[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]I’ve had a few great moments teaching over the last few weeks.

One I wrote about on Facebook getting a group of difficult kids to kazoo instead of sing. They are too cool to sing. In fact, they told me they HATE singing. But they kazooed over and over. It was excellent.

I gave different group of kids different kazoos, and watched one little girl who is generally really passive in music class (shy? can’t work out if I am friend of foe? haven’t worked her out yet….) absolutely kill herself with laughter as the rest of her class kazooed a children’s song. Thigh-slapping, red-faced guffawing. It was excellent.

I had another group of children perform ‘Advance Australia Fair’ in a combination of Dharug, Dharawal and English to their school principal yesterday. They sang so very proudly. As far as I’m concerned, this is the way our National Anthem should be sung, until we get another one. First in the local Indigenous language, and then in English. I watched these children stand like a professional group of singers and just let rip. It was excellent.

But best of all was probably a lesson I taught to a grown-up student. I don’t have many of these (as in grown-up students), and I like teaching them a lot. I was feeling inspired after a series of yoga classes. I realise that I’m taught at yoga with no judgement (everyone judges. All the time. I’m not writing about judgement again. I’ve been accused of it a number of times (judging – not writing about it). And I do judge. But mostly me. Did I teach the best I could do today? Did I play as beautifully as I could just then?). Sorry. I digress. Back to teaching with no judgement. I’m asked in yoga to experience. But not judge. So I tried it in a cello lesson. I don’t think you could do this with children. At least not little ones. I asked this student to play. And then listen. What was wrong? Not good, or bad, but just inaccurate. How was it inaccurate? (Not what did they do to make it inaccurate – see the difference here? It’s quite liberating!) And I watched this student really enjoy themselves.

It was strange for me, as a teacher. I was fairly passive. I felt a little bit like I was directing a river, but not interrupting the flow of it. It was great for me to experience. I’ll probably do it again. Not all the time, mind, as I didn’t impart much actual nuts-and-bolts knowledge, but it was a great process.

So today I’ve judged my teaching.

I’ve judged music-making.

I think everyone should do it all the time. In a non-judging, kazooing, proud sort of way.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]I realise that if you are reading this it might sound like “That’s it – I’ve had enough. I am fed up.” Taking my bat and ball (actually, if anyone is reading this who knows about my sporting prowess (Em? You there?) you’ll know that I wouldn’t have had a bat and ball at all. Maybe a book and some knitting?) and going home. But it’s not that at all. It’s about stuff. As in possessions.

The house across the road from me in Sydney was auctioned for an outrageous amount of money the other day – and it still wasn’t seen as enough. I hear about friends of mine working all week, and then coming home to ‘do the garden’ or renovate some room or another. I watch ABC’s ‘War on Waste‘ with interest. I talk to people who are ‘decluttering’ all the time.

How did we get to need so much stuff? And why do we need these enormous houses? Or perfect houses? Or multiple houses (ahem, politicians?) Or huge cars?

I was sitting thinking the other day, whilst staring out the window (I read about this the other day. You can also see a lovely little video about it here. I’ve tried to do it more since reading about it.). And I think I have enough. What would I do if I had more money? You know, I’d probably give it away. I’d probably give it to the ACMF, so that more kids could have music in their lives. I really believe in that.

You see, I have a beautiful cello. I have excellent clothes that I love wearing. I have a tablet that I can watch my Netflix subscription on. I have an excellent little car that I share with my husband. I have a bike that goes as fast as I can pedal it. I have a really wonderful relationship (none of this is in order, by the way!). I drink really good leaf tea, and nice wine whenever I want it. I drink French champagne often. I have a job and a concert series that I love with all of my heart. I go to yoga a lot, and can afford to have really good teachers guide me. I don’t own a house. I don’t want to endlessly renovate. I don’t want to be mortgaged to the hilt and worry about things all the time. (OK – I don’t have children I need to get through school – but that has also been a very deliberate choice.) In one of my staring-out-the-window musings I realised that I was happy. I have an excellent, loving partner. I have a job I love. I have a wonderful group of friends who are loyal, and loving, and tolerant (yes – I know. They’d need to be around me. And Ben will be nominated for sainthood at some point).

And I have enough. Probably more than enough. It’s pretty liberating to feel like this.

I thank my Timorese friends for showing me this. Mostly.

Will it always be like this? Who knows? But now it is.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]So, according to Hot Chocolate, everyone’s a winner baby. Apparently, it’s no lie. But that’s the thing…. everyone doesn’t win all the time.

It strikes me as strange, in a country obsessed with sport where someone always wins and someone doesn’t win, we aren’t better at not winning. I play a game in my music classes that is a variation of musical statues. Everyone gets a tambourine. When the music plays, everyone walks around and hits their tambourine (hopefully to the beat of the music – but this doesn’t always happen. It’s also a good chance for me to see what children do this instinctively – but that’s a different story). When the music stops, they must freeze, balance their tambourine on their head, and put their arms out like an aeroplane. If the tambourine falls off their head, the child is out. It’s an excellent self-policing game, really, and everyone likes it. I use it as a hey-we’ve-all-just-had-a-pretty-demanding-music-lesson-and-here’s-something-a-bit-fun-now type of ending to a music lesson.

I played this in three different classes last week. In every class I had at least one tantrum when someone got out, sometimes more. (It was exhausting. I felt like I was herding cats at one point.) Lots of sad faces. One child told me that I was the WORST TEACHER EVER. Now, I know everyone likes to win something. But this was pretty interesting. It got me thinking…..

I was pulled up once when I was training teachers, because I advocated saying ‘no’ when a child got something wrong. Let me clarify – this was quickly followed by a ‘yes’ when the mistake was corrected. You can’t say ‘no’, I was told. It wasn’t ‘positive learning’, or some edurubbishtoopcspeak. Why can’t we say ‘no’ to children? They will get ‘no’ in the rest of their lives. I am often told ‘no’. They will have this said to them too. They will lose in things. Everyone isn’t always a winner, despite what we are told in disco songs. Shouldn’t we be able to deal with no, or losing in a game? And shouldn’t we be teaching children how to do this too?

I’m happy to wear the ‘worst teacher ever‘ hat for a bit. My little friend was genuinely devastated. But do the children I see get praised too much all the time? All the ‘high five’s and ‘great job’s may be doing more damage than we think.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Well, if the truth be known, I am pooped. Completely whacked. Worn out. I’ve had a very busy week. Over the last week I have set up a crypt, played three concerts of duo music for cello and violin (including one very difficult Bach sonata and some Bartok pieces that required nerves of steel), driven to the Blue Mountains, played another concert, taught a busy day in a Sydney school, went to another Sydney school and got a huge choir ready for their ANZAC assembly, got in a plane, travelled to another school a long way away, taught K-9 there, two choir rehearsals and some staff drumming classes. Then I’ve come home and fallen in a heap.

I have a strange sort-of duality in my life – I’m a music teacher that makes a lot of noise and spends a lot of time laughing and being a bit silly in front of groups of children. I’m also a cellist – actually, on reflection, I make a fair bit of noise and spend a lot of time laughing and being silly doing that as well. Some of my colleagues (some teachers and some professional musicians… actually some non-colleagues as well) can’t work out what box to put me in – am I a teacher? a performer? am I better at one of them? do I like one of them more?

I had a think about it. I love doing both of them. And to me, they are both really similar. I am simply sharing what I love the most. It doesn’t matter to me if it’s a Bach sonata, or a piece of folk music, or a simple song, or a chime-bar piece, or a drumming pattern. It’s just music. And music is what I love. I wish that more people loved it. I wish that every child could be taught it properly. I wish that every grown-up could go to concerts and be transported by it. It’s the best thing I know. And I love to share it. In any form.

Does that make sense, I wonder?[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]I have this lovely friend who is a painter…. I’ve written about her before here – I only know one painter. Actually, I don’t think I should call her a painter – she’s a ‘visual artist’. (She doesn’t paint houses for a living.)

Last week, I played at a workshop for her – 6 student painters were being taught by her about how to respond to music and ‘make marks’. I like that term. It made me wonder how my marks were made – and I could see my playing almost like the light you see from a sparkler when you move it quickly in front of your face. You know that light that you see, and love, and then it’s gone? That’s was how I saw the marks I made on that day.

Each piece was treated the same way. I played, and everyone listened. Then I played again and they made a ‘sketch’ of shapes on not-so-good paper in just charcoal. Then I played again and they could do another ‘sketch’ using charcoal, white and one colour. And then they could start a painting on good paper. They weren’t painting me. They were painting the music. 

I chose to try and be as still as possible when I wasn’t playing. I wanted to be as little intrusion as a person as I could be. And when I played, I tried to give them everything I could – phrasing that took the piece (and their marks?) somewhere, space between notes (probably more so than usual, but not too much, otherwise then the music wouldn’t work so well) and a beautiful sound. I also tried to play the same sort of way each time. On reflection, it was a hugely disciplined day for me – it reminded me a lot like the recording process.

Here’s what I learned…..

My friend is an excellent teacher.

I felt the panic in the room in the first piece. No-one really knew what to do. By the second piece, though, there was this wonderful peace. No-one talked very much. There was a real feeling of being present, and I loved it.

There are very few times that people are present – everyone seems to be on their phones, or on their computers. When did you last stop. And do nothing. Look out a window, or listen to birds. Not when you are on holiday, either. Just each day. I like it. I try to do it as much as I can. Stare into middle distance for a few minutes each day.

It’s hard to play as I chose to. Very demanding – mentally and physically. But it was the right way to do it, I think. And it was really appreciated.

Making art is a beautiful thing. I loved watching it happen. I’m not sure I could do it, visually.

Charcoal gets everywhere. Fingers, faces, the floor, cups of tea. You name it. Being a cellist is much cleaner….[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]