Hopeful Squawking

The most hopeful people in the entire world (in my estimation!) have to be school music teachers: those band and and choir directors of all ages who love music, but who, every day, hear the squeaks and squawks and errant sharps and flats made by young people learning music, and still can somehow can envision a symphony.

I often wondered how the very people who love good music so much, can spend so much time listening to music played poorly.

My own experiences in choirs, bands and orchestras all throughout my education proved to me that beautiful music can be achieved, and is so often! But, oh, the pain our teachers must have felt as we were making our mistakes. 

When I was a student in college I used to love walking the halls of the practice rooms. Upon entering you heard the blending of all the sounds, but as you passed by each door you could hear the individual notes being played: a violin warming up, the cellist going over a difficult line, the repetitions of music theory, a lilting flute, and on and on. 

Standing by one door I could be reminded of how, as a little girl, I loved lying under our grand piano while my mother, a gifted pianist, practiced. 

I am convinced that good music heals the heart.

Even as a child I recognized that not everyone had a Baldwin grand piano in their living room. I also learned early that one could get out of doing dishes by practicing piano instead. Although my mom wasn't my personal music teacher, (she had 40 or so of her own piano students, but knew enough not to try to teach her own kids!) she knew every note of every song, so even when in a different room she would call out to me, saying things like "That's an F Sharp!" or "Try that line again."

She was a perfectionist, and firmly believed that music should be played correctly. However, she was a musician, and even more importantly than being played perfectly, she believed that it should be performed musically. 

Mom's organ teacher in college, at Concordia in Moorhead, MN, was none other than the famous Paul J. Christiansen. She told me about one of the first weddings she ever played for. In the middle of the prelude she looked down from the balcony in horror, as Paul J was ushered into the church. She says she played in fear of making a mistake that entire wedding. 

My guess is that he was proud of the beautiful job she did. 

I asked her if she made a mistake when she looked down and saw him. 

"My hands felt like jello," she admitted, "and I'm sure I missed a beat in that measure. But pretty soon I forgot that he was there and just enjoyed the music."

Mom never stopped striving for excellence, however. Whether accompanying a soloist, playing for church, enjoying Christmas carols, or with any type of music, she continually reinforced for me the importance of practicing, and of striving for perfection.

It was important to her, and she passed that down to me. Whether singing in a choir, preparing for a piano recital as a child, playing my flute in band or orchestra, or cantering during mass,  I wanted the notes, the pitch, and the rhythms to be perfect, although I know it rarely was.

And that's what amazes me about music teachers. Somewhere in the cacophony of sounds there is the hope that it will all come together. I think, even more than that, there is the hope that each child will develop a love of music.

So, here's to you, music teachers! You give me hope.