Learning That Changes Lives

Lessons Learned

I’ll Remember

Thirty years in public and private classrooms and I am here to assure you that many of the most significant, most powerful and life-changing lessons at school occur outside the narrow, lock-step lines of the common core in a nebulous, necessary place where relationships, affective learning, and meaningful connections dwell. Where the common core seeks to throw each one on the pan balance of you versus the standard expectation, this “other place,”  by offering each one a mirror, invites each one to look deeply inside and construct a bridge from old understanding to new. As bridge builders, we are challenged to engage in our learning rather than simply being a repository for information. This “other place” is one where we encounter and grapple with friendship, courage, creativity, compassion, bullying, aspirations, inspiration, despair, grief, hope, possibility, the “why’s,” the “but you don’t understand’s,” tenacity, boldness, fear, loss, and every other such thing as is simply synonymous with being human. We stand together in this “other place,”  no one better, no one worse, just everyone trying and in the process, building bridges.  One particular year, somewhere between a spelling test and a new math unit, we encountered death. Our beloved janitor passed away. This jolted our school world, this world we shared each day. His unrelenting kindness touched us all.  Keeping the hallways neat as a tac, he moved from one fixing task to the next while always maintaining a vigilant protective watchful eye as might a soldier posted on the wall to guard those within. Gone.  And in his absence we somehow felt insecure and alone. His wife called and wondered if the students, who all meant so much to him, would be willing to sing at his memorial service. Of course! was the unanimous decision.  With all of our hearts, with full strong voices, with great love, and a few small tears, we shared the gift of music with his wife, his family, and all who loved him. That memorial service changed us all; it bonded us. It built a bridge between our hearts and all who attended the service. It was absolutely an “other place” of learning, lightyears away from the common core,  but elbow to elbow with life and significance and meaningfulness.

Find here 2 links to a TeacherPayTeacher store where you will find the song written about this experience, a children’s song called “I’ll Remember:” 1 link for simple sheet music and 1 link for an mp4 file with lyrics for singing along:

https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Ill-Remember-Sheet-Music-when-someone-the-students-love-dies-2099548

https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Ill-Remember-Sing-Along-mp4-file-when-someone-the-students-love-dies-2101013

The Gift Of a GREAT Teacher

Lessons Learned

The Best Piano Teacher

She had a stunning reputation for excellence. Unquestionably, in a very wide geographical radius, she was the best of the best. She was the Head of Piano at the local liberal arts college, and every music student there was indelibly enriched to pass through her brilliant tutelage enroute to his or her degree. She could be handed a pencil-scribbled accompaniment manuscript on opening night, and, in the shadows of the dimly lit orchestra pit, she could carry the entire cast of performers through the show magnificently without a single glitch. Her excellence was their confidence. She could play anything. To me, she was magic. As a high school freshman, I was handed many scores of very difficult music in preparation for accompanying several of the high school choirs, as well as vocal and instrumental soloists. As incompetent as I felt, I knew that in lugging this bag of music to her home for weekly piano lessons, there was hope for me as long as a little of her magic could rub off. Through the weeks and months, she taught, she played, she explained, she modeled, she mentored, she tutored, and she led me by the hand through this treacherous bag of music. Unrelenting, we worked note by note and phrase by phrase without any doubt that this all would be fully accomplished in the necessary timetable. I had my doubts, actually, but she never did. She believed. She encouraged. She ran alongside. She made me believe, too. The concerts and performances freshman year were accomplished beautifully and with significant relief on the part of the young accompanist. The sophomore, junior, and senior years flew by with increasingly challenging and greater volumes of music, but with this precious tremendous piano teacher leading the way, no musical challenge was insurmountable. We worked, oh how we worked! She informed me that “impossible” was not an adjective, it was a choice; a choice to surrender. And no student of hers would surrender. Handel’s “Messiah.” Beethoven’s “Halleluiah Chorus” from the Mount of Olives. Books full of vocal solos by Haydn. Trumpet solos by Vivaldi. “Mass” by Leonard Bernstein. Gilbert and Sullivan. Rodgers and Hammerstein. Lerner and Loewe.  Scores spanning the centuries were dissected and reassembled in her living room as this very active learning process surely kept every single neuron firing. Side by side we worked. Side by side I learned every drop of musical understanding I could from her. Infinitely blessed was my life through her gifts and her time. Changed forever was my life because of her tireless pouring of musical passion into my heart. How does one begin to quantify or even explain this sort of teaching excellence? Genius? Yes, I believe she was a genius. She was a genius who felt music with every one of her senses and exuded its fire and glory through her every pore. We corresponded for many years after I went off to college and on into a career in teaching and the creative arts. She remained a strong encourager and a profound voice of inspiration in my life until her passing. An unfathomable love of music, an incomprehensible passion for teaching, these are among the treasures she planted in my heart, and these are among the blessings I pray I bring to my students.

Music Works

Lessons Learned

Why Music?

They were from the far east side of town, and we were from the far west.  Our lives, our experiences, and our schedules were worlds apart despite the few miles that separated us. It’s not that we couldn’t have been friends; it’s just that our paths would never have crossed. That is, until “The Project,” that cast us all on the same team, transitioned from dream to enactment. Two very different fifth grade worlds were about to collide and in that collision, be called upon to create and then perform a rap depicting the story of our city, our shared story.  It was to be a part of a much larger original musical work entitled, “Hometown History,” and was dreamed and written to be shared by children to an audience of all neighbors from all neighborhoods of our hometown.  It was to serve as a big affirming hug to a city besieged by violence, unemployment, and fear.  It was to be just one step toward building a bridge of hope and trust between neighbors.  The first meeting of the fifth graders  occurred at the west side school and although the air was filled with a certain amount of  tentativeness,  a pinch of suspicion, and a good dollop of curiosity, the lengthy laundry list of tasks to be accomplished while together served to quickly  focus us all  beyond our piddily concerns and doubts. We attended to the business of getting the job done and that demanded immediate cooperative effort; all hands on deck, so to speak. We worked exceedingly hard, we learned, shared, collaborated, laughed, perfected, discussed, fell short, tried again, cheered each other on, applauded ourselves, supported, encouraged, questioned, explained, tried harder, kept practicing, saw progress, high-fived,  and, after a couple of hours, enjoyed a pizza lunch together with these precious new friends.  The next few weeks were committed to practicing on our own at our respective schools.  The second meeting occurred at the east side school, and the air was filled with excitement, anticipation and warmth as we reconvened our awesome fifth grade team.  The local news media showed up to capture the joy of this creative team of fifth grade bridge builders as they zealously rehearsed their proud rap, and sang, danced, played, and laughed as all children should and do from every side of town in every town around the globe. Music brought us together. Music brought balm to hometown afflicted with fear and distrust. Music brought laughter, peace, joy and friendship. Music built a bridge of hope and possibility. Music always does.  Music levels the playing field and invites each one to play. Music is a universal language that transcends circumstances and disengages exclusivity.  Music links us, binds us, welcomes us, and calls us into a shared joy.  Why music? Because it heals our hearts and makes us better.

If you, as a parent or a teacher, need sweet, heart-warming original children’s music to bring joy, esprit de corps, and celebration to your family or to your classroom, please visit the Teachers Pay Teachers store, One Arts Infusion Collaborative, to find simple sheet music and mp4 files of seasonal  and curricularly-relevant songs.

https://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Store/One-Arts-Infusion-Collaborative

"My heart will be blessed with the sound of music"(Rogers and Hammerstein)

Lessons Learned

The Piano. The Catalyst.

I was young, maybe three or four, when the piano that had belonged to Great Aunt and Uncle arrived. They called it a baby grand piano; I called it magical. Its polished brown wood glowed in the living room lighting where it majestically occupied an entire corner of the room. It was fine and elegant and breath-taking, and even though I was just a little one, I was thoroughly captivated by this magnificent treasure.  I couldn’t take my eyes off it, nor tear myself away from sitting on the exquisitely embroidered piano bench, despite the fact that my feet seemed miles from the floor.  The white and the black keys beckoned my tiny pre-school fingers, and the sounds emerging from the long strings inside in response to my touch were comforting and somehow familiar such as the voice of a friend. I loved our piano. Our home, from my earliest recollections back in the early 60’s, was always filled with the grand and glorious sound of Rogers and Hammerstein musicals billowing out of our hi-fi drawing each of us regularly into spontaneous dance. To know the music, to feel the music, to engage the music and to revel in its joy was the standard MO at home. That being said, it is no small wonder that songs were forever swirling in my imagination. Music was like breath to me and it spoke a language to my heart that brought comfort and blissful joy. And now a piano. The canvas upon which my imagination could play. I would listen to the hi-fi or the radio and then race to the piano to recreate what I had heard, and then back again and forth. Hours. Days. Weeks. Years. Then came lessons to bring form and understanding to a gift that was already there. Years. Deep deep prayers filled my heart in articulation to God of my longing to write songs to bless others, to reach others, to serve others, to be balm and whispers of hope and shouts of dissention and peals of jubilation, capturing what only music can when all else falls desperately short of adequate expression.  Such prayers uttered with the sincerest of desire over a lifetime offer no surprise when such music begins to flow and flow and flow. A career of music to bless truly evokes infinite thanksgiving from the heart of this one who fully comprehends with overwhelming humility that I have been permitted to continually glimpse the brilliance and the beauty of answered prayer in acknowledgement of the truth that God provides the music and I offer my hands to play. I am thankful for this gift that sets my soul on fire and at the same time reaches beyond my small longing into the bigger need of others around. I am so very very thankful.

Why Am I Afraid Of You?

Lessons Learned

Sealed With A Kiss

She was a concert pianist. Renowned. Revered. Her praises were highly heralded among all who boasted of membership in the local musical intelligentsia.  I was six and had been playing songs from the radio on the piano by ear since I was three. The look, the sound, the feel of our piano sent ripples of unexplainable joy through my soul from the moment it arrived at our home. I couldn’t get enough of it.  Music was beyond magical to me. She was the best. Seemed a match. Lessons began. Her persona and flaming red hair filled the piano lesson room and would have certainly intimidated this young student had my eyes fixed on her, but they didn’t. Her piano was spectacular, and its black lacquer elegance was something I had never seen; it completely captivated me. Saturday morning lessons continued with a growing sick-feeling in my six year old tummy because she was mean. If I played an incorrect note, she slapped my hands off the keys and shouted to begin again. If she heard one of my fingernails click on the keys, she would take me roughly by the hand to her bathroom, where she’d clip all of my nails. She impatiently and icily barked and snapped and slapped and clipped week after week, but how was I to know that wasn’t the appropriate manner in which to teach and learn piano playing? I didn’t know much at six, but I knew I longed to play the piano. Her too red, too much lipstick, which blaringly accentuated the non-encouraging words which shot out of her mouth like spit, wound up on my cheek at the culmination of each lesson as she seemed to like to seal each lesson with a big fat kiss. There, take that home as a token of my love and devotion. Yuck. Eventually I learned that if I brought my sweet grandma to my lessons, Meanie turned kind; what a performer! Grandma was thrilled to come along and I was thrilled to have her. Grandma, with her bag of tatting and gentle, happy spirit, attended granddaughter’s piano lessons with pride and enthusiasm never minding that she was hearing the same eight note songs over and over and over again; her smile never faded.  Grandma was the best, most encouraging audience, and her unassuming presence reigned in the meanie who thought she was a teacher.  Lessons with her didn’t last too long as her true colors manifested themselves at the first recital when her not-so-subtle tactics of humiliation, fear, and harshness appeared for those with eyes to see.  Not all with great skill deserve the privilege of teaching. Young minds, full of curiosity and hope, are ever so willing to trust the hand of the one who offers to help them learn. In offering that hand, one must be absolutely certain that one has fully recognized the gravity of receiving that precious trust from a child. Teaching bears responsibility as no other.

Grandparents Are A Priceless Treasure

As we very excitedly prepare for our celebration of Grandparent's Day at school,  I am clearly and deeply reminded of the powerful, beautiful and unconditional love that connects the hearts of grandchildren and their grandparents. In a world of endless busy-ness driven by a frenetic and ever-accelerating pace, there remains a gentle, peaceful, affirming place where hearts can be quiet, where smiles and hugs abound, and where there is always time for a story; a grandparent's lap. May the highest priority of this relationship never be underestimated. We love our grandparents so much. 
If you visit my TeachersPayTeachers Store, you will find the simple sheet music for a precious Grandparent's Day Song most suitable for Pre-K through 2nd grade students. You will also find an mp4 file containing a sing along video of the song. Here are the links: http://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Grandparents-Day-Music-1497731
http://www.teacherspayteachers.com/Product/Grandparents-Day-Music-Sing-Along-1497752
All the best as you celebrate our very loved and priceless grandparents. 

The esprit de corps of singing...

Lessons Learned

Singing Together Can Help Us Grow

Six languages in one first grade classroom.  Swedish. Greek. Japanese. Afganistan. Spanish. English.  Our hope was to teach them all to read.  Our priority was to build a community, to communicate, but the first few days of school made that priority seem quite remote and that hope nearly impossible.  We had no means by which to connect and our only apparent common ground right then was that we shared a classroom, a cold, lonely one at that. After lunch each day, we had a twenty minute window of time during which we played acoustic instrumental music, and the students were encouraged to either look at a picture book, quietly draw a picture, or simply relax and listen to the music. Surprisingly, most students opted to listen to the music. It was calm, soothing, peaceful, and biased toward no one language. Each mind processes music in its own language.  Perhaps music held a key. We wrote a song about counting to ten. We asked each student to count to ten in his or her primary language, which we phonetically wrote down.  We all learned how to count to ten in each of our class languages with great and enthusiastic help from each other. It was a spectacular song, made exponentially better by the robust participation and growing esprit de corps of our classroom community.  By sharing a little piece of each other’s language, we were able to share a little piece of each other’s heart.  Our community grew. Our trust grew. Our learning grew. We became readers.  We became friends. We shared a song.

Crushed...

Lessons Learned

The First Recital

Six years old with a brand new dress, curled hair adorned with a complimentary bow, and fancy patent-leather shoes; the world was perfect in this moment and this little girl’s smile matched the shining sun. Recital day was here. But for one who had never been to a piano recital, who didn’t fully comprehend what was in store, this experience to this point resembled a lovely and very special party. The simple sweet piano selection was memorized and had been for many weeks. The Princess Waltz was the ideal selection for an occasion such as this very first recital. We were to bring the music with us to the recital.  My family was dressed up and ready to travel to the downtown YWCA where the recital was to occur in a large reserved auditorium. Upon arrival, we noticed that the auditorium was fast filling with supportive family and friends, quietly finding suitable seats and engaging in hushed, congenial conversations along the way. All of the piano students, at least fifty of us, were to convene at the front of the hall, near the stage upon which we were to present our selections on the huge shiny black grand piano which sat front and center. Our teacher, a stern perfectionist-type retired concert pianist, organized us into our seating order with a wave of her hand. We were to play in our age order, which meant I was to play first. At the appointed time and following necessary salutations and recognitions, our teacher commenced the recital. Silence. My name was called. My patent-leather shoes clicked on the tile floor all the way to the stage steps, which I ascended with The Princess Waltz in my hands.  She stood at the top of the stage stairs, at the corner of the stage rather like one of the guards at Buckingham Palace and collected music as the performers, in this particular instance me, proceeded to the Steinway and prepared to play. Silence. My patent-leathers couldn’t reach the pedals, the gravity of the situation descended around that piano bench with oppressive heaviness, and in that painful silence a six year old’s mind went blank; The Princess Waltz was absolutely nowhere to be found. From her corner, after an eternity of silence, the sentry-teacher began heralding each note of The Princess Waltz to me as one might call off bingo numbers. The gentle musical flow of that sweet song was fully lost in the punctuated call and response playing. She could have brought me my music but she did not. Crushing mortification. Crushing. And then it was done before anyone could fix it.  In the shocked silence that accompanied my clicking walk from the piano to the sentry’s  corner to collect the illusive music, one didn’t dare make eye contact with anyone in the room for each one unequivocally understood with brimming tears the depth of hurt which had just occurred. I didn’t return to my seating order and didn’t ask permission either, my party dress and I, instead, found our way to my family where on daddy’s lap I melted into a puddle of embarrassment. Sometimes, hopefully not too often, our lessons are learned through circumstances that break and hurt.

The Back Story Of The Song "L-O-V-E"

Lessons Learned…

The UW Madison University Hospital School

In the midst of IV’s, hospital gowns, doctors, nurses, therapists, and colorful artwork on the walls, there was a school right there in that enormous pediatric unit. Student-patients came faithfully to the hospital  classroom every chance they had because keeping up with homework kept each one thinking forward to the glorious reunion with friends and teachers and coaches in the hometown schools they each longed for.  Having health and strength to attend school and participate each day in every part of school was indeed the hopeful dream of these student- patients.  A hopeful dream not recognized at all as such by those students who have never had to study and learn in the hospital school.  It’s so easy to take for granted things that are easy and good and ours, but things can change as the wind blows. Change, expected or unexpected, often serves to bring perspective.  These dear, brave student-patients longed for school. One particular day, I was asked to do bedside tutoring with a student-patient who wouldn’t come to the school; everything hurt and everything was wrong.  She didn’t want to talk, so we just sat that day and for the next few, as well. Homework was pointless, she asserted. Okay. Interested in singing? I ventured the suggestion without making eye contact. Stupid. Too loud. Silent sitting resumed. The next day, I offered, singing in sign language because it wouldn’t make any noise. With a combination of incredulity and hilarity and contempt, our first eye contact occurred. What? Come on, it will be fun, and I wrote this song for you. L-O-V-E, love is special, a song just for her. It worked. She loved it. We learned it and continued to sing it silently on my every visit to her room. When she got tired of singing it, she let me help her with homework.  Eventually, she agreed to come to the hospital school only to help me teach her song to the other student-patients. She thought it would make them happy and she was pretty certain I couldn’t teach it as well as she could. She was absolutely right.

She taught me about courage and honesty and perspective and connection and love and joy even in the pain. My song for her is one I have shared every Valentine’s Day since then with the students in my own classroom. Should you desire to share this song with your children, grandchildren, or students, LOVE can be found at my Teachers Pay Teachers Store, called "Arts Infusion Collaborative," for which there is a link on the top right side of my blog. Blessings to you and Happy Valentine's Day!

More Concerning Bridges

Lessons Learned…

More Concerning Bridges

The fifth grade class was down by five students due to early holiday family vacations, to some dangerously icy road conditions, and a bit to various colds and other bugs which kept a few students home. This meant our sixteen remaining students were going to have to really project as well as pick up all of the unaccounted for lines and scenes. Changing up a program on the spot while performing to accommodate for absences, such as this, requires a significant amount of confidence, memory, and ability. This is certainly an experience which would make most adults offer their most sincere apologies and then quietly bow out because this sort of “winging it” before an audience simply has far too great a risk of embarrassment. These dear fifth graders, however, were fearless.  With the audience excitedly gathering in their seats before us, we quickly accomplished some critical line reassigning.  With a room full of Christmas clad guests at the retirement center, our shining fifth graders sang and shared with great joy, flawlessly projecting every word and filling the hall with magical delight. Bright smiles and generous encouragement met each and every piece shared, and the connection between audience and performers was warm and strong and right. A bridge. They shared an emotional bridge of hope and joy, and it was precious and powerful. Minutes before our first song, we had learned that Ida, who sat in the front row and was wearing a purple sweater, would be celebrating her 100^th birthday tomorrow, and in honor of this and her, we added “Happy Birthday” to our repertoire as our concluding number. After the final song and the final bow, the fifth graders strengthened the bridge as each student carried out artwork gifts they had created for each resident. Heart to heart, the students and residents mingled and shared thanks for invitations and received thanks for singing. Eyes met, smiles erupted, conversations commenced, and bridges were built. The hall was filled with the warmth and beauty of friendship and kindness, despite the heavy drape of freezing rain covering the world beyond the walls.  Bridges bring blessing. After each student had greeted and brought an art gift to each resident, it was time to say good-bye. The fifth graders were anxious to know when they might be able to visit these friends again, and the residents unanimously extended an open visiting invitation. Smiles, hugs, and handshakes sealed the promise for more bridge-building to come.

Looking At Creativity 5...

Lessons Learned…

Creativity Unwrapped 5

Our fourth grade students were invited to sing at a beautiful event, An International Day of Peace. They needed a sweet, beautiful song. Here is my gift to them: http://youtu.be/zo5dAPFYD-Y, “Peace for the Children” by Darcy Hill. Their precious gift to the event and to our community was their excellent singing. Creativity at work.

Looking At Creativity 1...

Lessons Learned…

Creativity Unwrapped 1

“Where does an idea start? How does an idea grow? Deep in the mind of a daydreaming kind, ohhhh.” (youtube: Where does an idea start? by Darcy Hill)

“I’m all alone as I can be, just me, the stars, and restless sea; they’ve given up too easily, the precious dream that set them free. They stopped believing, they stopped trying. When you stop believing you start dying; oh no not me.” (from Christopher Columbus by Darcy Hill)

“My dream of a place where learning can be, ongoing and vital and honestly free; where we plan and we dream and we sketch and we build, and each seed will be sown and the earth will be tilled.”(from Frank Lloyd Wright- On Being Wright by Darcy Hill)

“There’s still room for a dancer, there’s still room for one who’ll dare to dream; in this world of high pressure, it’s the only hope it seems.”(Dancer by Darcy Hill)

“When your way is very weary, when the road is ever long; when your heart is not so cheery, and your spirit’s not that strong; just remember I love you and in that love you will find light, and your family loves and needs you to be home with them tonight.”(from The Little Match Girl adaptation by Darcy Hill)

“Home is where you belong, where you feel strong, helping each other along; Home is where your story starts, we all play parts, in this story called home.”(from Hometown History by Darcy Hill; youtube : This story called home  by Darcy Hill)

“Let them run, let them be full of fun and perfectly free, let them play, oh, let them play.”(from Forever Honest Abe by Darcy Hill)

When I was three, my parents moved the most amazing item I had ever seen into our living room. It was a baby grand piano and it thoroughly captivated me. They said I would listen to the radio and then run to the piano to try and play what I heard, over and over again.  I remember that I couldn’t get enough of it. I remember praying as a young child that I would be able to write beautiful music; an unending prayer through the years. One day in college, a need arose for an original song and before the powerful stream of doubts and pessimism flooded in, I offered to write. The  offer was jubilantly accepted, and then came the siege of the doubts, which were to be quickly squashed by the adrenalin of possibility. Song written. Song performed. Affirmation. And on and on and over again tens of hundreds of times through more than thirty years of creating and basking in the rush of answered prayer and a childhood dream coming true. The joy of creating music fills my soul to the tips of my toes, and the even greater joy of being a teacher of children, a creative drama and music teacher, providing daily opportunities for students to imagine and play and dream bigger than themselves is infinitely rewarding. Free to create. Free to be creative.

A Tough Lesson For A Little One...

Lessons Learned…

At The First Piano Recital

Six years old with a brand new dress, curled hair adorned with a complimentary bow, and fancy patent-leather shoes; the world was perfect in this moment and this little girl’s smile matched the shining sun. Recital day was here. But for one who had never been to a piano recital, who didn’t fully comprehend what was in store, this experience to this point resembled a lovely and very special party. The simple sweet piano selection was memorized and had been for many weeks. The Princess Waltz was the ideal selection for an occasion such as this very first recital. We were to bring the music with us to the recital.  My family was dressed up and ready to travel to the downtown YWCA where the recital was to occur in a large reserved auditorium. Upon arrival, we noticed that the auditorium was fast filling with supportive family and friends, quietly finding suitable seats and engaging in hushed, congenial conversations along the way. All of the piano students, at least fifty of us, were to convene at the front of the hall, near the stage upon which we were to present our selections on the huge shiny black grand piano which sat front and center. Our teacher, a stern perfectionist-type retired concert pianist, organized us into our seating order with a wave of her hand. We were to play in our age order, which meant I was to play first. At the appointed time and following necessary salutations and recognitions, our teacher commenced the recital. Silence. My name was called. My patent-leather shoes clicked on the tile floor all the way to the stage steps, which I ascended with The Princess Waltz in my hands.  She stood at the top of the stage stairs, at the corner of the stage rather like one of the guards at Buckingham Palace and collected music as the performers, in this particular instance me, proceeded to the Steinway and prepared to play. Silence. My patent-leathers couldn’t reach the pedals, the gravity of the situation descended around that piano bench with oppressive heaviness, and in that painful silence a six year old’s mind went blank; The Princess Waltz was absolutely nowhere to be found. From her corner, after an eternity of silence, the sentry-teacher began heralding each note of The Princess Waltz to me as one might call off bingo numbers. The gentle musical flow of that sweet song was fully lost in the punctuated call and response playing. She could have brought me my music but she did not. Crushing mortification. Crushing. And then it was done before anyone could fix it.  In the shocked silence that accompanied my clicking walk from the piano to the sentry’s  corner to collect the illusive music, one didn’t dare make eye contact with anyone in the room for each one unequivocally understood with brimming tears the depth of hurt which had just occurred. I didn’t return to my seating order and didn’t ask permission either, my party dress and I, instead, found our way to my family where on daddy’s lap I melted into a puddle of embarrassment. Sometimes, hopefully not too often, our lessons are learned through circumstances that break and hurt.

The Show Must Go On...

Lessons Learned…

About Being Prepared

We were fifteen minutes from show time. The cast of youngsters was well prepared and perfectly ready to shine. The adoring audience of family members and friends had trickled in and, with fresh bouquets on their laps for their after-the-show stars, these enthusiastically supportive folks were a-buzz with gleeful anticipation to finally see in context the lines they had been hearing in isolation for months. Costumes, check. Props, check. All cast present, check.  We convened the full cast backstage for our final detail check and for the “fire-up, yes-you-can, you are awesome” talk. They were set, and, now, on their own, as I left them to go to the piano to accompany their show. Just prior to the curtain opening, the mood for the performance would be established with a quick five minute overture of music from the show, while the youngsters waited excitedly in the wings with their happy toes on the starting line ready to dash into the opening scene. As I sat upon the piano bench, our light technician took the lights to black; time for the overture. In the blackness which was fully charged with expectancy, I realized there was no light on the piano. Each second of blackness weighed as an eternity on this accompanist who could not see her fingers to play the overture. Everyone waited, but only one waited in sheer panic. Overture. Now. Before anyone noticed the problem. Reaching for the keys, those familiar friends I can see in my sleep, I set my hands in relation to middle C, closed my eyes and began to play the overture. It wasn’t perfect. But it was okay. It fit the bill.  It provided the adequate and expected mood-setting opening crescendo that ushered in scene one and then the rest of the youngsters’ brilliant performance.  In the flurry of accolades, applause, photos and flowers that followed the show, no one noticed the deep sigh of relief exhaled by the accompanist who would never forget a light again.

A Glorious Sound...

Lessons Learned…

When Children Sing

I sometimes wonder if the sound of Heaven will be children’s voices singing, because on earth, there is nothing more precious, more beautiful than this. Frequently, when I am accompanying our three hundred elementary aged students singing with all of their hearts in our weekly chapel, I close my eyes and feel overwhelmed by the power of their sweet yet unconstrained and glorious sound. Absolutely angelic. One year, with the sixth graders, we were working on creating motions to a contemporary Christian song which we were preparing as a part of a program for an upcoming trip to a retirement center. At last our work was finished, polished, and ready for sharing. One of our students’ moms heard that the song’s recording artist was to be in our hometown and on a whim, emailed him describing our project. He responded and wondered if he might stop in and watch them perform.  We gathered for an all-school assembly and began by singing many songs all together, filling the gym with huge, magnificent, all-in, raise-the-roof, beautiful song. He arrived in time to be blessed by this. As he unobtrusively stood in the gym doorway, he shut his eyes and sang along with the voices of the three hundred children. He watched the performance of his song. We thought he would quietly slip out after that to prepare for his own performance that evening. But no. He asked if he might share a word with the students. He spoke of love and gifts and music and blessing. He spoke of the importance of reaching beyond ourselves and sharing. He had the rapt attention of each student. The gym was silent, but for his voice and words. In closing, he asked if he might play a song for the students to sing with him, which they were more than thrilled to do. He played. They sang. He sang along for a while, but then he closed his eyes, kept playing, and just listened to the children as they filled the gym with their heavenly voices. He was blessed. They were blessed. Many are blessed…when children sing.

Lessons Learned…

The Universal Language Of Music

Six languages in one first grade classroom.  Swedish. Greek. Japanese. Afganistan. Spanish. English.  Our hope was to teach them all to read.  Our priority was to build a community, to communicate, but the first few days of school made that priority seem quite remote and that hope nearly impossible.  We had no means by which to connect and our only apparent common ground right then was that we shared a classroom, a cold, lonely one at that. After lunch each day, we had a twenty minute window of time during which we played acoustic instrumental music, and the students were encouraged to either look at a picture book, quietly draw a picture, or simply relax and listen to the music. Surprisingly, most students opted to listen to the music. It was calm, soothing, peaceful, and biased toward no one language. Each mind processes music in its own language.  Perhaps music held a key. We wrote a song about counting to ten. We asked each student to count to ten in his or her primary language, which we phonetically wrote down.  We all learned how to count to ten in each of our class languages with great and enthusiastic help from each other. It was a spectacular song, made exponentially better by the robust participation and growing  esprit de corps of our classroom community.  By sharing a little piece of each other’s language, we were able to share a little piece of each other’s heart.  Our community grew. Our trust grew. Our learning grew. We became readers.  We became friends. We shared a song.  

Lessons Learned…

From The Heel-Digging-In-Place Called “I Can’t”

“There’s no way. This song is just too hard to play. I could never learn it.” The student was overwhelmed.

“Yes, you can. One note at a time you will learn it. You must learn it, because your choir director needs you to play it. I will help you.” The teacher believed.  

So began the arduous work of learning the piano accompaniment for Beethoven’s Halleluia Chorus from The Mount Of Olives, a brilliant, stunning, powerful, but outrageously challenging piece of music for this extremely ordinary high school junior piano student. Time. Patience. Encouragement. Commitment. Tears more than once. Then, at last, in the nick of time, accomplishment. I could. I did.

Fast-forward thirty-five years.

“There’s no way. The Gettysburg Address is way too long. We could never learn it.” The students were overwhelmed.

“Yes, you can. One word at a time. One phrase at a time. You must learn it, all of you, because it’s in the script. I will help you.” The teacher believed.  

Of course they learned the Gettysburg Address. Of course they could. Of course they did.

“I can’t” can be an insurmountable hurdle, a place where effort becomes paralyzed by doubt and fear of failure. Words of encouragement whispered optimistically, sincerely, and frequently from the heart of a “yes, you can” believer, a teacher, who promises to train alongside and then run alongside all the way, provide the impetus of hope that ignites the spark of a willingness to try. Encouragement believes. Encouragement inspires. Encouragement motivates. Encouragement energizes. Encouragement says “yes,” and more often than not, it is all that we need to move beyond “I can’t.” Have you been an encourager today?