Listening and Cultivating

Watching a Suzuki master teacher give a lesson to a 5-year-old Book 1 student this afternoon, I have the feeling that experience entitles one to being less hurried, to having greater ease.  She knows that she can get a student there.  She's done it probably hundreds of times and even though each one is different, she can look at this little person, with imperfect little things and still see a path to the future when he is more than what he is.  She is that path and that connection.  She has faith in something that others can't see.

It seems to be the same with masters of any number of things.  There is a confidence, a calmness, even if the task requires great speed and focus.  I can understand this as a cellist and I wonder if I can help myself along by finding it in my teaching.  I do believe in myself, but I have never gotten a mixed group of cellists to the next level, including four beginners.  Can I do that?

The answer is yes.  Perhaps not as well I will be able to do it in the future, but it will happen.  Already they know how to open their cello cases and get out their bows and cellos safely.  They know how to do pizzicato and the names of the strings and at least in theory, what it means to have good cello posture.  When I think of just a little more than one week ago, this is huge.  They are already on the path to becoming cellists.

But I think as I do this more often, I will know and trust the path in me more and more.  But in the meantime, I admire the voice that I hear in these Suzuki teachers.  If I'm incomplete in some of my early lessons on set-up, if I'm distracted by the classroom management gymnastics that I feel I have to be doing, I can at least remember to give them some of this voice.  It is so much closer to my own than the one I've been trying to adopt.  And I think I will just have to go with it, not really knowing a more authentic way.

Points

I miss playing in an orchestra.  I'm surprised to have this feeling and in a quandary over what to do about it.  I believe in the work and the struggle of teaching my students, even after a day like today which is more challenging than I would have hoped.  (Was it the messy start due to the previous class running over?  Or was it my desire to be more hard lined than is natural for me?  I'm still trying to calibrate this whole thing.  My parents disciplined me by asking how I wanted to be disciplined.  Can I do that here?)  But despite the challenges, they seem like worthy ones to meet.  I believe in them in a way that is quite different from orchestral playing, even from chamber music playing.  It seems larger, more creative, more intertwined in the lives of others, which I enjoy.

I did not enjoy today, though.  And practice seems without purpose.  I think it is an inevitable part of transitions, the weeding of the old self and the building of the new.  And the old self dies hard.  I have no reason to turn away from this afternoon of challenging students, of poor classroom regulation on my part.  Points were flying everywhere, good, bad, inconclusive, and I felt like people were being more hurt than helped by them.  But that is not the issue.  The issue is what I'm trying to build behind them and how I'm going to do it in this school, with all the various things that need attention.  There is something that feels very important to me behind it and I have to listen to that.  But I must also listen to the muscian that is leading the meaning of its importance, to see if the two can learn from one another.  

Learning in New York

I have a new Consequence Hierarchy and a new Behavior Tracker, both used universally by the teachers at the school.  What if adults were monitored this way?  I suppose we have jail and fines, but how often does it really come to that.  Every time I jaywalk I feel like I should be losing points, except that it's New York.

And these are good students.  I want so much for them.  A lesson plan soars and it's execution is bogged down in time and reality.  Why does it take so much longer to get through things than I had thought it would?  Perhaps this is experience.  I can imagine myself playing the cello, but I have yet to unite the vision of my classroom with its reality.  One day I hope to be able to bring my mind up to speed with what can really be done, to gain that traction, the ability of mental practice and planning.  I notice more and more about my students, more and more about my classroom.  And there is still more to notice.

And tonight I began training with a fellow Tae Kwon Do member who has been training alone.  It's so wonderful to be working out with someone again, to have his guidance, and to have another example of teaching in a teaching tradition that is very, very strong.

I think I want to be a master teacher.  To feel as though I have mastered teaching, even though, from my experience with cello, I know that it doesn't mean that one has finished learning when one is a master.  But I feel very young, or at least I am surrounded by many inspiring possibilities.  Something new to learn in New York.

Catch

We just came inside from catching a lunar eclipse.  We watched the moon fading behind the earth fading behind the thick clouds, with a crowd of other people watching at one of the entrances of Riverside Park.  There are always other people, always other people.

I think in my life in Japan I became accustomed to being alone.  Being in Japan was a practice in loneliness.  I was far away from family and friends, far away from familiarity, and even in the cluster of people in which I moved, there was a loneliness.  The courtesy of the Japanese culture, the way that they express fear and love, to my eyes and ears and all that comes in between from their searching, was so quiet, so polite, or judging, or fill-in-the blank.  It was lonely.

There were many people in Japan, but there are so many people in New York.  And it is much harder to feel lonely.  I say this with winter ahead of me, but never in Japan would a woman have gotten on a bus and berated the bus driver for leaving the stop too early, continued to argue with him, and quickened to an apology to get him back on and driving again.  People throw themselves at one another in New York and are just as quick to ignore one another.  People say hello, or bury themselves in their work, but the strings of longing and loneliness seem shorter or non-existent.  There is so much here.  There are so many different people doing different things and the ragged edges of possibilities are as inviting as velcro.  It's hard not to become attached, to get caught up in the importance of walking from the subway stop.

It's been a week of many new things.  And new things require a lot of attention.  I began teaching at the Harlem Success Academy and find myself just as caught between worlds of education philosophy as I was a week ago.  I already have a growing affection for my students, something that I believe was seeded in the moments between discipline when I saw their deviations from the norm, their individual humanity that disrupted my classroom.  And somehow this is what has made me more committed to them, to finding a way to keep our order as tight as I know they are capable of doing.  A great deal can be done in this teaching style.  But I would like to include the words "Please" and "Thank you."  I would like to quell the discipline arms race that stands in the hallways in stern tones of reckoning.  What happens when these students grow up and people don't speak to them in such a tone?  Will they still know how to show respect?  I see what focus these students can achieve and I admire what learning can be done in its wake.  I find myself still at odds, not entirely committed to this tone because it is not mine, but I'm open to hearing what it can offer in the void of having my own.

And to balance this is the Suzuki training that I'm doing which is a guiding force in the expectations to which I wish to hold my group of students, though we have far fewer of the benefits of classic Suzuki teaching:  the involvement of the parent, the control of the teaching space, the expectation of daily guided practice, proper chairs and equipment.   But the tone is one of warm love.  It is still full of expectation, but it is also full of time.  There is time because there is support from all around, because there is trust that success will happen.  Time is timed my Harlem school.  There is no time for time.  But maybe that is the way it needs to be.  And it certainly it is efficient and a great way to motivate.  I suppose even Suzuki lessons use the motivation of the timer occasionally.

It's a wonderful opportunity to be merging and playing with these ideas in teaching.  And to add to this is Dalcroze which is a movement based method of music education in which I'm taking classes once a week.  There will be even more resources for thinking about how to embrace students, how to help them grow, how to reflect on what it is that needs to be shared and how to most effectively share it.

It is quite stimulating to be here.  And maybe this is the antidote to loneliness.  Or at least it is mine.   I'm finding myself more and more wrapped in this city, coming to love all the different people, all the different possibilities and feeling free to interject my own existence into it.  There are many things in New York, but I find loneliness to be a difficult one to feel at this point.  Of course I know that winter is ahead.  And I know that people rarely follow up on the get-togethers they say they will have.  One day I will feel lonely again, and wonder how to shake it, and wonder how to make the world seem so new as it does now.  And hopefully then, there will be the twins dressed in black that I saw on the train the other day, or the crowd speaking loudly in Spanish, or the shoe sellers yelling in Arabic on the street, or the vendor yelling "good morning" with his stern but kind eyes.  Hopefully there will be some New Yorker throwing themselves my way, allowing me to catch them.

New York Sunset

The train I'm on is going over the east river and the sun is setting behind the city on my left.  New York has such beautiful sunsets.  I think a part of me believes a sunset is the unraveling of the drama of the day.  In Japan I was hardly ever able to see the setting sun, but typically when I did, it was very calm, whatever final cries it had to give us were hidden from our eyes by the omnipresent green hills.  But here in New York there is such a flare in the finality.  The ripping away seems so tragic, so glorious.  All the people, all the events, the thoughts, expressions, crammed into this tiny space, not ready to close out the day, restless and glowing into the night.  

I'm headed to New Haven, a place I've never been to stay with a friend of a friend the night before an inaugural audition back to playing.  Every time I approach an audition I learn something new.  The last few months have been busy with a move from another country, with seeing family, getting settled into a new place, furnishing an apartment, getting a job and training for that job.  Things have been unsettled.   But then when is life normal?  Regardless, I've admittedly had to come back into playing, trying to get not only my hands in shape, but my focus, my ears. 

I've been fairly preoccupied with the upcoming teaching at hand.  There has been a lot to process from the training, a lot of responsibility, a lot of planning, and I'm excited about what will come in the Suzuki class as well.  It is a novel thing which has taken my attention along with other aspects of getting settled in the city.  And to harness and redirect all the curiosity and piqued interest, all the things that I feel must be done and can be done in this new life and new world, so that I can focus on the art of preparing for an audition, has been difficult.  At first I was just was going through the motions.  I knew I had to practice, to get my fingers on the strings, to play something even if I'm not engaged.  But why?  Because I want to teach, and the return to practice is something I need to be able to teach to my students.  I'm slowly starting to feel the strings again as I remember doing before, slowly starting to hear what needs to be heard, to develop an internal pacing which allows me to slow down, take it apart, put it together again, hear more deeply.  And I'm remembering how all of these things which are usually so engrained in me have all been learned.  They are something I can give as long as I cultivate them in myself.  Now also, the gift of rebuilding and facing something when it seems to give me nothing.  I think practice is a way to love and a way to loving.  A way to keep the heart open. 

The sun is not gone, it's just with others.  It will be here again and again.  How wonderful to live in a world where there is always a tomorrow.  

Tone

I walked through a lot of streets today, from one teacher training program to another, thinking about where I am and where I'm going.  I've spent a lot of time teaching in my life, but in this New York life teaching music will be an area in which I will undoubtedly grow.   I realized this morning that to grow, one must be less in some way than what one becomes, and I felt a humility in realizing that my walking self was a much less experienced, much greener, less wise teacher than I will become.  I have so much to learn from all these people around me.

I began Suzuki Teacher Training with Pamela Devenport this morning and was faced with a strong antidote to the No-Nonsense Nurturing voice in which I've been immersing myself.  Such a warm positive, loving energy.  It's hard to believe that the students of each of these approaches are both from the same species.  It isn't that these teaching styles are incompatible; in many ways I think they may be very similar and I trust that both are working from love to have high expectations for their students.  Both believe that every child is capable and expect that accountability from their teachers.  But the tone is different.  To me, one is direct and demanding, and the other warm and persistent.  But I think there is love in both and it will be very interesting to experience both in the coming weeks and months.  (And there is still one more educational model to be thrown into this mix, starting next week.)

We concluded teacher training for the Harmony Program this afternoon and so next week will begin the classes and trying to find our way, our structure, our voice in the classroom.  It is an exciting time and in between now and then I'm trying to find another voice, my audition and playing-the-cello voice which is a little rusty at the moment.  Dusting and polishing, getting closer, seeing and learning more.

Tough Love

There are many different ways to love.  Sometimes people use the word as though it is a fixed state, but I think it is more realistic as an action.  Love is an act that we must cultivate, not a state of being to achieve.

In the last few days I've had several opportunities to experience different ways in which people can love.  Perhaps most explicitly for me was the Tae Kwon Do black belt test that I attended in Rhode Island.  Love is perhaps the most prevalent theme about which one of our masters speaks.  It was a celebration of love, of giving and receiving, of keeping the heart open even in difficulty.  In the background was a wedding, a family reunion, a worship group which sang hallelujahs throughout the late morning and afternoon sun on the lakes and in the sky.

And today I had my first experience at Success Academy Harlem 1, the school where I will be teaching cello for the Harmony Program.  Success Academy is a charter school with mostly lower income students and they have sculpted success through a very systematic and structured way of working with children ("scholars") to ensure that there are practically no behavioral problems. I've been working through online training to prepare myself for the teaching standards they practice, but today was the first time I got to see it in action.

As a child, I definitely would have cried in such an environment, as an adult I sucked it in and sat up straight.  During the hour I observed, the teacher did not smile once, or even come close to it, or show any emotion at all.  The class was completely silent and followed her directions exactly and she was completely clear about what was expected.  Their behavior was constantly noted as she awarded points for following the directions, giving a good answer, leadership, or compassion, or made corrections to behavior.  Every activity, every transition between activities was timed on a visible timer.  There was no room for deviant behaviors.

And within that hour she read a chapter of a book, had them reflect on some poor behavior in the morning and also give "shout-outs" to one another for good behavior, had them make arrays of rectangles to demonstrate multiplication principles, had an activity about this and then used it to teach them about square numbers and prime numbers.  They learned and reinforced a lot in that hour.

It's strange for me to see school in such a strict and seemingly joyless manner.  But there has been a lot of success in terms of test scores in these schools and that is the thinking behind such a rigid method.  The online course I'm taking calls it "No-Nonsense Nurturing."  This is how I will be expected to teach, at least in some semblance.  It will be a challenge, but I believe it is done out of love.  It isn't mean, it's just very clear, and perhaps it is what is really needed in schools where there is little structure from home life to create a good learning environment.  At the very least, it will be a new element in my teaching vocabulary, a new method to add if I can hone it.  I would like to be as adept as possible to working with more challenging classrooms, and if this structure has been proven to work, I would welcome at least learning it and being capable of executing it.  It will be a challenge and I feel quite lucky to be able to receive training and the opportunity to try.

There are many ways to love.  Often people smile to share their openness, and certainly this is appreciated.  But perhaps there are some more difficult ways to love, which don't even seem to ask reciprocation, at least not immediately, and in that sense, perhaps are more sincere.  And in this way, love is when one acts to help another grow, in whatever way is needed.

Becoming New York

Umbrella up, umbrella down, walking in rainy New York.  Measure the oncoming crowd, umbrella up, umbrella down.

Every time I take the train I think I become slightly more a New Yorker than before.  I now see the tourists standing out, and even though I may not know where I'm going, I do know how.  There is a time and a destination to my step, a quick change of pace, of trajectory.  Part of me may be irritated the obstacle they create except that I am still so close to them, and except that I love seeing the world in the pictures they take, the placards, the dedications in railway stations.  What a blessing to be surrounded by people that marvel at the world I (will) daily occupy?

Today the train was wet and crowded, crowded, crowded.  And I think I became a little more New York.  My body has pressed up against these people, sharing sweat in an oh-so-uncomfortable way and wishing they would clear the doors so the train could move forward.  My heels have been nipped and amazingly (or is it really?) a sincere apology issued.  I am constantly impressed by the kindness and courtesy shown to me here.  This morning the newspaper vendor gave me an umbrella, You live here?  Yeah.  Pay me tomorrow.

A few nights ago I dreamt of Japan, only it wasn't a Japan in which I had ever lived.  It was a Japanese garden, surely.  But my feet danced over the ground, up and down the walkways, leaping over the delicate greens and across the ponds.  How much is the body involved in what we know of a place?

In New York the ground is hard under everyone's feet.  The steps are large for all the sizes of legs that walk them, except perhaps for the tourists who are looking.  Everyone is going somewhere.  Everyone is important.  There is an urgency that seems even to compel the trains to try harder to move faster.

I am less enthralled by the diversity than I was a week ago.  It is becoming common place, normal, slowly, slowly, less noticeable.  But I think if it is possible to keep something common beautiful, this would be it.  I have recently heard three musicians in my train excursions:  a violinist, an erhu player, and a man playing the kora and singing.  Diversity may become quotidian but it's never the same.

This city is still so full of so many things and I get the impression still that this will never complete change.  And unlike Japan, I think perhaps I could get acclimated to it in the sense that no one really is.  I can start to feel at home in this homeless city, where home is somewhere else for most of its people.  And right now, there is something very comforting in that.

I have everything I need (except a food processor)

There are so many stages of getting settled into a place.  And so many places into which to settle in New York.  While my mother was here last week, we toured through the lower part of the island, and took a boat around the waterways.  I was on vacation for those few days and although I've yet to begin any serious work, I'm back at the "desk," practicing, brainstorming my life and what to make of it in this new place.  There is no orchestra to give me a purpose.  I have a part-time teaching job on the horizon about which I'm excited and healthily intimidated.  There are some music education training courses in which I'd like to enroll, perhaps a choir.  But I'm far from settled.  And New York seems to defy settling.  The dust is always drifting, even if it is quite close to the surface, even if it is in a whirlwind.

Yesterday we ventured to Koreatown where there are many Korean people, many Korean restaurants, and a grocery store perfect in its mix of Korean delicacies as well as catering to the cheese and Oreo cookie needs of the western diet.  Our Korean dinner was perfect in that we could read the menu, but didn't know what to do with the whole fried fish, raw egg, and hot sauce that they hurriedly set at our table.  It was comforting to be culturally uncomfortable.  We then walked through the streets of mid-town and decided to go through Times Square dazzled and amazed by the lights and the sheer number of people from all over the world, even super heroes and muppets.

After being a tourist with my mother, these were still two more parts of the city, extreme experiences, that we had not had.  And how many more are there?  It seems impossible to take it all in.  There are free Shakespeare plays int he park, free opera screenings, free yoga classes, and everywhere is the free sighting of incredible diversity and humanity.  There are so many kinds of people in this place, so much so that there is no higher or lower, no fear of judgement.  Whatever you might be, there is likely someone who is more of that, or less of that, and so likely nobody will really notice or care as long as it doesn't concern them.  And maybe even if it does.

And so there is a blank slate upon which I am beginning to walk.  Yet I find that I am already defined as being within some section of New York living.  If nothing else, where one lives means something about them.   An I'm settling in to a very nice part of the city, a place where it is quiet and green and there is a doorman who takes deliveries to my door, and workers that make the garbage disappear when we set it outside the back door of our apartment.  It is a very nice place to be living, though it feels a little foreign, certainly something worthy of finding a new grounding.

I wonder what it will be like to live in this sort of place for three years.  Will I ever feel entitled to all the things I'm being given?  Can I be grateful enough for what I have?  There is a burden of privilege that I feel upon me and I wonder how that will change in the coming years.  Will I own it?  Will I live up to it?  Can I shake it in any other way?

Trip to the Bottom of Manhattan with Mom

At some point the number of languages being spoken and the number of cultures represented in any given square meter of New York will cease to amaze me.  At some point I will no longer look up at the tall buildings or be impressed by the significance of the history represented here.

On World Trade Center from the Financial District

Trinity Church from Financial District

9/11 Memorial

Brooklyn Bridge

Mom on Brooklyn Bridge

Statue of Liberty in the distance