Life and Music

Already deep into another semester, I am reminded daily of the daunting list of assignments and new lessons I must get through with every student. Most of the time, I have 45 minutes --60 if I'm lucky -- to do so. It is enough to take my breath away. Or at the very least, to make me exhausted before I've even begun.

Recently I read that when NPR's Susan Stamberg was asked what she was planning do to after she retired, she answered simply, "Less." I like this. In fact, I like it so much I have made it my motto of 2010. New Year's resolutions with their expectations of "More this" and "Do that" can be damned. I want to take more pride in leaving things on my to-do list undone, and regularly to go to bed knowing that I've let some things go. I suspect that the sun will rise anyway. I suspect that it won't make much difference to my students' overall progress, that they will still practice and will manage to learn even if I am not pushing so aggressively behind them. I imagine that the garden will get watered and more or less weeded, and that somehow food will get on the table, and the house cleaned. The cats will, most surely, remind me when I have forgotten to feed them; and I'll manage to get recital programs learned and my writing deadlines met. But maybe, just maybe, in 2010 I'll stop racing the clock and finally take a deep breath.

It's the fiddlers that kill me.

You know the ones I mean. The kids who are always fiddling at the piano, mindlessly noodling while you talk. They fish and fudge their way through their technique work and chord progressions, finding notes by ear rather than actually learning patterns. This drives me crazy. I think what I am saying is brilliant; they need to be listening with their full attention. I want them to learn their notes solidly, not meander their way into the correct patterns. I can't understand why their hands and fingers have to be on the piano messing around during every second of our time together. The constant noodling gets on my nerves. I can't hear myself think.

And then there are the students in constant motion. Often these are the same kids. Take, for example, Jack. Jack never stops moving from the moment he walks in my door. He is always noodling or spinning around on the piano bench, or, worse yet, lying down on the piano bench with his feet up in the air and his head hanging off the side. I kid you not. Of course, this is the same child who broke his arm the hour before our fall recital. This is also the kid who has placed in performance and composition competitions. I both adore Jack and want to strangle him at the same time.

Jack is not an unusual example of whirling motion in my studio. I have more than my share of fiddlers among my student roster these days. Almost without exception, these are also my best students in many respects. They practice faithfully and learn fast. They are creative and love to improvise (as evidenced by their constant noodling). They are enthusiastic, and have strong opinions about their music and their practicing. But, even with all this going for them, they are hard to teach in many ways, because it is difficult to know when I have their real attention and focus. I find myself talking louder and faster to get their attention. I reprimand them for not listening. I remind them constantly, "Don't play while I am talking." These are good kids, and they don't mean to be rude, I know that. But something is not quite working here.

Over the holidays I was reading about a form of physical therapy that deals with sensory integration issues. This book by Mary Sue Williams and Sherry Shellenberger called How Does Your Engine Run? focuses on kids who have sensory integration problems of all kinds, from not being able to handle too much outside stimulation and becoming inappropriately overwhelmed, to those who don't have the normal sensory triggers that should give healthy mental engagement and energy. The book offered some specific tools for dealing with kids who have even intermittent sensory integration issues. The examples that most interested me described the kids who needed a certain level of activity in order to focus. Their squirming around wasn't a sign they weren't paying attention, but rather was necessary in order to keep their brains engaged. Asking them to sit still and not move was a recipe for them to zone out completely.

This got me thinking, because the applications to teaching are huge. Even when working with students with no diagnosable sensory issues, everyone has different needs with regards to what keeps them engaged mentally. Some people need silence when they read; others read more attentively when listening to music. Some people constantly fidget while watching television or listening to a lecture; others seem to never even blink. Some people concentrate better while chewing gum or snacking on crunchy foods; for other people this would be distracting. Most of us more or less intuitively figure out what we need to do in order to stay engaged in activities requiring various levels of energy and attention. Could it be that my fiddlers were actually paying closer attention to me while they were fussing at the piano?

I am suspicious this might be the case, but I don't think the answer is for me to just talk louder above their noodling. After all, I am a person in this relationship too, and I can't think while this constant noise is happening. There has to be a balance and a compromise, which means yes, sometimes I should let them noodle away and spend precious seconds (or sometimes minutes) allowing them to finish whatever energetic spurt of creativity they feel compelled to work out. Sitting there quietly while they mindlessly fiddle usually has the result of startling them into becoming aware that they are fishing aimlessly and they stop on their own. This doesn't mean the habit is fixed forever, or even for the remainder of the lesson, but it is a peaceful, non-verbal way to bring some awareness to the behavior.

But if it true that these kids need some physical stimulation to stay mentally focused, then we have to look hard for other ways to work around this. I've learned to ask these kids to get up off the bench, walk the three feet over to the table where I sit and look with me as write, talk through assignments or show them something to think about in their music. They can't fiddle if they aren't near the piano, which is so obvious that I don't know why it took me so long to figure out. Besides, this on and off the bench is helpful---the physical activity feeds their brain, and getting them away from the piano while we chat solves the random noise problem. When I need a longer teaching moment, I'm trying to make available something to keep their hands busy---a tennis ball to pass between us, squeeze therapy balls for them to manipulate while I talk, rubber therapy bands to pull. Whether I like it or not, these kids will be active while we are talking and learning, directing that activity towards things that don't drive me crazy prevents a lot of impatient outbursts.

In the end, I'm discovering that all this directed non-musical activity makes them learn faster and, ironically, actually saves time. Without even knowing why, these kids are happier and more focused, because this constant physical motion keeps their little brains energized. Even better, I don't feel like I am about ready to scream because I can't get their attention. This is one more example of the importance of thoughtful pacing: As teachers, our job is to learn to be sensitive to what each student needs and then structure activities accordingly. This is something I think about a lot, but unfortunately, with these kinds of students it has taken a particularly long time to figure out what works. I think I failed to see the problem for so long because on the surface, these students and I look very well suited for one another as we all generally function at the speed of light. In fact, we move too fast for our own good much of the time. But the similarities end there, because I need a lot of silence to think, and find fidgeting not engaging, but rather distracting. Over the years, it has been all too easy just to allow the frustrations and the noise level of these lessons to spiral out of control.

Giving these kids permission to move a lot has proven to be a graceful moment in my learning curve as a teacher. With these students I just accept that there will need to be a lot of activity of all kinds---more time fussing at the piano, more systematic rhythmic movement work, more opportunities to manipulate toys in their hands, more time off and on the piano bench. I used to think that much of this was a waste of time, but I'm learning better. In fact, getting these kids to sit still for the length of the lesson is not the indicator that it once was that we have had a successful lesson. A good lesson these days looks entirely different, but I know it when it happens, because I am happier, more grounded teacher, less ready to strangle the joyful bundle of enthusiasm in front of me.