Five Happy Thoughts

Boy, what a week.  It began with, literally, hundreds of essays to grade; having lost so many days from the beginning of the year, I had no choice but to push everything to the last day possible (and even asked for an extension so I could finish marking them over the weekend and still get a little sleep.)  A deep breath and then we launched right into the second quarter: new lesson plans, new texts, new questions.

I laid down the law about absences and trips out of the classroom, both of which students have more control over than they’d like to admit.  (One student asked me first thing if she could use the bathroom; I asked her to wait. Once I’d outlined the new policy limiting everyone to four trips per quarter, it turned out she didn’t have to go after all.)  Discussing these things is awfully tedious for everyone, but when they’re not addressed, loads of tiny interruptions add up to a vaguely chaotic feeling in the classroom, and ultimately it distracts everyone from our real goal: teaching and learning about English and life.

But there were so many bits of happiness sprinkled throughout all this drudgery.  Here are the highlights:

• ONE father called to thank me for tutoring his daughter, who has several rather severe learning disabilities. We’d been studying techniques for test-taking on the SAT, and when her newest scores came in, the guidance counselors were simply shocked she had done so well.  She was accepted to her school of choice within a day, where she’ll be able to play field hockey (her sport of choice) and get an education with the supports she needs.  “I have two more kids,” he said at the end of the conversation, “so you’ll be hearing from me soon.”
• TWO former students flew at me for hugs and gushing greetings.  “Mrs. LOWE!  How ARE you?  I haven’t seen you in so long!”  A third thanked me for all my help preparing her for the SAT; it was even more of a gift to see how much she’d matured in the intervening years, from an awkward and slightly-sullen teenager into a glowing, self-possessed young woman.
• THREE students who were struggling took the time to complete an extra-credit assignment (seeing a play and comparing it with the written work we’d studied in class.)  They enjoyed the experience and their grades rose along with their confidence.  
• FOUR pianists are progressing by leaps and bounds because they get to work together.  It’s amazing to see how much more they learn from each other than from me.
• FIVE minutes after the bell rang, I dashed into class (my first tardiness of the year; I was blindsided by a schedule change and sabotaged by an uncooperative copier.)  When I entered the classroom, breathless and on edge, every student was sitting in her desk with her book open.  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Lowe,” one called out.  “We’ve just been discussing what we think of Hester Prynne.”

So, you see, it wasn’t all bad.  It rarely is.

Overly Humble

Student: I’ve been having trouble with this one …

(Student plays piece perfectly.)

Me: What do you mean, trouble?  It was beautiful!

Student: (solemnly) It must be the magic of your piano.

Joyful

Yesterday was tough, disappointing and tiring. It was also exciting, cathartic and joyful.

I'm choosing to focus on the joyful part. When I saw how my hardworking student and her mother had prepared the refreshments table for her recital, my heart was lifted. They'll never know how much.

Something about that ritual, the one I've performed countless times for students whose names and faces are now blurred by time -- the one I can perform by heart, including the speech at the beginning, the silly story punctuated by repertoire and the encore bow at the end -- never fails to help me face the trials I am called to bear with renewed strength. And even with joy.

Starting Over

“Once I finally learned how to teach piano the right way,” said the instructor who trained my mom, “I had to fire all my students and start over.”  She was obviously (and humorously) misdirected in this remark, but expressed clearly the familiar frustration of trying to teach a new system to an old and complacent student.

For other reasons, though, her words have an uncanny resonance to me at this moment. My studio is half the size it was at the beginning of the year, which was half of what it was when I began teaching from home, which was half again what it was when I used to travel to students’ houses.  Over the years my students have lost interest, moved away and succumbed to the seductive allure of home lessons; they’ve been replaced, but never in the same numbers.  I suppose I could start advertising, but I prefer word-of-mouth referrals because they ensure the parents know what they’re in for before they ever show up for the first lesson.

So here I am, with half a dozen kids and what could be viewed as an opportunity.  With twenty or forty students, cancellations are commonplace and overhauls to the schedule nearly impossible.  With six, I decided, I can try something I’ve wanted to do for years: group lessons.

I started small.  Two groups of three: one for beginners, one for advanced.  I told the families that for our end-of-year event, we’d replace the last lesson in June with a group class.  I dreaded the scheduling, but it actually wasn’t so bad, and I was even able to put the groups back to back for two solid hours of games and performance.

Surprisingly, though I’ve had lots of classroom and private teaching experience, this new hybrid format made me a little nervous.  I wrote out a schedule of games, reminders and stalling techniques in case I ran out of things to do.  And then I unlocked my front door and waited.

They came with parents and grandparents and anticipation.  They sat on the rug, pointed and spoke and clapped rhythms, worked cooperatively and let their personalities shine through.  The slower, more methodical boy accepted help from his bouncy, lightning-fast friend.  They both stared wide-eyed at the girl who played the last piece of the volume they had just started.  The preteens fell into joking and jabbing each other as if they’d always been friends.  They complimented each other and talked seriously about improvements for the future. When they left, smiling for a few parting photos, I wondered why in the world I hadn’t done this a long time ago.

Oh, yeah – because I couldn’t have done it then.  I can, however, do it now.  And I’m already scheming about how to make it a permanent part of our plans for the future.

Letting Go

Even before Amanda opened her mouth, I knew it was bad news.  The way her hair hung down, covering her face, and the way her sneaker toes scuffed together nervously on my rug, crushing each loop into oblivion.

I unpacked my psychologist's hat.  "How are you doing?"  I said it searchingly, honestly, leaning toward her eyes, which leaned in the other direction.

"Okay.  I have some bad news.  I'm going to stop lessons."

Besides my dilated pupils, I think my surprise and dismay were well-hidden.  I teased the story out of her.  She had started playing clarinet a couple of years ago and liked the camaraderie of band class.  Middle school was already highly stressful, and in a few months she'd graduate to a whole new level of pressure.  She never had time to practice as much as she'd like, and she felt guilty about it.

And the clincher: she'd auditioned for high school band the previous week, and the director had complimented her on her playing and asked if she took private lessons.  Not for clarinet, she said.  For piano.  Well, he said, piano won't do you much good in a marching band.

So she was here to say goodbye, she finished miserably.  She'd stay through the month (two more lessons) but after that, it was time to move on.  Her mother's voice broke as she said how much they both would miss me.

Still, I was calm.  I focused on her, told her I was proud of her accomplishments and progress.  She was so much more confident than the skittish girl who'd first darkened my doorway, uttering only a handful of words per lesson.  And she played beautifully, and she would always play beautifully, even if only for herself.

The comfort of routine beckoned, and we moved on to studying what would now be her last piece.  Drill the chromatic scale.  Soften the phrase endings.  Duet the new section, alternating hands.  A game.  A bow.  Out the door and on with the evening.

When my last lesson ended, I had just enough time to change and dash out the door to yoga class.  Late, I waited an eternity until the warmup was complete and I could enter the room.  It was not much of a challenge; having endured several sessions of Vinyasa last summer, I hardly broke a sweat in Level 1, though the stretches felt good.

At the last, we lay on our backs, breathing deeply.  The instructor dimmed the lights and led us through a relaxation exercise, but I could feel tension, still, a wadded-up ball in the center of my chest.  I wondered idly if it would be rude to get up and leave early.

Then I heard a voice: "Let it go."  It was the instructor, of course, but it could have been God.  Maybe it was God.  "Let it go.  If you hold on, it will only hurt you.  Let it go."

The ball exploded.  Tears ran down my face.  I allowed myself to grieve the loss of this lovely child who was all grown up, who didn't need me any longer, who wanted to spend her time and energy elsewhere.  My insecurities flowed through me: this is the third one this month.  No one wants to study piano in a recession.  Maybe I should shut down my studio and teach at school full-time.  Maybe I should look for another career.  Is it too late to find something I'm really good at?  Why did it have to be Amanda?  Why my best student?  Why today?  Why ever?

The thoughts swelled through me and then burst gently free, clinging to my hair and wet face before drifting  heavenward with the words of the meditation I had long ceased to hear.  The tears, too, flowed away, down to the earth.  I remained in the middle, empty but free.

Nothing was solved -- nothing ever is, really -- but it felt so good to let go.