Sitting Still

I saw my first Christmas tree glowing in someone’s front window the day after Halloween. I was out walking after my evening lessons, and there, right around the corner, was a Christmas tree in a neighbor’s living room. Lit with glaring yellow, pink and purple florescent lights, it was jarring on that All Soul’s Day, the somber day of recognizing our dearly departed loved ones.

Of course, I should not have been surprised, Christmas creeps up and surprises us earlier and earlier every year. Indeed, in the days following that first Christmas tree sighting, I stumbled upon new signs of holiday décor every night as I strolled through the neighborhood. It became like a sort of Easter egg hunt—what would I find tonight?

As I have walked the last month, I have thought about this rushed frenzy of holiday decoration. What inspires someone to pull out the ornaments and Christmas lights on, say, November 13? Are my neighbors bored and restless, looking for something to do? Sad or depressed, in need of a bit of cheer? Or are we, collectively, just impatient? And what about old-fashioned delayed gratification? The sense of anticipation, of waiting, of expectation? What happened to the Season of Advent? Light the Advent candle one, goes the old song from my childhood. Now the waiting has begun.

Not so much.

(And then there’s the fact that I ordered a new electric tea kettle last Friday morning, and it had arrived by dinnertime. That same day. Which is both AMAZING and absolutely ridiculous all at once.)

All of this just serves to add to my general disorientation around time these days. We all seem scattered, dropping balls everywhere. Writing the December date in practice notebooks this week, I almost cringed. I have just a handful of lessons for each student left this semester; the heavy lifting is done. Already the fall recital seems a lifetime ago. Getting ready for the bi-annual program requires great psychological and mental steadiness, not to mention managing the emotional toil of preparing 30 kids to be musically settled and secure at exactly the same performance hour. During the recital evening, my heart goes on stage 30 times. The adrenaline rages. “I only stop breathing for my kid,” one parent tells me afterwards. “But for you it must be so much different.” It’s true. Not only do I know every note of every piece of music, I also know every possible stumble spot or potential problem for every single kid. That we live to tell the tale seems miraculous every time.

My very favorite moment that night was when the Little One sitting next to me leaned over, pointed down at his program and whispered, “Miss Amy! Do you have any idea where we are?” I could see the look of almost panic on his face: Have I missed my turn?

I tried not to laugh (It was a piano recital after all.). Of course, I knew where we were:  Sophie and “Ghost Town” then Peter and Rachmoninov then Nick and “Midnight Ride”…but the question was a good one. Do we have any idea where we are? Not really.

It is a good time to return to the Zendo. In Zazen, we practice stillness, the discipline of not twitching at every impulse, or reacting to every random thought or idea. We sit, silently and without moving. It is more than a metaphor; it is pure practice, devoid of all the bling and shiny décor. It drives home the lesson of not multi-tasking, in doing a single one thing. Sit and breathe. Sit and breathe. Sit and breathe.

At home, I drape my garlands of dried cranberries strung with white lights across the mantle and get out the Christmas books for the sunroom and call the decorating done for the season. In the studio, I remind myself that just because the recital is behind us, there is still learning to do in these remaining weeks of the year. There are practice steps to work through and questions to ask and skills to drill. If anything, working deeper and slower in lessons acts as an antidote to the sugar rush, the over-caffeinated tempo of the rest of our hours. Every December I am surprised to discover that there is a whole crop of students who have never done “Joy to the World” scales and think it is AWESOME. There are Little Ones who will happily practice extra if I will let them do the WHOLE Christmas book of songs. There are kids who ask for an additional sight-reading book of carols. It’s a gift, really, this month post-recital, if we can just sit still.

So perhaps that is the practice in this cloyingly sweet season: to sit still. Do one thing, and then the next. To find delight in our neighbor’s outrageous display of joy. Here’s a sugar plum. There’s a sugar plum. Breathe.