I have a purple orchid blooming on our mantle. It has been there blooming its heart out since mid-October, a fact I find rather incredible. Perhaps it's not actually alive, I occasionally think when I water it, but no, I have witnessed its blooms open and later die, so it must be real. I declared 2006 to the year I was going to learn to grow orchids. Within months, I had killed two. As I write this, however, I have two alive and thriving plants. Maybe I did manage the year of the orchid after all.

It is these small everyday ordinary things that have filled me with deep peace and happiness lately. Several weeks ago my dad came for a visit. I hadn't seen him in over a year, due to crossed schedules, busy lives and his spending the summer in Europe. He left St. Louis on a Sunday afternoon and drove 17 hours to arrive here Monday late afternoon. We had dinner together Monday evening after I finished my teaching day at 8pm. The next day we managed lunch and a visit to the aquarium to stare at the jellyfish in the midst of my practicing, rehearsal, and teaching schedule. When I arrived home Tuesday night from a late rehearsal, he was on the phone. Someone back home had died; he had to leave the next morning to make it back for the funeral. We had dinner, breakfast and he was gone. Looking back I figured we spent maybe four or five hours together. He drove four days. The equation isn't good; I miss him and it had been too long since we had had a proper visit. However, there was a nicely "ordinary" quality about him dropping in for such a short visit–a couple of dinners, some good conversations, an easy afternoon trip to the aquarium. It was almost as if such quick visit could be a common occurrence instead of a big megillah that is plotted and scheduled far in advance. Too often time with friends and family is such an effort. We spend weeks and months saying we'll get together with friends that live a half-mile away, instead of just spending time together. There is too much "bumping into Charlie Ravioli" and too little actual face time. While this visit with my dad was disappointingly short, it was in many respects devoid of the drama that is so often a part of seeing the people we love. It was blessedly ordinary.

Right on the heels of dad's departure, Matt and I came down the flu and bad colds and spent several miserable days in bed. There is nothing like being well in an everyday sort of way, after days of feeling so lousy. Since then, Matt has had two wisdom teeth removed; I have been to the dentist and the eye doctor; gotten a haircut; seen my herbalist. All ordinary, everyday maintenances. All lacking theatrics or histrionics. In a highly charged world, it is wonderful to have life roll quietly along.

I am reading Julia Cameron's Finding Water: The Art of Perseverance, in which she explores what it means to be an creative person for the long haul, through the bumps and dry spells and theatrics of normal living. She describes what she calls emotional sobriety–the art of not making drama from your life in order to make drama on the page. She cautions against wishing for the cabin in the woods–the empty, free-of-obligations life with nothing to do but make art. Too much pressure, she declares, wishing instead for a normal, ordinary days in which to practice one's art form. If I have been guilty of anything lately, it is of all that wishing and scheming. It is too easy to make one's life too dramatic, too complicated, too theatrical and then use it as an excuse to not do the work we are called to do. "One of the greatest disservices we can do to ourselves as artists is to make our work too special and too different from everybody else's work." Writers write, Cameron says, painters paint, musicians make music. It is the doing, not the talking about doing, that makes it so, and there is nothing crankier than an artist who is not doing the work they should. She describes a fellow blocked writer: "What I understand is that she is not working and that she is prickly. Most of the time her friends behave very well. Most of the time she is able to allow them to behave as they need to. It is only when she is not working that her friends develop mysterious tics and flaws. It is only when she is not working that her normally very nice boyfriend suddenly becomes the monster. It is when her mind is not on her work that it is so closely focused on the workings of everyone else's personality. Her own personality is what is on tilt, but she can't see that." I want to avoid these words, while I am certain Cameron wrote them just for me. I am way too quick to build up insurmountable requirements before I will just go do that thing I am supposed to do. I know altogether too well the irritation that creeps into my life when I am avoiding that which I should do: the piano mocks me, the computer begs me to come and play, the other small creative acts that make me well and happy cry out my name, every person and feline makes me crazy with their quirks and needs. In these ordinary days, I am challenged to make the practice of my art more ordinary, everyday, and cut out the theatrics of excuses and reasons for not writing, practicing, knitting or designing my summer garden.

In the name of embracing the everyday, I have been turning inward, cleaning the house with great care, washing rugs and blankets, making soup, repotting plants, lining the kitchen window with coffee cups filled with succulents. If the orchids are a taste of the exotic, these are more quotidian tasks, but no less satisfying. Wash your hair, mend your clothes, water your plants, Cameron has reminded me in multiple books. We care best for our creative selves when we simply care for ourselves. "The idea that the biggest secret of making art might just be making some art is a conclusion the ego works very hard to avoid . . . .As we demythologize creativity, we exorcise a great many demons. We have no need for the demon of feeling special and different, isolated and alone. If creativity is normal, then it can be committed right in the heart of our family and friends–which is where creativity needs to be committed." I resent this, wanting instead to be allowed my moments of irrational "artistic" behavior. But I have to admit that I find this to be true. Writing is getting done because I am sitting down to write, not because I am particularly inspired. Row after row is being knitted on my gloriously colored blanket, because the project is there and at the ready when I have a moment. A different kind of music making is happening at the piano–both in my teaching and in my playing -- because I am entertaining the idea that beautiful music making could be the norm, not the exception. It is true: without the drama of "acting" like an artist, it is easier to create more art.

Today we stepped gingerly into a new pattern–exploring New Mexico's hiking trails. If 2006 was the year to grow orchids, 2007 may be the year to explore our state on our feet. We got up early and went out to the petroglyphs west of Albuquerque. These are ancient writings on the lava rocks that litter the cliffs–some from as long as 2000 years ago, others more recent (we saw "1966" scribbled on a rock with somebody's initials, next to what appeared to be much older drawings of animals and crude figures.). It was beautiful out there, quiet and empty, with the snow-covered mountains forming a backdrop behind us. We saw jackrabbits and beautiful birds ("beautiful birds" being all that I can call them until I learn to recognize our feathered friends–a thing for the future.). After finding breakfast and running a few errands, we returned home, feeling like we had been on a mini-vacation. As Matt gathered our belongings from the car, a roadrunner darted up the driveway from the backyard, said a quick hello and dashed down the street. Another desert scene, both ordinary and remarkable.

This afternoon couldn't be more pedestrian. I have a knitting project to work on, a pile of books to read, we have taxes to begin to organize and a cake we want to bake. And two cats beg for attention as we while away the day together.

For some time I have listened to my yoga teacher tell our class to work at 75% of our capabilities. "Don't go to the outer boundaries of your potential range or mobility because then you have no wiggle room, no room to experiment or to allow for a bit of give in the poses," she cautions us repeatedly. While this might seem like welcomed permission to take it easy, it is actually hard advice to follow. I have learned that yoga class is breeding ground for egos and competition, and even when we can let go of competing against the person on the next mat, it is difficult to let go of inner competition against our own pride and sense of accomplishment. I could do this last time, we might think to ourselves, no way am I going to back it up today. Or Last week I could hold this pose for two minutes. How about three today? we challenge ourselves.

If I fight this inner battle with my competitive ego in the yoga studio, how much more bravely must I carry the battle scars of working at 110% in daily living? I am forever maxed out: practicing the most music I can manage, teaching the greatest number of students my schedule will allow, juggling the largest number of obligations my life will hold. There is no wiggle room, no room for experiment, no space for creative ideas or whims to steal my fancy. At this level of exertion, it is all I can do to lift the load everyday with breaking in two.

But Patti's words are starting to dislodge something in my belief system. I find myself experimenting in yoga class, trying to see 75% might look like. To my utter amazement, even without the normal pushing, I have found that by working on long duration/low intensity poses that the stiffness in my feet is beginning to melt, the arthritis in my knees is less cranky, the stability of my shoulders is increasing. What, I wonder, would a long duration/low intensity schedule and life look like?

Lately, I have been motivated to find out, practicing the art of saying no when uninspiring gigs come my way, carving out some empty space in the middle of long days to lie on the couch with a book and my cats, consciously taking on less projects. This 75% workload feels odd and strangely light–accustomed as I am to carrying my maximum weight around on a daily basis. If I am honest with myself, I have to admit that it is uncomfortable to have my schedule flowing this easily. I accuse myself of slacking off if I am not overworking. I wonder if I will become lazy if I am not always moving at the speed of light. I fight the urge to fill the holes with random obligations–taking on another recital, another project, another student or two–trying to become at peace with the feeling of working in a state of balance.

But in spite of the inner struggles with this new friendlier way of living, I am intrigued. I wonder what will happen with the life-long fight with migraines if I am living a balanced life. I wonder if I will get fewer colds. I wonder what ideas or inspirations might be lured into my thoughts if there was only room for them to roost. As we move into Lent, I am experimenting with the idea of giving up my identity of a maxed-out, too busy person. For the first time, there may be enough space in my life to hear myself think, and that thought scares me.

But after a long cold winter, I am ready to make changes, eager to shift old crusty patterns of behavior and habits. In spite of the recent winter storm, I can nearly taste spring in the air. Already the trees are forming tiny buds, the forsythia are beginning to bloom and the 90 tulips bulbs we planted last fall are showing their green tips through the cold ground. For the next 40 days, I am going to take the time to watch them burst into bloom.

Years ago I encountered the concept of baby steps in one of Julia Cameron's books on living a life of creativity.  By her definition, baby steps are tiny movements in the direction of our dreams that may otherwise seem too overwhelming.  Baby steps are the positive actions in the face of a daunting task.  Baby steps are the process that breaks down large insurmountable jobs into small bite-size pieces. I bought this idea hook, line, and sinker.  It changed how I viewed the world, and certainly my productivity.  While I might not have the time or energy to conquer every grand dream on my list, I could do one small thing and thereby move forward.  While I might not be able to write a whole book, I could sit down for five minutes and write something.  While I might not have time to clean my whole house, I could get the dirty dishes out of the sink.  While I might not have two empty hours every morning to devote to my yoga practice, I could do two yoga poses for one minute each.   It is in these tiny micro-movements that most of the forward progress of my life has taken place.

I'm afraid that it is the fact that I did so readily adopt this philosophy that I now find myself feeling that in some areas of my life I make no discernable progress at all.  I'm afraid that in my acceptance of the little step, the small thing, the baby movement, I've learned always to do something, but that something I fear, may be just short of the step I need to take to tap into momentum and to reach the next level.

That this has taken so long to dawn on me is another example of how incrementally my mind works.  While it should have been painfully obvious to me years ago that if I just spend an hour on this movement or that piece, instead of 15 minutes a day for two weeks, I would probably just learn it instead of dragging my feet through the muck of the unknown for so long, I am embarrassed to admit that it really never did occur to me.  Instead, I have spent years at dabbling at whole recital programs, when so much of the time I just needed to get my butt in gear and learn the damn thing

Likewise it seems I never just sit down and read a book.  Instead, I read one or two pages a day for months.  I tell myself that I am reading, and ignore the fact that I am not reading much of anything.  I blame my inability to follow the thread of a story line on the author, instead of admitting that at my pace it is no wonder I have lost track of the narration.

I get so caught up with the micro-movements and the next steps for students that sometimes I lose track of the fact that this student is simply not doing his work. By putting my nose to the grindstone of breaking down the learning process, I can lose sight of the truth:  this student is making no measurable progress and maybe needs a drastic redirection–a totally new approach, a new teacher, a new instrument or activity.

Ironically, it is this very comfort with baby steps that makes me a good teacher I think, because I can so quickly divide any project into manageable chunks for students.  I know that when a student doesn't understand a new concept, it's usually my fault.  It means I haven't broken down the concept small enough to make it understandable.  The same thing holds true for me.  If I have bitten off more than I can chew, suddenly the task at hand looms impossible.  But if I can find the next smallest step I can keep moving.  In so many areas of my life, it has been a lifeline.  My house gets cleaned because I dust the piano when Juliet is late for her lesson or while talking on the phone with my mother.  My plants get watered because I empty water from glasses and cooking pots on them when I do the dishes.  I get letters written because I address envelopes while the teapot is boiling.  I write essays because I write in small increments of time, not because I ever have an empty weekend to churn it out.  I have made huge strides in my yoga practice, not because there has been anything huge about anything I do, but rather because day in and day out I do something–some pose, some stretch, in between lessons and rehearsals and other obligations.

But the challenging and rather slow lesson learnt here is that while this concept of baby steps has served me very well in so many areas of my life, I have often become too dependent upon doing the small thing, rather than the grand thing, when it comes to my own playing.  And yes, while there are times even baby steps are better than no steps at all in my practicing, there are other times when baby steps are just that–baby steps and I have a marathon to run.   It's puzzling that the very things that serve us so well in some places can be the very things that hold us back in others.  It's a collolary of the idea that while we may have well-developed skills in some areas, we may, for one reason or another, not bother applying these same skills in places that could use them.  It's the marriage counselor that can't keep his own marriage together.  The priest that can't keep his faith alive.  The piano teacher that can't manage her own practicing efficiently.  Gulp.

So.  Somehow I must learn the art of the big steps, taking the extra time with something, going the distance–instead of stopping just short of the goal.  It's not that easy, I'm afraid, accustomed as I am to stopping whenever I feel the slightest shift of concentration.  We live in a world of short attention spans, and I know that if I am really honest with myself I must acknowledge that just because I don't watch television or surf the Internet, clearly my attention span is no more impressive.  I want to be able to sit down and read a challenging book for longer than five minutes without my mind wandering or without falling asleep.  I want to be able to stay with the learning process long enough that I can get up from the piano bench having really accomplished something instead of merely stirring the pot for another day.  I want to be able to stay focused long enough to go the distance with my students, however that might manifest itself.  I want to cultivate more depth to my work and life and tolerate less shallow digging.

I can't abandon my practice of baby steps, because they serve me too well.  But can I alternate baby steps with longer runs?

As Julia Cameron writes in The Artist's Way,  "We do not often need to make large changes.  Large changes occur in tiny increments.  It is useful to think in terms of a space flight:  by altering the launch trajectory very slightly, a great difference can be made over time."  Amy, be a big girl and grow up:  the next baby step I need to learn is to take the adult-like leap ahead.

I am back knitting again.  It's been too long, having first been deterred by two curious kittens and then bored with uninspiring projects.  Lately I have been reading the beautiful book put together in conjunction with the Tiffany exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum and have been thinking a great deal about Tiffany's creativity and artistry in many different media.  While he is best known for his stained glass, he worked also in painting, ceramics, glassworks and designed his own house and garden, which inspired the Met's exhibit.  Reading this, I remembered how I have always wanted to do stained glass.  "Where do you learn to do stained glass anyway?"  I asked Matt.  "Well I think it is easy to learn tacky stained glass," he said.  "I'm not interested in tacky stained glass," I retorted.  "I know that, but it may be harder to find a place to learn good stained glass," Matt replied.  And so, for the time being I'm back to knitting.

Even that fulfills my need to have a project.  I realized that in 2006 I made the house my project, and discovered my passion for surrounding myself with glorious colors.  Probably it is this same hunger for color that drives my desire to do stained glass, but for now I am drowning myself in rich blue, purple, crimson and golden yarn.  I tore out two uninspired projects (all those pointless hours–I try not to think about it) and have begun what will be a large multicolored blanket, the colors inspired by a painted mirror I bought Matt for Christmas.  While I have made numerous afghans for the babies of my friends, I have never attempted anything this large or ambitious.  It may take all of 2007.  It may take me until I find a place to learn the art of stained glass making.  It will certainly occupy me during this long cold winter.  It is already making my cats crazy.

Immediately upon immersing myself in stripes of red and purple I got an e-mail from a friend.  Terri makes jewelry, and over time I have acquired a number of her pieces.  Several years ago I gave her a scarf I made in return for her generosity in giving me great deals on her work.  In her e-mail she writes, "Would you be interested in making me another scarf in exchange for some jewelry?"  It seems that the universe is urging me back to the knitting needles.

I think the lack of a creative project other than music-making and writing is part of why I have, as of late, been suffering from boredom and restlessness.  ("Here is Neville who died of ennui," reads a line in a favorite Edward Gorey story.)  Planning something besides my next essay or my next musical phrase keeps my mind occupied and my spirits sailing.  "I want a new, normal job," I confided to a friend lately in an attack of "I hate everything about my life."  "OK," she responded with the air of someone who knows I'm already doing what I'm supposed to be doing.  "What do you want to do?"  "Oh, I want to do pottery or make stained glass or design jewelry," I answered, eyes glowing excitedly.  "You do realize that these don't lead to "˜normal' jobs either?"  she teased me.

Even though this seems like the southwestern winter that won't end, before I know it spring will be here and there will be another project to dig my time and energies into–the garden.  Until then, the cats and I are knitting.

The other day I was awakened by drops of water being sprinkled on my face. This immediately alarmed me, what with the recent leaky roof, but this water wasn't coming from the ceiling. Instead, Yun-Sun was dipping her paws merrily in the glass of water by my bed and splashing with great abandon. She must have been getting me back for all the times I squirt her face with water when she is being naughty.

And they say cats can't think logically. Of course, much of the time I wish mine thought through things much better, like when I unsuccessfully am trying to convince them of this cause and effect: they wake me up at 4AM; they get put in the basement. As Matt says, if they want to go to the basement, why can't they just take themselves there in the wee hours of the morning?

But in spite of their refusal to learn my habits, I love them. Sometimes when they are curled up together grooming one another as if a beauty contest is in their near future, I love them so much my heart hurts. They are endlessly entertaining. They are endlessly frustrating. They are a microcosm of the paradox of life: it is both endlessly entertaining and equally frustrating.

Lately, I have been in a funk, which I quickly decide would be cured if only I could find something else to do with my life. For all the ways I am well suited to my chosen life and work, there are equal number of times I desperately want some other calling. As much as I love my house and have the right personality to work from home--because I don't need other people or a boss to motivate me, because I can easily and happily structure my own work and goals, because in a silly way, I am endlessly amused by my own company–at the moment I am convinced that if I had an office, a workplace to go to, my problems, my current funk, would disappear. I want a wardrobe of work clothes, instead of the closet-full of yoga pants, black t-shirts, long scarves and necklaces that make-up my current wardrobe. Of course, my clothing choices allow for comfort and movement–I can dance and move with the smallest student, I can sit on the floor to do flashcards and rhythm work, I can better demonstrate how to play our instrument using our body in dancer-like clothes. However, right now, I want a different life and that life includes an office away from home and a closet of smart suits.

I am tired of the endless traffic that stomps through my house on a daily basis, and the fact that no matter how hard I try I can't keep the bathroom clean or the floors swept. I am tired of having to make sure my bed is made, my underwear is not hanging in the shower, the dishes are out of the sink. Too often, I fail at all these things and it frustrates me.

But above all, I grow weary of the silent presence and pressure of my work life staring at me from across the room. There is always something else I should be practicing, something else I should look up for a student, some other email I should send, or message I should respond to. While my work life and personal life are completely blurred–my identity as a musician, pianist, writer and teacher would be there regardless of whether or not I made any money doing these things–it is because these identities are completely blurred that I never feel like I can escape. My work and play are so much the same that when I need better boundaries I struggle to establish them. I have learned that it takes literally leaving town to feel like I have a real vacation from myself, my work, and my workplace, however much I have set it up to my liking most days.

I go through these periods of needing to escape myself ever so often: when I succumb to the American pressures of needing a real career with a capital C, when I want a 401k plan and three weeks of paid vacation a year, when I want a job that has clear boundaries and expectations, instead of the loosy-goosy artistic life that I currently embody. These feelings represent that same frustration I experience with the cats–for all the ways they are so perfect and wonderful, there are still so many examples where their habits and mine don't completely mesh.

It is deep in this funk about my life and work that I have one of those "I love this so much" moments. Jeremy, a precocious first-grader, arrived after Christmas vacation with his Christmas arrangements not only learned beautifully, but also memorized. Right before his arrangement of "Angels We Have Heard on High", he turns to me and announces, "Amy, I am going to sing too." And so he did. Playing and singing at the top of his lungs, "Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing on the plains…."

Of course, his snowy, muddy, feet tracked through my just cleaned floors. Of course, the next student is completely unprepared after the holiday break. Of course, I have too much to do and not enough hours in the day, and don't know when I can even leave the house, much less carve out a real escape. But for a few minutes, life is what it is: while endlessly frustrating, equally, joyfully entertaining.