Excuse me, what kind of instrument is that?

Last night I was playing at the The Biltmore Estate, in the Winter Garden with Jim, my husband. We have been fortunate for many years to be regular holiday season musicians.

By the third set, a pretty good sized crowd had gathered. We had played several pieces and I was in the moment – the beauty of the music, the grandeur of the House, the lights, the floral decorations (gorgeous!), all of it. I was almost a bit teary after finishing the piece, “In the Bleak Midwinter”, when suddenly a woman pipes up and asks a question. She smiles courteously and says, “Excuse me, what is that instrument you are playing?” Other folks turned their head and looked at her. I could see 25 thought balloons suddenly appearing that were saying in unison, ‘Ummm, hello? Are you serious?’ By the innocent expression on her face, I could tell she was.

Now, when I play this instrument, I get asked pretty frequently what it is.

Sometimes people will guess – a clarinet? An oboe? No, it’s an Irish wooden flute. “Oh really! Okay, thank you!” Sometimes I get this, “Oh, really? A flute? Really?” As if I’m messing with them. Yes, it is. It’s what flutes looked like before the silver system flute came along.

But when I get asked what THIS instrument is...

well, let’s just say the importance of music education in our schools cannot be underestimated. So last night, while I did feel a bit shocked (as did the rest of the Biltmore House guests), I was also challenged not to look at Jim for one microsecond as I knew I would lose it. He made some sort of wisecrack meant for only my ears and I was hard pressed not to burst.

Apparently this woman has come this far in life without ever seeing one. Now it was me that wanted to ask, "Really?" But of course I didn't - I just smiled and said, "A flute!" She smiled back and said, "Thank you! Merry Christmas!" And that, was that... :)

Highlight of the week, courtesy of Adelbert Farm

On Wednesday mornings, I get dressed very differently than I do to teach on Monday or Tuesdays. I put on my old jeans, my hiking boots, pack my extra penny whistles and head out to Adelbert Farm in Fairview. The drive takes me 25 – 30 minutes, depending on the weather, and how far down the eight mile stretch of road I get before I’m stuck behind the garbage truck, which then really slows me down, from 35 mph to even slower. Initially, it made me nuts. Now, after eight weeks, I’ve come to appreciate the opportunity to slow down… in driving my car, in my life, and being able to authentically embrace the “be here now” principle. Old Fort Road, that leads to the farm, is lovely. It’s waaaaay out in the country, windy (which forces me to actually drive at the speed limit), and yes, it really is eight…miles...long.

This weekly opportunity I get to slow down in my life, is also when I get to teach the penny whistle to a group of homeschoolers, ages 7-9. It is by far, one of my most favorite hours of the week. I just finished week 8 last week and I have come to appreciate each child and the journey they are on with me. I notice how easy this instrument is for some, how difficult it is for others. Some of them practice a lot. Some of them don’t pick it up outside our lesson together. But during our half hour together, there is not a more relaxed and happy bunch than us. Right now they are learning to play basic nursery rhyme songs. Because they learned them when they were just babies and toddlers, the melodies are ingrained in the brain (I love how that rhymes!), which makes learning how to play the melodies with fingers on a new instrument pretty doable pretty quickly… for the most part. Because next week is Thanksgiving, we reviewed at our lesson yesterday, several pieces to perform at next weeks’ celebratory “Thanksgiving Hike/Art-Music-Drama Presentation/Lunch” event for families.

Within 20 minutes of our lesson, (and only EIGHT lessons at that!), they played Hot Cross Buns in two keys, Mary Had A Little Lamb in two keys, Row Row Row Your Boat, London Bridge, I’m A Little Teapot, Shave and a Haircut….Shampoo! and lastly, Baa Baa Black Sheep. Nine pieces of music. Nine! Two of the kids who practice pretty regularly and play other instruments as well, wanted to play the most recent piece I’d taught at the last lesson, something outside the world of Nursery Rhymes – Michael Row the Boat Ashore. They nailed it after just one week. I was blown away. After the lesson, Willa wanted to play me a piece she’d worked out by herself, something very big these days on the radio - Stereo Heart by Gym Class Heroes… Her pal, Harrison, smiled and said, “Oh I love that! It’s my favorite piece right now.” He proceeded to play it right along with her, in perfect time and rhythm and phrasing. She had just taught it to him the previous week.

After just two months, these kids had become quite comfortable on the whistle playing nine nursery rhymes and then, a new song, something unfamiliar about Michael and his rowing the boat ashore. I’d like to think they were becoming empowered, confident, more skilled, more excited. But I’m not sure what was brewing inside their heads and spirits. What I do know is that they were able to figure out on their own, to improvise, noodle around and have fun. I watched them play that song they love hearing on the radio while looking at one another, smiling, giggling at times, and wanting to do it again and again. I was so happy for them. And it made me happy. Today I realized that those two minutes of them showing me what they could do, was my happy moment of the day. It made me realize deeply again, what power there is when we are feeling the joy of being in the music.

Getting stuck behind the garbage truck these last eight weeks, anxious to arrive on time, was all worth this moment. And I’m willing to get stuck behind that truck every Wednesday morning from here on out. What a delight to witness children discovering the music inside themselves.

Eight lessons, nine nursery rhymes and a folk song… Music of the heart just rolled on out of those two kids, like a cup that runneth over. Imagine if you stuck with something for eight weeks, what would birth itself in you?

Being willing to sound bad

Brenda, a friend of mine, posted on Facebook awhile back, “that in order to be good at something, you have to first be willing to be bad at it for quite a while”…

About a week before I had stumbled onto this post, I’d already committed to playing the ukelele for 15 minutes a day. I wanted to eventually get to the point where I could say with complete authenticity, “Yes, I CAN play the ukelele!”

I was “showing up” everyday to play, and was just beginning to realize how far I needed to travel to get to that place of being able to play - not kind of play, but really play. And I realized that there’s a looooong way between those two places.

I began to feel a tad defeated because I’m a perfectionist, and that nagging voice began blabbering away in my head. I remembered when I tried to learn to play the guitar light years ago, at age 12, and my fingers were crying after just a few minutes of making chords. So I gave up. I had been playing the flute and piano for a couple of years, and those instruments didn’t inflict pain on me, only the desire to keep on playing and nailing the pieces of music I was working on. But the guitar? Mmm mmmm. There was a huge absence of desire to press on and accomplish the mastering. So I let the guitar go, and it was a bittersweet decision.

For so many of us who’ve put down an instrument during our childhood or teenage years, for whatever reason, we often end up regretting it.

So back to the ukelele and Brenda’s post…I’d put in my fifteen minutes of practice for the day, complete with oven timer, whose annoying beep-beep-beep also congratulates me that I have accomplished my little ukelele music goal for the day. Those familiar thoughts from the sixth grade again began to take over – My fingers are hurting. This is gonna take forever. FOREVER…..blah blah blah.

To get out of that negative self talk in my head, I sat down at the computer so I could conveniently escape those rants in my head for a bit and check out who is doing what on Facebook. I’m reading, scanning, skimming and then bam, I read Brenda’s post. I chant this to myself several times – “in order to be good at something, you have to first be willing to be bad at it for quite a while”… Wow. Her words stick like peanut butter on toast and I realize she's dead on right about this.

I’ve been mulling this over many times in the last couple weeks and for me, the biggest challenge is the willing part. I have to be willing to sound bad, go slow, make a zillion mistakes, make the chord changes sloppily and badly. I have to be willing to sound badly. I have to be willing to accept that I sound badly. By being willing to be great at sounding bad, I can be a teeny bit better in another week. And in the week after that. And when my contra dance band, Fly By Night, gets together a month from now for its first rehearsal with me playing my ukelele on some Old Time tunes, I might just have a helluva great time.

And no doubt, I will not only be proud of myself for having been so good at willing to sound bad, that eventually, I will be able to see there is definitely the possibility to sound good. Maybe even pretty good! Now THAT fuels me on right now to pick up my very cute, little ukelele. For fifteen minutes. Just for today.

Thank you, Brenda.

My birthday wish for Erin

I’m fascinated by kids who play instruments and whose parents never did. I’m fascinated that my mother and father who never played a record in our house, or took us to see live music, except for a symphony once (and that’s a story for another day) birthed someone whose life revolves around it so much. …and whose life has been a wreck when music wasn’t a central theme.

I always knew I’d play music. My brother never had that thought. He thought he’d try the cornet in middle school and he stuck it out for a couple of years. But it didn’t speak to him the way music spoke to me.

Both he and his wife, by their own admission, would not describe themselves as musical. And yet they have these kids who love to play music. Lizzie, age 15 and my namesake, plays the flute and loves it – the flute itself, the practicing, going to lessons, playing in the band at school. She LOVES it. And she loves her teacher which is an amazing gift in itself.

Emily, age 12, plays the saxophone and is extremely skilled at it, but doesn’t pick it up at home to practice. She plays in the band at school and because she’s so talented, can get away with it. It doesn’t speak to her. She’s been hankering to play the guitar and I’ve been encouraging her Dad and my sister in law, Jen, to put one in her hands. Once they do, I have no doubt she’ll be practicing all the time because she’ll be excited to. And motivated. And no doubt, she’ll excel at it. All her musicality will just transfer onto the guitar, like a duck to water. She’ll just need to adjust to a different pond.

Christopher, is just ten and is learning to play the clarinet. The elementary school band needed a bass clarinet so asked him if he’d rise to the challenge, and he said yes. Not only is he enjoying it, but it’s BIG. He likes that.

Erin, the youngest, is eight, and sees all these different instruments coming in and out of the house. She hears them honking and tooting on a regular basis. I wonder if she thinks, “I like that. I don’t like that. I’d like to play that. I’d hate to play that…” As she’s about to turn nine this week, I’ve been wondering what instrument will call out to her. Perhaps the saxophone that her sister, Emily, doesn’t want to play anymore, or something different. Something that separates her from the rest of the bunch.

I hope she knows that she’s musical already. I hope that when it’s time for her to be old enough to be in the school band, she’ll know clearly which instrument she wants to play, and doesn’t. That’s just as important, if not more so……. Who would want to play the trombone when it’s the harp that speaking to you? Who wants to play in the band when it’s a cello that is really appealing? Who wants to play anything melodic when it’s the drum line, and pounding out the beats on all kinds of loud, round things, that makes your heart race?

And maybe there won’t be an instrument that calls her name. Time will tell. I just hope for her that she knows the music is inside her. Now. When she’s older. When she’s 30 and 55 and 70. Always.

Happy Birthday, Erin!