Growth Mindset Continued. . .

That's a big smile for a 55 second piece. . . 

Calvin and Brianne tied for first place in the Chopin competition

We are wrapping up ten days of Paul Wirth's Young Artist World Piano Festival. Thank you to Paul Wirth and Olivia Young for organizing this festival--I believe this is their 29th year, but only the second year for Calvin.

He had a big week. The students audition for events on the first day. Calvin's twenty minute program of Beethoven's Op. 90, Chopin Scherzo No. 3, Chopin Butterfly Etude, and Debussy's Prelude from Pour le Piano earned him a masterclass with Andrew Staupe, a private lesson with Seymour Bernstein, a masterclass with Mr. Bernstein, and a spot on the senior honors recital.

It was such an amazing week and I set aside as much time as I could to observe the events. The students and their families become a community. I felt a genuine sense of affection and good will from everyone! The hugs and photo ops after the recital confirm this. Tristan, one of the stars of the group took time to ask Mary what repertoire she was working on and how it was going. Truly.

That's not to say that the teachers/clinicians don't have some important and possibly difficult messages to impart. Nobody is blowing hot air up anyone's skirt. Mr. Bernstein said some things to Calvin that really made him think. And the different styles of teaching masterclasses were readily visible. I'm sure there were some tears along the way. Musicians are by nature sensitive creatures and that's what we love about them. Can we ask them to be less sensitive? I told Calvin to write it all down, all the positive and any constructive criticism, remembering that teachers are human and say inconsistent things and that we can all at once trust what they say and dismiss it. We can hold it all without judgment.

To me, it all comes down to the lynch pin of the growth mindset. Mr. Bernstein kept asking the Doris Harrel questions. . . why do we do this? Why do we practice and work so hard? Why music? Why piano?

Side note--I'm in love. It's been a lovely 20 year marriage with Bill, but I'll be going back to New York with Mr. Bernstein. Seymour doesn't really know it yet. . . he might have other commitments. But, I can live in his little studio apartment in New York and make my coffee on his hot plate and water his plants or whatever he needs help with.

If that doesn't work out I'll just watch the documentary about him a few more times. And I ordered all his books to read. Books about the integration of the emotional, intellectual, and physical worlds. Life influences art. But. . . as Dr. Suzuki also made a mantra. . . our art influences our lives. What we learn at our instrument carries over into our personalities and our relationships. Don't I know it.

"It's not always about me." Parents, tattoo this on one wrist. On the other wrist tattoo "this too shall pass."  I've had the presence of mind a couple times in my life. . . when things aren't going so well at a practice session, to ask my child, "what's going on?" Instead of limping through the practice where we obviously are in a funk.  Many times I've said or done something that I didn't even really know was offensive. I need to apologize and do some contemplation. But most of the time? It's something else. He said/she said/he did/she did. It was not even about me.

Seymour said we "do this" to integrate art with our personality through the emotional, intellectual and physical . To play life more beautifully. (I'm waiting at the door for Amazon to deliver his book with that title.)

I would add that we do this for the love of learning, the love of music, and the love of the person making the music. Not necessarily in that order.

Parents, what you work through at the piano with your child. . . is what you work through in life with your child. It's the same. Praise God for the opportunity to know my children in this way. To not shut down. To never walk away.

The growth mindset. We are not fixed points. Our talent is not fixed. I learned SO much this week at the Young Artist World Piano Festival. I can't wait to practice and teach! And I learned a lot at the piano with my child and my students.

Congrats to Brianne and Calvin. Mr. Bernstein took it upon himself to grant a tie for the Chopin competition. And he brought in Ben, for a second prize player. Competitions suck until you win, right? I tell you, there is no thinking you are hot stuff in this crowd. The playing was at such an incredible level by kids from 10-17 years old. Kids who live and breath piano. You better not think about it too much. You better love the learning, love the music and love your friends.

I love my kids. I love music. I love my friends. And I love Seymour Bernstein. But. . . I'm sticking with Bill after all. It's the right thing to do. But I might get a pretty lamp for my piano, that will remind me of Seymour when I play and teach. And I might frame this picture.  Thanks again to Paul and Olivia. What a gift you have given us all.

Calvin and Seymour Bernstein after the Masterclass on Op. 90

The Joys of Summer

🎵🎵🎵 “I can tell you my love for you will still be strong, after the joys of summer have gone.  . . . “  Oh, wait. . . that’s not how it goes, exactly.  My next-door neighbor has a new habit of listening to his radio in his garage while he goes out of town for the weekend. The station has a limited repertoire, Don Henley’s Boys of Summer, J. Geils Band’s Angel is a Centerfold, and Bob Segar’s Old Time Rock and Roll seem to be the mainstays. Pick one for your ear worm, any will do.  

One of my family’s dear ones has a bad cancer.  Enough with the cancer, right? And one glance at the news or Facebook will set you back a little too. Thank God we got the boys out of the cave. I say we, because weren’t we all on the same team for a moment in time? 

Yesterday I went to the eye doctor for the second time in two weeks. The fun visual field test (the lady said I had excellent concentration, by the way) revealed what Dr. Flirt had suspected. Turns out he didn’t just want to see my smiling face again. . . my peripheral vision is dying. He showed me the little picture of the areas where blind spots are developing, spots where the pressure in my eyes has irreparably damaged the optic nerves. Cue lifetime glaucoma treatment. Thank God for that, right? What would Grandma Gene have given to put drops in twice a day for a few decades to preserve his vision? I’m gonna be fine. Anyways, there is a kid who shows up at my studio every week with a contagious grin on his face and tells me about the joys in his life and he can’t see a darn thing. He’s off to sleep-a-way camp next week so I think I can put some drops in my eyes. 

Last night I started reading a timely book, The Book of Joy, by his holiness the Dalai Lama and Desmond Tutu, the Archbishop Emeritus of Southern Africa.  I love me a good book co-written by a Catholic and a Buddhist. They are quick to mention that of the seven billion people on the planet one billion are neither Lutheran or Buddhist (go figure) and apparently those people can achieve joy and deserve joy in spite of their agnostic state. What can these two symbols of exile and apartheid possibly have to say about joy? Well, the elephant in their rooms is that it is not contingent upon political satisfaction or social justice. 

My kids and Bill and I talk a lot about joy. Joy versus fun. Fun is a new American Girl doll, joy is passing it on to another little girl.  Fun is a trip to Nickelodeon Universe. Joy is getting selected to play in master classes  and private lessons with Seymour Bernstein and Andrew Staupe, getting to play a Chopin Etude on an honors recital and being a finalist in a Chopin contest. Congrats to Calvin on those achievements from his audition at the Young Artist’s World Piano Festival yesterday--because he kept practicing in the summer--instead of achieving the next virtual level on your video game.  Or maybe in addition to--we are human. 

Joy is sharing your cabin with your friends. Mary’s school friends are here this weekend and they played board games in the car on the drive in the pouring rain instead of vegging out to a video. They helped me unload the car in mosquito land. 

I put on my new glasses this morning and looked out the cabin bathroom window while I brushed my teeth. The loon family of mama and daddy and the two adolescents swam by. The babies are almost as big as the grown ups. How ironic. How big do the babies have to be before the eagles can’t scoop them up for dessert? When can those loon parents ever relax? When can those babies drive to band camp in Duluth all by themselves? I don’t know.  If I worry about every screech in the night I will never enjoy the loon family. That is the price we pay for having Eagles. 

I’m only fifty. It’s a great time to commit to being joyful. I have great mentors. My dad never complained about dying from cancer. My mom and my in-laws never complain about pushing eighty. Here’s a great quote from another great religion, “the challenges we face, are simply not the making of God.” 

How much time do we waste making up stuff to worry about or worrying about things we have absolutely no control over. How do Desmond Tutu and Dalai Lama hold the world in compassion without going to the dark side?  The first chapter of the book is titled, “Why Are You Not Morose?”  Apparently you can care about the suffering of the world and still have a good day.  Not that I have achieved this.  I’m still working on having a good day with 4-5 hours of sleep. 

I got a new phone case that says Choose Joy with some pretty flowers. Flowers bring me great joy--flowers in the yard, flowers on my shoes. Flowers on shirts. Flowers on my phone case. The problem with the phone case is only that when I’m on my phone, or checking email and Facebook I can’t see the Choose Joy part, it’s on the back of the phone, the part you see when it’s face down on the table.  Note to self. . . 

The girls are in the boat-house. They will be waking up in a minute and we are off to pick raspberries at the Wallin Farm.  Between worrying about the girls and the loons and the eagles I didn’t get much sleep last night, but at least for today, I’m choosing joy.  Whip cream and fresh berries for lunch won’t hurt the joy meter either. 

I hope you are finding your own joys of summer. 

Sara 🎶🎶

Scrapbooks. . . Part One

Making Scale Blocks

Summer Lessons

Battle of the Books Winner

End of Year Purge

Before. . . 

During. . . 

After. . . 

Banana Boating

Studio Spark of Joy

Mary Picked Strawberries and Made Jam

Ladybug Land

A Great Day's Work

I'm on a four day staycation. At home alone in my own house. Don't hate me.

It was a long road to here and now.

Yesterday I listened to the Eagles while cleaning out the upstairs bathrooms. How is it that I have neosporin that expired in 2012? Along came "Desperado." Time alone can take you back. Back to a first "date" when Sixto Sanchez dropped by my Austin upstairs garage apartment unannounced at 10:30 on a Thursday night with a six pack of Michelob Golden Light. He was the lead singer in the country band I had been subbing with for the last three weekends and it was looking like maybe they liked me and I had the gig. I guess this was my initiation. He had a voice like velvet. I only smooched him once but we sat at the piano and I played Desperado while he sang, which to me was better than what he probably had in mind when he stopped by. I played every song I knew and muddled through a bunch he wanted to sing that I didn't know. It was magical.

That little Thursday night interchange earned me an invitation to the band leaders office the next night after the gig. Dave Ramos's office was the passenger seat of a big old diesel truck, which he ran 24/7. He sat in the drivers seat and noodled on his guitar while casually quizzing me about the "date." I was 26. He was 30. Sixto was 24, or so he told me. It didn't take very long for Dave to explain that did I realize Sixto was really only 19. . . and to debunk a plethora of other lies Six had managed over three beers, one smooch and a couple hours at the piano. At 24 I had never been lied to before.

Really.

It didn't take much time for Six to find some other women to lie to date. In five years and 825 gigs Dave Ramos never made a pass at me. Or lied. I guess there's two kinds of country singers. I still get Christmas cards from Dave's wife.

In between cleaning the bathrooms and the linen closet, time alone tempts you to pick up the baby books and the scrap books. You see, I'm trying to decide if I should finish Calvin's scrapbook before he graduates or actually just spend some time with him this year. Not sure if I can do both. Bill's taken 50,000 photos. There are another 13,000 recital and concert programs. I'm currently up to 4th grade.

What's the kicker of the baby books? My dad. My dad with the babies. He's holding the babies and toddlers like they were lovers. Seems like Calvin and Mary are always almost naked--usually in their diapers. Always eye contact and always hands on. Always his hands holding theirs, or their little fingers wrapped around one of his big fingers. Innocent and sensual all at once. We don't have any pictures of him like that with me. Times were different then.

I'm leaning toward skipping the scrapbook marathon.

It's the summer before Calvin's senior year. I won't blame you if you don't read any blog entries this year. Calvin already told me he's mentally preparing for my "last this and that" drama.

It started today when I ran an errand to Bed Bath and Beyond. They have lists of the stuff kids are supposed to take to college. Too soon.  Calvin will always be sleeping under his Great Northern Railway bedspread in the red bead board bed we bought when he turned three. He does still love trains.

I talked to Casey and shared with her that he's thinking about the University of Iowa and she started to cry 1200 miles away. Heaven help us.

The last ten weeks have been something else. I don't know what to say except that I kinda overdid it, culminating one particularly big meltdown. My goal this summer, on these low key days of solitude, these luxurious times, is to come up with a sustainable routine. To figure out how to be with the people I want to be with and do the things I want to do, and the things that need to be done. . . without losing it. Prayers are welcome.

It's that balance between equilibrium and disequilibrium. The calendar is not a coloring book to fill in. Filling every hour of every day is not sustainable. I've only got five more years with kids at home, one with Calvin. I'd like to do it right.

Like childbirth and the death of a parent, everyone seems to pretty much survive their kids growing up. But, like childbirth and the death of a parent, it's different when it's YOU and not some acquaintance's Facebook photos of dropping their kid, who probably doesn't even like trains that much, at some college in some other state.

I better get off to bed before I'm tempted to pull out the stack of photo albums I spent God knows how many hours on with Linda, Tammy and Michelle. In those days, moms needed breaks from their kids on Friday nights so they went over to friends to put pictures of those same kids in scrapbooks, which we will grab on the way out the door in case of fire. I'm a hopeless historian. Hence blogging about the kids on a Saturday night when they are at the cabin.

I'll probably finish the scrapbooks.