A young girl heard me playing at a local festival and her mother asked me afterwards if I could teach her piano. Once a week, my grandmother drove me over to their house and I taught my first student for thirty minutes.
I was elated. There was so much joy flowing between me and the student during those lessons.
I could do this. I could be good at this. It seemed like a calling.
I earned a music degree, and ended up teaching piano right out of university. I felt like I was discovering a whole new side of myself ( the teacher side), and it was overwhelming in a lot of ways. There was still this voice inside of me that said “You can be good at this.” I decided to trust that voice.
After being diagnosed with Lyme disease at age 23, I decided to take a break from teaching. There was a period of about seven months when I didn’t teach at all. I barely played piano. When I decided to start teaching again, it was hard. Brain fog was consistent, as was exhaustion, and lingering colds and coughs. Still, those connections with my students brought me so much life and fulfillment, I couldn’t give it up. I loved it, even with all the illness in my life.
During Covid, I discovered this wonderful method based around Music Learning Theory and the work of Dr. Edwin Gordon. It shifted my perspective and my teaching completely. I was excited to go into work and try everything I was reading about: singing, chanting, improvisations, mashups, medleys. It was all new and exciting. And this voice inside me said, “You can be good at this. You ARE good at this.”
I did as much training as I could afford (and even some I couldn’t). I began to notice a good shift in how my students responded to me and also in how I responded to them. Lessons felt so life giving and exciting.
Something else was happening, though. All the training was good. All the work was good. There was just a lot of it. While I noticed that my students were improving and growing in ways I really loved, there was only so far I could take them. There’s a lot to it (more than I can explain in this blog post), but what I can say is that lessons began to feel like hitting a big wall.
By this point in my career, I was ten years in and had only ever taken that long stretch of time off when I was very sick with Lyme. I could do all of the teaching stuff: lesson planning, educating parents, creating great recitals, and building rapport and trust with students. But then, this block started to settle over me. I was having a harder time thinking several steps ahead, and when I did think several steps ahead, the energy wasn’t there. A feeling of chronic overwork began to settle in, and I often couldn’t imagine how I was going to get through lessons.
At the same time, I couldn’t imagine a life without piano teaching. How could I leave the thing that had defined me since I was 13?
One day I decided I had to. Really, it was more like several days and nights. As a person of faith, I always try to listen to God when I make decisions. I prayed. I reflected. I prayed some more. I asked for wisdom. The answer came: it was alright to leave. I was very dissatisfied with work. Students don’t learn well from a dissatisfied teacher. It was such a strange feeling letting go of it all. The grief was palpable and intense, made worse by the fact that I couldn’t actually tell any of my students that I was leaving yet.
I actually took a picture the day that I remember it really settling into my heart and soul. The sky was turning a stormy grey overhead, and even though my heart kept pounding at the thought of doing anything differently, my eyes were at peace.
I could be good at something else.
In the months since, I’ve found a new job, and Saturday was my final studio recital for a while. It was a beautiful day, full of gorgeous music and sweet families that I have so loved getting to know over the last several years. I came home and cried a bit afterwards.
I don’t actually know if I will even come back to teaching. This has been my primary job since I was in my early 20s. Setting some kind of timeline for when I “need” to be ready to come back to it wouldn’t be fair. I need a chance to explore and see what’s out there.
Several of my friends are convinced I will be back. Sometimes without thinking I say “When I have my own studio…”, and then I catch myself because I don’t actually know if that IS what I want. Dreams seem a bit elusive right now. I am excited to see and do other things aside from the piano teaching world.
I’ll be working at a bakery for the time being, and it is wonderful. I love going in to work to make rolls, and scones, and cookies. Other things on my bucket list include playing guitar and ukulele, writing a novel, and not being late to social events because of my job. (that last one is actually a real novelty)
There has been so much support and kindness as I have made this decision. I am so thankful for all of my friends, especially the other piano teachers who encouraged me to take time away and dream. To all my students still taking lessons, I hope you know that I loved teaching you. This past month as each of you found out, I was sad all over again to be leaving you. I know it’s for the best, though. My prayer for all of you is that you find more and more delight in your life, your work, and your music.
Here’s to whatever comes next.
P.S. My friend Ruth reminded me that being held in God’s hand is a bit like walking in the air: exhilarating and terrifying, both at once. Here is a piece of music that reminds me of what walking in the air can be like.
Cats aren’t really my thing. I like them the way that you like fancy desserts or five course meals: every once in a while. So when my housemate got a cat from her friend, I was happy, but not elated.Â
But then one day, I got sick. Not COVID sick (I don’t think), but sick enough that my tentative plans were erased from the calendar. My housemate isn’t particularly worried when I tell her, which is refreshing. Social media may scream and thrash in all caps, post signs about masks and injustice with passionate thumbs, and chew on itself in anxious virtue signaling, but this woman I live with says, “I think you’ll be okay.”
The new kitten is my companion. Casper likes to chew on things, particularly my hand, so he is often gently smacked and then dropped off the bed with a soft thump.Â
He comes back, though. His green eyes are inquisitive, but not loving, unless he really wants a nap.
My friend Jewel says that I’m like a Terry Pratchett witch, the highest praise, really because Terry Pratchett only liked clever, quirky women with practical hobbies for his witches (I should probably save the Terry Pratchett love for another post) I decide to take Casper out on my shoulders whenever I tend the garden, the better to lean into this fictional identity. He blinks in the sunlight and purrs. I have no idea what familiars do, but it’s nice to have company while I’m out in the garden.Â
I didn’t count on Casper realizing that he likes the outdoors more than the indoors. Now, when we go out, he demands to be let down with a stubborn kick. While I tend the onions and sweet potatoes, he disappears. I turn to find him halfway up a tree, a very dangerous development.
Eventually, though, we decide to let him outside with me regularly. He is smarter than many cats, I think. How many felines have you seen who can climb a tree and then climb back down? The most shocking turn of events happens when he climbs up halfway, eyes me as I swing below him in my hammock, and then jumps like a squirrel to balance beside me.
He is a very photogenetic cat. One night while filming, I invent a persona for him: Casper, Private Eye. He stalks around the house as I voice his thoughts in a deep, trans-Atlantic voice. And when I ask him a question, he meows an answer, irate at my ignorance.
“Of course I’m going to catch the idiot who tipped my water bowl over.”
At night, he curls up beside me and purrs a love song. I’m not supposed to be a cat person. But I guess I am now.
I wonder about tulips…how they somehow find a way To grace us with their beauty before they slowly fade away.
If only people were more like tulips and could somehow find a way To grace this world with beauty before they slowly fade away.
My tulip love (some may call it mania) came on slowly. Unlike the tulip craze that settled over the Dutch Republic in the 1630’s, my own relationship to the flower was one of awareness. I could recognize tulips, but I certainly didn’t love them. And I wouldn’t have sold my own home to buy a bunch of bulbs like several Dutch artisans did back in the day.
No, tulips were things I could take or leave. And if ever I did engage in floral theft, roses and gardenias were at the top of the list. Tulips weren’t even on it.
In college, my friend Nathan persuaded our book club to read The Black Tulip by Alexander Dumas. I wasn’t particularly into this book (sorry, Nathan), but I do remember the slow and steady care of the tulip gardener in it. One entire chapter is devoted to this man watching a pot for signs of the bulb sprouting. (There’s also a prison sentence, a villainous neighbor, and a gentle damsel who loves flowers. See, Nathan? Wasn’t my cup of tea, but I DO remember it!) That chapter about the bulb sprouting has stayed with me. There’s so much patience involved, and the tulip rewards the gardener by the end of it (Sorry if that’s too many spoilers).
Then, this past year, the book Floriography came into my life. Aside from being a gorgeous book, every flower is listed along with its meaning in the Victorian flower language. Sunflowers, for example, mean “false riches.” Pansies mean “you occupy my thoughts.” Jasmine means “cheerfulness.”
Tulips mean “I declare my love for you.”
All spring, I have carried this little realization with me. Whenever I see a tulip, I think, “Look at that declaration! I am loved!”
During Valentine’s, roses seem to get all the hype. I get it. There’s a lot of beauty to them. There are also a lot of thorns, and a whole host of metaphors for why that’s a lot like life and love. That’s not bad, and their popularity never stops me from admiring them.
But let me make an argument for tulips being romantic, too.
They’re simple. No thorns. They come up soft and expectant every spring without fail, even though one late frost may kill them. They are among the first signs of hope and new life. They grace the world with gentleness and humility. Love is like that: hopeful, gentle, and humble.
Consider this song a small bouquet of tulips today.
In the spring of 2020, a couple of things were happening: I had moved to teaching piano online due to this thing called COVID and my phone had stopped working. I dealt with the first thing by wearing a mask everywhere, but the second thing required a trip to the cell phone store.
After selecting my first ever iphone, I was asked if I wanted to bring my number over with me. I said no (I can’t remember why). They said, “Here’s a new one.”
I went home and sent one of those text messages that everyone sees and then either forgets to respond to or has a wisecrack response for.
“Hey. This is Rachel’s new number.”
“Hey! This is Caleb’s old number.”
For a while, all was well. And then one day, it wasn’t.
Ring. Ring.
“Hello. This is Rachel.”
“Hey there, Rachel. We’re looking for Scott.”
“Scott doesn’t use this phone any more.”
“Okay, thanks, we’ll take you off the list.”
This could have been funny had it been the one time, or a few times. Even ten times would have had a certain humor to it.
After four years, though, I’m not sure what it is.
I have learned things about Phone Scott over the past four years. He is a lot older than me, he used to have a business a few hours south of where I live, and he frequently uses my number (our number) to set up an online account with different companies. He can’t answer that number, though, so I feel a bit like I’m owed some secretarial pay.
For a while, I was in denial. When the phone rang and people asked me about Phone Scott, I just got angry and annoyed and said, “No!” and hung up.
Then I went through a period of just being annoyed and explaining to them in a very annoyed voice that I was the one WITH THIS PHONE NUMBER NOW. PLEASE STOP CALLING ME.
As time has passed, though, I have developed a sense of compassion for these haggard human voices. They’re looking for Phone Scott. They can’t find him. They have information for him about his business and money that he can collect (could be related to the pandemic). I am the last known phone number. What could I possibly gain from being angry with them? It’s not their fault.
Now, when the phone rings and it’s for Phone Scott, I do my best to be entirely sweet and charming. My goal is to have that poor, haggard voice on the other end smile a bit or even laugh. Even if I can’t help them find Phone Scott, at least I can make their day a bit better.
Phone Scott has led to some interesting moments, for sure. I will never forget the time when I was cleaning a bathroom and answered a phone call from a collection agency. They were looking for Phone Scott, of course. As I picked up a roll of toilet paper with the Scott logo emblazoned on it, I told them that I couldn’t get ahold of Phone Scott. They were very understanding about Phone Scott and we laughed a bit before I went back to stocking Scott toilet paper while listening to a bass player named Scott. There’s a word for that many little things coming together in one moment: serendipity.
And it wouldn’t have happened without Phone Scott.
Aside from my last dating relationship, Phone Scott has been the most consistent man in my life over the past four years. We don’t talk, obviously. I still haven’t found him. But every month or so, his name comes up and I wonder about him. He’s a part of my life and my story, even though I don’t want him to be.
Sometimes I wonder, does Phone Scott wonder about me? Does he sit there in the dark because the electric company never got a hold of him, cursing that girl who stole his phone number during the pandemic? Have I inadvertently ruined this man’s life because of that one doctor’s appointment they called to reschedule? Am I the villain in a long line of attempted phone calls?
Who knows?
I bet you Phone Scott does. Do you want to give him a call?
I love a good list. Here’s one about things I am trying out in 2024. Actually, it might be better to say I’m trying them out for this season, or maybe for a couple of seasons. I shall report back to you, dear readers, with my findings.
Baking Scones– As you can see from the gorgeous picture above, I have become something of an amateur baker with incredible photography skills recently. I’m kidding. That’s a stock photo. But my last batch of scones did turn out very well. If you want to be added to the list of people I bake for, you can let me know…and move to the city where I live. 🙂
Bowspring– This is a new to me form of movement. It reminds me of yoga and pilates, but the movements are different and sometimes slower than anything I’ve experienced in those two forms. I’m excited to try it out and see how my body feels with it.
Music by the Decade- If you want to win me over, a good playlist is a great way to start. What I’ve been realizing is that I want to have a sense of history when I listen and play. I am going to try out different decades starting…I’m not sure. Maybe far back (Hildegard von Bingen, anyone?), maybe not so far (Celine Dion?). All I know is that I’m definitely looking forward to the swing era, so maybe should start there.
Reading Old Books– I read a lot as a child. So much so that my family would send someone up to the library if I was late for dinner. I have found, though, that some of my knowledge of the Western cannon is incomplete. Scarlet Letter? Never read it. A Brave New World? Nope. Beloved by Toni Morrison? Hadn’t heard of it until a while ago. I don’t have a grand plan to read 20 or more titles from the Penguin Classics list of all lists. I just plan to pick up something that’s considered a classic and see if I like it or not. Review(s) to come!
Hiking with Friends- I tend to be a bit ruminative. Maybe a bit too much sometimes. while a walk in the woods by myself is generally good for me, I’m also trying to make sure I invite people to go with me.
Reading Books From Other Countries– This is something I tried a bit a few years ago, and it was really fun. Basically, I will pick up a poet or a novelist from a country that I’ve never read anything from before. Previous titles in this category have been the 100 year Old Man Who Walked Out A Window And Disappeared (Sweden)
Writing Songs/Poetry- This last one is something I’ve been doing a bit more over the past year. I now own a piano, a ukelele, and a guitar, so I feel it is my responsibility to give my musical children a chance to shine. Last year, I wrote a real banger (as the kids say) called The Pumpkin Song. It was all about a shy girl trying to say hello to a boy she liked but all she could do get out was the nonsense word “shoobeedadoo”…You had to be there. (Yes, it might be autobiographical) If I do write a song or a poem that I really like, I promise to share it here. Beauty is beauty even if I’m the only experiencing it, but it is fun to give it away, too.
Excited to share my hopeful findings and beautiful discoveries. Happy 2024!
Here’s one of my favorite songs for you to listen to. Drop a note before if you’re trying something this winter/spring, too!
As I’ve contemplated this past year, I have seen incredible highs and lows in my life. There’s often overlap between the bright and the dark because I am not skilled at compartmentalization. Thank goodness. Enjoy reading about the messy overlapping of my life this past year.
Spring
In January, my grandmother died and I traveled to Northern California for the funeral. It was expected, although that did not make it any less difficult. My siblings and I sat on a Zoom call and sang to her a few days before she passed. It’s an odd thing to want someone to die, but I had wanted for her to be able to pass for a long time. After my grandfather died, she always used to say, “I’m ready to go home to Heaven.” She seemed so tired and expectant at the same time.
What I didn’t expect was the feeling that came over me when I saw her in her casket. She’d chosen pink, of course. The mortician had painted her nails and done her makeup, taking a couple of decades off in the process. She looked the way she had when I was ten and talked to her incessantly. I whispered a secret to her and then slipped some pink baby’s breath into her casket when no one was looking. “I love you.”
Within a few weeks of coming back from that trip, my car broke down and I had to look for a new one. I ended up buying a used Mazda with a stick shift. Here’s the fun thing: I didn’t know how to drive stick shift.
After a few lessons with my new friend Douglas (who had sold me the car), I was deemed “road ready.” I stalled multiple times of day, resulting in crying, cursing, and banging on the steering wheel while crying and cursing. The car was cherry red, but the air inside frequently turned blue.
My friend Kate told me, “It can be something that helps you grow in confidence, like an inciting incident in a story.” Driving did not immediately become fun. But I did start to see how it could help me be more assertive. And a few weeks later, on both of my blind dates, I worked it into the conversation with a certain amount of pride. “Yeah, I drive stick shift, actually.”
(For those of you at home wondering about my dating life, that’s all you’re getting)
Summer
I have always associated the autumn and late winter with bouts of melancholy. This summer, though, a very deep depression hit me and it was hard to shake. There are whole weeks that I barely remember, and it’s not because I wasn’t trying. It was a dark, dark time. There’s more I could say, but I prefer to press on.
There are also moments that shimmer like rainbows when I pause to remember them. Fresh figs that I ate every morning while dog sitting. A duet that I played with another teacher during an end of summer recital. A long visit from my parents involving hikes, ice cream, and the enchanting streets of Charleston.
Autumn
The autumn was one of the brightest parts of my year, and also one of the darkest. A good friend got married in Charleston, and I was invited to read Scripture and play the piano at the ceremony. There is nothing quite as powerful as reading 1 John 4:7-21 over a congregation. Hearing myself read the words of the opening out loud settled my heart more than any sermon.
“Beloved, let us love one another for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love. In this love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him.”
This idea of loving in the face of difficulty played out over the next few months. Someone I thought I could trust let me down in a big way, and it was hard to love her. My sister came to visit me and we traipsed all over the woods of the Upstate looking at waterfalls and talking forever about everything and nothing. It was easy to love that time. I reconsidered my ideas for my future as a piano teacher, and felt the rush of resentment and frustration. Those days and weeks were hard to love. I completed a draft of my current novel, and reveled in the feeling of having loved and worked hard to make something good and true. That week was so full of sunshine I thought I would burst.
The memory of my voice reading the passage from 1 John rang over it all, a bright, true music. Beloved, let us love one anotherfor love is from God.
Winter
The winter brought with it a blazing sense of despair. I was tired, I was cold, and I felt like I couldn’t do any of the things I wanted. In fact, I wasn’t even certain I wanted anything anymore.
This is about the time that I decided to start trapping feral cats. Trapping, neutering, and then releasing or rehoming feral cats is a great thing for neighborhoods (I’m also really partial to felines). It gave me something to do that was completely unrelated to my work frustrations and inner turmoil. Plus, trapping little wild kitty cats and convincing them to curl up in my lap and purr instead of biting or scratching me was a huge confidence boost. You have not known happiness until the feline who drew blood now wants to cuddle. It is really beautiful to witness something scared and wild yielding to love.
For my birthday last year, I didn’t really do anything aside from jumping in a lake while one of my best friends sprayed me with champagne (thanks Roz). This year, as an exercise against the dark, lonely feelings I get around my birthday every November, I invited people to celebrate with me. My brother was even able to make a visit down for the event! It was a lovely morning of brunch and cake and jokes and tea and people letting me and my two writer friends talk about our projects and process. T’was a merry, bright time and I am very thankful for it.
In the middle of feeling confused and uncertain about so many details of my life, a friend invited me to join a choir for a Lessons and Carols service. We rehearsed every week until the beginning of December and I made so many new friends because of it. Singing with a group again was truly amazing and I can’t wait to do it again. It helped ease the cold and the dark of the season.
One of the brightest parts of the year was when I spent Christmas with my family for the first time since Covid. It was good to be in the same room as everyone else and to feel the familiarity of old stories and memories and jokes flowing around me. I didn’t think my life could feel more bright until I traveled to the Midwest the following week to see old college friends. Having the two trips back to back brought on so many memories and feelings of thankfulness. It’s good to remember where I’m from, and to be with the people whose souls and kindness and love have made me who I am.
Last year on New Year’s Eve, I had strep throat and stayed home to count coughs in bed. This year, I attended two parties. One was full of food, live music, and a whole house of friends in fancy evening attire. The other was simple: one family around a bonfire with tea and home made cheese bread. One party had all the ruckus. One had all the calm. Both had fireworks. Both had people I love. As I paused at a stoplight on the way home, I realized the dark is still there, but the bright parts of my life have not dissipated because of it. If anything, they are pulsing more brightly.
Here is my favorite song that came out this year. It says a lot of what I want to say, but in a more catchy way. My favorite line is “I want the real, the way it feels when destiny is at my heels. I open up my hands a cup to catch all I can of chaos and love.” Enjoy!
The word comes to her as she drifts awake. She has slammed her alarm three times already. It is the fourth time this week that she has awoken with no desire for anything. Does she remember what desire feels like? She’s not sure.
Stuck.
Her car broke down and she had to ask friends to help with the repair. She has had to do this for the last few years because her job doesn’t pay well and although she is trying to find another position, money remains an elusive thing.
Stuck.
The gross pond outside her apartment reflects a dingy world, full of frustrated people and hissing geese. There are feral cats, too, with sad, sad eyes and ribs poking through their fur.
Stuck.
Work and time flow her fingers like sand, and the only thing she clings onto is that tomorrow she might have some energy. Might. Maybe. But will she?
It slips into her one Sunday as she kneels after communion. All these people passing her helped her when she had no way of paying off her car bill. When she doesn’t have the desire to say the creeds, she rests in the voices around her and begins to mumble the words anyway.
On the move.
When she wakes up alone, she remembers the cats outside. Not so alone. They come to her door with wide green eyes, close enough that she can feel their wildness and fear.
“All is well,” she reassures as she feeds them. “All is well.”
On the move.
She has plans for a tiny floating garden of marsh islands at the end of the pond where the rain drain empties. Here she will grow local plants, and the scum on top of the pond will clear as the islands’ roots grab at loose soil.
On the move.
She knows she will not always be in this position. She is finding delight in her days, and keeps looking for new opportunities. There is an openness to her gaze and her stance that was not there two years ago. She looks up more than down.
On the move.
There was a lion she loved as a child. She loves him still. He was on the move, as well, breaking through a frozen landscape to bring about joy and healing.
All Things: 