I've attempted to write this post now on a couple of different occasions. Sometimes my posts are just like that. They roll around in my head and sit as drafts in my blog until they come out right. There's been a lot going on lately. For one thing, I moved two days ago. Yes, again. This time, to Forest Park. The move is a good thing and it went amazingly well, thanks to some really great friends, who I'm super thankful for. Somehow people are always willing to help, which I can't fathom, but I'm utterly grateful for. Last Saturday, I finished up at Lutheran, playing for my third and final graduation ceremony there. It was a bittersweet moment. I will miss those Lutherans, but am super pumped for the time I'll have to pursue my audition process and focus on my students this next year. In the end, most of the Lutheran kids found out I was leaving and they were sad, but I assured them they would find someone else equally competent. I may be the only Katie Beth like me in the world, but I'm not the only one able to accompany a choir. Freedom, indeed. And now I find myself in the midst of facing two and a half months of a long-distance dating relationship. Yes. You read that right. We've been seeing each other since mid-April and he left this past week to be a camp counselor for the summer at a camp on the shores of Lake Superior. 11 hours away. Til mid-August.
[... right now my grandma is reading this and about to fall out of her chair because I'm nearly certain this is the first she's heard of it... hang in there, Grandma. I'm rooting for you ;) ...]
And I would be lying to you if I said that this were easy. Because it's not. Long-distance blows. I told my friend Kirk this the other day and she straight up looked at me and said, "It's been what, two days, Katie Beth? You can do this." What further complicates things is that when I'm honest about him with my closest friends, I get a number of mixed reactions. Each conversation mostly follows a pattern of voiced misgivings/concerns, questions, and then silence (or some type of warning to be careful with my heart). Because Jacob is Jewish. And I love that about him. I can't tell you how much I've learned about life in the past six weeks of dating him, nor how well he treats me, nor how much he has redeemed of my previous dating experiences, which have been harmful and destructive to say the least (which is powerful when you consider that most of the guys I've dated have been Christians). And there are a lot of things about our dating relationship that aren't crystal clear just yet. To be truthful, I don't really know how to do this at all. We're both figuring it out as we go and I'm learning a ton and I don't really know what's going to happen exactly. But I'm trusting that the Lord knows what's going on and he will guide and direct us both accordingly. He will make things clear in his time, because he is good and faithful like that. Because it isn't always black and white, like you think it should be. In the meantime, I'm getting to know a truly wonderful person, who I'm super sad isn't here this summer. And I'm sad that the reactions I get to all this are mixed, at best. On the one hand, I understand. If I weren't me, I would probably be concerned as well. On the other hand, it makes me want to stop telling people about it, which is equally sad considering I'm happier than I've been in a long time. I made the mistake of telling him about some of the mixed reactions I've encountered over text the other night and it made me feel just awful. I should've known better than to bring it up in a text conversation and I don't know what I was expecting, but of course it bothers him that people in my life have misgivings about him. It bothers both of us. "Dating a Jew is a really safe investment," he says. "It's like buying a Ford Taurus. Jewish guys treat their mothers well, they treat their girlfriends well, they're good with money... it's so sensible, some would say it's boring. But your people think I'm like the motorcycle with flames coming out the back."
He was joking. And it's funny. But only because it's so true.
When I mentioned all this to a very wise friend of mine the other night, her comment was, "Wow, that's really sad. He should feel welcomed into our community..." My thoughts exactly.
About a month ago when I had just started seeing him, my mom mentioned on the phone that, "Maybe God is just giving you something really good right now to help you get through the end of a hard semester." And while that is a nice thought, it also made me think of my experiences as a child when I would go to the dentist and my mom would take me out for a milkshake afterward to soothe the pain. A milkshake probably wasn't always the best choice, considering the cavity that had just been filled, but it always made me feel better.
But I don't think God is like that. He doesn't give us milkshakes just to make us feel better. Everything, even things that are ridiculously wonderful, are hard in their own way. I think it would be more accurate to say that Jesus is there for us, just like when we're going through something hard, we have family and friends who are there for us. They can't necessarily change things in our situation, but they offer us their presence. And inevitably they will fail at times, because they're human. But Jesus doesn't fail. He may or may not intervene in our current situation. But more importantly, he offers us himself in the midst of hard things. He is our milkshake, except when you compare him like that, the metaphor gets totally lost because his presence is so much more than just a milkshake. He's a sweet balm -- the cure, really -- for our weary, anxiety-filled souls. I think Don Miller says it best in his book "Searching for God Knows What":
"It seems that Christ's parables, Christ's words about eating his flesh and drinking his blood, were designed to bypass the memorization of ideas and cause us to wrestle with a certain need to cling to him."
And I think this is true in life as well. He doesn't just give us a milkshake in certain situations or for certain situations. He gives us his grace in every situation (which we may or may not see) and most importantly, he gives us himself to cling to.
I miss that Jewish boy. I wish he were coming home soon. It's gonna be a long summer...
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Monday, May 13, 2013
Done, done, and done.
This morning I am slowly putting the pieces of my life back together again. This weekend was a big weekend for me: studio recital on Saturday and my final concert with the Lutheran High choirs last night. The kids at Lutheran don't know that I won't be coming back next year but they will find out eventually, which is why I don't mind saying anything now that it's over. Ironically, two of the junior girls gave me a bouquet of flowers from my director last night after it was all over, not realizing what any of it meant. "Here you go! She ordered these for you along with the senior recognition roses!" How funny and bizarre.
Overall, it went well. There was a slight mishap towards the beginning of the last piece, of course -- a medley from "Les Mis." All of a sudden I was half a measure behind and had no idea why. But I found them and we moved on and when I asked some of the other musicians I knew from the audience later, they couldn't tell a difference or hadn't noticed. It bothered me a lot on the way home but part of being a pianist is learning from mistakes and just letting go. Sometimes your last hurrah won't always go the way you want it to.
But I am glad it's over. I am such a tired puppy. I still have to play graduation, but that will be fine: a few hymns and several rounds of "Pomp and Circumstance." And the seniors may sing something. But nothing major.
I haven't made coffee yet this morning and it's 9:22. That is how slowly I am moving this morning. Because that is how tired I am. My friends John and Megan came to the concert last night to see Megan's younger brother sing and I felt awful talking to them afterwards because I just had nothing to say and I wasn't my normal self. And I hadn't seen them in at least three weeks. Have you ever been in conversation with someone and wondered who's replaced you and how you can get your normal self back except that you're too tired to try? That's what it was like. I hope to catch up with Megan this week when I'm no longer the exhausted version of myself.
I am really looking forward to this next year. Not only will I be able to focus on my students and my own music and my auditions, but I'll be able to breathe and see my friends. Freedom has never seemed so delicious. I may be freaking out about my finances some over the course of this next year, but for now, I'm gonna trust the Lord for that. The important thing is that for all practical purposes, I'm just gonna go ahead and call it: I'm done. I have learned a ton and will totally miss those Lutherans. But I am done. Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
And I need to figure out what I'm doing for the ballet studio. But that will be another day. Because sometimes you need soak in done-ness. For now I'm thankful that my students played well on Saturday and that this school year is all but done. DONE. Like stick a fork in it done. Thank the Lord. I am done. I am officially a freelancer.
Overall, it went well. There was a slight mishap towards the beginning of the last piece, of course -- a medley from "Les Mis." All of a sudden I was half a measure behind and had no idea why. But I found them and we moved on and when I asked some of the other musicians I knew from the audience later, they couldn't tell a difference or hadn't noticed. It bothered me a lot on the way home but part of being a pianist is learning from mistakes and just letting go. Sometimes your last hurrah won't always go the way you want it to.
But I am glad it's over. I am such a tired puppy. I still have to play graduation, but that will be fine: a few hymns and several rounds of "Pomp and Circumstance." And the seniors may sing something. But nothing major.
I haven't made coffee yet this morning and it's 9:22. That is how slowly I am moving this morning. Because that is how tired I am. My friends John and Megan came to the concert last night to see Megan's younger brother sing and I felt awful talking to them afterwards because I just had nothing to say and I wasn't my normal self. And I hadn't seen them in at least three weeks. Have you ever been in conversation with someone and wondered who's replaced you and how you can get your normal self back except that you're too tired to try? That's what it was like. I hope to catch up with Megan this week when I'm no longer the exhausted version of myself.
I am really looking forward to this next year. Not only will I be able to focus on my students and my own music and my auditions, but I'll be able to breathe and see my friends. Freedom has never seemed so delicious. I may be freaking out about my finances some over the course of this next year, but for now, I'm gonna trust the Lord for that. The important thing is that for all practical purposes, I'm just gonna go ahead and call it: I'm done. I have learned a ton and will totally miss those Lutherans. But I am done. Praise God from whom all blessings flow.
And I need to figure out what I'm doing for the ballet studio. But that will be another day. Because sometimes you need soak in done-ness. For now I'm thankful that my students played well on Saturday and that this school year is all but done. DONE. Like stick a fork in it done. Thank the Lord. I am done. I am officially a freelancer.
Friday, April 19, 2013
"You cannot love what you do not know..."
I've had a post rolling around in my head for a couple of days now. Originally it started out as reasons why I love being American (and I mean that in the least cheesy way possible). But it has since turned into a two-fold argument about the arts and the state of our educational system. If part of you is groaning, stop reading now.
I will attempt to say this in a way that is meaningful but it will probably come out seeming garbled and unsupported... my apologies. I don't air my sincerest opinions lightly or often. Everyone has a rant. Here's mine: I've read several articles lately that have deeply saddened and frustrated my inner core about what will inevitably come in this country if change remains a mere thought. If you take the arts away from the people, culture will inevitably shrivel up and eventually die. Period.
On the other hand, I've realized lately how much I love being an American. Don't discount the importance of this. It has taken me most of my childhood and young adult life to appreciate the fact that I was born in this country. I spent most of college pining for the countryside of England or the cities of France and Germany, frustrated by the way we as Americans look to the rest of the world: brash, overdone, outspoken, uninformed (and apathetic to boot), entitled, and having a lack of self-control in everything we do. We have been blessed beyond belief and we have totally taken it for granted. When I went to England in the summer of 2006, I came back resolving to go back one day for good because I was convinced that my future was there and not in the States. Let's not discount the fact that I was still trying to find myself (and a stable community) and figure out how to drive this train God gave me. Personally, I was a wreck and somehow found solace and a sense of identity in a country and a people I'd grown up with from a distance via PBS, movies, and the music of R. Vaughn-Williams, whom I'd come to love at an early age. I loved the Brits. And for whatever reason, they loved me.
Eventually I graduated from Mizzou and ended up in St. Louis, ultimately declining my candidacy at Wash U in favor of gaining some experience as a pianist in the real world. I found a church I love and settled into community there, as well as with my student families. You know the story. And as I was driving to accompany at Lutheran the other day, I realized how much I have grown. I was sipping coffee as I drove, noticing the tulips, which are about to burst forth in bloom all over St. Louis, watching my sleepy city wake up on a foggy morning as I listened to the music of William Grant Still on the new classical radio station here. I drove, thinking about the sounds of this American composer -- the way he incorporated jazz and blues into the sonata form -- and how his music resonates so deeply within me... not only because it reminds me of a most beloved teacher who faithfully and lovingly introduced me to his music, but because it is my sound. His music is my music.
Do you know why it is so important that we don't teach our children based on standardized tests? Do you know why it is worthwhile to keep the arts in the schools? Does anyone realize why STEM will eventually fail us? Does anyone else realize why there are fewer and fewer artists in the mainstream with legitimate artistic ability? There is power in both knowledge and numbers, both of which seem to escape us more and more every day. We seem to passively allow those in charge to keep fixing a broken system that only continues to worsen with each modification. Children need to be reading, not just Harry Potter or The Hunger Games but the literature that records the history of us as a nation (The Great Gatsby, Catcher in the Rye, Of Mice and Men, amongst other American short stories and poems), as well as the great literature of the past. WHY on God's green earth would we exchange Shakespeare for the EPA's Recommended Levels of Insulation as required reading in our schools?? How in the world is it ok to put that into the hands of the next generation and say "This is what's important"??
"You cannot love what you do not know." The same man who used to say that to me is the same man who introduced me to the music of William Grant Still.
If you take the arts away from the people, culture will eventually shrivel up... because the people will not have an outlet for the human experience.
I hope someone out there is listening. I pray that someone in power will help change things: that we will start paying our teachers better (incidentally, the countries with the best educational systems have the highest pay scales for teachers... check out the Scandinavians if you don't believe me), that we will stop putting undue pressure and weight on standardized test scores, that we will stop being passive about decision-making in our educational system, that we will start supporting teachers until the administrations do, that we will cry out for the best and the brightest to be and stay in the schools with our children again. Do you know where the best and the brightest are flocking? The universities. And those who are still in the public (and even some private) schools are quickly being chewed up and spit out by systems that don't care.
I love being an American. And I hate what we are doing to our schools and our culture.
Contextual Reading:
- An article by the Huffington Post about Changes in Core Reading Standards
- A blog from the Washington Post from a teacher: "My Profession... No Longer Exists"
- Sir Ken Robinson's 2006 TED Talk "Do Schools Kill Creativity?"
I will attempt to say this in a way that is meaningful but it will probably come out seeming garbled and unsupported... my apologies. I don't air my sincerest opinions lightly or often. Everyone has a rant. Here's mine: I've read several articles lately that have deeply saddened and frustrated my inner core about what will inevitably come in this country if change remains a mere thought. If you take the arts away from the people, culture will inevitably shrivel up and eventually die. Period.
On the other hand, I've realized lately how much I love being an American. Don't discount the importance of this. It has taken me most of my childhood and young adult life to appreciate the fact that I was born in this country. I spent most of college pining for the countryside of England or the cities of France and Germany, frustrated by the way we as Americans look to the rest of the world: brash, overdone, outspoken, uninformed (and apathetic to boot), entitled, and having a lack of self-control in everything we do. We have been blessed beyond belief and we have totally taken it for granted. When I went to England in the summer of 2006, I came back resolving to go back one day for good because I was convinced that my future was there and not in the States. Let's not discount the fact that I was still trying to find myself (and a stable community) and figure out how to drive this train God gave me. Personally, I was a wreck and somehow found solace and a sense of identity in a country and a people I'd grown up with from a distance via PBS, movies, and the music of R. Vaughn-Williams, whom I'd come to love at an early age. I loved the Brits. And for whatever reason, they loved me.
Eventually I graduated from Mizzou and ended up in St. Louis, ultimately declining my candidacy at Wash U in favor of gaining some experience as a pianist in the real world. I found a church I love and settled into community there, as well as with my student families. You know the story. And as I was driving to accompany at Lutheran the other day, I realized how much I have grown. I was sipping coffee as I drove, noticing the tulips, which are about to burst forth in bloom all over St. Louis, watching my sleepy city wake up on a foggy morning as I listened to the music of William Grant Still on the new classical radio station here. I drove, thinking about the sounds of this American composer -- the way he incorporated jazz and blues into the sonata form -- and how his music resonates so deeply within me... not only because it reminds me of a most beloved teacher who faithfully and lovingly introduced me to his music, but because it is my sound. His music is my music.
Do you know why it is so important that we don't teach our children based on standardized tests? Do you know why it is worthwhile to keep the arts in the schools? Does anyone realize why STEM will eventually fail us? Does anyone else realize why there are fewer and fewer artists in the mainstream with legitimate artistic ability? There is power in both knowledge and numbers, both of which seem to escape us more and more every day. We seem to passively allow those in charge to keep fixing a broken system that only continues to worsen with each modification. Children need to be reading, not just Harry Potter or The Hunger Games but the literature that records the history of us as a nation (The Great Gatsby, Catcher in the Rye, Of Mice and Men, amongst other American short stories and poems), as well as the great literature of the past. WHY on God's green earth would we exchange Shakespeare for the EPA's Recommended Levels of Insulation as required reading in our schools?? How in the world is it ok to put that into the hands of the next generation and say "This is what's important"??
"You cannot love what you do not know." The same man who used to say that to me is the same man who introduced me to the music of William Grant Still.
If you take the arts away from the people, culture will eventually shrivel up... because the people will not have an outlet for the human experience.
I hope someone out there is listening. I pray that someone in power will help change things: that we will start paying our teachers better (incidentally, the countries with the best educational systems have the highest pay scales for teachers... check out the Scandinavians if you don't believe me), that we will stop putting undue pressure and weight on standardized test scores, that we will stop being passive about decision-making in our educational system, that we will start supporting teachers until the administrations do, that we will cry out for the best and the brightest to be and stay in the schools with our children again. Do you know where the best and the brightest are flocking? The universities. And those who are still in the public (and even some private) schools are quickly being chewed up and spit out by systems that don't care.
I love being an American. And I hate what we are doing to our schools and our culture.
Contextual Reading:
- An article by the Huffington Post about Changes in Core Reading Standards
- A blog from the Washington Post from a teacher: "My Profession... No Longer Exists"
- Sir Ken Robinson's 2006 TED Talk "Do Schools Kill Creativity?"
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
On point: A new turn...
Spring is finally here. Seriously: finally... Hard to believe that two weeks ago, St. Louis was covered in nearly a foot of snow. And now, here we are:
And of course, there's nothing that thrills my heart more than the sight of this in the papers:
All I can say is: It's about time...
But tonight I am particularly amazed at the Lord's faithfulness. And yeah, I'm maybe gonna brag on myself for a minute. But only to show the larger picture of his complete faithfulness and provision to me. Because if you saw my story the way I do, you'd sit there and shake your head and say something to the effect of, "Wow. I mean KB, it makes absolutely no sense... and yet somehow it all fits together." To which I would reply, "Right?? Dude, I know...". But allow me to elaborate on the story at hand...
A week or two ago I got an email from a friend advertising work for a ballet accompanist at one of the ballet schools here in St. Louis. The email had gone out to several people and I called to inquire. One of my applied professors at Mizzou had accompanied for ballet classes before and had mentioned it as a work opportunity at some point during my lessons in undergrad. She had told me she could show me what to do but we'd never gotten around to it. I knew I could probably email and ask her about it. Long story short, after doing some research in addition to reading her response, I still had very little idea of what to expect and the phone conversation I'd had with the ballet mistress hadn't exactly gone very well. I'm sure she wasn't thrilled at the prospect of having to train a pianist with no experience in accompanying ballet classes. It felt like she blew me off, but I later realized that conversation was probably the result of her trying to wade through applicants.
Needless to say, I showed up for my interview tonight curious and tentative. I figured I would be doing some sight-reading and had prepared a couple of the easier Chopin Mazurkas and Waltzes, among a few other pieces to play. I figured if all else failed and I realized I really wanted the job, I could play my Etude for her and hope she'd give me the benefit of the doubt. I didn't know whether I wanted the job and part of me just wanted the experience of the interview itself. I had prayed on my way there for clarity of thought and a good attitude, even if it didn't go well.
And then I walked in and met this ballet mistress, who turned out to be quite lovely in person. She is probably one of the kindest and smartest older women I have met: she must be in her seventies, she knows her craft, and she runs a good company. I sat down at what she told me was her piano from childhood and played through one of the Mazurkas for her. It wasn't perfect but I kept going anyway and made it through to the da capo, at which point she stopped me. . .
"You are the first person that has come in here and played for me with any feeling whatsoever of any kind... ! That was good! That was a good start. You are the tenth pianist I've listened to and nobody else has played half as well as that..."
HA! Wow. It wasn't that good, I promise. But she made me feel like a million bucks.
Then she set a binder full of music in front of me and had one of her younger students come in and do some exercises while I sightread through several pieces. Tendus, plies, rond de jambs, marches. I probably sightread 8 or 10 pieces for her. And of course there's a learning curve. Dancers don't always think about time and meter the way musicians do. Part of my responsibility will be to learn what pieces, meters, and tempos to use for the various exercises, as well as the format of each class. But it went well and we had fun and of course you have to start somewhere. And although I'm only accompanying for the intermediate classes this summer, I'm excited for the experience and excited for something new to get the hang of. I know I will take it with me into my teaching, just as my undergrad professor did in teaching me -- because what the ballet mistress was getting at wasn't just an ability to sight-read. It was an ability to feel the larger beat and produce something musical, which is something that Dr. Knerr had always been adamant about during college, and which is important to ballet and dance in general. After the interview, the ballet mistress had me stay to watch a little bit of the advanced class, which were the high school girls. Holy cow they were good. Totally on point, well-balanced, and graceful.
When I got out to my car afterward, I couldn't help but laugh to myself. I had walked in not knowing if I even really wanted the job or not, and instead walked out with a job that nine other pianists had auditioned for. God is so faithful. Three years ago when I first moved back to St. Louis, there's no way I could've pulled off something like that. Sometimes I wonder if the only way I got my accompanying gig at Lutheran my first year back was because God Jedi-mind-tricked my director into taking me on...
I've grown a lot since then. My current teacher, Mrs. Burkhart, is a magical goddess at the piano. She is like Dr. Knerr in some ways, and yet not in others. She pulls things out of me I don't realize I'm capable of and every time I have a lesson with her, my mind is blown in one way or another. I have so much respect for her and I want to be just like her someday. And every time I nail something like I did tonight, I feel just the tiniest bit closer to being where she's at... and hopefully able to mentor other baby pianists like myself someday. Because when you think about how you're being prepared for things someday that you barely have a concept for now, it's just ridiculous the way God is so faithful to you in your calling... and in providing for you through it.
And by ridiculous I mean pretty incredible.
And yeah... I wish I was done with this period of my life -- the "wandering artist" period. I wish that the Lord would finally bring me the right person. I wish the instability of housing situations and the like would finally stabilize (how many times did Beethoven move during his 35 yrs in Vienna? like 70? Right on track...). I wish I was in the "stable artist" period of my life (... does such a thing exist?? I'd like to think that it does...). But I also know I'm being called to a path that none of my other friends or family are being called to. It's a hard and a good path. And it's on nights like tonight that it somehow makes a little more sense. And regardless of what happens, I know he'll be faithful til the end because he's been faithful thus far.
"Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end." John 13:1
And of course, there's nothing that thrills my heart more than the sight of this in the papers:
All I can say is: It's about time...
But tonight I am particularly amazed at the Lord's faithfulness. And yeah, I'm maybe gonna brag on myself for a minute. But only to show the larger picture of his complete faithfulness and provision to me. Because if you saw my story the way I do, you'd sit there and shake your head and say something to the effect of, "Wow. I mean KB, it makes absolutely no sense... and yet somehow it all fits together." To which I would reply, "Right?? Dude, I know...". But allow me to elaborate on the story at hand...
A week or two ago I got an email from a friend advertising work for a ballet accompanist at one of the ballet schools here in St. Louis. The email had gone out to several people and I called to inquire. One of my applied professors at Mizzou had accompanied for ballet classes before and had mentioned it as a work opportunity at some point during my lessons in undergrad. She had told me she could show me what to do but we'd never gotten around to it. I knew I could probably email and ask her about it. Long story short, after doing some research in addition to reading her response, I still had very little idea of what to expect and the phone conversation I'd had with the ballet mistress hadn't exactly gone very well. I'm sure she wasn't thrilled at the prospect of having to train a pianist with no experience in accompanying ballet classes. It felt like she blew me off, but I later realized that conversation was probably the result of her trying to wade through applicants.
Needless to say, I showed up for my interview tonight curious and tentative. I figured I would be doing some sight-reading and had prepared a couple of the easier Chopin Mazurkas and Waltzes, among a few other pieces to play. I figured if all else failed and I realized I really wanted the job, I could play my Etude for her and hope she'd give me the benefit of the doubt. I didn't know whether I wanted the job and part of me just wanted the experience of the interview itself. I had prayed on my way there for clarity of thought and a good attitude, even if it didn't go well.
And then I walked in and met this ballet mistress, who turned out to be quite lovely in person. She is probably one of the kindest and smartest older women I have met: she must be in her seventies, she knows her craft, and she runs a good company. I sat down at what she told me was her piano from childhood and played through one of the Mazurkas for her. It wasn't perfect but I kept going anyway and made it through to the da capo, at which point she stopped me. . .
"You are the first person that has come in here and played for me with any feeling whatsoever of any kind... ! That was good! That was a good start. You are the tenth pianist I've listened to and nobody else has played half as well as that..."
HA! Wow. It wasn't that good, I promise. But she made me feel like a million bucks.
Then she set a binder full of music in front of me and had one of her younger students come in and do some exercises while I sightread through several pieces. Tendus, plies, rond de jambs, marches. I probably sightread 8 or 10 pieces for her. And of course there's a learning curve. Dancers don't always think about time and meter the way musicians do. Part of my responsibility will be to learn what pieces, meters, and tempos to use for the various exercises, as well as the format of each class. But it went well and we had fun and of course you have to start somewhere. And although I'm only accompanying for the intermediate classes this summer, I'm excited for the experience and excited for something new to get the hang of. I know I will take it with me into my teaching, just as my undergrad professor did in teaching me -- because what the ballet mistress was getting at wasn't just an ability to sight-read. It was an ability to feel the larger beat and produce something musical, which is something that Dr. Knerr had always been adamant about during college, and which is important to ballet and dance in general. After the interview, the ballet mistress had me stay to watch a little bit of the advanced class, which were the high school girls. Holy cow they were good. Totally on point, well-balanced, and graceful.
When I got out to my car afterward, I couldn't help but laugh to myself. I had walked in not knowing if I even really wanted the job or not, and instead walked out with a job that nine other pianists had auditioned for. God is so faithful. Three years ago when I first moved back to St. Louis, there's no way I could've pulled off something like that. Sometimes I wonder if the only way I got my accompanying gig at Lutheran my first year back was because God Jedi-mind-tricked my director into taking me on...
I've grown a lot since then. My current teacher, Mrs. Burkhart, is a magical goddess at the piano. She is like Dr. Knerr in some ways, and yet not in others. She pulls things out of me I don't realize I'm capable of and every time I have a lesson with her, my mind is blown in one way or another. I have so much respect for her and I want to be just like her someday. And every time I nail something like I did tonight, I feel just the tiniest bit closer to being where she's at... and hopefully able to mentor other baby pianists like myself someday. Because when you think about how you're being prepared for things someday that you barely have a concept for now, it's just ridiculous the way God is so faithful to you in your calling... and in providing for you through it.
And by ridiculous I mean pretty incredible.
And yeah... I wish I was done with this period of my life -- the "wandering artist" period. I wish that the Lord would finally bring me the right person. I wish the instability of housing situations and the like would finally stabilize (how many times did Beethoven move during his 35 yrs in Vienna? like 70? Right on track...). I wish I was in the "stable artist" period of my life (... does such a thing exist?? I'd like to think that it does...). But I also know I'm being called to a path that none of my other friends or family are being called to. It's a hard and a good path. And it's on nights like tonight that it somehow makes a little more sense. And regardless of what happens, I know he'll be faithful til the end because he's been faithful thus far.
"Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end." John 13:1
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Coffee with Julie
Today it is snowing in St. Louis. It's March 24, and there's 6 inches of snow on the ground with more to come throughout the night and tomorrow too.
Seriously??
But yesterday was near perfect. Temperature finally peaked in the mid-50s around 2 pm yesterday, just in time for an impromptu walk in Forest Park. I had about an hour to kill before I met my friend Julie and I have to say, that walk was one of the best things that happened to me all week. I walked, I breathed in the spring air, I broke a sweat walking up Art Hill, and then I sat in the sun and watched the ducks. Delightful.
And then this...
... but I digress.
Anyway, after my walk I had coffee with my friend Julie, who I met in college and saw a couple of times the first few months I was in St. Louis a few years back, but then lost track of until a few months ago when our campus ministry from Mizzou had an alumni night at the Schlafly brewery. Holy cow we hadn't talked in almost two years. She didn't know anything about Mom and Dad's divorce or me moving 5,000 times or about anything that's happened since January 2011. After the alumni night, we started meeting for coffee again about once every two weeks and I had forgotten until then how much we have in common. Some would say she does freelance design on the side, but if you want to know the truth, in my book she is a freelance designer with a real job on the side. She very much understands what it's like to be an artist, mainly because she is one at heart. And what she had to say to me yesterday is worth repeating because 1. I desperately needed to hear it and 2. I want to be able to come back to it at some point in the future.
Besides being an artist, another thing Julie and I have in common is our anxiety over (well... everything really, but especially) the issue of dating. She recently started dating again and so as we've been meeting, I've been walking through this current relationship with her and hearing about her less-than-conventional dating process, at least when it comes to the way most Christians typically date. The guy she's been seeing is a non-Christian and yesterday she told me about how through a number of conversations and just him processing life, he's basically become a Christian over the course of the past three months. What makes it even crazier is that prior to this she and I were both on the same page with regard to dating: cynical about men (especially Christian guys our age) and whether it was worth it to date them and skeptical of ever finding the right person period...
I wish you could've been a mouse in my pocket, Reader. I wish you could've heard our conversation. Because it in fact gave me hope during a time when I have been struggling with all of this... struggling for a long time with it, to be honest, and struggling in particular this past week not to believe the stupid lies in my head: Literally, that I'm not a good pianist and that I'm never going to find the right person. My friend Sherdonna (who's a songwriter) calls them "the tapes" -- you know, the tapes that play in your head that tell you how much you suck? Yeah, those tapes. Maybe you don't have them. Lucky you. Here me now, world: sometimes it really sucks to be an adult artist. Those damn tapes just don't stop. The only hope I have of killing them at all is to be in my Bible every morning. And even then, some days they just play on and on and on... and on...
But again, I digress. I'm not here to talk to you about the tapes. Instead, I will give you snippets of yesterday's conversation, some paraphrased, some verbatim. After she told me all of what's been happening, I basically said to her something to the effect of this...
(me, laughing): "Julie! That's amazing! But you realize you're one of them now, don't you? You're totally one of those Christian girls with some crazy story of what God's done for you in your dating life... "
(Julie, laughing): "I know. But the crazier part is that it's true! You know, I used to be you. I was so there... I totally started getting used to the idea of being single my whole life: I was just gonna bypass marriage and then adopt when I was like 35 or 40. That was the back-up plan. And I have no idea if things with Chris will work out long-term or not. But I'm not anxious about it, which is just as crazy as him becoming a Christian. I didn't think it could happen: I didn't think I was ever going to date someone normal... or that I could be normal during the process. And I don't know that I would advise myself to date a non-Christian if I were to do it again. But it happened and God has totally used it in both of our lives and it's been awesome and crazy to watch it happen right before my eyes."
. . .
(Julie): "Katie, people used to tell me this and I never believed them. But I want you to hear this and believe it: You are gorgeous. You are smart. You are HILARIOUS. You are super talented. And you have a good head on your shoulders. You are the complete package. And someday, somebody's finally going to realize that and make the investment. And it may not be on your time-table. And you can't expect it to happen. But all that stuff about it happening when you're not looking for it and about being the right person in order for the right person to find you is bullshit. I'm always looking and I wasn't ever doing anything "right" according to the Christian standards of dating. And [forget] what society says about when you should be getting married. And [forget] what your body says about when you should be having kids. It doesn't matter. You can't compare yourself to anyone else because ultimately it's just you and God in this and that's what matters..."
... [except she didn't say "forget"] ...
We talked for two hours straight. And I so needed to hear what she had to say... because I needed to hear it from one of my own -- someone who's right there with me, has been where I'm at, struggled with the same things that I have (displacement, restlessness, skepticism, cynicism), and had something amazing done for them so that they could believe in the truth and beauty of life and the gospel again. Because when you're given grace, it changes you. And the process is hard... like stupid hard. And I can tell just from talking to her that Chris is tangible evidence of the grace of God in Julie's life. Quite literally. And her story is evidence of the grace of God in my life. Because sometimes you just need to know that someone else gets it. Pretty amazing if you think about it.
And maybe it doesn't impact you the way it impacts me. But that's probably because you don't know her. Or maybe you're just in a different place in life. And that's ok.
Last night, Julie went home and typed a big prayer into her online journal for me. Her counselor tells her not to be afraid to pray big prayers. I'm glad she's praying it because I don't even know where to begin. But I suppose if she can pray it, then I can too...
I guess that's why we have the body of Christ.
Seriously??
But yesterday was near perfect. Temperature finally peaked in the mid-50s around 2 pm yesterday, just in time for an impromptu walk in Forest Park. I had about an hour to kill before I met my friend Julie and I have to say, that walk was one of the best things that happened to me all week. I walked, I breathed in the spring air, I broke a sweat walking up Art Hill, and then I sat in the sun and watched the ducks. Delightful.
And then this...
... but I digress.
Anyway, after my walk I had coffee with my friend Julie, who I met in college and saw a couple of times the first few months I was in St. Louis a few years back, but then lost track of until a few months ago when our campus ministry from Mizzou had an alumni night at the Schlafly brewery. Holy cow we hadn't talked in almost two years. She didn't know anything about Mom and Dad's divorce or me moving 5,000 times or about anything that's happened since January 2011. After the alumni night, we started meeting for coffee again about once every two weeks and I had forgotten until then how much we have in common. Some would say she does freelance design on the side, but if you want to know the truth, in my book she is a freelance designer with a real job on the side. She very much understands what it's like to be an artist, mainly because she is one at heart. And what she had to say to me yesterday is worth repeating because 1. I desperately needed to hear it and 2. I want to be able to come back to it at some point in the future.
Besides being an artist, another thing Julie and I have in common is our anxiety over (well... everything really, but especially) the issue of dating. She recently started dating again and so as we've been meeting, I've been walking through this current relationship with her and hearing about her less-than-conventional dating process, at least when it comes to the way most Christians typically date. The guy she's been seeing is a non-Christian and yesterday she told me about how through a number of conversations and just him processing life, he's basically become a Christian over the course of the past three months. What makes it even crazier is that prior to this she and I were both on the same page with regard to dating: cynical about men (especially Christian guys our age) and whether it was worth it to date them and skeptical of ever finding the right person period...
I wish you could've been a mouse in my pocket, Reader. I wish you could've heard our conversation. Because it in fact gave me hope during a time when I have been struggling with all of this... struggling for a long time with it, to be honest, and struggling in particular this past week not to believe the stupid lies in my head: Literally, that I'm not a good pianist and that I'm never going to find the right person. My friend Sherdonna (who's a songwriter) calls them "the tapes" -- you know, the tapes that play in your head that tell you how much you suck? Yeah, those tapes. Maybe you don't have them. Lucky you. Here me now, world: sometimes it really sucks to be an adult artist. Those damn tapes just don't stop. The only hope I have of killing them at all is to be in my Bible every morning. And even then, some days they just play on and on and on... and on...
But again, I digress. I'm not here to talk to you about the tapes. Instead, I will give you snippets of yesterday's conversation, some paraphrased, some verbatim. After she told me all of what's been happening, I basically said to her something to the effect of this...
(me, laughing): "Julie! That's amazing! But you realize you're one of them now, don't you? You're totally one of those Christian girls with some crazy story of what God's done for you in your dating life... "
(Julie, laughing): "I know. But the crazier part is that it's true! You know, I used to be you. I was so there... I totally started getting used to the idea of being single my whole life: I was just gonna bypass marriage and then adopt when I was like 35 or 40. That was the back-up plan. And I have no idea if things with Chris will work out long-term or not. But I'm not anxious about it, which is just as crazy as him becoming a Christian. I didn't think it could happen: I didn't think I was ever going to date someone normal... or that I could be normal during the process. And I don't know that I would advise myself to date a non-Christian if I were to do it again. But it happened and God has totally used it in both of our lives and it's been awesome and crazy to watch it happen right before my eyes."
. . .
(Julie): "Katie, people used to tell me this and I never believed them. But I want you to hear this and believe it: You are gorgeous. You are smart. You are HILARIOUS. You are super talented. And you have a good head on your shoulders. You are the complete package. And someday, somebody's finally going to realize that and make the investment. And it may not be on your time-table. And you can't expect it to happen. But all that stuff about it happening when you're not looking for it and about being the right person in order for the right person to find you is bullshit. I'm always looking and I wasn't ever doing anything "right" according to the Christian standards of dating. And [forget] what society says about when you should be getting married. And [forget] what your body says about when you should be having kids. It doesn't matter. You can't compare yourself to anyone else because ultimately it's just you and God in this and that's what matters..."
... [except she didn't say "forget"] ...
We talked for two hours straight. And I so needed to hear what she had to say... because I needed to hear it from one of my own -- someone who's right there with me, has been where I'm at, struggled with the same things that I have (displacement, restlessness, skepticism, cynicism), and had something amazing done for them so that they could believe in the truth and beauty of life and the gospel again. Because when you're given grace, it changes you. And the process is hard... like stupid hard. And I can tell just from talking to her that Chris is tangible evidence of the grace of God in Julie's life. Quite literally. And her story is evidence of the grace of God in my life. Because sometimes you just need to know that someone else gets it. Pretty amazing if you think about it.
And maybe it doesn't impact you the way it impacts me. But that's probably because you don't know her. Or maybe you're just in a different place in life. And that's ok.
Last night, Julie went home and typed a big prayer into her online journal for me. Her counselor tells her not to be afraid to pray big prayers. I'm glad she's praying it because I don't even know where to begin. But I suppose if she can pray it, then I can too...
I guess that's why we have the body of Christ.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Why I'm Late...
Guys, I have a problem. It's called being on time. And it's gotten really bad lately, especially if I have to be anywhere by or before 8 am, which has been a regular occurrence these past 2-3 weeks. There have been a number of times that I've had to be out at Lutheran High by 7:30 or 8 am. I consider it a major victory if I'm there within five minutes of the deadline. I've also discovered that there is a law related to this phenomenon of mine. I've entitled it Katie's Law of Time. It goes something like this: No matter how early I get up or how hard I try, in the end I will inevitably be late. It's highly discouraging, especially because it really bothers my director and I basically feel worthless as a person when I come running in de facto, even if it's only by 2 or 3 minutes.
Statistically, if you count all the times that I ever have to be somewhere on time, I'm honestly batting about .275. In the mind of my director though, it's more like .200 since the majority of the times that I'm late are when I have to be at Lutheran... usually for something important. Like the bus leaving for tour. Or contest. Or when I'm adjudicating for the Grade School Festival. It doesn't matter how early I get up or how much I prepare beforehand, in the end I will still be late. What can I say? Shit happens. Literally.
Case in point: This morning I was supposed to be out at Lutheran at 8 am. This is at least the sixth or seventh time in the past three weeks I've had to be out there at that time (or earlier). It takes me roughly 35 mins to get there from my house right now. I came down the stairs at 7:10 to make coffee and scoot. I still had to finish my make-up but I figured I could put it on while the coffee was being made, get my cup ready to go, grab a banana, leave by 7:20 and be fine. I was the first one down the stairs and as I made my way through the living room to the kitchen, I felt something soft under my left foot...
[... before I go on, a little context: within the past month, my housemom had decided she was going to Africa on a missions trip. She's raised money and has been on a number of trips prior to this. The non-profit she runs sponsors an orphanage over in Kenya and they've done all kinds of projects. The object of this trip was to take supplies and meet up with an American who will help finish building a well for the orphanage. And of course, today was D-Day: she left this afternoon around 3 pm -- incidentally, this week I'm crashing at a number of friends houses since it's inappropriate for me to stay there alone with her husband, but I digress... The point here is that last night she pulled out the suitcases to start packing, which of course sent their lovable golden retriever into a fit of pouting since he's been traumatized by them moving two or three times within the past three or four years. He was not a happy pup at the sight of multiple suitcases being stocked with supplies being sent to Kenya. In his mind, he was like "Nuh-uh. Not again"... ]
... it took me about two steps to realize what I'd stumbled upon. Literally. Such an interesting present for me to find at 7 am. And of course, being the first one downstairs, stepping in it, and knowing they had a lot going on today, who cleaned up puppers' mess off the hardwood floor? Off the shag carpet? Off of my shoe? Yes. Oh yes. Oh... yes... And I still had to finish make-up. I cleaned everything up, washed hands, finished getting ready, left without coffee, and grabbed a banana on my way out the door, but it was too late. The damage was done. Estimated time of departure was 7:25 am. I drove like a mad woman and pulled into the parking lot at Lutheran at 8 am on the nose, when I should have been in my judge's chair waiting to hear my first little pianist.
No matter how early I get up or how hard I try, I will inevitably be late...
Last week, I was late by 3 minutes on contest day because even though I had made both my lunch and my breakfast the night before and packed my bags to be ready to go, of course I had forgotten to get gas the night before and while en route to school, my gas light came on. Somehow I managed to pull over and get gas in (no joke) 2 minutes but once again, nicht sehr gut...
I've spent a lot of time thinking about this issue over the past three weeks... i.e. as my director gets more and more miffed with each truancy. I honestly don't blame her. I appreciate people who are on time, mostly because it validates the fact that I didn't screw something up in my schedule or dream that I was supposed to be somewhere when I wasn't. I've thought about the fact that when I'm late, I'm basically telling people that I'm more important than they are. I've thought about how I have too much going on in my life right now to keep it all together and ticking in a timely manner. I've thought about how I was raised by someone who was and still is consistently late. I've thought about how my brain is still in college mode while my body just doesn't want to haul ass to get stuff done anymore (in college I knew exactly how to use 7 minutes worth of time and it normally included doing no less than 10 things... and somehow I nailed it every time). I've thought about how people are more important than deadlines, how it's better to take care of the business at hand and do a good job (even if it's cleaning up dog poo or driving safely), worrying less about the immediacy and urgency of minutes rolling by. And I've thought about grace and how much I value being extended grace, while simultaneously being called out of my problem with time-keeping (it really bothers me when people slather anger and guilt on me over their frustrations with me being late... it makes me feel like nothing else I have to offer is valuable. I promise I'm working on it...). I've also thought about how I try to defend myself in my mind, lashing out angrily and justifying myself by saying things like, "People just do not understand what a major victory it is for me to leave the house and get somewhere on time..." Indeed it is such a battle, but it doesn't mean it's ok.
But what I think it really boils down to is this: When you live deeply... I mean, when you're really living deeply, things like time limits and deadlines matter less than the people and thoughts and beauty and trauma you're coming into contact with. And maybe that's a cop-out. Maybe that's just another way of saying "there's too much going on and I clearly can't handle it..." Partly yes. But I think in my world, there will always be too much going on, even if it seems to others that there's nothing going on. I honestly think it's just one of the ramifications of fighting the battle I'm called to in this world. Every time I arrive somewhere safely and relatively on time, I count it a major victory: I am here. I made it. Let's live the dream.
Some people will always be punctual. And they honestly deserve a medal. But some people will never understand. And I will just have to accept the consequences of that. Because there are more important things than being perfectly on time.
"Yep, I'm late. I am ever so sorry. Please forgive me...?"
Statistically, if you count all the times that I ever have to be somewhere on time, I'm honestly batting about .275. In the mind of my director though, it's more like .200 since the majority of the times that I'm late are when I have to be at Lutheran... usually for something important. Like the bus leaving for tour. Or contest. Or when I'm adjudicating for the Grade School Festival. It doesn't matter how early I get up or how much I prepare beforehand, in the end I will still be late. What can I say? Shit happens. Literally.
Case in point: This morning I was supposed to be out at Lutheran at 8 am. This is at least the sixth or seventh time in the past three weeks I've had to be out there at that time (or earlier). It takes me roughly 35 mins to get there from my house right now. I came down the stairs at 7:10 to make coffee and scoot. I still had to finish my make-up but I figured I could put it on while the coffee was being made, get my cup ready to go, grab a banana, leave by 7:20 and be fine. I was the first one down the stairs and as I made my way through the living room to the kitchen, I felt something soft under my left foot...
[... before I go on, a little context: within the past month, my housemom had decided she was going to Africa on a missions trip. She's raised money and has been on a number of trips prior to this. The non-profit she runs sponsors an orphanage over in Kenya and they've done all kinds of projects. The object of this trip was to take supplies and meet up with an American who will help finish building a well for the orphanage. And of course, today was D-Day: she left this afternoon around 3 pm -- incidentally, this week I'm crashing at a number of friends houses since it's inappropriate for me to stay there alone with her husband, but I digress... The point here is that last night she pulled out the suitcases to start packing, which of course sent their lovable golden retriever into a fit of pouting since he's been traumatized by them moving two or three times within the past three or four years. He was not a happy pup at the sight of multiple suitcases being stocked with supplies being sent to Kenya. In his mind, he was like "Nuh-uh. Not again"... ]
... it took me about two steps to realize what I'd stumbled upon. Literally. Such an interesting present for me to find at 7 am. And of course, being the first one downstairs, stepping in it, and knowing they had a lot going on today, who cleaned up puppers' mess off the hardwood floor? Off the shag carpet? Off of my shoe? Yes. Oh yes. Oh... yes... And I still had to finish make-up. I cleaned everything up, washed hands, finished getting ready, left without coffee, and grabbed a banana on my way out the door, but it was too late. The damage was done. Estimated time of departure was 7:25 am. I drove like a mad woman and pulled into the parking lot at Lutheran at 8 am on the nose, when I should have been in my judge's chair waiting to hear my first little pianist.
No matter how early I get up or how hard I try, I will inevitably be late...
Last week, I was late by 3 minutes on contest day because even though I had made both my lunch and my breakfast the night before and packed my bags to be ready to go, of course I had forgotten to get gas the night before and while en route to school, my gas light came on. Somehow I managed to pull over and get gas in (no joke) 2 minutes but once again, nicht sehr gut...
I've spent a lot of time thinking about this issue over the past three weeks... i.e. as my director gets more and more miffed with each truancy. I honestly don't blame her. I appreciate people who are on time, mostly because it validates the fact that I didn't screw something up in my schedule or dream that I was supposed to be somewhere when I wasn't. I've thought about the fact that when I'm late, I'm basically telling people that I'm more important than they are. I've thought about how I have too much going on in my life right now to keep it all together and ticking in a timely manner. I've thought about how I was raised by someone who was and still is consistently late. I've thought about how my brain is still in college mode while my body just doesn't want to haul ass to get stuff done anymore (in college I knew exactly how to use 7 minutes worth of time and it normally included doing no less than 10 things... and somehow I nailed it every time). I've thought about how people are more important than deadlines, how it's better to take care of the business at hand and do a good job (even if it's cleaning up dog poo or driving safely), worrying less about the immediacy and urgency of minutes rolling by. And I've thought about grace and how much I value being extended grace, while simultaneously being called out of my problem with time-keeping (it really bothers me when people slather anger and guilt on me over their frustrations with me being late... it makes me feel like nothing else I have to offer is valuable. I promise I'm working on it...). I've also thought about how I try to defend myself in my mind, lashing out angrily and justifying myself by saying things like, "People just do not understand what a major victory it is for me to leave the house and get somewhere on time..." Indeed it is such a battle, but it doesn't mean it's ok.
But what I think it really boils down to is this: When you live deeply... I mean, when you're really living deeply, things like time limits and deadlines matter less than the people and thoughts and beauty and trauma you're coming into contact with. And maybe that's a cop-out. Maybe that's just another way of saying "there's too much going on and I clearly can't handle it..." Partly yes. But I think in my world, there will always be too much going on, even if it seems to others that there's nothing going on. I honestly think it's just one of the ramifications of fighting the battle I'm called to in this world. Every time I arrive somewhere safely and relatively on time, I count it a major victory: I am here. I made it. Let's live the dream.
Some people will always be punctual. And they honestly deserve a medal. But some people will never understand. And I will just have to accept the consequences of that. Because there are more important things than being perfectly on time.
"Yep, I'm late. I am ever so sorry. Please forgive me...?"
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
An unexpected lesson: How my mechanic changed my life...
We have known my mechanic for years. And by we, I mean my family and I. He has not always been our mechanic but when he finally opened his own shop a couple of years ago, we quickly switched over from our previous mechanic and started taking our cars to him... and by him, I mean Tim. Because that is his name. I've probably known Tim since I was in 5th grade. He is (I think) roughly 6-8 years older than me. Really great guy. Total redneck. He does a great job with our vehicles and we love and appreciate him a lot.
But before I go any further, I should tell you that I realize the following may be inflammatory and/or sensitive. Lots of people have really strong views either way and it's not my desire to make anyone upset or spout off views at random in an attempt to stir the pot. This is my blog, tracking my process in life, and I'm simply here to chart the things I experience and feel.
That being said, today I finally realized what all the fuss is about with regard to gun control. I've known for a long time that gun issues are a big deal. And no, my mechanic didn't shoot me or anyone else. But he does carry a gun on him at all times. He has a proper license and he tells me that several of the guys in the shop carry as well, even when they're working. When he told me this and I looked back at him in alarm, he turned sideways and raised his arms up just enough that I could see some kind of gun (he says it's the kind the cops use... I forget the technical name) peeking out from the small of his back, tucked into his pants in the same place where the FBI agents carry theirs. He pulled it out, emptied it of the cartridge and the bullets, and explained the difference in certain gun laws to me. Apparently, there's a difference between a CCW license, which allows you to carry a concealed and loaded weapon and another type of license which will only allow you to carry a concealed weapon if it is empty... which means that in a panic situation, you would not only need to pull out your weapon, but load it, cock it, and then pull the trigger. Tim explained that this process takes way too long... in a panic situation, you'd be toast, which is why he has a CCW. He also talked about certain places where he wasn't allowed to carry vs certain places where he was. There are signs that businesses may post that say "no guns" but if they don't meet certain size specifications they're null and void.
.... CRAZY!
It seriously blew my mind. Talk about information overload.
He also told me of how he recently went into my hometown grocery store and counted NINE other people in the store at the moment that he knew of who also carried regularly. In my hometown, that's like... THE ENTIRE STORE.
And that's when it hit me: Tim knows what he's doing. He's not a crazy. He's a trusted family friend. He knows how to handle his weapon and he knows when it's supposed to be used. Tim will probably go 99.99% of his life without ever needing to use his gun, but in the event that he does, he'll be ready. He could be ready if he needed to be. And so could probably all of those people in my hometown grocery store.
It also hit me today that guns scare all-of-the-things-that-could-ever-be-in-me out of me. But not when they're in the proper hands. Tim's gun didn't scare me because he knows what he is doing. And because he is a good man. But the idea of a gun sitting out or being stored improperly or in the hands of someone who doesn't know what they're doing or whose brokenness has taken them to a really, really dark place... that scares me.
I think Tim and his gun must've been something like what the founding fathers envisioned for us when they ratified the second amendment. Because there are crazies out there. Tim says that anyone who wanted could make a gun out of nearly anything they wanted. My dad says that if you take the guns away from the people who know what they're doing with them... the ones who only want to use them in a .01% emergency situation, then you leave yourself and everyone else helpless and open to the crazies. Because they're the ones who know how to make a gun out of a tuna can.
I could go further and explain how at least two of my family members that I know of subscribe to a number of conspiracy theories regarding the shooting at Sandy Hook... or their ideas about how the government wants to take our guns away in general so that we're easier to control. These ideas are also really scary to me, but I try not to think about it. I try to listen and keep an open mind when my family members talk about it. And then I try to forget about it and go play the piano.
I don't know how I feel about all the big stuff. I am really really not ok with people (especially children) dying at the hands of some lunatic who forgot to take his Xanax. I think there are certain things we could probably limit (like the need for anyone to own an AK-47... or a bazooka... or let's be honest, a spud gun) that in the end may or may not help the ridiculousness we've allowed ourselves to get into over this issue. And I do think it's ridiculous.
But really, all I know is this: as an artist, I don't really think I need to own or carry a gun. I mean, I play the piano all day. But I do feel safer knowing there are people out there like Tim who not only carry one every day of their life, but know what they're doing, and desire to use their gun only for good... for what it's supposed to be used for, which is protection for themselves and others. I also know that the world is a broken place. It seems to me that a gun is actually more of a tool, just like anything else. It could be used for its rightful and proper purpose. Or it could be used for awful, horrendous, terrifying damage.
I don't think the answer is necessarily in legislation. It almost never seems like it is. It seems to me that it is easier to legislate things that deal with hindrances of freedom and more difficult to legislate essentially moral issues, which is what gun control is at its root, if we're honest with ourselves. Because the truth is, people are broken. And really, there are no easy answers.
I would say that, when you come down to it, the real answer is the gospel, found in the person of Jesus himself. But nobody ever likes that answer...
I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full. John 10:10
But before I go any further, I should tell you that I realize the following may be inflammatory and/or sensitive. Lots of people have really strong views either way and it's not my desire to make anyone upset or spout off views at random in an attempt to stir the pot. This is my blog, tracking my process in life, and I'm simply here to chart the things I experience and feel.
That being said, today I finally realized what all the fuss is about with regard to gun control. I've known for a long time that gun issues are a big deal. And no, my mechanic didn't shoot me or anyone else. But he does carry a gun on him at all times. He has a proper license and he tells me that several of the guys in the shop carry as well, even when they're working. When he told me this and I looked back at him in alarm, he turned sideways and raised his arms up just enough that I could see some kind of gun (he says it's the kind the cops use... I forget the technical name) peeking out from the small of his back, tucked into his pants in the same place where the FBI agents carry theirs. He pulled it out, emptied it of the cartridge and the bullets, and explained the difference in certain gun laws to me. Apparently, there's a difference between a CCW license, which allows you to carry a concealed and loaded weapon and another type of license which will only allow you to carry a concealed weapon if it is empty... which means that in a panic situation, you would not only need to pull out your weapon, but load it, cock it, and then pull the trigger. Tim explained that this process takes way too long... in a panic situation, you'd be toast, which is why he has a CCW. He also talked about certain places where he wasn't allowed to carry vs certain places where he was. There are signs that businesses may post that say "no guns" but if they don't meet certain size specifications they're null and void.
.... CRAZY!
It seriously blew my mind. Talk about information overload.
He also told me of how he recently went into my hometown grocery store and counted NINE other people in the store at the moment that he knew of who also carried regularly. In my hometown, that's like... THE ENTIRE STORE.
And that's when it hit me: Tim knows what he's doing. He's not a crazy. He's a trusted family friend. He knows how to handle his weapon and he knows when it's supposed to be used. Tim will probably go 99.99% of his life without ever needing to use his gun, but in the event that he does, he'll be ready. He could be ready if he needed to be. And so could probably all of those people in my hometown grocery store.
It also hit me today that guns scare all-of-the-things-that-could-ever-be-in-me out of me. But not when they're in the proper hands. Tim's gun didn't scare me because he knows what he is doing. And because he is a good man. But the idea of a gun sitting out or being stored improperly or in the hands of someone who doesn't know what they're doing or whose brokenness has taken them to a really, really dark place... that scares me.
I think Tim and his gun must've been something like what the founding fathers envisioned for us when they ratified the second amendment. Because there are crazies out there. Tim says that anyone who wanted could make a gun out of nearly anything they wanted. My dad says that if you take the guns away from the people who know what they're doing with them... the ones who only want to use them in a .01% emergency situation, then you leave yourself and everyone else helpless and open to the crazies. Because they're the ones who know how to make a gun out of a tuna can.
I could go further and explain how at least two of my family members that I know of subscribe to a number of conspiracy theories regarding the shooting at Sandy Hook... or their ideas about how the government wants to take our guns away in general so that we're easier to control. These ideas are also really scary to me, but I try not to think about it. I try to listen and keep an open mind when my family members talk about it. And then I try to forget about it and go play the piano.
I don't know how I feel about all the big stuff. I am really really not ok with people (especially children) dying at the hands of some lunatic who forgot to take his Xanax. I think there are certain things we could probably limit (like the need for anyone to own an AK-47... or a bazooka... or let's be honest, a spud gun) that in the end may or may not help the ridiculousness we've allowed ourselves to get into over this issue. And I do think it's ridiculous.
But really, all I know is this: as an artist, I don't really think I need to own or carry a gun. I mean, I play the piano all day. But I do feel safer knowing there are people out there like Tim who not only carry one every day of their life, but know what they're doing, and desire to use their gun only for good... for what it's supposed to be used for, which is protection for themselves and others. I also know that the world is a broken place. It seems to me that a gun is actually more of a tool, just like anything else. It could be used for its rightful and proper purpose. Or it could be used for awful, horrendous, terrifying damage.
I don't think the answer is necessarily in legislation. It almost never seems like it is. It seems to me that it is easier to legislate things that deal with hindrances of freedom and more difficult to legislate essentially moral issues, which is what gun control is at its root, if we're honest with ourselves. Because the truth is, people are broken. And really, there are no easy answers.
I would say that, when you come down to it, the real answer is the gospel, found in the person of Jesus himself. But nobody ever likes that answer...
I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full. John 10:10
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Not all practice hours are created equal...
Sometimes while I'm in traffic I have epiphanies. My friend Megan and I both do this a lot. She tells me of the times that she will be sitting at a stoplight, writing the next chapter of the deeply profound novel that she's constantly writing in her head, when all of a sudden she'll be startled back to reality by someone honking behind her.
I can totally relate. I write in my head a lot too. Especially while in the car.
During this morning's car-writing experience, I came to verbalize something in my head that I have long-known to be true in my subconscious. And it made me laugh a lot when I came to grips with this phenomenon, which is that for a musician, not all practice hours are created equal...
I know, right?? It's soooo true.
This came about mostly because I had an awesome practice day yesterday and then had a relatively useless practice session this morning which came to an abrupt halt when I realized that I had errands to go take care of that I'd henceforth completely forgotten about. Seriously, Katherine... why do you do that to yourself?? Write it down. And then don't forget to look at it.
Anyway, once I started thinking about this, it reminded me of all the times in undergrad when I would dutifully head to the practice room and get absolutely nothing accomplished. One morning I remember stopping to chat with my theory professor on my way to practice, and as we were parting he told me he'd better let me get going so I could take my coffee on up to the practice room and spill it in the piano. He was of course joking, but his words were scarily true. I confess, it's a miracle I made it through undergrad... it wouldn't surprise me if the back stairwell of the MU music school still smelled like coffee. But I digress...
What materialized in my head this morning was a scale of 1-10, relating the level of focus to the feelings/thoughts that run through the head of many a musician I know during a given practice hour. It looks something like this... (hopefully you can relate)
Level of Focus: -1 to 3 (aka the "I Got Nothing Done" Zone...)
"Ugh, I forgot my coffee at home..."
"It's stupid early..."
"Omg it's soooo late..."
"Sightreading 101: What IS this??" (aka it took you 20 minutes to make it through three measures)
"Ugh... I forgot I had to _____" (at which point you leave after half an hour)
"Wait, I've played this before... I practiced this yesterday!"
"How long has it been since I started?"
"This bench sucks..."
Level of Focus: 3.5 - 6 (aka the Semi-Productive Zone -- I spent the majority of my college career in this zone)
"Ugh, I spent way too much time on that first piece..."
"Maybe I should take a break..."
"Maybe I should sightread for a while..."
"Ugh, I suck at sightreading!"
"I need to play something fun first..."
"I wonder if that guy in the next room can hear me. I wonder if he thinks I sound ok. I wonder if he thinks I'm cute... does it matter?.... nah."
"I wonder if my teacher can hear me..."
"Oh yeah, THAT'S how that goes..."
"Well that's a dumb rhythm..."
"Ugh... WHY do you want me to play this??" ("you" being whomever has commissioned your work on a given piece)
(fumble fumble) "Yeah, I'll come back to that later..." (meaning sometime in the distant future, possibly never)
"I'm out of coffee..."
"Maybe I should just play through it again..."
Level of Focus: 6.5 - 9 (aka The Zone Zone)
"OMG, I love you Brahms/Bach/Beethoven/etc..."
"Brahms/Bach/Beethoven/etc, you are KILLING me!"
"WHY did you write it like that?? Oh, that's awful!"
"Oh that fits really well in the hand!"
"Holy cow, he was a genius..."
"Agh! Where's my pencil??"
"I WILL get this right..."
"Again"
"Again"
"Ok go back to the section before that"
"Wait... nope, that was right..."
"Again again again"
"YES. That was good. Again."
"Why am I not getting that?? OH... tension. Ok release."
"Again"
Level of Focus: 9 - 14 (aka The "My Mind is Mush" Zone)
"Wow. I deserve a medal."
"Wait, what's my name?"
"What time is it??"
"Ohhh it's bright...!" (said upon going into the sunlight for the first time in hours)
"So wait, what all did I work on today... ?"
(counts practice hours on hands)... "Yeah, 3... I think... no, 4."
"Ugh, I still have to go teach all afternoon..."
"I can't believe I waded through that chromatic section like that... wow."
"I am a beast..."
"I need chocolate"
"Ok... I need food..." (usually accompanied by dizziness)
Ask any pianist. They will tell you... pretty accurate, if I do say so myself. Not all practice hours are created equal, dependent entirely on the level of focus on a given day and whether the ref in your brain woke up that morning or not. And now you know :)
I can totally relate. I write in my head a lot too. Especially while in the car.
During this morning's car-writing experience, I came to verbalize something in my head that I have long-known to be true in my subconscious. And it made me laugh a lot when I came to grips with this phenomenon, which is that for a musician, not all practice hours are created equal...
I know, right?? It's soooo true.
This came about mostly because I had an awesome practice day yesterday and then had a relatively useless practice session this morning which came to an abrupt halt when I realized that I had errands to go take care of that I'd henceforth completely forgotten about. Seriously, Katherine... why do you do that to yourself?? Write it down. And then don't forget to look at it.
Anyway, once I started thinking about this, it reminded me of all the times in undergrad when I would dutifully head to the practice room and get absolutely nothing accomplished. One morning I remember stopping to chat with my theory professor on my way to practice, and as we were parting he told me he'd better let me get going so I could take my coffee on up to the practice room and spill it in the piano. He was of course joking, but his words were scarily true. I confess, it's a miracle I made it through undergrad... it wouldn't surprise me if the back stairwell of the MU music school still smelled like coffee. But I digress...
What materialized in my head this morning was a scale of 1-10, relating the level of focus to the feelings/thoughts that run through the head of many a musician I know during a given practice hour. It looks something like this... (hopefully you can relate)
Level of Focus: -1 to 3 (aka the "I Got Nothing Done" Zone...)
"Ugh, I forgot my coffee at home..."
"It's stupid early..."
"Omg it's soooo late..."
"Sightreading 101: What IS this??" (aka it took you 20 minutes to make it through three measures)
"Ugh... I forgot I had to _____" (at which point you leave after half an hour)
"Wait, I've played this before... I practiced this yesterday!"
"How long has it been since I started?"
"This bench sucks..."
Level of Focus: 3.5 - 6 (aka the Semi-Productive Zone -- I spent the majority of my college career in this zone)
"Ugh, I spent way too much time on that first piece..."
"Maybe I should take a break..."
"Maybe I should sightread for a while..."
"Ugh, I suck at sightreading!"
"I need to play something fun first..."
"I wonder if that guy in the next room can hear me. I wonder if he thinks I sound ok. I wonder if he thinks I'm cute... does it matter?.... nah."
"I wonder if my teacher can hear me..."
"Oh yeah, THAT'S how that goes..."
"Well that's a dumb rhythm..."
"Ugh... WHY do you want me to play this??" ("you" being whomever has commissioned your work on a given piece)
(fumble fumble) "Yeah, I'll come back to that later..." (meaning sometime in the distant future, possibly never)
"I'm out of coffee..."
"Maybe I should just play through it again..."
Level of Focus: 6.5 - 9 (aka The Zone Zone)
"OMG, I love you Brahms/Bach/Beethoven/etc..."
"Brahms/Bach/Beethoven/etc, you are KILLING me!"
"WHY did you write it like that?? Oh, that's awful!"
"Oh that fits really well in the hand!"
"Holy cow, he was a genius..."
"Agh! Where's my pencil??"
"I WILL get this right..."
"Again"
"Again"
"Ok go back to the section before that"
"Wait... nope, that was right..."
"Again again again"
"YES. That was good. Again."
"Why am I not getting that?? OH... tension. Ok release."
"Again"
Level of Focus: 9 - 14 (aka The "My Mind is Mush" Zone)
"Wow. I deserve a medal."
"Wait, what's my name?"
"What time is it??"
"Ohhh it's bright...!" (said upon going into the sunlight for the first time in hours)
"So wait, what all did I work on today... ?"
(counts practice hours on hands)... "Yeah, 3... I think... no, 4."
"Ugh, I still have to go teach all afternoon..."
"I can't believe I waded through that chromatic section like that... wow."
"I am a beast..."
"I need chocolate"
"Ok... I need food..." (usually accompanied by dizziness)
Ask any pianist. They will tell you... pretty accurate, if I do say so myself. Not all practice hours are created equal, dependent entirely on the level of focus on a given day and whether the ref in your brain woke up that morning or not. And now you know :)
Monday, January 21, 2013
MLK Day
Happy MLK Day to you, my Readership!
Today I found out that there is absolutely nothing to do in St. Louis on Martin Luther King Day except to sit at home and think about... Martin Luther King! I was lucky I was able to get into the practice rooms because otherwise it would've been a perfectly good day wasted at home doing things like resting and blogging and laundry and thinking about MLK, which can be great, but not when you need to get stuff done. I am seriously thankful that I was able to log in about three hours at the piano before I nearly fell over from hunger and had to leave, knowing I wouldn't be able to get back in the building. And that's when I realized there was nothing else for me to do but head over to Bread Co. and settle in for a while before I had to go teach.
Things here are... fine, if you want to call it that. I've been realizing more and more every day that I really am an artist. I've longed to be here (in this place of arrival where I can call myself an artist and not have second thoughts about it) for so long that now it feels... well, strange. I have a love-hate relationship with it if I'm honest with myself. I absolutely love what I do. I wouldn't trade it for a million day-jobs with steady hours, a nice retirement portfolio, and a great health insurance package, none of which I have. And if you think of all the stereotypes of artists, I absolutely fit them, though probably not in the ways you'd expect. I make my living by educating children in the art of my instrument and performing for a local manifestation of the church (in my case a Lutheran school -- sidenote: the church has been employing artists everywhere for centuries), I live in part by the generosity of some really great and loving people who have taken me in (harken back to the patronage system anyone?), I spend a great deal of time by myself working on music that takes months to perfect when I should probably be practicing the stuff people pay me for instead, nobody really understands what exactly it is that I do all day, and I have absolutely no idea where my life is headed. And about the time I think a man might enter the picture, he leaves about as quickly as he comes in.
It's the stuff of operas, let's be honest.
And if you actually follow that thought out to its logical conclusion, then my character (the role of the female ingenue) dies alone at the end, usually of consumption or a broken heart or both.
Agh!
And now you know why we artists feel tortured all the time...
I have a friend in New York who is actually trying to make it in New York as a pianist and well, we might as well be living parallel lives in alternate universes because he says it's the same for him. No time, no money, and no second person to share in the torture.
And when I say torture I mean sheer delight. Mostly.
But truly, it is a delight... (are you catching on to the love-hateness yet?) It's a delight to be able to do what we do and love what we do and pass that on to other people. I spent nearly two hours today working on one of the most beautiful and difficult chamber pieces I've ever had the pleasure of encountering. And then I spent another hour working on two or three other wonderful pieces. My brain was mush when I left the practice room and it felt great. Who else can say that?? It's just that the rest of my life -- you know, the big stuff like where I'm headed career-wise and whether I'll ever find the right person and actually settle down -- feels really unstable and lonely sometimes. And by sometimes, I mean all the time.
I don't like to admit that. Not in writing. Maybe behind the closed door of my counselor's office, but not in writing. Not when I have to take responsibility for those words...
I don't know. There aren't any easy answers. We're at the point in my adult life where there aren't any easy answers or quick fixes anymore. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I have a gracious, loving, and faithful savior who is only ever interested in my ultimate good. And I trust him completely. But it doesn't make the journey any less painful. There are days when I totally live Proverbs 18:14 -- A man's spirit will endure sickness, but a crushed spirit who can bear?
I promise I'm not trying to be overly dramatic. Learning the patience of unanswered prayer is no easy thing... and there really just aren't any answers right now. And I have no control over that. It's frustrating and hard and it requires more of me than I'm ok with.
I'm going to see my counselor on Thursday and to be honest, I could fall over I'm so excited about it... not because she will have the answers, but because I know I'll feel heard in a deeper way than anyone else in my life hears me and she will tell me the things my restless heart needs to hear instead... because she will point me back to Jesus.
Today I found out that there is absolutely nothing to do in St. Louis on Martin Luther King Day except to sit at home and think about... Martin Luther King! I was lucky I was able to get into the practice rooms because otherwise it would've been a perfectly good day wasted at home doing things like resting and blogging and laundry and thinking about MLK, which can be great, but not when you need to get stuff done. I am seriously thankful that I was able to log in about three hours at the piano before I nearly fell over from hunger and had to leave, knowing I wouldn't be able to get back in the building. And that's when I realized there was nothing else for me to do but head over to Bread Co. and settle in for a while before I had to go teach.
Things here are... fine, if you want to call it that. I've been realizing more and more every day that I really am an artist. I've longed to be here (in this place of arrival where I can call myself an artist and not have second thoughts about it) for so long that now it feels... well, strange. I have a love-hate relationship with it if I'm honest with myself. I absolutely love what I do. I wouldn't trade it for a million day-jobs with steady hours, a nice retirement portfolio, and a great health insurance package, none of which I have. And if you think of all the stereotypes of artists, I absolutely fit them, though probably not in the ways you'd expect. I make my living by educating children in the art of my instrument and performing for a local manifestation of the church (in my case a Lutheran school -- sidenote: the church has been employing artists everywhere for centuries), I live in part by the generosity of some really great and loving people who have taken me in (harken back to the patronage system anyone?), I spend a great deal of time by myself working on music that takes months to perfect when I should probably be practicing the stuff people pay me for instead, nobody really understands what exactly it is that I do all day, and I have absolutely no idea where my life is headed. And about the time I think a man might enter the picture, he leaves about as quickly as he comes in.
It's the stuff of operas, let's be honest.
And if you actually follow that thought out to its logical conclusion, then my character (the role of the female ingenue) dies alone at the end, usually of consumption or a broken heart or both.
Agh!
And now you know why we artists feel tortured all the time...
I have a friend in New York who is actually trying to make it in New York as a pianist and well, we might as well be living parallel lives in alternate universes because he says it's the same for him. No time, no money, and no second person to share in the torture.
And when I say torture I mean sheer delight. Mostly.
But truly, it is a delight... (are you catching on to the love-hateness yet?) It's a delight to be able to do what we do and love what we do and pass that on to other people. I spent nearly two hours today working on one of the most beautiful and difficult chamber pieces I've ever had the pleasure of encountering. And then I spent another hour working on two or three other wonderful pieces. My brain was mush when I left the practice room and it felt great. Who else can say that?? It's just that the rest of my life -- you know, the big stuff like where I'm headed career-wise and whether I'll ever find the right person and actually settle down -- feels really unstable and lonely sometimes. And by sometimes, I mean all the time.
I don't like to admit that. Not in writing. Maybe behind the closed door of my counselor's office, but not in writing. Not when I have to take responsibility for those words...
I don't know. There aren't any easy answers. We're at the point in my adult life where there aren't any easy answers or quick fixes anymore. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I have a gracious, loving, and faithful savior who is only ever interested in my ultimate good. And I trust him completely. But it doesn't make the journey any less painful. There are days when I totally live Proverbs 18:14 -- A man's spirit will endure sickness, but a crushed spirit who can bear?
I promise I'm not trying to be overly dramatic. Learning the patience of unanswered prayer is no easy thing... and there really just aren't any answers right now. And I have no control over that. It's frustrating and hard and it requires more of me than I'm ok with.
I'm going to see my counselor on Thursday and to be honest, I could fall over I'm so excited about it... not because she will have the answers, but because I know I'll feel heard in a deeper way than anyone else in my life hears me and she will tell me the things my restless heart needs to hear instead... because she will point me back to Jesus.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Stuff Pianists Say...
Just for fun, I've decided it's high time I give you a look into my life as a pianist. We're a rare breed and the things that come out of our mouths often astonish me if I think about them too much... so I try not to. But every now and then, it strikes me anew how amazingly different we are from the rest of the world... towards the edge of ridiculousness in some cases. Most of what I've written here are either things repeated on such a regular basis that I don't think twice about it, or things I've said before and realized my own ridiculousness in the moment. For your convenience, I've divided these gem-like phrases into categories...
The needs:
"Do you have any nail clippers? I left mine in the car..."
"Ugh, I am totally out of hole re-inforcers..."
"I clearly didn't drink enough coffee this morning..."
"Thanks for feeding me."
"I need to go pick up some music for my kids..."
"Can you stop and get me a banana on your way?"
"Man, I really need to go practice..."
"Hey, wanna hang out? I just really need to be with people."
"Oh yeah... it's in my car." (as in, whatever... anything... and everything: music scores, multiple pairs of shoes, food, water, tea bags, tissues, stamps, Bible, car charger, extra pair of mittens, scissors, tape, a hole punch, the NFMC guide to repertoire selections, an air mattress, a blanket... you get the idea...)
The excuses:
"I can't... I have rehearsal."
"I can't... I have to teach."
"I can't... I have to play a wedding."
"I can't... I have to play for the Lutherans (or denomination of choice)."
"I can't... my kids have a competition/recital."
"I can't... I have to practice."
"I don't think Beethoven would approve..."
The complaints:
"I need to practice so bad... I haven't touched a piano in like 3 days."
"Oh man... I have to play a wedding this weekend and I am so not ready."
"If I have to play Canon in D one more time..."
"Ugh, I have a cold. I just can't hear anything right now..."
"If I don't practice soon, the pads on my fingers are going to go away..."
"I haven't clipped my nails in so long..." (like, a week)
"That judge is anything but a pianist. Look at hair nails! She clearly has a full set of acrylics and hasn't played in years..."
"That fingering is awful. What edition is this...?"
"Those slurs are soooo not Bach's..."
"I don't think that pedaling is Beethoven's..."
"Oh man, my Beethoven/Chopin/Bach/Rachmaninoff/etc is KILLING me..."
"That left-hand passage in the development is brutal..."
"Bach, why do you HATE me??"
"I only practiced like an hour today..."
Things we tell our students:
"You need to clip your nails. Like stat. Sorry, it's part of being a pianist. Embrace it."
"I really want you to practice this in short sections, slowly, counting out loud."
"Did you count?"
"Have you practiced it hands seperate?"
"Have you practiced it hands together?
"Have you practiced it hands together in short sections?"
"Seriously, one or two measures at a time. And then the next one or two measures. And then hook those two measures to the first two measures. And then take that line and add it to another two measures... it's like you're going to build a big lego train of two-measure chunks."
"I promise: the way to go fast is to go slow. Think about the tortoise and the hare..."
"See this fermata? It means you can hold this note as long as you want. You could hold it so long, people will feel like they need to go get a cup of coffee or take a shower..."
"This measure needs some serious stop-practice..."
"Have you worked on it with the metronome?"
"Boy, that's a nasty page-turn, isn't it?"
"I need more top..."
"Shhh!"
"Count"
"Sing!"
"Your left hand is a little too loud there."
"Great! Can you add your dynamics now?"
"Up-down"
"Down-up"
"More-less"
"Get your pedal ready!"
"Yeah, good... I need more."
"YES!!! Oh man, I nearly fell over that was so good!"
"Here, can you go for a ride? Put your hand on top of mine."
"Um... I don't believe you. Can you try it again and shape the phrase better?"
"Ahhh! Look at all that tension in your thumb! You might as well be asking to get picked up on the side of the highway..."
"Um, I really need your fingers to not be flat."
"There's no way you'll ever play your scales faster with bent fingers..."
"Can you try it again without a hitchhiker thumb?"
"I'm going to give you this Taylor Swift/Disney/Twilight/Beatles/Harry Potter/etc piece, but I want you to be sure to count it out loud and use the fingering they give you..."
"So how have you been practicing this?"
"I'm gonna guess that you practiced this maybe 2 or 3 times this week..."
"Yes, yes, yes.... AHHH!!! No! No! You're killin' me, Smalls! Ok good. Let's go back..."
"Have you listened to this yet?"
"Did I give you any theory?"
"Don't put your hand between your legs when you bow... it looks like you have to go to the bathroom."
"I promise this is how real pianists do it."
I could go on. But it's time to sleep. Because tomorrow I'm gonna get up and do it all over again :)
The needs:
"Do you have any nail clippers? I left mine in the car..."
"Ugh, I am totally out of hole re-inforcers..."
"I clearly didn't drink enough coffee this morning..."
"Thanks for feeding me."
"I need to go pick up some music for my kids..."
"Can you stop and get me a banana on your way?"
"Man, I really need to go practice..."
"Hey, wanna hang out? I just really need to be with people."
"Oh yeah... it's in my car." (as in, whatever... anything... and everything: music scores, multiple pairs of shoes, food, water, tea bags, tissues, stamps, Bible, car charger, extra pair of mittens, scissors, tape, a hole punch, the NFMC guide to repertoire selections, an air mattress, a blanket... you get the idea...)
The excuses:
"I can't... I have rehearsal."
"I can't... I have to teach."
"I can't... I have to play a wedding."
"I can't... I have to play for the Lutherans (or denomination of choice)."
"I can't... my kids have a competition/recital."
"I can't... I have to practice."
"I don't think Beethoven would approve..."
The complaints:
"I need to practice so bad... I haven't touched a piano in like 3 days."
"Oh man... I have to play a wedding this weekend and I am so not ready."
"If I have to play Canon in D one more time..."
"Ugh, I have a cold. I just can't hear anything right now..."
"If I don't practice soon, the pads on my fingers are going to go away..."
"I haven't clipped my nails in so long..." (like, a week)
"That judge is anything but a pianist. Look at hair nails! She clearly has a full set of acrylics and hasn't played in years..."
"That fingering is awful. What edition is this...?"
"Those slurs are soooo not Bach's..."
"I don't think that pedaling is Beethoven's..."
"Oh man, my Beethoven/Chopin/Bach/Rachmaninoff/etc is KILLING me..."
"That left-hand passage in the development is brutal..."
"Bach, why do you HATE me??"
"I only practiced like an hour today..."
Things we tell our students:
"You need to clip your nails. Like stat. Sorry, it's part of being a pianist. Embrace it."
"I really want you to practice this in short sections, slowly, counting out loud."
"Did you count?"
"Have you practiced it hands seperate?"
"Have you practiced it hands together?
"Have you practiced it hands together in short sections?"
"Seriously, one or two measures at a time. And then the next one or two measures. And then hook those two measures to the first two measures. And then take that line and add it to another two measures... it's like you're going to build a big lego train of two-measure chunks."
"I promise: the way to go fast is to go slow. Think about the tortoise and the hare..."
"See this fermata? It means you can hold this note as long as you want. You could hold it so long, people will feel like they need to go get a cup of coffee or take a shower..."
"This measure needs some serious stop-practice..."
"Have you worked on it with the metronome?"
"Boy, that's a nasty page-turn, isn't it?"
"I need more top..."
"Shhh!"
"Count"
"Sing!"
"Your left hand is a little too loud there."
"Great! Can you add your dynamics now?"
"Up-down"
"Down-up"
"More-less"
"Get your pedal ready!"
"Yeah, good... I need more."
"YES!!! Oh man, I nearly fell over that was so good!"
"Here, can you go for a ride? Put your hand on top of mine."
"Um... I don't believe you. Can you try it again and shape the phrase better?"
"Ahhh! Look at all that tension in your thumb! You might as well be asking to get picked up on the side of the highway..."
"Um, I really need your fingers to not be flat."
"There's no way you'll ever play your scales faster with bent fingers..."
"Can you try it again without a hitchhiker thumb?"
"I'm going to give you this Taylor Swift/Disney/Twilight/Beatles/Harry Potter/etc piece, but I want you to be sure to count it out loud and use the fingering they give you..."
"So how have you been practicing this?"
"I'm gonna guess that you practiced this maybe 2 or 3 times this week..."
"Yes, yes, yes.... AHHH!!! No! No! You're killin' me, Smalls! Ok good. Let's go back..."
"Have you listened to this yet?"
"Did I give you any theory?"
"Don't put your hand between your legs when you bow... it looks like you have to go to the bathroom."
"I promise this is how real pianists do it."
I could go on. But it's time to sleep. Because tomorrow I'm gonna get up and do it all over again :)
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