Summer has arrived in Vermont and with it a less cautious approach to Covid. In following the Governor’s guidelines, I kept restrictions in place and held the studio virtual through two weeks of spring recitals. Once notes from the last piece faded, I sent out my summer sign up schedule including the news that lessons for those in close proximity, would once again be in-person.
It turned out to be strange for me. I thought I would feel complete joy and freedom in returning to what I know works best. A true hands-on approach. But, I confessed to Paul that I felt nervous, not about the virus, everyone had been vaccinated, but about returning to a style of teaching that I had not used in well over a year. Each day I practice in the studio where I taught, so I spent time there, but there has been an odd silence for a long time. My extra stand still holds music, waiting for another player, my duet books sit stacked, collecting dust and my trusty jar of chocolates stands empty.
Everyone was excited about the opportunity to study in the studio again. But, for some, maybe they could start on their second sign up lesson?..., maybe we could stay virtual because they have an appointment right after their lesson, or perhaps they don't need to drive so far each time after all?, or..it is so hot...
Who knew?
In my mind the return to “normal” would, indeed, look “normal.” It might take a bit of transition time, but then our lives would look the way that they have always looked. In thinking about this I have since changed that thinking.
Change rarely occurs without difficulty. We had no idea the amount of difficulty that would accompany this virus, or how much our lives would be transformed by it. We can't know what we don't know - until we do. When I made the decision to shut the in-person part of my studio down, so many people had to bend their ideas of what constituted the shape of their cello lesson. At the beginning, we groaned together at the glitches, stutters and being tossed off line altogether. I watched some of my students smile, through clenched teeth, and knew they were struggling with whether or not to continue: but we did. And amazingly, as time passed everyone, including me, grew as a musician. Our routines began to bend. Ethan's greeting became a chance to outdo himself each lesson with some sort of unique greeting- sometimes I'd see a puppet on his hand, or sometimes he would come on upside down and, glitch or no, it made us both laugh uproariously – and we needed that.
At the beginning I would watch someone look up from their instrument with surprise when I corrected a pitch in their scale or talked about how not to be as abrupt in the ending of their phrase. Confidence, on both sides, began to grow.
During Covid, the studio had three recitals - two of them included senior recitals. Despite my Luddite-level technical ability, I was able to figure out a way to entice everyone into recording their recital pieces so that I could share them with the rest of the studio, reminding them that, even though it might not feel like it all of the time, they actually were and are a part of a larger community of cellists. I would put up a recital piece and then sit back and watch them respond to each other, joking, laughing, commiserating, and always supporting. I felt proud, like a mother hen.
We had figured it out and made it work and now we are going back. To what?
Last week I tidied up my music space. Dusted off my duet books and filled my chocolate jar. I took a moment to stand in the silence and reflect on what I had been able to accomplish in really difficult circumstances, and think about what my next step would look like.
I remind students that there is not a choice about difficulty being part of the learning process, or part of the life process, but how we perceive that difficulty and how we choose to respond to it, belongs to us. It is where our strength truly lies.
I've learned what it means to bend. Moving forward, things won't look like they did “before”- Maybe they shouldn't.
Challenge? Sure...but how about if we call it an adventure.
Melissa Perley