Letting Go
It was Sam's last piano lesson.
Sam had studied with me for a number of years. A transfer student from another teacher, I found him frustrating at times. He didn't practice much, and didn't have the work habits or commitment of the rest of my students. Once, I even threatened to drop him, suggesting to his mother that they could spend their time and resources better. But Sam told his mother he wanted to stick with piano. Feeling rather torn, I reluctantly agreed to keep him on.
Since then Sam had grown up, transformed from an awkward kid to a self-assured young man with a wicked sense of humor. He still didn't practice much, but he was the funniest kid I have ever taught; there was a moment in every lesson when he earned his keep merely by making me laugh. Other students adored him: what he lacked in effort himself he made up for in support of his peers. Next year he would be a senior in high school. Already, I was mourning the day Sam would leave the studio for college.
And then last month, I received a call from his mother. "Sam says that he should stop piano,” she said. “We have always told him it was his choice. He says it's time."
I was sad. I suspected he was anxious and worried about his senior year, and looking to find some place to take the pressure off. "Let me talk to him," I told his mother, wondering how many times and under how many other circumstances I have said something like this.
For every student I fight for and struggle with, sit with and cheer on, there are those whom I bless when they walk away. If there is no one prescription for success, there is never a single reason why the practice of becoming a musician sits better with some people than others. While it is hard to find a person who doesn’t love music—some kind of music—not everyone is cut out for the business of becoming a musician: the practicing, the hours alone working out details of technique and sound, the mental hurdles required to juggle notes and rhythms, pitch and tone. Sometimes the teacher is the issue, a bad match of personality and expectations. I’ve been there, on both sides.
Other times, I have sensed the problem might be a battle of control and power between the parents and the kid, with music merely being the ground on which to fight that age-old war. Sometimes parents give up, worn down after years of negotiating. Sometimes a student seems so ill suited to the requirements to be a musician—either in ability or temperament or both—that to watch him struggle feels pointless. There are a million worthwhile ways to spend our time on earth. Sometimes the very kindest and most compassionate thing I can do as a teacher is to give students and parents permission to let go, gracefully allowing the lights to go out on a practice.
That evening when Sam arrived for his lesson, he called out, "Hi Mrs. Greer," a name he hadn't used for me in years. He was nervous, I could tell, and worried about what I might say. "Sam," I began, "I've heard a horrible rumor. I've heard this is our last lesson together."
He burst into tears. He was seventeen, a tall and good-looking kid. He had just been elected class president at his school. He had made me laugh every Monday night for the last three years. And there he was, sobbing.
I kept talking. I told him I honored his decision, but I was sad. I told him that as we get older we have to make tough choices about where to spend our time, and that sometimes we have to close the door on something we love, at least temporarily. I told him that I considered him to be one of the funniest human beings I knew and that he would be sorely missed at performance classes and recitals. Saying nothing, he kept crying.
After a while, I ran out of words. We sat there in silence for a few minutes, all the while tears running down Sam's face. Then I suggested he play, determined that we would finish our time together making music.
The lesson ended. Matt came in from work. Saying goodbye, the two of them shook hands; Sam had been a favorite of Matt’s too. I gave Sam a hug. He gripped me hard. "Thank you, Amy. Thank you for everything," he said, his first words since coming in the door an hour before.
Only when the screen closed behind him did I cry, collapsing under the strain of the previous hour. Undoubtedly, I maintain practices better than I end them. Or begin them, for that matter. I dread the first of anything: the first day of class, the first lesson with a new student, the first rehearsal with a new musical colleague. I don’t really want to start anything: a new yoga sequence, a new diet, a new recital program. Novelty has never been a temptation.
But hand me a baton and I will run with it. Forever, if necessary. I am made for the long marathons, the lengthy commitment of marriage, the dull repetitive hours of labor and work. I know firsthand what happens in the solitary depths of one’s practices; over and over again, I have found the spiritual grace that occurs after months in the desert, wandering far and alone. I am driven by the peace that can be discovered only from sitting with a darkness and emptiness so wide the practice itself seems futile, worthless and redundant. Perhaps it comes down to this: I love the repeats.
Circling over the same habits, patterns and behaviors, life moves forward. I have watched dozens of eager students walk into my studio for the first time, anxious about this thing called a piano lesson. I have seen countless students walk out for the last time. Only the details change.