Carrots and Appetizers
It was the week of studio classes. As I often do, I was overlapping lessons a bit so kids could play their prepared pieces for each other. Teddy, Olivia and Sage had each just played, rehearsing their three performance steps: “First you say your name," Teddy had reminded us before we began. "Then you announce your piece. And then you play. And then you bow." Teddy and Olivia are siblings and old hands at this routine, having been in the studio for an entire year now. Sage, however, is a new Little One. But already she is primed to do whatever the older kids say.
I was about to dismiss Teddy and Olivia to their father, when seven-year-old Olivia asked me, “Miss Amy. Can I tell Sage something?”
OK, I responded, wondering where this might be going.
“Sage, when you are learning a song and it is really long and hard, you have to chop it up into little pieces. Like a carrot.”
This was the first time I had heard about carrots in piano lessons. But Sage nodded very seriously. Clearly, she could see the wisdom in this. Her studio piece, ‘Zachariah Zebra,’ is all of ten seconds long.
Despite moments like this that demonstrate the kids’ ability to teach themselves, there is still work for me to do. Case in point: Earlier that very afternoon while in an energetic round of Name That Tune, Olivia had enthusiastically identified Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer" as “The Appetizer!” (Close, so close, I told her.) Clearly, I still have a job.
And mostly that job is to pay attention, because the kids have so much to teach me. Carrots, indeed. My life feels like a carrot: the songs are often long and hard, and most days the chopping irregular and badly done, I’m afraid.
But recently we had a hearty, full-course meal to sustain us through our regular diets of carrots and tears. A few weeks ago we were in Boston for a whirlwind trip prompted by the news that Matt was one of Boston University School of Theology's 2024 Distinguished Alumni (there’s a mouthful!). We were joined for the day of distinction by Matt’s sister, my parents and a couple of beloved friends. Around the festivities, we did what we could to squeeze the marrow out of our time. We walked and walked, ate so much seafood, visited every bookstore we could. There was a rainy afternoon at the Museum of Fine Arts and drinks and coffees and dinners with friends. We took the train to Rockport so we could be near the sea and eat lobster rolls.
One morning I spent a precious hour and a half having tea with a former beloved teacher, and another day I spent with a former student who now attends Tufts. Both dear ones are great conversationalists with curious minds, and don’t let me off the hook for anything. It’s a lesson in showing up and paying attention, of vulnerability and being present in one another’s lives for the long haul. Sandwiched between these two relationships, I felt almost viscerally the ever-changing roles we have in our lives: teacher/student, student/teacher, mentor/friend, friend/mentor. My head spins, but my heart melts. It’s all so very precious.
It's been over twenty years since we’ve lived in Boston, still the most intellectually and culturally stimulating city I know. I came home with a suitcase full of books and enough visual images of cobblestones and red-brick townhouses, stoops lined with pots of mums and pumpkins, cozy cafes and cloudy weather to sustain me for a while. Sometimes a little morsel of delight can keep one going for a long time.
And I returned with the reminder that it is here in New Mexico where I find my work and my practice, my chopping and carrying, my carrots and appetizers. Yesterday I was teaching a high school kid, Franklin. We were working on a Chopin nocturne and discussing how to break down the left hand arpeggiated figures into rhythms and groupings and how to best sort out the structure into practice chunks. Suddenly, I remembered Olivia’s advice. “You know, Franklin, Olivia says to chop up long songs into little pieces like carrots.”
If the older kids are not actually charmed by the Little Ones, they know they should pretend to be in my presence. “That’s cute,” said Franklin.
A half hour later as we were finishing up, packing up music and making last scribbles in practice notebooks, I said to Franklin, “So what’s your takeaway tonight?”
Without missing a beat, he answered, “More carrots.”