As I was sitting here staring at a blank page thinking and thinking about how I didn’t have anything to write, it occurred to me how much time I spend thinking so hard about so many different things that don’t really matter very much, or maybe aren't even real.

Why did that one G come out so funny in rehearsal last week? Why do I feel so disorganized about what I need to practice? Why can’t I remember to water my plants? Why didn’t I plan better before I went grocery shopping this week?

I would guess not everyone does this to the same extremes, but I’m also pretty sure I’m not alone in the amount of brain space and time I can spend considering a lot of important (and unimportant) things ad nauseam.

A few days ago I caught myself doing this while I was practicing. I’ve written about different scenarios of this before, but for some reason it sparked a light bulb moment this week, even though I’ve already experienced similar realizations. (We keep being given the same messages until we learn what we need from them, I think.)

When I’ve written about this before it was about overthinking that happens when we have so much on our to-do lists that we catastrophize all of it to the point of not being able to get started. My experience this week was different in a subtle, but important way. 

As I was practicing, I was honed in on something that felt a little weird or “off” in my playing - something that, I kept thinking, I should be able to do effortlessly and that I shouldn’t ever have to think about at this point. I caught myself thinking that this particular aspect of my playing was so solid and easy before, how could I have regressed so that it wasn’t?

As I was ruminating, out of nowhere and for a brief moment, I had a sliver of outside perspective. I remembered the reality of previous practice sessions days, months, and even years ago. I realized that I might not have been paying much attention to this aspect of my playing before, but that wasn’t because it was perfect. I remembered clearly other times that I had off-days with this particular skill. 

This tiny moment of clarity allowed the thought fog to lift and reminded me that we really can’t believe everything we think. 

I had been understandably frustrated with something that doesn’t usually require my attention, but in allowing my frustration to run rampant I had started telling myself stories that went well beyond the actual experience at hand about my abilities, approach, and playing without even realizing how far into the fabricated future I was letting my thoughts travel. 

Even though this experience was subtle, it felt like a huge step forward. How long would I have created unnecessary frustration and distraction over this issue in my practice if I hadn’t been able to see what was happening with a wider perspective?

I believe whole heartedly that mindfulness meditation is what has created an increasing number of these very subtle “ah-ha” moments for me both in music and life. 

Much like practicing our instruments, practicing mindfulness can seem slow to progress and sometimes tedious, but the growth is always available to you if you are willing to stick with the practice. 

How aware are you of your thoughts in the practice room?
Can you really see where the division is between what’s happening now in the moment and what you’re predicting about the future?
How could you strengthen your mind to see the moment clearly?

I had a great conversation with a friend this week where we were discussing right effort, the way our thoughts shape our actions, and specifically, how we use our thinking to avoid challenges and challenging work. 

It was a little light bulb moment for me about how what might feel like a persistent self-critical train of thought might actually be a sneaky method of avoidance. 

Think about how often we make critical statements about ourselves in our thoughts. We see someone performing well and think we can’t, or we look at someone who is in shape and think we could never manage the self discipline. Perhaps when you are practicing you have thoughts that some aspect of your playing will just never be very strong. 

In some ways these thoughts can feel helpful, even productive. It feels like we are identifying the places we are deficient, that we are creating a laundry list of ways we’d like to be better, and selecting things we will work on later (probably).

​But are we really creating a productive task list? Or are we repeating a predictable, easy list of “things to do” that makes us feel like we’re getting somewhere, substituting it for actionable steps or objectives? 

Being a good musician requires us to think critically, but the quality of the feedback we are giving ourself matters. 

The next time you catch yourself thinking a generic critical statement in the practice room, see if you can catch it and challenge yourself to go deeper. Not just identifying what is bad, but really naming the specifics - what do you want to change and how you could do that.  Even if you don't land on the right solution on the first try, which we usually don't, you're moving in a productive direction.

Do your best to keep seeing the moment in depth, and try to stop those generic critical thoughts from pulling you off track.

Have a clear intention for your actions and keep looking close to avoid getting caught up in generalities. 

Of course this isn’t as easy as just saying something needs work and moving on like we regularly might. Our usual laundry list of critiques does serve a purpose - it lets us feel like we are accomplishing something.

Changing our habits and getting to the root of our critical thoughts doesn’t have to be painful, though. In fact, I think it should be the opposite. As we start to see the results of employing truly critical thinking, we’re motivated to keep up the good work. You might even feel less bad overall because you are no longer simply identifying things you don’t like about yourself or your habits. 
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Creating a healthier approach to critical thinking comes from right effort, curiosity, mindfulness, and a willingness to sit with some discomfort. By making our efforts more intentional  we can have a more equanimous approach to ourselves and the things that are important to us.

Have you ever heard your teachers say their goal is for you to “teach yourself”? 

It’s a common goal in music for teachers to discuss this concept, because at some point every student steps out on their own without a teacher they see each week to keep them on track. Although we can always choose to work with a teacher, no one knows us better than ourself.  We all become independent learners at some point. 

When we’re a student, growing the ability to teach ourself can look like taking our teacher’s advice about practice techniques, time management, listening, etc., and learning how to apply it appropriately in the practice room. During this time in our development, we still get to check in each week to make sure we’ve applied the tools correctly and are moving in the appropriate direction. 

What about after school? We don't all go into teaching, but I've learned a lot about teaching myself from teaching others. I view my students very objectively - my goal is always to really see and hear what they are doing, notice what is holding them back, and find creative solutions that work for them specifically. (i.e. My mean inner critic never comes out when I’m listening to a student the way it does when I’m “teaching” myself.)  

Beyond the reality that we are much meaner to ourselves than we are to others, there’s also the fact that we usually learn to guide ourselves at the same time we lose both our access to private lessons and the structure of music school. When it’s up to us to create our learning structure,  that can prove a large hurdle in itself. 

So when we really get down to practicing and improving on our own, how can we balance (or just plain shush) the inner critic who always has a lot of mean and distracting things to say but not nearly enough productive feedback to give?

I think there’s something missing from the whole process of the way that we are taught to approach teaching ourselves, and how we are taught to manage our fear and self criticism from the beginning.

Trust. 

This is a recent realization for me, brought on by a truly inspirational session of George Mumford’s mindful athlete course. During that particular session, it came up for a few people that they still feel so much doubt or anxiety doing the things they are skilled at. That as we build skill and expertise, we can often feel even more susceptible to outer judgement, and especially to self criticism.

In these scenarios where we know that we are able to do something, but afraid to realize our inner masterpiece (as George calls it), we can feel paralyzed. How do we keep moving toward our goals without getting distracted from right effort by our doubt and self criticism? 

Trust. 

When we’re really being vulnerable and pushing ourselves it can often feel like our faith or trust in ourselves, and what we’re doing, has vanished. We can be distracted by the difficulty and demand of what we are trying to do. What we need is to cultivate trust in ourselves, our performance, our message, and our ability to show up in the way we need to. 

Personally, I can feel overwhelmed by perfectionist thoughts, and this understanding that the mental barrier is arising from vulnerability and trying something challenging makes it easier to address. 

How do we address it exactly, though? How do we cultivate trust?

See the moment in depth:

* Either reflect back on when you challenged yourself and felt vulnerable or try to experience that moment deeply in real time. 
* Were you scared the entire time? As you look deeper, you will realize that there is a lot more nuance to it than that.
* Are you self critical the entire time? Or can you look with more intention to see beyond the self criticism and notice all the ways you know to help yourself practice well and grow your playing.
* As you start to see the truth in depth, see your fear and your inner critic, and also see how they intertwine with the entirety of your experience.

As you start to become aware of the truth - the depth of your experience - you will become more relaxed and observant which allows you to move forward moment by moment, doing what you know to do. You can focus on right effort.

Teaching ourselves is an exercise in mindfulness - how are we speaking to ourselves? What are we paying attention to, and do we need to shift our attention? How are deeply are we experiencing the moment? 

The objective is not to remove our doubt, but to make doubt the tool for learning. Know that doubt shows you where you can grow. 

At some point during the same session of the Mindful Athlete George said, “when you want to learn something, teach it.” 

What better way could there be to grow as a musician than to learn to mindfully teach ourself?

I have been reading, and thinking, a lot about time lately. Then again, doesn’t it always seem like we are thinking about time? 

How much can I get done today, how much is left to do, there’s not enough time to cook or do laundry, how many more students could I teach, etc…

I’ve just started reading Four Thousand Weeks by Oliver Burkeman, and already it has made me reconsider the way we perceive time and how we’ve come to interact with time the way we do. 

Just before starting this book, I had a conversation with my husband that I never imagined I would have - I actually said out loud that I would like to be less busy. 

As musicians, we’re primed from an early age to know how to be busy successfully, and that to be busy is to be successful. But lately, as my plates continue to fill with activities that feel an awful lot like busywork, I’m wondering how much of that actually equals success? 

If I am constantly teaching but never have time for the deep, intensive practice that is required to perform the way I want I am busy, and maybe successful? What if I consider the type of students am I teaching, how well I am teaching, and how much my performance abilities suffer - do I still feel successful? 

If I never have time to sit down and flesh out new ideas for classes and workshops or to codify what I am learning from teaching and performing, I am definitely busy but what about successful?

If I can’t enjoy time with my family or doing activities I love because I am working so much, it’s possible I am both busy and successful, but not content. 

All of these questions are very personal - we all want different things, and we've all reached varying levels of achievement to this point. 

As I was reading Four Thousand Weeks last night, I came across two passages in the book that really made me pause: 

“…you have too much to do, so you try to fit more in, but the ironic result is that you end up with more to do. The worst aspect of the [efficiency] trap is, though, is that it’s also a matter of quality. The harder you struggle to fit everything in, the more of your time you’ll find yourself spending on the least meaningful things.”

And especially:

“The more firmly you believe it ought to be possible to find time for everything, the less pressure you’ll feel to ask whether any given activity is the best use of a portion of your time.”

I can relate to these statements at my core. I’ve had that feeling so often that time is slipping away and that I never quite get enough done to really treat myself to spending time on the important stuff. 

It’s exactly how I was feeling when I said I’d like to be less busy (it’s still seems weird to say that out loud!). Isn’t that why we work so hard in the first place? Not to add more to our plates, but to be able to choose what’s on it in the first place.

Even in just the first few chapters of Four Thousand Weeks, Burkeman makes the point that as we get more skilled and gain more resources our culture does not reward us with time - it rewards us with more to do and higher demands. 

I feel a strong urge to release things right now - even some good things - to have space. Space to be still, to sit and think, to practice and not be rushed. 

What would it be like if we weren’t constantly chained to exterior time keepers like the demands of others and the sense that we need to be everywhere and everything to be worthwhile? I think it would feel luxurious, and probably also incredibly challenging because it would require directly opposing the cultural norm: busy = value. 

Isn’t it interesting, too, that just talking about doing less sounds lazy, selfish, and entitled? Or at least that’s how I’m feeling talking about it. Not to mention the financial factor here - there’s only so much we can choose not to do before the bills pile up, so some of this is daydreaming for sure. 

And still, I’d like to cancel a few things this week. Free up some time to practice, to plan, to write…maybe even to do nothing. 

Is there a way to shift how we relate to time in our current culture? I’m not sure, but it’s fun to think about.

The mind-body connection is both simple and straightforward and incredibly complex. It makes sense that our thoughts and our physical body would be intertwined (we do carry our brain around in our body all the time!), but the ways they affect each other are many and it can be overwhelming to consider how we might address this to improve our day to day life, performance, and ability to play and communicate through our instruments.

I love exploring the mind-body connection through yoga. I’ve learned so much about anatomy through my yoga practice and teacher training, and I have gained a lot of understanding about the way our fascia, muscles, and bones work. (I’m still learning, of course - this is not a small topic!)

No one part of the body operates alone.

As an example, recently I was finding that one side of my jaw/tongue felt stiff and immobile when I was practicing. My initial thought was that I must have been clenching my teeth throughout the day or while sleeping. As I observed myself, though, that proved not to be the case. 

Further observation led me to notice that when I turned my head I could feel strain/tension in the muscles around my collar bone that connect the shoulder and (surprise!) the jaw on the side of the tongue where I was experiencing limited mobility. By following up with some simple exercises for the point of origin in my shoulder and neck, I was able to relieve the tension inside my mouth.

It’s not just our physical body that benefits from this kind of knowledge and attention. In the situation I described above, understanding that the limitations I had been experiencing in articulation and mobility around the jaw were coming from something clearly temporary and fixable gave me a peace of mind in practice and the ability to plan well to alleviate those issues. 

This is a small example of how growing our understanding of the way the body works can help us solve problems in our practice and understand barriers that come up in playing and practice. 

I always try to be on the lookout for ways to deepen my understanding of how the physical and mental aspects of playing are connected. 

Recently, I’ve been discussing the role of the sinuses and soft palate in tone production with a lot of my students. I once had a teacher explain this to me by saying that you should raise the space just above the center of your eyebrows inside your head. (Did you try it? It’s possible! Kind of weird, right?)

You can create a similar feeling by breathing in quickly through the nose, or by mimicking the beginning of a yawn (are you yawning now from trying that?). 

Doing this helps us create resonance by using open space real estate already available in our head - the sinuses!

As I was working through this concept with a student, I was thinking about how that space above the center of the eyebrows is also the location of the third eye or anja chakra. 

In yoga, the third eye chakra is our seat of knowing or intuition. It acts as our center of wisdom and consciousness. This chakra allows for clear thought and self-reflection, and when it’s balanced trades “me vs. them” for a more interconnected approach to thought. 

When this chakra is blocked or out of alignment we might notice tension around the brow or headaches, sinus issues, or trouble concentrating and sleeping. Emotionally, we might feel a lot of self-doubt and worry, or find ourselves overthinking a lot if the third eye is out of balance. A blocked anja chakra can impede our ability to be confident.

Have you already noticed some connections between the third eye chakra and what we do as musicians? At our best, we want to be able to connect with our audience and our fellow musicians - we strive to stay open to others in performance. Not to mention that I think we’re always in need of clear self reflection and the ability to trust our intuition and abilities without overthinking. 

I don’t think it’s a far stretch to consider how the third eye chakra and the same space in our physical body might be connected in the creation of resonance and our sound, not to mention our phrasing and clear communication through music. 

So, how can we bring this concept into a more concrete application? How can we balance this chakra that it will benefit our musicianship? Some of these ideas may be things you already do in your practice and performance. If that’s the case, focusing on them in a new way might help to bring about new benefits or a greater understanding. 

Visualization is a great way to focus the mind. 
Try visualizing yourself in detail, playing at your best and connecting with your audience and fellow musicians. Or, visualize tension leaving the area at the center of the forehead, like a light flowing through allowing you to open up resonance and the third eye. 

Moving your body is a great way to balance any of the chakras. 
To bring the third eye back into balance, try child’s pose. Rest your head on a block, blanket, or the mat/floor and gently rock the head from side to side. Any gentle neck stretches will also help with opening up this part of the physical body.

Meditation is a powerful way to balance the mind and the third eye. 
Try a guided mindfulness meditation. Or, simply sit quietly and with stillness, allowing yourself to be present to your thoughts and feelings. 
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At first it can feel like a far stretch to combine the chakras with an aspect of musical performance like tonal resonance. As we grow our understanding that the body and mind are always intertwined, we close the gap between thinking of them as two separate entities and open up new resources for ourself as musicians.

At the end of a semester, a school year, or a long project we might notice ourselves lacking in energy. How inconvenient that we often hit this energy lull right when we need to push toward the finish line. 

Lately, I’ve noticed this in my students as their energy levels drop and their attention to detail goes along for the ride. 

This is the end of the first “regular” school year post-pandemic; we’re busier than we have been in two years, bouncing right back to the same expectations as the before times. 

Is it any wonder that we feel a little tapped out? 

It’s not just my students that are running low on energy - I am also finding myself feeling drained at the end of each day, and wishing for an extra hour of sleep when my alarm goes off. 

Fortunately I am more aware than I used to be of the ways I can help bolster myself for a busy life. I know that practicing yoga, meditation, eating well, and making sure I have time to practice the flute all help me feel prepared, calm, and generally well. But knowing these things help doesn’t make it any easier to fit them in when my schedule feels stuffed to the brim. 

I would guess I’m not the only person who can feel even more stressed about fitting in the “good stuff” when time is lacking. It can easily become just another thing that we have to check off the list each day.

The necessity of our responsibilities isn’t going away any time soon, so how can we find the extra boost we need to recommit to finishing a task well?

By making time to have fun.

Are you rolling your eyes yet? Thinking, “I’m busy and tired and she is really suggesting that I have fun?!”

Well, I am. 

Hear me out - it’s not as trite as it sounds. 

I am not saying to drop everything and take an island vacation. In fact, I’m almost suggesting the opposite. Find somewhere in your day that you can genuinely enjoy an activity. Preferably, an activity that has nothing to do with your to-do list. 

Maybe it’s the ten minutes you read a book by your favorite author at the end of the day. Or, the time it takes to do the daily Wordle over your morning cup of coffee. It could be driving with the windows down and the radio turned up or taking a walk to get some fresh air.

As you might have guessed, those are some of my current favorites. Your list might be completely different. Identifying the things that genuinely bring you joy is an important step in helping ourselves create more brain space for the tasks we have to do. 

You are doing something good for yourself at a foundational level by identifying these every day things that bring you joy - you’re setting yourself up to have somewhere you can go easily when you feel your mind or body becoming weary. Not somewhere you can escape to in avoidance for a day or a week or in place of completion, but a place you can hold space for yourself on a regular basis.

Prioritizing these small pockets of joy works because it is when we allow our brain to take a break that it really gets to work. As we rest and relax the brain codifies information, correlates the things we have learned, and rejuvenates itself. Have you ever put down a difficult puzzle only to come back later and instantly see what you had been missing?
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None of us like to acknowledge it, but when we really feel there is no time or energy is exactly when we need to carve out space for these small joys. Soak them up fully for a short time each day and carry the joy back to your work.

We are all aware that nothing is perfect. Logically, we know this is true and yet we continue to strive for perfection anyway. The dissonance this creates can be pervasive for musicians - we desperately want perfect response, performances, stage presence and technique even as we are fully aware that absolute perfection is impossible. 

This disconnect between what we want and what we know is possible can leave us with a distinct dissatisfaction; a nagging feeling that we are not capable of what we hope to achieve. 

So if we’re not really striving for perfection, what are we working toward?

In Terry Orlick’s book “The Pursuit of Excellence” he emphasizes connected focus. In a solitary sport or pursuit, this means being fully connected to the task at hand. But there are a variety of layers to this - in chamber music, it could be connecting to your fellow musicians; in teaching it might mean to focus on fully connecting with your students through what you are teaching. It could even mean focused listening when you are the audience and not the performer. 

Having this connected focus in mind has proven incredibly helpful for me in tying together elements of mindfulness and yoga with my musical practice and performance, and particularly helpful in learning to work with and through performance anxiety. 

Last weekend, I hosted a big event for around fifty flutists. Beyond organizing and coordinating, I had three performances spanning across the entire day - one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and a concerto performance in the evening. My biggest anxieties about the day were tied to my ability to maintain my focus with so many important things happening at once, and how my attention might hijack those performances. 

Leading up to the day I made sure to stick to my regular meditation practice because I knew it would help me to manage racing and distracting thoughts (among other benefits), but I also made an added priority of connected focus. I imagined the ways I would connect with attendees, focus on the message of the music or the other musicians I was performing with, and how I would stay present to the overall message of the music and the day. When the big day finally arrived, I did my best to do all of those things in the moment. 

Were my performances perfect? Absolutely not. Neither was the day. But they were both meaningful, connective, and engaged. I rolled with the punches in both performance and coordinating as best I could and focused on the desired outcome that a connected focus would bring. 

Overall, I had an easier time accessing my focus and accepting the things that did not go as well as I might have hoped. 

Of course I’m still a human (and a musician), and after the fact I found myself ruminating on some of those imperfections even though I was managing my emotions better than I might have in the past.

In the days following the event I was reading “Think Again” by Adam Grant, and in one of the chapters he talks about embracing imperfections - even going as far as to acknowledge or advertise them. (The book gives the example of applying for a job and not camouflaging things that you know might be viewed as detriments). Grant’s point is that by acknowledging weaknesses and getting them out of the way we can focus on emphasizing our strengths fully.

This connected with my recent experience in a small light bulb moment. I don’t have to get up on stage and announce my weaknesses to the audience, but I can take Grant’s advice when preparing for or reflecting on this situation and future events and performances. 

If I acknowledge my weaknesses, noting what could have been better and, most importantly, what I can learn from them, I can move forward with more ease and more growth toward my goal of connected focus. 

In the heat of performance this approach of accepting imperfections while maintaining connected focus helps me to release the past and stay in the present with my mind on the right things. When I’m working with a student it allows me to do a better job of staying a curious listener that is engaged in what they are saying and experiencing. 

The most valuable thing we have to gain is the ability to see ourselves as musicians with more perspective and balance. To see both the things that need work as well as the things we do well. To have the opportunity to make sure that we are learning from both our imperfections and our strengths equally.

Did you ever notice that when you think too hard about how much there is to be done it seems completely impossible to do it all in the time you have available? 

And yet, every time we have this feeling, if we start putting one foot in front of the other, things get done. Miraculously (with a little perseverance) time after time the work gets done.

None of this is new information - we’ve all heard this before: just getting started, do one thing, the two minute rule (if you can do it in two minutes or less, get it done). 

Even though we know it though, don’t we all forget? How many times have you had the rising feeling of panic about getting it all done, or procrastinated because it felt impossible to finish everything you needed to do anyway?

I have that tendency to languish in all the tasks that lay ahead. Not for very long, but I always do. There are studies about how whining makes us feel better, so I’ll chock that tendency up to science. Once I get it out of my system and get started, though, the work is the enjoyable part. It feels good to get things done, make progress on a new piece, or see consistency develop in my playing. 

I’m in a busy season, and I’ve definitely had my short-lived whining moments (which feel pretty good, if I’m being honest). But now that I’m getting things done I’m reminded that they enjoyment really comes from knowing that you can. 

If you’re feeling stuck right now, this blog is a little nudge to take a step forward, even if it’s a small one. Momentum creates momentum. 

Time to go practice.

“If I’m suffering, there is something I’m not mindful of.”

Dan Harris said this on an episode of the Ten Percent Happier Podcast this week and I actually said “Oh,” out loud when I heard it. One of those moments where it feels like the author or speaker had you in mind when they thought to say this particular thing. 

I want to clarify here that Dan Harris was talking about suffering in the Buddhist sense, not the type of human suffering we see in war or medical illness. In Buddhism, suffering (also called dukkha) is thought to exist because of dissatisfaction we create for ourselves - because we crave or desire things we don’t have and look past what is in the present moment. Not being open to change and trying to hold on to the past or an idea of the future can also cause dukkha. (This is paraphrasing, of course, and this is an interesting concept worth exploring more).

I’ve spent this whole week feeling tense and jittery, and also preoccupied with some big performances that are coming up. 

All week I kept trying to push those feelings away thinking, I’ve worked SO hard on my mindset and focus for the last two years, why do I still feel like this? I am preparing well and I’m not unhappy with how I’m sounding,  I’m meditating and paying attention to my mindset around performance, and I’m doing my best to maintain my sleep hygiene and eating healthy meals. 

As I listened to this particular episode of the TPH podcast, it occurred to me that, yes I have done a lot of work, but there were so few demands on me as a performing musician during the early part of the pandemic and it was the least work I’ve had to do I the last, um, almost twenty years. So, although I feel like I’ve sorted a bunch of stuff out, I’m still human.

What was I not being mindful of that was leading to suffering? My suffering this week was coming from the expectation that I would never be frazzled again because I’d done some work (even typing that seems totally ridiculous!). 

I wasn’t being mindful of the situation - yes I am applying things I have practiced, but in a completely new set of circumstances. 

With a little perspective, it seems appropriate that facing my first concerto performance since the pandemic might feel a little stressful even if I’m mindful and focused. 

So now the task at hand is applying the things I’m learning to do better while allowing myself to feel the stress. 

It’s not bad to feel nervous or concerned - what matters is my ability to flip the focus around to the right things. To allow the emotions to come up and pass away because they are just emotions - not facts.

Do you ever feel like you aren’t doing anything meaningful? Even before the internet and the era of social media, artists and musicians led lives saturated with meaning and its creation. 

If you pursue an artistic discipline, you look to the masters of that discipline for the ultimate inspiration - those pinnacle composers, performers, painters, etc. who seemed to draw their skill and inspiration from somewhere out of this world. Their incredible ability shows us the potential of human expression. 


Once you get into the nitty gritty of your chosen art (or any path in life) there is a period of realizing that for most of us sublime creation is a long way off. There is a lot of stuff to get through before we even begin to scratch the surface of anything remotely sublime. 


As you improve, there is a lot of instruction and guidance toward being expressive in your music making, but as a young musician I often found myself thinking “what the heck do I know?” How could I possibly have the depth of context to really perform in a meaningful way? 


The reality for me was fortunate - I had great teachers who helped me understand the music I was playing and what my instrument could do. It helped me create a picture of what I wanted to do with the music I performed that, thankfully, continues to develop.


So I was more expressive, maybe playing in a meaningful way for a percentage of the time…that’s cool, but now what? 

Was I doing something really meaningful? Was it enough? Could it ever be enough? I mean, I’m honest enough to know I’m not holding a candle to the standards I’ve been idolizing for the last fifteen years. 

I think the reality is closer to home. What I do, what you do, is meaningful, even if it’s on a different plane. 

The teaching I do every day - interacting one on one with my students and helping them explore expression, knowledge, and art is meaningful.


The performing I do - interacting with my audience, wherever they are and however small, providing something that makes them reflect or think differently, or just relax - is meaningful.


Is it profound? Maybe sometimes. Maybe not. 
Does that matter? Same answer - maybe sometimes. Maybe not.


So I’d come to terms with a lot of these realities, and then…..enter social media. YouTube. Instagram. 


Uff…


Now we see all the creations that others make. Sometimes it feels inspiring to see people’s creations grow and change; to see the truly amazing things artists can do.


A lot of times though, I find it stifling. How does that person always look so put together in their daily practice videos? The answer, usually? Special lights, phone stands, video editing, and a lot of time spent, even if the video truly just displays what they sound like practicing.


As artists, we are now investing so much time in the appearance of our creating. Do we have a cool space? Do we look good? Does the video need a little reverb so it doesn’t sound like our tiny, acoustically dead practice space? Did I set this video of my art to a cool enough song? Are we “creating” often enough?


Everyone is different - I have friends who really enjoy sharing in this way. I find it exhausting. I want to spend my practice time getting gritty. I hate the details of video editing. That’s ok - it’s good that we’re all different. 


What I find, though, is that I often end up feeling like I’m doing nothing in our digital world. Shouldn’t I be able to make more videos of my playing if it’s worthwhile? Or, at the very least, post snippets of my acrobatic practicing….?


It’s hard for me to reconcile with what has become the norm for many artists now (especially those of us who have these hybrid careers of performing, teaching, writing, etc., and are not on any full time rosters or solo performance schedules) with what feels right for me. 


I know how I want to spend my extra time, and anything I chose to take on should fit my priorities even if they don’t match what has become so visible in our culture or careers. It’s easy to lose sight of that.
 

This is why I still blog when video creation, Instagram reels, and TikTok are so popular. I love to write as a way of figuring out what I’m thinking. I love to find just the right quote to fit a feeling, idea, or sentiment. 


At the end of last year I was feeling lost on how to extend the way I could do these things that they might be helpful for others and meaningful to me.


I wanted to connect with others who are navigating how to make being a musician fit our modern lives. I wanted to help other students and musicians be in their bodies and embrace the challenges of what we do. I wanted to do something that would encourage others to care for themselves. 


That’s when I had the idea to start a newsletter where I could collect all the things that interest me. Maybe they would also interest others. 


I started sitting down each month to collect the blogs I had written, what my students and I are up to, a mindful moment of movement or self-awareness that people could try on their own, and a reflection on my favorite book from that month. 


It feels authentic to me because I enjoy writing. It feels meaningful because I’m sharing resources that I found helpful. It feels like an invitation to connect because I’m sharing my ideas about music, life, and teaching. 


Do a lot of people read it? No, but I have a small subscriber list. There have been people who write me back about a particular blog or concept and we enjoy a small exchange of ideas. 


I love it. It feels purposeful, and it’s one of my favorite things I do right now. (Also, this blog is not a newsletter plug, but I’d love for you to join me. You can always subscribe on the homepage of my website). 


Even though it takes time to put together, it feels like well-spent reflection and exploration. In some ways, it frees up other time because I can release myself from doing other things I don’t actually want to do.


One of the most interesting things for me about being in this stage of my career where I am still learning so much, but I am also proficient in many ways is accepting that relevance and meaning have different definitions than I thought they did. 


It is great to be inspired by the artists and people we admire - those seemingly unbound creators. 
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It is healthy to be inspired by those who were influential in our own lives and remember how real they were. 


It is good to remember that there is meaning whether we reach one person or a thousand, or maybe we only reach ourselves.