ten thousand stars

February 21st, 2010 :: Teaching Days

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.

Of course, there are very good reasons why there are so many varied notes in every student's assignment book: I want my students to practice for a good chunk of time (therefore I need plenty to keep them busy) and to work carefully and thoroughly while they are at it (thereby requiring me to write complicated and intricate series of steps, assignments and pieces of cautionary advice: Fix blue marks! Don't forget F-sharp! Play brackets three times, then whole song....) My students' progress indicates that this method of thorough practice assignments is generally successful. Yes, there are the random kids who on occasion ignore or misread something, but most weeks my students come back well-prepared and thoroughly-practiced. I shouldn't mess with what's working, but lately I've been wondering, is all this necessary? Is there a way to keep them practicing with good results that lets me off the hook a bit?

The problem, I suspect, is my deeply held belief that my job is to nurture the well-rounded musician and creative person. And this, I have come to realize, just takes time. It takes time in every lesson to work from a wide variety of angles; it demands practicing in different ways with differing intentions. It means there is always a lot to get through, and a lot of different requirements to fulfill. Add to that outside expectations of recitals and competitions and performances and the job can seem intimidating quickly. No wonder I am a bit breathless.

I've been thinking about this lately, both in the teaching studio and in my life at large. I wonder how it is that I have ratcheted up the expectations in every area of my life, all with good and honorable intentions, only to be left with a life that's largely all work and little play. I get a staggering amount done every day -- that isn't the issue. But my life lacks empty space, time to meander around the paths my thoughts might take me, or to wander around aimlessly in my world. Taken to an extreme, this would mean that I'd get nothing done, but could I give a up a little productivity in exchange for wallowing deliciously in the gift of an empty hour or two?

"I love a broad margin to my life," wrote Thoreau. That's what I want: broad margins to my life. But change is easier said than done. Just ask anyone who made New Year's resolutions.

Today Luke came into his lesson without any of his music or assignment notebook. In two years of lessons he hasn't ever done this before, so there is little reason to scold. But a lesson without materials is a different lesson indeed. Even after working through the basic technique assignments and ear pieces we could do without his books, there was time to spare. "I figured out the chords to We Three Kings," he told me proudly. "Can I play it for you?" Time is not usually so much on our side. "Sure," I said. He played his version, and we explored a few different chord changes to try in several places. "Thanks, Miss Amy!" Luke exclaimed and spontaneously gave me a big hug. A hug. All for taking some time to play around a bit during his lesson. It's important to note that this isn't a kid who hates me or his lessons normally. He is a happy student, but this sense of "play" that we had in the last lesson isn't cultivated nearly enough, my determination to see us through his assignments and to set him up well for the next week wins out every time. That might be OK generally. After all, his parents are paying me good money to ensure that we use our time well, but a bit of aimless meandering through a kid's interest and curiosity isn't a waste of time either. Experimenting with harmony in a familiar tune is a good use of time and I know it. I just don't usually allow us to wander off the path so freely. There's a lesson in there somewhere if I can slow down enough to take heed of it.

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.