What I'm Doing This Week

I’m not sure why I thought I’d get a lot of writing in this week. I am at the Chicago Suzuki Institute with my daughters, filling up on music and technique and new friends and Everything Violin. And—most importantly—reminding myself why we’re doing this in the first place (We are doing this in order to grow, in order to become better human beings. Music, you see, is the medium as much as it is the final product, the art, itself. And our lives—they are the true art.)

Those are noble words. The actual work they describe is awkward and messy and really stinking hard, but it is interspersed with these wonderful moments. Kind of like practicing violin, itself, which when done right is not at all romantic, but instead involves things like practicing the same two notes over and over until they can be played well, and then over and over many times more, until they will never sound ugly again. You don’t necessarily want to be in the room for this process, but the results are worth it. 

There has been music-making this week, and understanding, and beauty. 

We are enjoying ourselves and also bordering on wiped-out. In my characteristic, extremely relationship-oriented/extremely introverted way, I half want to absorb more/connect more/converse more, half want to hide somewhere with a book. One daughter, apparently, talks in her sleep. (“Mom,” a voice just informed me out of the dark of our dorm room, “there are two butterflies in here.”) And to be honest, our moments of beauty and understanding are balanced with healthy doses of snippiness.

Overall though, I feel like we have been able to relax more this year. I prepared myself ahead of time for the comparison game—not that I’m not tempted to play (I am) but I am also (mostly) able to see it for what it is. I resolved early on that frog catching/rescuing (they are tiny and everywhere, crossing the sidewalks like ants,) as well as extra desserts, would be part of our daily schedule along with practicing and brushing teeth. And—luxury of luxuries—I brought an air mattress with me this year. Sleeping on the floor won’t hurt. This is all very good.

This feeling that there’s so much here, that I can’t possibly process it all, that I also don’t want to stop trying to process it all—that must be a good sign. This too, I think, is why we are here.

More about our Suzuki institute and workshop experiences here.

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10 Bits of (Suzuki Institute) Magic

1. "I'll try"
2.  Watching Middle chop in Fiddling class
3.  Work = fun
4.  Youngest's gusto-filled up-bow accents
5.  Fresh ways of seeing and hearing
6. Being together
7.  Music that makes you laugh out loud
8. Sitting in the middle of an orchestra fortissimo
9. "Devil Went Down to Georgia"
10. Friendships

Oh, and 11--because we can't forget the frogs.

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In Case We Forget Why We're Here

Important and wonderful as all the violining is this week, there's other fabulousness, as well. New friends, new experiences. And tadpoles. Lots of them. Tadpoles that have been turning into frogs, and seem to want to be found and held and named. Their importance is not be underestimated; visiting them has become part of our routine this week.

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Play-In

I am at the Chicago Suzuki Institute with Middle and Youngest this week. The week began with a Play-In, a staple of institutes, festivals, and workshops. Neither a class nor a performance, it is a chance for everybody--of all levels and ages--to get together to play the music we have in common.

My head is full, watching.

Thinking about how hearing a large group of children playing "Twinkle" still makes me want to cry. Thinking about how much this music is a part of me. Thinking about how glad I am my girls get to experience this.

And--honestly--feeling humbled.

Because I don't feel ready for this week. Pretty much every insecurity you could imagine or invent has swept over me today. And this is a Suzuki environment, which is about nurturing, and non-competitiveness, and developing more noble human beings through music (not just the kids but the parents, too.) I know that all these thoughts roiling inside are not what this is supposed to be about. Which adds to the mess in my head.

But then there's this: my girls are standing on a stage right now, playing with a large group of violinists they've never met. They're engaged and having fun and learning and I get to sit back and listen to the fabulous teachers here draw the work and the music and all that other good stuff out of them. It's all so alive and I want to absorb everything I can.

The accompanist begins the introduction to "Humoresque" by Dvorak, and Youngest looks out at me. Do I know this one? I shake my head no and she sits down to listen. She's heard the piece so much she feels like she can play it. Later in the evening she will walk through the cafeteria whistling a piece she fights me tooth and nail about reviewing. Middle loves orchestra so much she could burst. Both girls are excited to play.

We are here. We get to be here. All the insecurities are still here, too, but whatever. As my mom texted me earlier in the day, "That's why you're there." She would know, she did this, too. (And if you ask, she might even tell you what a beast I was about practicing.)

I know this about myself: when I can sit with the insecurity and imperfection, and be honest about it but not let it eat me alive, there is room to absorb and learn and grow. Much more, I'm sure, than if I felt I had it all together, all figured out, all neatly-handled.

I also know this: every family here has a story behind it--difficulties and triumphs, weaknesses and strengths. But we're all here together for this. What can we do besides play it in--play the music into our heads and hearts, and let it sink deep?

Eyes and ears wide open.

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Notes from a Suzuki Violin Workshop

This past weekend my girls and I drove back and forth a couple of times between our home and Quincy, IL for a day and a half of classes with artist teachers Gabe Bolkosky and Christie Felsing. We finished with a recital—the first half featuring Gabe, the second half featuring all the kids who participated in the workshop—and returned home full, spent, and with new resolve. I don’t think you could ask for a better couple of days.

As always, I have a million thoughts rattling around in my head. Here are a few I was able to catch:

• Realizing you are bound by music to a bunch of kids you’ve never met is pretty cool
• So is running around like a maniac with them between classes
• Work—careful, detailed, technical work—can be a joy
• The above is especially true when you’re doing that work in a group
• Cultivating technique as a tool for expression = giving a child power and a voice
• Striving for excellence is so not boring
• Teaching is as much a craft as playing violin
• Ditto for parenting
• This is more about lifestyle than it is about extra-curricular activities
• This is more about who we are developing into as people than anything else

"The heart that feels music will feel people." --Shinichi Suzuki, Ability Development from Age Zero

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Day 2 at the American Suzuki Institute (In Case you were Wondering what it was Like)

5:30 am     The alarm goes off; I hit snooze until 6.

6:00-7:00  Get ready for the day, check messages, wake girls, make sack lunches, brush and braid the girls’ hair.

7:00           Make at least 3 trips to hotel lobby for coffee/various breakfast items.

7:15           Dad knocks on hotel room door to make sure we are still alive.

7:30           Head out to car. Rainclouds threaten. The girls finish breakfast while we drive.

7:37           Glance longingly at Starbucks as we drive past—no time to stop for strong coffee. It is sprinkling.

7:40           Park. Locate Youngest’s missing nametag. The rain is coming harder now. It occurs to me that bringing a working umbrella would have been a good idea. Then I immediately decide nobody has the hands to hold it anyway. We walk to class in the rain.

7:50           We are amazingly the first to arrive at our classroom. Youngest and I finish our breakfast and my hotel coffee outside the door while Middle gets out her violin.

8-8:50        Middle’s B Class: Group class with focus on technique. Already Middle is opening up more with her bow, and adapting beautifully to all sorts of new things. She asks me before class, “Am I doing such a good job you could die?” I tell her she is. Youngest announces three minutes into the class that she is ready for lunch. At first she lies with her had in my lap, eating raisins and humming along with whatever the class is playing. She spends the rest of the hour experimenting with different cuddle positions in my lap. I try to keep taking notes, despite the acrobatics.

8:50           We head for the Fine Arts Building. On the way Middle desperately needs to use the bathroom. I weigh being on time against being able to concentrate and avoiding embarrassing accidents. Being on time loses.

9:03           I rush Middle to her A Class. This is a master class, where each of the four students take turns working one-on-one with a teacher while the rest watch. All four are about at the same level, so all the lessons are on pieces/skills they have recently worked on, are currently working on, or will be working on soon. Middle was supposed to go first today, but they’ve already started. Time is short and there’s lots to do. I leave her there to unpack and take Youngest to her C Class, a large group class that focuses on repertoire. Taking Middle first was a good gamble; there are still a few kids standing in line waiting to have their violins tuned. Another mother offers to wait with Youngest after class until I get back with Middle. As much as I would like to stay and watch this class, which promises to be a lot of fun, it is more important to be at the individual lessons. Rushing back to Middle’s class I realize I am already exhausted.

9:15-9:27    Middle’s mini-lesson. They work on Minuet in G Minor, particularly one 4th-finger “A” that is consistently out of tune. The teacher mentions one of my favorite Suzuki quotes, “You don’t practice something until you get it right, you practice it until you can’t get it wrong.” Middle accepts the challenge to practice it 100 times correctly.

10:00          A free hour. We find a bench in the Fine Arts building in which to camp out for a while. The sound of rain on the roof is thunderous. Youngest finds friends from some of her classes yesterday, and their father and I speak while the kids play for a while. We share amazement at what is happening all around us, how kids from all over the world can come together and have this music in common. After they have run off a good amount of steam, I collect the girls for a quick practice session.

11:00          Enrichment classes are available for kids, with simultaneous lectures for parents and teachers-in-training. Youngest goes to a class to learn to dance the minuet; Middle goes to Dalcroze Eurhythmics, a music and movement class. I go to a class titled “Favorite Recipes for Practice,” offering practice tips and strategies. It is heavily attended.

Noon           Lunch. We eat sack lunches in the center area of the Fine Arts building. Youngest makes a friend and nearly forgets to eat. Middle falls while galloping back from the trash can and bends her left wrist backwards. It doesn’t seem too serious but she is very upset. “I’m not crying because it hurts, I’m crying because it might be broken and then I won’t be able to play!”

1:00-1:50     B Class (technique) for Youngest, Reading Orchestra for Middle. We drop Middle off. She is excited to get to play “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” again. I take Youngest to her class and watch them work for a while. Then I go back to watch Middle in orchestra. This is her first experience, both playing in a group like this and doing this level and amount of sight-reading, although we’ve worked on note-reading all year. She is rising to the occasion beautifully. I return to Youngest’s class to see that she is standing with the group, playing “O Come, Little Children,” a piece she has not worked on but has heard so often she probably thinks she has. I remember this happening to me, too, years ago. She makes her way through the piece quite well, playing by ear and watching the teacher’s bow.

2:00           We are all tired and I am desperate for coffee. The rain has stopped, so we walk the equivalent of five blocks to Starbucks. I buy the girls snacks and finally sit down with a cup of the darkest brew they have. We will practice later; this was time well-spent.

3:00-3:50   Our last classes of the day; I drop Middle off at her C Class (repertoire) and take Youngest to her A Class (the mini-lesson.) Youngest is clearly tired, but she works hard for her allotted 12 minutes. The teacher focuses on bow technique, and they work in-depth on how she is moving her right arm, as well as keeping her bow hold soft and flexible, a “pillow” hand as opposed to a “rock” hand.

4:00             Recital time. We had arranged for Middle to go to the auditorium with another family from her C Class, so even though Youngest is spent for the day and crying, we go to the recital. I carry her most of the way, despite the fact that even though she is almost five she is the size of many seven year-olds. She calms down before the music starts, and sleeps in my arms through most of the recital.

5:00             We head back to the hotel to meet up with Nana and Grandpa. My mom has arrived from Minneapolis to help me with the girls for the rest of the week, and I could not be more thankful. The girls could not be more excited. We are skipping the 5:00 presentations and evening recital in lieu of a relaxed dinner and down-time. It has been a full day already.

Evening After a full day and dinner out, we squeeze in a little more practicing. There are advantages to doing small amounts at different times through the day. Nana works with Youngest, while Middle and I start in on her 100 repetitions. The number is daunting, but as we get going and she realizes how many she can do in a short period of time, she gets excited. We get to 70 and decide we can fit the rest in before breakfast tomorrow. We both feel proud and exhausted.

8:30 or so     We tuck the girls into bed and they promptly lose consciousness. I will do the same in a few more hours. I can’t believe we get to do this again tomorrow—I will likely be processing our experiences here for a long time.

Transparent

Just a few thoughts at the end of a week of eating, sleeping, and breathing violin, surrounded by both children and adults who are at all levels and stages of learning how to make music:

Some teachers are impressive because of their vast store of knowledge, which they parcel out bit by bit to their hungry students. There are others who work quietly, seem more interested in drawing out and nurturing what is hidden deep within their students.

There are musicians who can astound you with their great skill; they look impressive, their sound is huge, they are unforgettable performers. There are others who take you to the essence of the music while they themselves fade into the background. They make you hear differently, forever change your impression of a composer, show you how to get lost in a piece of music.

There are writers who amaze with their mastery of language, their particular way of saying something, they way they can turn a plot. There are others who leave you with a story, a thought, or insight that haunts you for years.

It’s worth asking what kind of teacher, or musician, or writer I want to be. My gut instinct is that people talk about you more when you direct them towards yourself. And every time I put my work—a piece of myself—out there, I am asking to be heard. But as a musician, I want my audience to hear the music; as a teacher, I want to develop and draw out the student; as a writer, I want people to come away with a story, an idea, light for the darkness. And it strikes me that this requires a certain sort of invisibility on my part.

American Suzuki Institute

The girls and I are at the American Suzuki Institute in Stevens Point, Wisconsin this week. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, and my first time as a parent; but what an experience! It’s hard to be coherent about it right now—I’ve gotten my daughters to 16 classes, two recitals, and a play-in in the last two and a half days. There’s been a little eating and sleeping thrown in, too, and lots of walking. Also two scraped knees, a (minor) wrist injury, and a mysterious toothache that shows up around dinnertime which can only be cured with ice cream.

I’m tired, and running mainly on adrenaline at this point, but I can tell you this: it is amazing to be here. I grew up in the Suzuki world, and the philosophy is pretty deeply-embedded in my life. But these ideas—that music can be a vehicle for developing noble human beings, that every child can learn, that we can go deeply with even young children into something as complex as playing an instrument by taking tiny steps—these ideas do not grow old. Am I overwhelmed? Absolutely. But I’m thankful we’re here, and I can’t wait to see what we learn by the end of the week.