Musical Mother's Musings

What Can I Do Better?

Nathan has been struggling with practice.  Even the new pieces aren't getting us over one hurdle-- the hurdle of self-analyzing.

I'm a perfectionist--I self-analyze too much!  Nathan is not, and doesn't.  And that is  our greatest source of conflict.  He goes playing along during practice time (notice: "playing," not "practicing"), and I hear mistake after slip after oops go by, seemingly without notice from him.  I call him on it, and his response goes something like: "Whaaaaat!? I didn't hear anything wrong!"

So, here's the nugget of wisdom for today:

Question:    What's the difference between a professional and a student (or amateur)?

Answer:    The student looks for perfection, while the professional looks for mistakes.

Seems backward at first, since professionals are a whole lot closer to perfection than students are.  But really, it's the attitude that matters.

For a student, the question is "What did I accomplish?" or "What did I get right?"  They want verification that they've achieved something with their effort.

For a professional, the question is, always, "What can I do better?"  On any level, from single technical element to concert stage, the professional is the first to admit that there is room for improvement, and constantly looking for how to achieve that improvement.  That doesn't mean they are constantly down on themselves--most professionals have a great sense of accomplishment when they've done well.  But a sense of accomplishment is not an end-all.  They have the humility to admit there is room to improve, and the desire to want to.

So, my question for today is, "How do I help my son develop his own ability to self-analyze, and desire to improve?  Sitting here typing, I'm quite sure it has to do with how I respond to him.  Likely, the opposite of what I tend to do would be better.  If I'm constantly finding the faults, he doesn't have to.  Uh-huh.

If, instead, I back off on the critiques, and praise honestly and specifically, it might help him know when he's done well, and might inspire him to want to achieve that level of accomplishment again.

We've talked about it tonight.  I'm hoping we can work in this "new" question of "What can I do better?".  I also need to work on being more of the student for him (more "What did he do well?"), so he is free to ask his own "What can I improve?" questions.

About Another Nathan

Dear Friends,

I have had so little time free with my computer lately, and this weekend (having been music festival at a nearby academy) was no exception.  And that is the simple reason (I won't even claim, "excuse") why I haven't posted.  I have had so many thoughts, so little time.

This evening, as I was trying to catch up on some past issues of my favorite blogs, this one caught my eye, and then my heart.  The blog is "I Take Joy", by Sally Clarkson, a home-school mother of incredible insight and wisdom, the kind of woman you rise up and call blessed, even if you have never met her.

She has four children.  Her daughter, Sarah, was my first introduction to the Clarkson family, through her book, "Read For the Heart".  It's a guide to the literature that shaped her, as a home-schooler, and that she highly recommends for any family.

This evening, I read a post (from October '11--yes, I'm behind!) about her son, Nathan.  And not only does the name match that of my boy, but there are other similarities as well.  

Sally's post speaks for itself, but I have excerpted the most pertinent section here:

Always when I tell stories about my sweet Nathan, moms say to me, “I have a Nathan!” Nathan is such an amazing blessing to me now, and many of you know him through his work to promote Dolphin Tale. But, as a little boy, Nate was always out of the box. When others walked on the sidewalk, he was on the grass, running around the bush, playing air fights with imaginary dragons, and living in a super man world in his mind. He wiggled, questioned, was loud and vibrant and fun and never liked academics but loved great stories and literature and heroes and discussion.

Many people wanted to label Nathan with consonants and vowels and or tell me to spank him more, but I knew in my heart he had the making of a great man and he needed love, patience and faith. I also knew that he was a lot like me–just made to be active and questioning and out of the box of norm. I can now see in my own life, that what has always felt like too much for me–my personality–was just what God needed me to be so that I would love speaking and writing and traveling all over the world.

And so with Nathan, I loved, encouraged, trained, confronted, believed in his dreams and prayed that God would help me support the person that God had designed him to be. I believed that maybe God did make Nathan to go into the world to be a “superman”–his favorite childhood character–one who would come to our world and save and help and redeem those who needed someone to save them.

All you sweet ones who are worried about your adhd, odd, ocd kids, just trust God, love a lot, give grace, and watch what God does–they are probably just artists or heroes in your midst and they must be a little bigger than life because of what God is going to call them to do–just like my wonderful Nathan–a true and faithful hero in my midst.

May we all take such a warm and encouraging view of these dear, dear children who challenge us to love, honor, respect and raise them in the way God designed them to need.  Thank you, Sally.

Happy, Happy, Happy (reprise)

I've been prompted to add another movement, just to prove Nathan can play more than six different pitches.  The entire recital was almost an hour of music--I won't post all of it here.  But I will add the 3rd movement of the Suite Française by Bazelaire, as it fits the tenor of the post pretty accurately!

 

Happy, Happy, Happy!

Nathan's book 5 cello recital was yesterday afternoon.  Thank you to all who attended--it was an honor to have 44 people dedicate an hour of their Sunday afternoon to him.

The recital went so well--I'm very happy.  His teacher is happy.  The people were happy.  And now Nathan is happy--he gets to go on to new material!

"Mommy," says he, "you won't have any trouble getting me to practice cello tomorrow.  I'm excited to practice!"

Whooosh--all the pent-up stress of the last few weeks just flew out the window, as we enter a new chapter.

Happy, happy, happy!

(This is the 4th movement, "Berceuse populaire française"of 5 from Paul Bazelaire's Suite Française, from yesterday's recital.)

 

 

 

Rules of Engagement

I've spent quite a bit of time over the last two weeks pondering (read: agonizing over) what on earth is going on with our practice.  Here we are, 5 days before the biggest solo recital Nathan has ever given, and he's balking at practice like Balaam's donkey going through the vineyard.   He can be all fine and happy practicing violin (he has a new piece. . .), but tell him to pick up his cello and you'd think you told him to pick up after the dog!  

He loves cello.  He sounds beautiful on cello.  The pieces are fun, he'll tell you. But he doesn't want to practice.  He'll get it out, and strum, tap, sing, slide his bow all over, play snippets of pieces never meant for cello, anything except what he's supposed to be doing!  He knows he's not making it, and then gets panicky because he sees that he's not making it, and that Mommy's getting upset (especially when an hour has slipped by and only 6 minutes of measurable work has been done!!!)

What's going on here?  I think I can identify, but not solve--yet.

The problem is lack of engagement--engaging brain with task at hand.  Literally.

The rules of engagement for me are simple:  if it's important, I do it.  If there's a reward or a consequence involved, I'm even more likely to do it.  If it's important to someone I respect, or for whom I work, or to someone I want to please, I'll do it.  If it's important to the future (i.e. preparing for an event), that's reason enough. 

But, as I admitted (finally) in a recent post, my son's brain isn't like mine.  We are hard-wired differently.  And nowhere is that difference more obvious than when confronted by a task seen by the majority of the population as "important."  You see, my darling boy's ADD brain couldn't care less for importance.  It isn't impudence, rudeness or belligerence.  It's a non-ability to engage with an action that has no personal or at-the-moment value.

The ADD brain values one time, and one time only--NOW.  If it isn't now, it doesn't exist (at least, in relation to current activities), and the recital is a whole 5 days away!  

The ADD brain also values things that are new.  No matter how much he loves the pieces, ones to be polished for performance are anything but new.  Repetition, that power-tool of practice, is painful to an ADD brain unless each repetition can carry some new trait or challenge in it.

The ADD brain can connect with things that are challenging or exciting.  Supposedly, he's met and fixed all the challenging spots already, and the spots that still need work are old problems, ones that he has almost given up on being able to fix.

The ADD brain loves things that are interesting, fascinating, intriguing.  Somehow, he has lost interest in improving the pieces.  They no longer fascinate him, because he has already seen them inside and out for months.

And then, we add to all that, the fact that my dear boy is, after all, only 9, and I know very few nine-year-olds who are good at self-analyzation, a skill essential to this stage of learning.  He needs to be able to hear the picky little details he's missing, instead of what he wants it to sound like, but he's not mature enough to do that yet.

Here's more salt to rub in:  I'm a musician.  I am, by nature, a perfectionist.  I'm a teacher.  That means I can not only hear the details, but I know how to fix them.  But, because 1) I'm mom, not his teacher, 2) I can hear things he can't, and 3), I'm stepping in where he has already turned it off, my attempts to help get his ire up.  So, I feel trapped.  I could help him so much, because I know what needs to be fixed and how to fix it.  But every time I approach him, in any way, shape or form, it's like fire to tinder.  The more time is wasted, the more my nature screams, and the less he seems to care.  AAAARRRRGGHHH!!!

Tonight, we had a little break-through.  After talking it over, we came to the realization that part of his unwillingness to hear me is that I don't turn off.  I have more to say than he is ready to hear.  So tonight we tried something that has worked in the past.  We laid out a plan:  

He'll play a movement for me, and I am allowed three critiques.  Only three.  They have to be short, clear, and to the point, and not four--just three.  He's okay as long as he knows there's a limit!

It worked.  In fact, it worked well enough that after an hour, we had only made it through one of the three big pieces on the recital, but we had been workng well together the whole time!

What made the difference?

Small chunks (one movement at a time).

Agreed-upon limits on Mom's critiques

Patience and prayer on my part.  (I pulled out my crocheting, so I wouldn't fret so much about wasted down-time.)

And most of all, that before hand, we had talked it over.  He knew I was trying to understand, and we had set the limits together.  That helped give him a sense of control over the situation--something his type dearly loves!

What helped me the most was to remember what I've learned about his brain-type--that he truly isn't misbehaving just to misbehave.  He's struggling with an inability to get hooked onto the train.  He wants to "go," but can't get moving because he can't get into gear.

When I processed that, I was able to be more understanding of his difficulties.  That meant I could help him define what really needed to be done, give him the opportunity to "perform" each movement for me first, and then limiting my "helpful suggestions" to a small number.

I've written a lot.  If you've made it to the bottom of this, I suspect it's because you are dealing with a similar situation.  If so, take courage.  As you begin to understand your son or daughter, you'll come up with things that do work.  If you're as different as Nathan and I are, take courage.  You don't have to give up your differences in order to understand them.  But understanding them allows you to find solutions that work for both of you.

 

 

When Good Advice Doesn't Work

"Say it once, and walk away."

It's great advice, given to those whose kids need to take responsibility for their own actions and, well, responsibilities!  Don't hound them, remind them, stand guard until they're actually working.  To do so sends the message that you don't really expect them to accomplish what you asked them to do, at least not without your overbearing help.

And it works--some of the time. 

For neuro-typicals, it would seem to be a successful tool.  Tell 'em once, or at most twice, then walk away and give them space to either accomplish, or reap consequences.

For a child the age of my son, with the additional burden of ADD, not so much.  This is where the lack of focus and attention show their true colors, and walking away will not necessarily leave a pricking conscience behind.

There are times it does work, and well.  But not today.  Today, he "can't" hear what I say, and when he does hear it doesn't register that I said anything in English!  If, by some chance, I align correctly with his aural input, then (it seems), the path in continues right on through to the path out the other ear!  (I say this with as much love and kindness as I possibly can, not to poke fun at his expense.)

Yet, today, as much as every other day, my son wants to be treated as a mature, competent individual.  If I send the same messages too often, or too close together, it's like friction to flint, too near dry tinder.  Right now, he's hiding in his room, stewing and angry because I "pushed" him to stay focused on practice.  Not that I "pushed" him to practice--he knows he needs to, and even wants to.  But the "zone" is out of sight, and my attempts to refocus him backfired.

Yet, when I said nothing, 30 minutes out of his 60 went by without any awareness of the passage of time.  After half the practice was over, I thought that, perhaps, a little "Mommy-help" might be useful.

Oh dear.  Part of the problem is that the consequences of poor (or non-existent) practice are too far down the road for him to see.  ADD minds see NOW, and only NOW.  As much as he loves his teachers, and enjoys performances, they are too distant to be an impetus.  Lesson? Yesterday--won't come for another week.  Recital? Two days ago, and not again for a while.  Practice?  Much more fun to doodle and noodle, look around, enjoy the snow that (was briefly falling) outside our window, or the squirrels chasing each other around the tree, or . . . or. . . or. . .

Intentions are great.  But we are now struggling with a classic symptom, and I'm struggling for answers.  Do I weigh in and guide?  Do I step back and give him space?  Do I (as I tried to do today) strive for a balance of the two?

I do know this--I must not, must not, must not get angry.  I cannot afford the cost of losing my temper, because then, the problem is not his, but mine.  I cannot (in spite of loving this child more than life itself) allow his problem to affect my emotional response.  [Note, I didn't say "my emotions," because I think it is impossible to see an issue without feeling it emotionally somehow.] I have to, under all circumstances, allow him to be himself, mistakes and all, and show him that love and behavior are entirely seperate things--his behavior will not cause me to love him less.

 

 

ADDmitting

Dear friends,

I am coming to the conclusion that this blog needs to take a different slant.  I've been focusing a lot on the issues of practicing with my son, while also being a home-school mom and musician.  That won't change.  But what I glossed over briefly back in October (or so), was my son's diagnosis of ADD.  The gloss came from fear.  

I think any mother is afraid of a permanent diagnosis of any type for her child.  Whether it's cancer (!), juvenile diabetes, speech impairment, blindness, spina bifida (my heart goes to a friend who is currently facing this with her newborn), or whatever the malady, there is a period of grief and discouragement that follows such a pronouncement.

Ours is only ADD.  Yes, I repeat, only.  My son can walk, talk, sing, hear, see, feel, control his own bodily functions, think, and love.  He can read, analyze, search out, learn, study, and make decisions.  He is intelligent and happy.  I am blessed.  

But as much as I would like to write off the diagnosis as something insignificant, I can't.  I am 1/3 of a family, and 2/3 work with ADD brains. All the time.  And, as a book I'm currently into points out, one of the most challenging relationships a person with ADD can attempt is with a perfectionist.  Right.  I have two, trying hard at keeping a relationship with me (and the reverse is every bit as true).

So, expect to hear a lot more about ADD.  If I don't acknowledge it, I can't grow.  If I refuse to count it into the equation, I am doing my son an injustice, expecting him to function the way I do.

Perhaps (and I would feel so blessed if this were the case), my struggles might be a comfort to some other mother out there who bears the mixed blessing of an incredibly talented child who cannot seem to channel his abilities; a mother who feels deceived by the conflict between the child's ability and actual behavior; a mother who is desperate for answers.  

Pray for me, that I may learn grace, courage and self-control, that patience and love may be my watchwords, that I might demonstrate to my son and my husband that first of all, they are valued and loved, just as they are.

 

My Journey, pt 5: Mission Accomplished

I'm home!  

The recital is done; all rehearsals, sectionals, demonstrations, and so forth are finished.  It's good to be home, and have the trip behind me.

For me, particularly, it was good to give the recital.  It went better than I had hoped--in fact, it went quite well! And, fears aside, giving a recital is an exercise every musician needs on a regular basis, just as every athelete benefits from competitions.  

Putting ourselves under a certain amount of pressure refines us, just as carbon under pressure becomes diamond.  The stuff is the same--the product is not.

This trip's goal was to raise awareness of At First Sight, and to raise money for scholarships.  I think both were successful.  I was able to meet and work with a lot of students (great kids, they are!), and we brought in enough to cover four scholarships!

Thanks to all of you who came to the recital--your support was uplifting.  

Thank you to all of you who donated--there will be students whose lives change because of your generosity.  

Thank you also, to the teachers who graciously gave me time with their students.  I truly enjoyed meeting and working with them.

And finally, thank you to the musicians who took time from their busy schedules to make music with me.  I'm honored and inspired.

 

My Journey, pt 4: Overcoming fears

Fear. We see it in our children more readily than in ourselves.  We can identify it in coworkers, friends, even passing acquaintances. But there is nothing more humbling than facing the monsters in your own closet.

I have dreamed of giving a recital for 10 years (the span of time since my last one, as a viola master's degree candidate in Boston).  I could give you fifty reasons why I should, why I want to, why it would be beneficial.  But as the time lengthened, so did the inertia.  

Now, 10 years later, I have committed to walking on stage tomorrow night and giving a public performance.  The fact that it is the same venue in which I gave my senior recital (and my junior recital, and my high-school graduation recital, and my eight-grade graduation recital) is both a comfort, and a detrement, for with memories come ghosts.

Now, I face those.  The ghosts of "what might have been" have their say at last.  "What might you have been, if you hadn't gone into teaching? if you hadn't quit to be a stay-home mom? if you hadn't decided to homeschool and forfeit all your free time to your son?"  "What might you have been if you had been faithful with your practice? kept up your studies?"  "What might have happened if you had been more dedicated? more focused? more disciplined?"  "What might have been if . . ."

Their second cousins, the Finger-pointers, are not far behind them.  In fact, they often come hand in hand.  "What might have been," morphs right into "But you didn't, so now you can't."  or "Because you did that instead, you really aren't good enough to do this."

And they want, expect, demand me to listen.

They want me to fear.

Shall I?  Shall I count the cost, reckon the loss, tally up the difference between where I am, and where I "ought to be"?

No.  [I say this with firmness born of decision, not of feeling.]

No.  In order to make music, I can have no fear.  None.  Not any.  One fear spoils the music just as surely as one fly spoils the ointment.  

I must approach tomorrow's performance with courage, and with "selective amnesia," remembering only the good, the beautiful, the lovely.

It seems that even the apostle Paul had words of advice for such a time: Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. (Philippians 4:8)

My mind wanders while I play.  I do find myself thinking of other things as the music is unfolding.  And if I allow myself to think about past mistakes, past failures, past discomforts, embarrasements, or self-conscious moments, I am drawn down, away from the music and into misery.  My performance suffers, serving to reinforce the negative I was already pondering.

Instead, I must discipline my mind to dismiss immediately such frowning judges, banishing them completely, and welcoming in their place images of beauty, kindness, joy, peace, gentleness.

Overcoming fear is not permanent, but each success strengthens the heart and infuses the senses with satisfaction and relief.  Overcoming fear is not immediate, but the effort pays rich dividends.  Overcoming fear is personal, hidden, unobservable (usually) to all but the most sensitive observer.

If you are in the audience tomorrow night, I hope you will see no evidence of fear.  I pray that instead, you will see in me, and hear in the music, visions of loveliness, of happiness, of value and quality, of industry and achievement, of dreams coming true and hopes realized.

Tomorrow evening, I will grow.  

 

 

------

P.S.  The picture today is of a children's book which tackles this very topic.  The author, Gladys Scheffrin-Falk, has faced her own fears as a violinist, and found joy therein.

My Journey, part 3: Brighten the Corner Where You Are

I did not plan this trip.   Frankly, I'm not even sure it was my idea.  In fact, I'm still amazed at how this trip came about, and even more amazed at how it is turning out.

In January, the board of AFS decided we needed to do some on-site advertising.  Two weeks later, I had a ticket, for an incredibly low price, directly into Chattanooga (usually I have to fly to Nashville or Atlanta, or pay five prices).  I didn't know what I would do when I arrived, but I was going.  Oh, and we set a recital date.  On faith--that I could be ready in one month!! (Jury's still out on that--come Monday night and see if we succeeded!)

When I began to make contacts, I asked if I could be of any help to the teachers.  My goal was to benefit their programs.  My pay was to meet the students, and have permission to advertise for At First Sight.  I soon discovered that not only could I meet with the students I wanted to see, but I could help, by subbing for a couple of rehearsals in a very busy season.  

Then, three days before I flew out, I learned that plans on the ground had changed again, and I would be needed to fill in as clinician for a regional music festival--the whole thing, not just a rehearsal!

I couldn't have planned it.  I had no idea.  I'm humbled, and truly grateful, that this trip (which seemed so extravagant to begin with) has become a way to bless others.  

Today, I had the immense pleasure of working with the first and second violinists of the SAU Symphony Orchestra.  Their conductor, Mrs. Laurie Minner, is a marvelous musician, positive and encouraging, while demanding complete attention to making the music.  The work was Brahms Symphony No. 2.  Our task was to take the ugly, difficult spots and make them shine.

If you've ever played an instrument, you know that coordinating all the muscles and actions to create beauty isn't automatic--far from it.  It takes concentrated effort and [gasp] practice.

Now, give those difficult spots to 20 young musicians, and expect them to play perfectly in tune with each other, at exactly the same time, with the same articulations and dynamics, and you realize the challenge that orchestral musicians face.   We had 75 minutes to work together, and did we ever work!  It was such a pleasure to give them tools with which to succeed, to point out where they were already succeeding, and to help them hear where they could do better.  I really enjoyed the effort with which these young people worked, the attitude of determination, the politeness, the smiles of achievement and recognition.  I asked a lot of them, and never once did I hear a sour comment, a groan, or a complaint.  

I came into the experience hoping to brighten their corner a little.  I pray that I did.  

What I didn't expect, truly, was how much they brightened mine!  I recieved from them respect, concentration, dedication.  They gave me appreciation and honored me with their time and attention.  I came from the rehearsal feeling that I had been the one blessed, by the gift of their time and talents, and that we had mutually grown.

What a marvelous experience.  I came to brighten, and left brighter than before.  Isn't that the way our world should work?