No, no, take your time

And so we're back in the land of academia.  Where free time is at a premium and 6 hours a day of playing my horn feels...just about average.  I love school, always have, probably always will.  I like to nerd out and make schedules and talk with professors and throw myself into the student life.  But this year, it's felt harder for some reason.  I may just be busier than I've ever been before.  And by busy, I don't necessarily mean hours occupied in my day so much as various projects that all demand my energy and all seem worth it.  Thus the lack of recent blog postings.  Or trips to the gym.  Or ukulele practice sessions.  Or phone calls to long-distance friends.  Etc.

So today, I write about the conundrum of efficiency.  I'm rather obsessed with efficiency.  I organize my grocery lists spatially so as to never have to backtrack an aisle.  Some may call this over the top, but it's honestly how my brain works, so why not just roll with it?  But the problem with time tables and schedules and organization in general is...learning doesn't care.  Your rate of learning new skills has nothing to do with the amount of time or money or energy you have allotted for it.  I notice this most often, of course, when practicing.  I give myself 45 minutes to work out problem x, and dammit, 2 weeks later, problem x is still right there.  Every once in a while, the opposite happens: I give myself 2 days to learn a piece of music, and miracle of miracles, I've learned it in 30 minutes.  Generally, however, it's the oppostite. 

The solution, as far as I can gather, is not to set longer time tables.  It's to stop trying to live within a time table.  Sometimes, even the decision to try to "make the most" out of a given period of time is enough for our brains to freeze up.  I think the fastest, most lasting kind of learning (and therefore, the most efficient) happens when we are not aware of time at all.  Many social scientists have studied this elusive "zone"- where we are just flowing, just concentrating without strain or concerted effort.  We've all experienced this in various areas of our life, some of us even consistently.  But how can we put ourselves in this zone reliably, by our own will?

I can't really answer this question or else I'd write a book about it, but I think I get closer when I stop looking at my clock (or cell phone) and stop thinking about how much I've gotten done, and just...do.  Just do that thing, for as long as I want to be doing that thing, and stop when I no longer need to be doing that thing.  It feels both counter-intuitive and completely right at the same time to stop caring about the when and only care about the how.  And it's a luxury which most of us don't have as much as we'd like.  But, I think we have much more time than we think we do.  If only we'd stop trying to maximize every minute of our day.

Ease up, brain. Please.

So how is it, after nearly 15 years of playing my instrument for many thousands of hours, my bad habits seem to resolve around the same axis of self-defeating tendencies?  Well, I know the answer to that, because doing anything at the highest level is difficult, nearly impossible it seems on some days.  And if I wasn't getting in my own way, who else would?  Classical music is like sports in many ways, but we don't have opponents, at least not in the mano-a-mano sense of opposition.  Someone's got to make things harder than they need to be, and that someone is me.  Of course everyone deals with this in all aspects of life, at least aspects of life where you want to try hard and succeed.  For me, it starts with wanting not to screw up.  A simple, understandable wish.  And then not wanting to screw up so bad that I clench my toes and furrow my eyebrows and glare at a piece of sheet music until I look like one of those scary World's Strongest Men men who pull trucks and throw logs and arm wrestle each other until their ulna snaps.  *shudder...*

But why?  Why do I make things harder for myself?  Why does anyone throw obstacles in their own way when the path has been illuminated multiple times?  It's not because I like "working hard," in the straining against everything that's meant to be easy manner of doing things.  And it's not even because I like punishing myself.  I guess it's because I forget that, in pretty much every aspect of my musical training, I am the enemy.  By "I" I of course mean the cerebral me.  The one who never shuts up.  The one who pissed off everyone in high school debates.  I, frankly, suck.  I think I have all the right answers, and dammit, if I'm spending the hours blowing this here piece of metal, I must be getting better.  But I don't have the answers.  Well, the "thinking I" doesn't have the answers.  We'll call that Self 1, in honor of Timothy Gallwey's "Inner Game of Tennis."  Self 1 is annoying and self-righteous and, on occasion, lazy.  But Self 2, the good intuitive version of myself that's patient and smart and trusting, is just too fricking quiet.  Speak up, Self 2!

And of course, Self 2 can't speak up cuz Self 1 has the microphone.  And is reluctant to share the stage.  Self 1 isn't without its good qualities.  I can analyze the opening of "Moby Dick" and memorize prepositions and keep track of my daunting email inbox because of Self 1.  And Self 1 isn't a bad listener.  It's just a Babelfish-level inept translator.  If a teacher or colleague or other wise soul tells me, "relax, you're trying too hard", Self 1 will read that as "Relax!  Right now!  No, NOW!  You're not relaxing!  If you don't relax, I'll mess everything else up for you so you'll never be able to relax...until you really relax." 
Writing this down makes me look crazy, but sadly, I have this sneaking suspicion this is most everyone.  From performance reviews at work to fashion magazines for teenage girls, people are mean to themselves.  Petty, vindictive, mean.  I'm not sure that's going to change anytime soon.  I just maybe need to forget about it.  Or rather, remember to forget about it.

I go to the woods, to practice deliberately...

I leave tomorrow on vacation to Maine and the Adirondacks to visit family, commune with tall trees, and avoid Gmail like the plague.  Hurrah!  And of course, I'm bringing my horn with me.  Too many things coming up in August and September to take even a couple days off, so off on an adventure we go!

Practicing in unfamiliar surroundings in front of different people can feel odd at first.  There are the positives ("you're going to practice AGAIN? Wow!!") and the negatives (cousins who sleep in past noon...), but in general, it's stimulating to be in different surroundings.  And I get to practice in the woods!  I love practicing outside, despite the bugs and the sunshine - yeah, brass instruments turn into those metal tanning screens outside, as my ghastly pale skin has learned the hard way.  Beyond just feeling like my sound is extra noble and majestic, I feel like I'm taking my horn back to its ancestral home, traipsing through the woods.  Plus, it's fun to have performances and mock auditions with family members who haven't heard you in a while and think you sound wonderful!  And who feel personally affronted when an orchestra doesn't hire me.  (Better watch out, NY Phil, my fam's coming for you!)

So off we go!  Etude books, excerpt pages, valve oil, and ukulele (just for funzies!) in tow.

Soundproof bubble, please

I've been back in the saddle again for a little over a week now, and it feels gooood.  Muscle memory is a beautiful thing, is it not?  While it's no fun getting back into shape, I've quite enjoyed being able to play loud and fast and high and low and short and long (almost) whenever I feel like it once again.  It's like my power steering fluid (yes, there's fluid in there!, as I recently learned) has been replenished.

But, as I have discovered this past week, not everyone in my vicinity shares my joy in being able to produce loud noises once again.  I have been in a bit of an unspoken battle with an unnamed professor who teaches a class near where I warm up in the mornings.  He has repeatedly asked me to stop practicing because it's disturbing his class.  And I have stopped, and I totally understand why it's annoying when you're trying to learn differential equations or quantum mechanics or any of those other subjects that have only been alluded to in my (now 7 years outdated) past classes to hear major scales and long tones and etudes while you're trying to concentrate.  Still.  It has gotten me thinking about how weird the perception of practicing is to those who aren't actually doing it.  When I'm in the zone, I forget not only that I'm making noise, but that others can hear that noise.  So when someone reminds me of that, either positively or negatively, it's a very jarring experience.

I read this book once called "The Unconsoled" by Kazuo Ishiguro (check it out, it's a very...uncomfortable read) about a concert pianist who could only practice when he was absolutely sure no one could hear him.  He asks for his practice facility to be this little shed out in the woods where no passers by could ever find him, and he cannot even sit down to the keys until he's absolutely alone.  And I can't lie, this sounds like paradise to me.  It's not that I'm embarrassed to have others listening, it's just that that's not truly practicing; it's performing, albeit to its smallest degree. 

I know I'm being super neurotic about this one guy asking me to stop practicing, but to me at least, it's a very personal, somewhat upsetting experience.  It's like someone has wandered in on me doing squats or something equally awkward and told me that my squats are affecting his squats.  Er, that metaphor went awry... but it makes me feel guilty for something I'm obligated to do. 

I'm over it, in this case, even though I've now immortalized it in cyberspace.  But my larger point is, parents who have kids learning an instrument- do not listen to them practice!  I mean, listen to make sure they are practicing, but don't sit in the room and make comments.  The practice room has to be a safe, private space where they answer to no one but that little voice in their head.  Who'll get smarter.  But not if you drown it out.

On the injured reserves

Well, I have finally experienced what some brass players may call a rite of passage- I've injured my lips by playing too much.  Injuries for any classical musician are always nerve-wracking things.  Not only do many of us assume this is THE injury that's going to derail us permanently (what, melodramatic? me?), but oftentimes these injuries are invisible and, potentially, psychosomatic.  Unlike football players who strain their hamstrings or groin muscles (which sounds painful, don't get me wrong), I've strained any one of potentially 30-40 minute muscles that surround my mouth that no one except brass players or glass blowers probably ever think about.  At least I think so.  Gah!

So after 4 days of truly frustrating practice wherein I have simultaneously regressed 7 years technically yet know exactly what I "should" be sounding like....I've decided to take some days off.  I never take days off.  I think my last one was sometime around New Year's.  This is not because I'm some incredibly diligent worker, though I've always been one for the practice.  It's more that the amount of time and energy it takes for me to get back in shape has never seemed worth that one day of sitting around relaxing and eating bon bons.  It's the reason I exercise- the energy required to run 3 miles is significantly less than the energy it takes for me to feel bad about not exercising.  Perhaps this is true for everyone, I don't know.  I was raised Catholic, can you tell?

In any case, I'm planning on taking 3 days off from my horn, to the extent that it is possible with my performing schedule.  I'm not going to practice, listen to horn, or maybe even think about my horn until my head clears and my lips stop tingling.  I hear this is a healthy thing.  I myself am not convinced, but for the sake of everyone in the music building who's had to listen to me sound like a junior high student and then swear like a sailor, it might be better if I made myself scarce these next few days.  And those muscles that have decided to plead uncle had better man the hell up by the time I get back.  Harumph.

Inspiration, Perspiration

This past week, I was lucky enough to attend a conference at the UW called the Big Learning Event.  Basically a TED conference without the name, it featured six speakers who are all pioneers in their respective fields, from astronomy to rural community art projects.  While each speaker had incredibly interesting insights into not only the big issues of their own realms but large societal problems (public education, climate change), the one I found particularly relevant was a neuroscientist who has devoted his career to researching contemplative practices.  He and his team study the effects of meditation on the brain and on overall well-being.  His research on various masters of contemplative traditions (including the Dalai Lama) has led to concrete scientific data that we can teach ourselves compassion, focus, and happiness.  While this is nothing new or counter-intuitive, it was fascinating to see scientific and real-life evidence of people's amazing capacity to learn and improve themselves.

And of course, I find this particularly apt for my own daily horn practice.  Practicing an instrument is a form of meditation in itself, though of course without the ethical framework that gives meditation its spiritual connotations.  But I already devote hours every day to improving my focus, patience, and understanding of complex problems, a luxury I am grateful to be able to enjoy.  And hearing this scientist expound on the societal benefits of this personal contemplation practice, I was re-invigorated by the notion that hey, maybe I am making the world a better place by playing long tones every day.

I also feel a strong commitment to trying "actual" meditation as well.  I've never found it easy to sit in silence and not think about anything (or not think about myself), but maybe that's because I never practice.  Which, considering that I firmly believe in the value of a strong work ethic, is pretty unfair to the whole meditation camp.  So, try I shall.  I'm going to try to spend 20 minutes every day meditating outside of the practice room, within a more altruistic, ethical realm.  I always say I want to be more compassionate, less judgmental, less moody, and more giving, so maybe I need to actually work at that.  Every day, for a set amount of time, with a firm intrinsic commitment.  I have a feeling that becoming a better person will make me a better musician too, so everybody wins!

Oh, in other less-lofty news, I won my first audition!  Small regional orchestra, not the most strenuous audition circumstances, but I was the last one standing at the end of the day.  And that feels good.  Here's hoping I can build on this momentum.

A practice room for all seasons

Ahh, summer practice.  The time of year when I finally have time to concentrate on all the big horn-related projects I've been wanting to tackle without all the daily concerts and rehearsals sucking up my time.  I always feel like I accomplish a lot over the summer, but it's also harder to know whether that's really true.  This week especially, with Memorial Day and some hot and sticky 80 degree weather, walking inside the air-conditioned abandoned music building has felt like some strange recurring dream.  I stand inside the same fluorescent room and play the same excerpts and I wonder if I've in fact done the exact same thing the day before...or maybe that's still today.  Maybe I'm been co-opted into some secret government operation wherein I absolutely MUST perfect the second horn part of Beethoven 3 or state secrets will be revealed, which is the only reason for spending so many hours inside this desolate concrete building.  I've always imagined that a think tank (really a sinister sounding place) must somewhat resemble a university music building in the summer.
As I said, I think my brain might be turning to mush.  Walking out into the sunshine at the end of the day feels like I've walked through one of those wavy, iridescent worm-hole doorway things you see on sci-fi TV shows.  On the bright side of things, it makes me want to be super efficient with my time spent practicing indoors.  And makes me feel justified in drinking cold beer nearly every evening.  So there's that.

Ooh, and I found this great blog this morning on practice and performance tips for musicians: www.bulletproofmusician.com.  Kept me on task and working hard for today at least.

A quest

This is a blog about someone trying to get better every single day at one single thing.  And that is playing the French horn.  It's not the most important thing in the world, I realize.  And yet it is the most important thing in the world to me, a strange predicament that I find myself in. 

I'm starting this blog to explore what it means to be a student and teacher of an art that holds little popular value in society's view.  Not that classical music isn't valuable.  It's essential and human and rewarding and inherently important...but connecting that to my three daily hours in a windowless practice room is the tricky part.  That's the rub.  And for those non-musicians (i.e. the "real people" I have heard rumor of), it may seem fairly straightforward...you practice, you improve, you eventually become a master and share your mastery with others.  But the more advanced a musician I become, the more I think practicing is not exclusively about the outcome, it's about the time spent.  It's about the toil and the frustration and those elusive moments of illumination.  And it's about developing an awareness of mind and body that can be relied upon in any stressful situation.

In short, it's about paying attention, what the poet Mary Oliver calls our "endless and proper work."  Every day for however many hours my brain will permit, I problem-solve-- problems that sometimes only I know exist with solutions that rely entirely on my creativity, intellect, and muscle memory.  It's exhilarating when you look at it that way, though the everyday experience is often anything but.  Practicing in its purest form is a combination of detachment, passion, courage, and not a little faith that it's all going to be worth it at some future point.  It is a transcendence of the limitations we impose on ourselves and a way to connect to our truest potential.  I suppose, though by no means am I a Zen Buddhist, it is like the koan: a glimpse of insight that only occurs when one can let go of past experiences and logical thinking.

In this blog, I'll attempt to detail this process of practicing, performing, and contemplating classical music until I find enlightenment.  Or employment.  Whichever comes first.