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 gift of presence

"Then I sit quietly for a while, appreciating the beauty of the place, looking at or handling sacred objects on my table. Mostly what I keep are small gifts from people, things that remind me that my presence has mattered, that I have touched people, that I am connected, that I am so incredibly blessed."

 - Sabbath, Wayne Muller

Over the last 10 years, I have been diligent to keep the Sabbath. That is to say, I set aside 24 hours each week to rest - no practicing, no homework, no to-do-lists, no technology.  I am quite convinced that this practice has kept me alive, healthy, sane. 

And in the last few weeks, I have been learning the importance of Sabbath seasons.  I haven't had one in at least 4 years, maybe longer.  I was talking with a friend this week, a member of my former small group - the same group that walked with me as I attempted to work full time AND apply to graduate school simultaneously (this involved starting my practice time at 6AM every day).  "You haven't rested in a long time" - and she should know...she watched me struggle to keep my eyes open each week during small group.

I picked up a new book on the Sabbath last month, and I have enjoyed exploring different perspectives and Sabbath traditions. This morning's nugget seemed to leap off the page.  The author was describing the Sabbath practices of a friend of his (named Mary, no less). The above quote describes a portion of her Sabbath morning ritual.

One phrase resonated deeply with me: things that remind me that my presence has mattered.

I find it interesting that she says her "presence."  Not what she's done.  Not what she's given.  Not even what she's spoken.  Just simply her existence. The fact that she showed up. The fact that she shared a space with others, breathed the same air.

Isn't this what we all want to know?  Not even that we are wonderful or amazing, but simply that we matter. That something is lost if we are not present.  That there is intrinsic value in us that is involuntary, independent of our actions.  That our presence has had an effect, whether we intended it or not. That we are connected, in ways that cannot be put into words.  We are each made in the image of God, and when we rub shoulders, we cannot help but pass on a little bit of the divine.

As I have sorted through my belongings during my moving process, I have come across boxes of letters, cards, messages scrawled on scratch paper.  The written word has always been the most powerful love language in my life - and this collection of notes speaks of my need to know that my presence is needed - necessary.  So I hold tightly to them, to remind myself that I have mattered - and to fuel my hope that I can matter again.

And as I reflect on those who have affirmed my value, I am suddenly aware of the power we hold over others.  It doesn't take much to affirm someone's value.  A squeeze of the hand.  An arm around the shoulders.  A held gaze.  A simple sentence:   "I'm glad you're here."  "I've missed you."

It doesn't take much.  But the effects are far-reaching.

And it's made me think about the souls that will be present in my classroom this fall.  I was a bit overwhelmed to learn this week that there could be as many as 50 of them.  I will be studying my picture roster every night, attempting to learn names.  They will come and they will go - and I may not know all their stories by the end of the semester.  But I hope and pray that in some small way, I can communicate to them that they matter - not just their work or their opinions or their contribution to class discussion or their grades. Just their presence.