In May I issued a challenge to take time this summer to
simply “be,” whether at an outdoor concert, on a bike, in a hammock, or with a
book. Just be. I took myself up on the challenge (as hard as that is for me!)
and gave myself the gift of time and space. As I emptied myself of busy-ness I
found space for a deepening of my soul to emerge and be heard. As I reflect on
these experiences I hope you will find moments to pause and consider for
yourself as well.
As is true with many things in life, the musical journey is
full of paradoxes. How do I reconcile the spiritual self with the physical
self? What is the affekt I wish to
convey in my playing yet how does my technique allow/hamper me to do so? How is
what I feel expressed through the mechanics of the instrument and form of the
composition at hand? How do I incorporate quietude and space into a hunger for
new repertoire and musical experiences?
For me, the right side of each question is the easy, or at
least tangible part of the paradox. I can experiment with how to make the
desired sound on the piano and study the score to understand the form. I can do exercises to improve or address
technical issues. I can dig into new repertoire and engage in new performances
(as performer or listener). I can physically be at the piano.
As I recently found myself drowning in the obsessive sea of doing, a gentle nudge from a dear mentor
suggested that perhaps it was time to revisit the bliss of being; to reacquaint myself with my soul, my passion, my purpose. So,
I turned off the outside and gently, slowly, prayerfully, revisited the opening
chapters of Jill Timmons’ book, The
Musician’s Journey (Oxford University Press, 2013). On pages 49 and 52 Timmons
gently challenges me to consider “how would I live out my vision if I didn’t
have to make a living?” And, I was given permission to ask hard questions such
as “what am I afraid of?” or “am I willing to be vulnerable to achieve my
goals?”
From within The
Musician’s Journey, I was called to read The Musician’s Soul by James Jordon (GIA Publications, Inc., 1999).
Even deeper into my soul I ventured. I was reminded that before I can do anything, I must be in touch with who
I am. Through Jordon’s generous
narrative I was reminded of the gift of self-awareness and the basal
vulnerability that must be present in order to truly share one’s music with
another; that creativity and my soul lies deep within me and will give me no
peace until I get out of its way and let it be expressed. Through this
stillness within, the answers and peace emerge.
Rather than bearing down, doing in order to have
(what? more? more gigs? more money? more accolades?), I am reminded that I am
free to be and use the doing to be more in touch with who I am.
And that the having flows naturally
in a way I could never contrive or force on my own. This is scary territory
indeed—this being, listening, trusting. While at the neighborhood swimming pool
during one of my “summertime” sessions, I watched as one child completely trusted
the water to hold her while another wasn’t yet ready, holding on tightly to his
parent; another belly-flopping rather than trusting and tucking her chin for a
dive while another took a deep bounce and floated into the deep end. I laid
back and floated, watched the clouds swim by, and reflected on how I have been all
of those children many times over throughout my life.
I am grateful to have taken this time to visit within once
again. As we head into July, I feel a renewed peace and centeredness that
brings deep joy and trust in a universe that will provide what I need if I am
open, vulnerable, and willing. Yet, I know my personal Musician’s Journey and my continuing acquaintance and friendship
with my Musician’s Soul is not a one stop
shop. This peace and centeredness will ebb and flow as life moves forward. I
will continue to develop those concrete tools so that I am further equipped to
hear that perfect sound inside, know my center, and trust my internal compass
to recreate its joy for others to experience. Isn’t that the purpose? I know it is mine.
