.  Lights off.  I emerge from my solitude and head upstairs to prep for my 10:25 class.  I haven't even made it to the office, before I am stopped by a student with a question on the homework assignment.  Reality sets in, the chaos ensues, and I begin my day of multi-tasking.

But my center is lower than it was when I first fumbled for my keys this morning.  I can feel my feet on the ground.  I'm breathing a little more slowly and deeply, and my shoulders are a bit more relaxed.  I memorize the sensation, in an attempt to prolong it and perhaps even make it permanent.

Wishful thinking?  Probably.  I know the tension will creep back in.  I know my center will begin to rise, as the day progresses.  And at some point, I will most likely realize that my feet are no longer touching the ground.

But tomorrow at 7:00 AM, I will start afresh.  And after I have tried, for the 41st time, to remember which key opens the door, I will step, once more, into that sacred space.

For three hours, I will have the luxury of focusing on just one thing.

For three hours, I will breathe, lower my center, release the tension in my shoulders and the song in my heart.

For three hours, it will be me and Bertha and Wilfred and my coffee mug.

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani  www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com

letting go

I want my students to succeed.

In my ideal world, "succeed" means they get their homework in on time, enjoy learning, experience wonderful "aha" moments of discovery, feel confident as they complete various assignments and exams, and then get straight A's on all of said assignments because they understand every concept perfectly and are putting their all into their work for this class.

I also want my students to grow.

This means they learn how to manage their time, how hard they must work to meet the standards, how much they are capable of (which is, no doubt, more than they think is possible), how to persevere after failure, how to ask for help.

The reality is: I don't have control over either one - their growth, or their success.

As their teacher, I have many responsibilities: present the material as clearly as possible, outline my expectations, hold the standard high, give feedback as frequently as possible, make myself available to answer questions, believe in and affirm their capability, get to know them and their individual stories, work to be fair, and offer grace when necessary.

I wish I could offer them grace all the time.
But I wouldn't be doing them any favors.
Truth and grace must always go hand in hand.

I hope they will learn about music theory in my class. I hope they will learn to understand and appreciate music on a deeper level, and I hope it will inform their performance.
More than that, I hope they will learn about being a college student, about becoming an adult, about hard work, about high standards, about grace - about themselves.

These thoughts were percolating as I dropped spoonfuls of dough onto a cookie sheet on Thursday night.  When I was a TA for this class, more than a few years ago, I made it a habit to bring cookies to my students every time they had an exam. That way, there was a happy end to an hour of mental gymnastics. And also, if they didn't do well, at least there were cookies, right?

I suppose making cookies is one of my ways of coping with my lack of control.  I cannot control their study habits or their success.  I will ultimately have to give them the grade they earn.  But I CAN feed them some sugar (and hopefully make them smile) along the way.

This morning, I spent 3 hours grading exams.  And, as expected, I had to <reluctantly> enter several low grades in my grade book.  In need of some kind of release, I threw on my running shoes and hit the trail.  My body began to relax, as I every-so-slowly unclenched my fists, loosened my grip.

This semester will not be easy for me.  I will learn how to let go in a whole new way...and I will have to learn to do it again and again.

It's all part of the process.  It's all part of the journey.  It's all part of living life with open hands.

But, let's be honest.....at the end of the day, at least there are still cookies.

the white belt

The Sabbath is setting on this, my final Sabbath before the school year begins. The lanterns around my living room are lit, and I am finishing off a glass of wine as I close this day, this season, of rest.

I was on campus briefly this weekend and felt the nervous energy of freshmen and their parents as they moved their life’s possessions into their tiny dorm rooms. I know that energy well; I was one of them, once. I know the intensity of the schedule – the orientation events, the placement exams, the ensemble auditions, the dorm initiation activities. It will be a whirlwind few days, and then on Wednesday, thirty-five students will stumble into my classroom – excited, nervous, terrified, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, hoarse from the yell-off and Mock Rock, loving life more than ever before, wondering if this is really for them.

Truth be told, I am not ready for them. Sure, my syllabus is posted, but I was smart enough to write “SUBJECT TO CHANGE” at the top. How you are supposed to plan the activities and readings and assignments for EVERY SINGLE DAY of class before you have even seen the whites of their eyes is still completely beyond me. So it has been submitted to the powers that be – but there are still lessons to plan, lectures to write, exams to create. 

There are certain things I must cover this semester – concepts they must learn, skills they must acquire, knowledge they will be held accountable for. So I have planned and planned. I have sat and stared at the calendar, wondering how it’s possible to fit so much into a mere 14 weeks. How many days can we afford to spend on seventh chords or non-harmonic tones? I have grown dizzy as I have tried to figure out the best order for introducing various concepts. Lord knows I’m still torn on whether or not to explore minor scales before our discussion of the circle of fifths. I have spent hours wondering how much I will be able to fit into one hour of class time. Will we be able to cover all four triad qualities AND discuss the qualities of triads built on the various scale degrees?

With all this planning and preparation, it would be easy for me to begin this year with the mindset that I am here to teach my students something.

But the truth is: I am here to learn. I am here to learn their names and their faces. I am here to uncover their abilities, their strengths, their weaknesses. I am here to listen to their stories, their dreams, their passions.

As I sip my wine this evening, I turn, as I have often done at important moments in my musical development, to what I have come to refer to as my “musical Bible” - a book called “Zen Guitar” by Philip Toshio Sudo. My copy has been well-loved; its pages are browning, the cover is wrinkled, and there are hundreds of underlined phrases, sentences, paragraphs and notes in the margins.

This particular evening, I find myself flipping to the chapter on wearing the white belt, the color worn by a beginner. As he works and learns, his belt gradually dirties and eventually turns to black – the color worn by a master. But he does not stop there; he continues to work, and as he does, the belt fades and eventually returns to white. It is a never-ending cycle. It is not about “arriving” at a destination – but is instead about being faithful to the process.

My choir director in college used to refer to us as “wearers of the white belt” – those who have, as Sudo describes, chosen to “set aside all knowledge and preconceptions and open [their minds] to learning as though for the first time.”  Wearers of the white belt come with empty cups, ready to learn and receive.

We've all known the people who’ve come in with all the answers. We see them coming, a mile away, and we start heading in the opposite direction. We’ve also been those people. We’ve come in with everything figured out, ready to teach the class or flaunt our vast wisdom and experience. And oh, the things we’ve missed. The lessons we haven’t learned. The nuggets of wisdom we let slip through the cracks.

Sudo says it well: “The moment you think you know everything there is to know, you will have lost the way. The beginner’s mind is the mind of wisdom.”

It’s true – I do have things to teach, wisdom to offer, experiences to share. But I also have much to learn, new perspectives to discover, fresh insights to gain.

On Wednesday, 35 students will stumble into my classroom.

On Wednesday, 35 teachers will stumble into my classroom.

So tonight I don my white belt.

Tonight I empty my cup.

I am ready to learn.

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com