I'm loving the process of getting reacquainted with my cello. My instructor, Rick is a life long musician, and plays the bass in the Stockton Symphony. Whether playing his bass or my cello, Rick's personal connection to the instrument translates into heavenly music. He often uses my cello during our lessons and plays what I might have been struggling with that week. When he pulls the bow over the strings, magic happens. He makes it look effortless. So why haven't I been able to produce sounds that are at least similar to his? Of course, there's the fact that he's been playing over thirty years. Also, "It requires Correct Repetition" is what he tells me when I point out that my hours of practicing seem to produce only three sounds; squeak, squawk, and squeal! "Correct Repetition" means that when I play the note wrong, I go back to it and rectify the error until each note is played properly. THEN repeating those corrected notes over and over again until they are consistently right. He reminds me that practicing is a waste of time if I'm not using the proper techniques and repetitively correcting my errors.
Every week I lug my cello into the music store, head to the designated spot, and wait for his request, "Show me what you're working on." I play, and the lesson starts.
One evening I presented my music to Rick. After the last note, he tilted his head, folded his arms and smiled (it looked more like a grimace). "It sounded so much better at home" I offered. All I've got now is squeak, squawk and squeal. "I have no doubt that you know the technique. You know HOW to play the cello," he said. Ok, he's not stopping there. And he's NOT about to stroke my ego by applauding my efforts. "That's great" he continued. I feel a little smile stretching across my face! Uh-oh, I think I hear a BUT about to happen. "The problem is," he continues, "you're not making music." The smile I almost had? Fast fade. In its place was a copy of Rick's grimace. "You have to make music." Then he offered a sort of Miracle on 34th Street, Santa Claus-like smile. "Let's make music. THAT'S what I'm here for."
Here's what I learned that night: Reading notes, using correct finger positions, and applying the necessary weight on the strings are all vital components to mastering the techniques needed to play the cello. I was doing those things and improving every week. Playing an instrument isn't only about technique. It also requires commitment. I would say that commitment is the heart of music. If I really want to produce enjoyable music, I have to know my cello - what it can do and what I can do with it, and commit my time to playing it. I have to know when I'm playing the notes too sharp or too flat. It means knowing when to slide my fingers a quarter, an eighth or possibly a sixteenth of an inch to make the cello sing.
Recently, I played a relatively difficult piece during my lesson. After I played, Rick told me that he assigned that piece knowing that I could play it, but not expecting me to perform it as well as I had. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than my instructor had expected. "Now," he smiled, " you're making music!" It takes time and practice. The result? Music. Sweet, Sweet Music.
Life is like music. Created in each of us is a desire for beautiful music. We learn the techniques and at some point we're capable of surviving the difficult notes of life. As we advance, we understand the necessity of Competitive Repetition: Don't repeat the mistakes. Repeat the successes. We understand that making music requires time and commitment. So we commit. We make the mistakes, but as time grants, we learn to make music and our lives sing. Along the journey to making music we encounter obstacles. One such obstacle is a frayed or broken string.
Part II will explore how obstacles interrupt our flow, but not our commitment to making beautiful music.
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