To be moved

Last night we played a recital at a friend and mentor's home.  We've played there before, a beautiful apartment on Central Park West, with a view of the park and a large piano.  It's very gracious of her to open her home to us and allow us to invite whoever we want.  She and her husband supply wine and desserts and cheeses.  It's always a lovely relaxed evening and great way to share music that we've been working on.

The program made no sense.  We called it, unofficially, "Pieces We Play,"  because there was really nothing else holding all the works together, no theme or planning to it.  The order was difficult to decided, but in the end we decided to open with Andrew's solo Beethoven sonata, followed by two songs composed by our host to Robert Frost poems, my Britten solo suite, and closing (after more wine and desserts) with Brahms's second sonata for cello and piano.

I love both of the pieces that I got to play on this program.  Hearing the Britten when I was in early high school was one of those moments that brought me closer to loving music and marveling at the incredible expression the cello is capable of divulging.  It is such a challenging piece, though, part of its allure.  I've flirted with it for years, and even performed, but never without the music.  In the past, performing from memory has been a huge challenge and point of anxiety so that I came to the point of simply not doing it.  And the Britten is an incredibly complicated piece.  The Brahms is rich, touching, heartbreaking, ethereal, swashbuckling, and similarly elusive in its own particular challenges.

And both were such a pleasure to perform.  It's fun to play with Andrew, and not just in the sense of playing our instruments but in the childlike sense of playing with the music as we perform it.  It's fun to discover with him and hear the things that he hears.  And somehow I've learned to play the Britten for memory; it is inside of me and very reliably so, to a point of little anxiety.  This performance was the beginning of trusting that, and knowing that I can be as sharing with an audience in this vulnerable state was when I have a protective stand in front of me.

For me, this was in part, also a growing opportunity, one that I undergo for the sake of my students.  If I am to ask them to go outside there comfort zones, then I must do so as well.  I need to constantly refresh the details of the technique and mindset required to play complicated pieces of music, so that I am honest in my teaching.

And I had two students there.  It was an adult-oriented evening with wine and going late into the night, but in addition to my one older student, one of my younger one's came with her father.  She is only 8, I believe, but stayed alert for the whole program and talked with other adults during the break.  Afterwards her father came to me, and told me how wonderful it was for her to see and hear this.  He said she thought that she was moved by parts of the concert.  I replied in a stock "I'm glad she was able to enjoy it,"  and he answered in his Polish accent, "Enjoyed is not the thing, she was moved, and I think this is the really important thing for her young mind."

So much of life is taking care of things.  Having money for things, getting to things, etc.  And for parents, making sure their kids eat well, stressing about school and grades and test scores.  I'm sure the list is much longer than I can conjure.  To have a parent put this in my mind, that the value for him for his child is that she is moved, that she learns to be moved, was perhaps the most touching part of the evening.  What greater reason is there for us to be doing this in the face of all the brashness of modern living?  That we maintain our inherent love and sensitivity, and that we give this to our children.

No Sitting....

In the elevator, on my final ascent home this evening, Charlie's owner was trying to get him to sit.  "Sit, Charlie, come sweetie, sit."  But Charlie didn't sit, not at all.  "I think there's something wrong with his hips, he's not old, only three and a half, but I think his hips are bothering him.  Hey Charlie, can you sit?"  But still, Charlie wouldn't sit.

"Can you put your bow on the D string?  Please put your bow on the string.....ok and now can you put your bow on the string please, to get ready to start....thank you."

I wonder if my students have bad hips sometimes, or more likely something else.  Why do any of us do or not do the things we are asked, whether by others or ourselves?  There must be some reason, and even though we can use words to explain so many things, it does not mean that it is within our comprehension to grasp, let alone explain what is really going on.  And there's a lot going.

That being said,  I'm always so impressed when students are right with me.  It can be a really pleasure.

Stillness

This morning my mother and I got up early with Andrew and drove him to the airport for a 7am departure.  On the way back, my mother asked me a question that my grandfather asked two days before, "Are you still liking living in New York?"  And I had a similar answer for both of them, something that Andrew and I have shared with one another.  It is wonderful to be in the midst of so many options, of so much diversity, of so many opportunities.  But it is very hard to find the space for reflection, the feeling of stillness within.  When others in life are so stressed, it is easy to absorb their energy and then it becomes your own.  And it is challenging to stop that inertia.  Granddad said, "So you are looking for ways to learn for yourself so that you can give it to your students."  That's exactly it.  He is so right, in this late stage of life, so far away from all the things I do daily.  I am in a place of seeking a teacher, be it a person or a way of being, so that I can find that calm in this midst of everything, so that I can share it with others.  How gracious and perceptive of him.  

Later in the morning, my little nephew, 5 months old today, was passed between his mother, my mother, and myself as others ate, or took showers, or at least took turns holding him when he got fussy.  It's really fun to have a baby.  We all talk to him in silly voices about what's going on, about how we project he is feeling or what he wants, or any number of things, narrating life around us to present it in a package to him.  But at some point, I had exhausted the tour of the kitchen with the pantry and refrigerator magnets and dirty dishes, and the things in a drawer, and the lights on the ceiling and decided to go out on the front balacony.  

And suddenly, the spring air and the view of the sky, the sound of the birds and wind chimes were all there.  His eyes and ears perked up and his body become alert to all the things around him.  There was nothing to say, no way to package the feeling of spring into words, nothing that could enhance the sound of the birds chirping, or the wind blowing, just chilly enough to keep one attentive.  I felt my muscles release as I held him and walked from one edge of the porch to another, sensing what he was sensing, being with him.  I can't know, but can believe that I could hear what he heard, saw what he saw, marveled at assumptions, the sound and sight of a car going by.  What a strange world we've created, how incredible that humans can learn its diversity, a place alien from one generation to the next.  There are no assumptions for the baby, everything must be taken in, processed, absorbed.  Surely not least of all the muscles of my body, holding him, their subtle patterns of tension and release,their awareness and lack thereof of his own state of being.

Later in the day my father drove me up to see Granddad.  It takes at least 45 minutes to get there and another 45 to get back, and I looked forward to a car ride with my father, always a sacred bubble of discussion.  We got to talking about musicals and private music teaching until we arrived.  And then we entered the room and found Granddad in a much worse state than the day before when he had been helping Andrew and I with our wedding planning.  He was coughing a lot, very tired, perhaps hadn't slept much th night before, and seemed to have no interest in us, certainly not in the way he had the day before.  I had started to think he was doing fairly well, but this visit did not seem that way, although people can have highs and lows.  I watched the nurses care for him, and watched him fall asleep and wake up a bit and sleep again, sitting at the foot of his bed.  It was difficult to see him this way, also knowing that this might be the last time, something I had previously prepared myself for, but had thought unnecessary given how well he had seemed to be doing.

I could feel my discomfort and my wishes.  The wish that he was more comfortable, the wish that he was better, the wish that he could say goodbye as he was wishing he could do.  We just sat there for awhile, and I could feel my body tense with all these wishes and discomforts.  And then I tried to release them, to let go of my hands, my ankles, to just be there.  What would I want?  It seemed to be the same thing that my nephew might have wanted:  to have a presence, just a non-judging, silent presence into which I could close my eyes and trust.  

My father finally decided we should go, so we woke him to say goodbye.  I gave him a kiss on the temple, because my mother had said she had done this and I thought it was such a nice gesture, something I also wanted to give, and it seemed to make little difference to him that I was leaving.  It was sad and selfish to feel that way.  

The ride home was mostly silent.  I wanted to extend past the silence, but was just tired, had nothing to say, or felt that when silence doesn't want to be broken, it's best not to break it.  So many thoughts and feelings, or just opening to that stillness which seems to exist best only at rare points in life, the ones at the end that we often forget during the middle.  

Going

It's amazing that life, such as it is, causes us to question whether we should hit pause and mark the births and passing away of family members.  I heard that my grandfather was unwell, and balancing my decision to go home was the voice of people that I serve in New York, all my students and their families.  Luckily I have a partner that is very committed to family in a way that I hope to learn more from as we live together, and luckily, the people whose lessons I cancelled are not holding it against me in the slightest that I'm leaving them.  It must be my own internal modern human that gets caught up in the demands it thinks it is obeying.

So tomorrow I'll go home to Cincinnati to see my grandfather and luckily, the past few days have been busy enough that I haven't thought about it yet.  Reflection has learned to be so efficient and concise in New York.  I feel like I used to understand what it was to be still, to sit with something.  But now I'm walking into something I don't understand,  although if I pay attention, perhaps I'd realize it's the same way I walk all the time.

My grandfather used to read these posts.  I used to write them, knowing that he would be on the other end.  I don't think he is able to do that anymore.

It's so meaningful to have a presence, even if it is untouchable, even if it exists in another place and time.  Even if the other person cannot acknowledge or express their appreciation for it.  It's hard to understand why we exert our presence, why I want to go.  But here we, for one another, even if blindly.  

Prelude in d minor

Some people wear their compiled stress so beautifully that it seems like fine jewelry.  They dress nicely for work, smile included, and have learned to bat away all incoming threats at contentment with an aggressive optimism.  They do not afford themselves complaining, because it would crumble the scaffolding.

I have a student that I think of in this way.  And I've been trying to fit her into another hole, or to see her as what she presents, but this evening I had to really asked how work was going.  She's spoken about it before, but usually I'm aware it is a cello lesson so I try to keep things along those lines.  And tonight I didn't worry about that.

So when it came time for bringing in the cello, I realized that the path we had been walking (or rather, I had) was so flighty and inattentive to what she could bring to music and what it could bring to her, that our lesson culminated in us brainstorming other pieces she should play (rather than force-feeding Suzuki), and her sight-reading the Prelude to Bach's Second Suite.

It just so happened that today was very cold, so I brought my "second" cello to the school, which happens to be my cello from high school.  It is the instrument with which I first discovered this piece.  I played a bit of it for her, and something resonated from long, long ago.  I remembered my high school teacher awakening me to something more in music, awakening this instrument and my touch to it, seeing something more than just the composite parts.

I would never have guessed to find him and his love in this place in such a strong way.  There are so many layers to discovery, to sharing, to opening and awakening oneself in the presence of others.

Big Eyes

Children don't need me to give up my seat on the subway.  But it's extra satisfying to be nice to a child, especially when their parents then start to talk them in a very conscientious way, explaining the the world to their wide-opened eyes, sharing acts of courtesy with them.  If we could all set good examples for one another, and if we could all be so open to see them.

No Stickers

Yes, it is extremely potent.  Awareness.

One of my students has struggled to love the cello as much as her parents would like her to.  But she has continued for some mix of reasons.  Today she got a new instrument and it rings so beautifully.  Before I put on stickers for where her fingers should go, I had her guess and play a scale.  And it was fine, no problem.  She was still looking at her finger though.  So I suggested playing French Folk Song with her eyes closed.  And then I got to watch her bask in the sound of her cello, not worrying about the right or wrongness of her fingers.  She found she could even make a shift to second position without the stickers.

Before awareness comes trust, and another person--an adult, a child, a teacher, a student, a peer, a friend--can be a wonderful, though not the only, source to start that feeling.  With trust we can allow ourselves to have the vulnerability that allows us to admit we are unaware.  And being aware of being unaware is the best way to open ourselves to awareness.  I'm not sure if there is another way.

But trust is first, I think.  Sometimes we are aware before trust and that can be hurtful.  Something to remember in teaching as we set to correct.