Our washing machine is broken, so I made a trip to the laundromat around the corner to do a quick load before transferring it to the dryer at home. While there, my ears were blessed -- or possibly cursed -- with the sound of a young violinist, probably no more than seven years old. Upon first hearing the sound, I wasn't sure where it was coming from. I looked around and happened upon a young child with their back to me, sitting in a small chair, their feet resting on their violin case, and a sheet of music hanging on a wheeled laundry basket.
Their playing was rapid, squeaky, and sloppy. Over and over and over again. Not only that, but they kept playing the wrong notes without correction. It was like hearing someone speak using the wrong words or the wrong order of words and wanting to desperately correct them. (Side note: years ago, I was given the moniker of "Spellcheck" by my roommates for the exact reason that I tended toward correcting verbal grammatical errors. I've since stopped this habit for the most part.) What's more, they were playing the beginning lines of Beethoven's Ode to Joy; their playing was anything but joyful.
As I listened to this child and their playing, it became increasingly difficult not to intervene. Not because I wanted them to stop playing, but because I wanted them to really play. I could hear the ignorance of the piece in their fingering and bowing, and their lack of love for it in the speed which they played. I looked over at one point, and they had stopped looking at the sheet of music -- a possible attempt to memorize the short piece.
I can remember being a young child learning to play the piano. From day one I was frustrated because I wanted to be a virtuoso (same thing happened when I tried to learn the violin, too). I was more preoccupied with "learning" a piece and getting all of the notes right instead of loving the music itself. I also considered it to be a triumph if I could play something really fast while still having note accuracy. Don't get me wrong, there were still pieces that I loved, some to the point of repetition ad nauseam. I think I loved them in part because I knew them so well, and the notes flowed easily beneath my fingers. Learning new pieces was not as much fun. I disliked having to feel out the fingering, count out the tempo (gawd I hated counting!), coordinate the movement of both hands, etc. I eventually grew tired of it and the discipline of practicing itself, and stopped my lessons completely. I loved music, but I no longer loved playing it because it was a chore and not a joy.
While I understand that learning anything is a discipline, if there is no joy then the discipline no longer serves a purpose and creates no depth in life. It merely becomes something that is done for its own sake or even for the sake of others (e.g. parents wanting their child to learn music or gymnastics). I wish I had been taught to love the act of learning music in addition to playing it, instead of dreading having to sit on the piano bench for twenty minutes a day going over scales and attempting to master a piece I couldn't care less about. Maybe then I wouldn't have given it up...maybe.
Listening to this child and their repetitive bowing and butchering of this song to joy, I wanted to go over and tell them: "Pause your playing. Set your bow down. Close your eyes. Breathe. Hold your violin in your hands and gently feel its every curve. Run your fingers over its strings, noticing the differences in thickness. Trace the line of the holes. This instrument, its parts, were created to make beautiful sounds. Your song was written as an expression of praise. Do not rush in playing the notes. It isn't about the notes. It's about the sound they make, the sound you make with each stroke of your bow. Play a song, not the notes. Allow your instrument to sing."
I did not do this. I don't know how it would have been received if I had. But it made me think of how often we go through life wanting to appear masterful of the things we do (or how we can hide the things we don't do so well). We are not always so openly committed to learning -- to finding the joy in learning itself. We are perfectionists and task oriented in our pursuits.
We are at the precipice of a new year (less than 12 hours from now, in fact). How many of us will carry over resolutions to do better in some aspect of our lives? How many of us will abandon them before the first month is over? (According to
this source new year's resolutions last longer than six months for less than half of those studied.) And yet, we keep making them, subconsciously expecting overnight results, not recognizing the process often involved in creating new habits and achieving new goals. We do this with expectation and persistence, and maybe hopefulness, but hardly ever joy. We are determined to master the notes, but not to play, not to sing.
Five years ago, I wrote
another piece on how I was no longer making resolutions. Instead, I would come up with a theme each year to reflect on and how it related to what was happening (or maybe even what should happen) in my life. Sometimes this has worked out well, and other times it doesn't seem to have made that much of a difference. I'll sometimes forget the theme I have come up with for the year, though this is not always a bad thing. Still, the purpose is to set an intention.
My theme from 2018 was "let go." There was no way for me to know how much this would come into play this year. Not long after the year started, I lost a family member to suicide. I've since come to terms with his death, but it still involved having to let go of someone before I was ready. I also had to give my cousin's cat, whom I loved dearly, back to her, which was a separation I already knew would happen but was no less painful. I had to let go of some of my emotional protections and experience vulnerability with people I could trust in order to allow myself to be fully seen and loved. These are just a few of the examples for how this theme has come into play. I'm sure there were others, but I won't name them here.
I thought I had my theme for next year already figured out. It was small and simple, just a single word: Seek. However, upon reflecting on my recent encounter at the laundromat, I've decided to add one more word to it. Joy. Seek joy.
The intention is not to only seek that which gives pleasure, or to seek to be happy every day. In a world of so much darkness, doubt, deceitfulness, viciousness, and
violence, it seems counter-intuitive and maybe even naive or futile to have such a theme. But how are we to have hope if we cannot have joy? I am a believer in social movements, grassroots organizing (and not just for electoral campaigns), the power of the masses, etc. I know it takes real work for the world to change, and often the work of those who have certain social privileges, such as myself. However, the work means nothing if there is no joy. Burnout, discouragement, apathy, and compassion fatigue all become inevitable without it. The work becomes only notes, but not a song.
I do not know how this year will turn out. There is sure to be tragedy, periods of darkness, moments of doubt and disappointment, occasions of violence, injustice, disaster, etc. as there is every year. And there will likely be periods of monotony and dullness, too -- days where tasks take priority, busy-ness ensues, and time passes without thought or awareness. This is to be expected because it's life. But it isn't the full picture, either.
My hope is that running through and underneath all of it -- the tears and disappointment, the monotony and dullness -- there is a song, a hymn of praise. For the light of day each morning, for the love felt by others and the Divine love which surrounds us, for the opportunity for connections, growth, and change; for the simple gift of breath. There is joy to be found, even in times of darkness, if we attempt to seek it.
May we all seek joy and come to live our lives as a song.
