I don't ever expect to sit down, even with my cello, but when I got on the bus today, a man in one of the prime seats offered it to me and was already up on his feet, ushering me in. He was a small man, perhaps Hispanic, with a dumdum lollipop in his mouth and the remembrance of dark green tattoos, on his hands which gently, nervously twitched. He carried a large piece of card board, the back of which had some sparse notes, including a phone number in red pencil. I later saw the other side to discover that it was a backgammon and checker board.
Shortly after he gave me his seat, he dropped his rider card, which slipped to my feet. I tried to grab it again and again, and finally pealed it off the bus floor and handed it back to him, uninspected. It wasn't until I saw his hand on the pole in front of me, with the card held there firmly that I saw, "-isabled" peaking above the index finger. I expected him to get off at the next stop, but he didn't. His continued presence spoke to the giving he had in him. A seat offered, a card returned. In Japan there is such apology for the giving one receives. It is a different lesson to assume it from and for others.
This is the kindness of New York. It bears a very different face than that of the midwest. It is assumed but not expected, something which flows outwardly, never to be received again from the person to whom it is given. There must be an explanation for this, a small amount of altruism that seems to defy genetic barriers. Maybe this is part of what makes this city so wonderful. It is a family of people through actions and not through blood. Sometimes they don't show their best face, and yet more often than not, I feel very fortunate to be in their presence, learning from their exchanges.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Monday, October 10, 2016
New Home
I find that I don't write so often and I think it is for a few reasons. One is that I live with my partner and life is now filled with another person. But another reason is that much of what I experience and think about is related to the students with whom I work and as such, I don't wish to share to much of them without their permission. There is a lot of cuteness, a lot of courage and I respect them and don't want to ossify them in words.
But this morning I received an email that is part of the essence of what I enjoy about teaching. I encourage parents to send me videos and pictures of their children practicing, or to verify things they don't understand. And this morning I watched one that was prepared for me by one of my families, that I just began teaching last week. They moved to New York about 2 years ago from the Ukraine. This was a video of her entire practice session, her sisters sitting behind her, holding her book of the exercises I had assigned her, sometimes distracting her, sometimes helping. If one of them said something in Russian, the father would say, "in English" and I knew this was for me. This was a practice performance made for me.
I got to see their family, their space, their interactions, posed but honest. For ten minutes I was almost uncomfortably close. How rare that we are invited into another space in such a way. And yet this is what happens every time that I teach, or what I feel is the goal of every time that I teach.
It occurred to me in a lesson yesterday that I can calm my body when I am with a student to a place of trust where I have no fear or discomfort of their mistakes. The goal is to be with them, completely, to give to them what we all wish we could give to ourselves or another, that sense of safety and trust. I sometimes like to just think about them before I start a day of teaching. Each individual person, apart from our work.
Every since I was little I fantasized about being another person. What would it be like to leave my body and experience the world as another? It is something that none of us can do, a super power I wish I could have if I could have one. How strange that we cannot understand one another, despite living together, despite living for a lifetime. But it seems that in teaching, perhaps there is a beginning to this possibility. How deeply can one listen?
But this morning I received an email that is part of the essence of what I enjoy about teaching. I encourage parents to send me videos and pictures of their children practicing, or to verify things they don't understand. And this morning I watched one that was prepared for me by one of my families, that I just began teaching last week. They moved to New York about 2 years ago from the Ukraine. This was a video of her entire practice session, her sisters sitting behind her, holding her book of the exercises I had assigned her, sometimes distracting her, sometimes helping. If one of them said something in Russian, the father would say, "in English" and I knew this was for me. This was a practice performance made for me.
I got to see their family, their space, their interactions, posed but honest. For ten minutes I was almost uncomfortably close. How rare that we are invited into another space in such a way. And yet this is what happens every time that I teach, or what I feel is the goal of every time that I teach.
It occurred to me in a lesson yesterday that I can calm my body when I am with a student to a place of trust where I have no fear or discomfort of their mistakes. The goal is to be with them, completely, to give to them what we all wish we could give to ourselves or another, that sense of safety and trust. I sometimes like to just think about them before I start a day of teaching. Each individual person, apart from our work.
Every since I was little I fantasized about being another person. What would it be like to leave my body and experience the world as another? It is something that none of us can do, a super power I wish I could have if I could have one. How strange that we cannot understand one another, despite living together, despite living for a lifetime. But it seems that in teaching, perhaps there is a beginning to this possibility. How deeply can one listen?
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