Songbird Piano Lessons

 I realized I had to blog today.     And I juggled my lack of inspiration against the stack of my harmony student's work that still needs to be marked and sent back.    And then I thought of my own journey through the harmony textbooks.     In Grade 9, while I was struggling to remember and follow all the rules, my Grade 9 teacher said, "Yeah, and then you get into studying music history, and you discover that all the famous composers ever did was break the rules anyways."    That discouraged me.    Why was I learning this stuff if it didn't matter? If no one regarded it? If the rules were only there for the exam and nothing more?    In Grade 10, I silently carried this attitude over to my new theory teacher. She didn't reprimand it. Maybe, because I was the silent and obliging type, she didn't even notice it. Instead she took me to her piano. She made me play the wrong harmonies, the rule-breakers. Then she had ...

 I think I'm just about out of musical memories as a student that would make good "My Story" posts. I have many music memories, but most of them would not work well in story format. They're too general. Like formally serving dessert and trying to keep the chocolate off my white sleeves at a Mother's Day handbell concert. Or the many Festival performances I participated in, and the exciting years when I made it to the Gala Concert (now called the Showcase Concert). The frustration of trying to capture the feeling of a song that I had been given to work on. The thrill of a performance. The joys of playing in church over the years. Yes, many memories, but not many good stories that I haven't already written about. Consider this the last "My Story" post until further notice.     When I was taking lessons under  Mr. F.,  as I prepared for my Grade 10 exam, he instructed me to create a practice sheet for him to write notes on with different categories. One...

 Looking back, I see that I had written previously about  how I had chosen Mrs. C as my teacher  rather than Mr. B's former teacher. I also said that I probably should delve into reasons why this happened. I'm going to try and incorporate this into the next part of my story.     When choosing a new piano teacher, there's a lot to factor in. Especially at advanced levels. As I quickly found out, not all teachers accept advanced students. When I first started taking lessons with Mrs. C., there were several things. She didn't live too far away -- she was situated in the nearest town, the same area where we did all our grocery shopping. So she was convenient. Also, I was quite shy in my childhood and teens. Where  Mr. B  was concerned, we had known him, his wife, and both of their families from church. But now I was forced, for the first time in years, to go to a complete stranger for lessons. I wanted a female teacher, because I thought I'd be more c...

 Twice a year (three times for the students who do Festival), I tell my students, "Remember: If you mess up during a performance, it's not a big deal. Everyone messes up. What matters is what you do with it. What matters is that you keep going."    I know about messing up at a performance.    There was the time I  ran into another student at a recital  -- on stage. There was another time where I hadn't actually even started playing, and I  cried my way through my piece . (Incidentally, although I felt so rotten about that recital, according to other eyewitnesses, I actually played really well. Maybe all the turbulent emotions inside made me play more expressively? 😆) In short, I made all the typical mistakes students make at recitals, and then some not-so-typical blunders.     But the biggest one in my memory is the day I had a memory slip... during an exam.     It was my Grade 8 exam. I don't remember much about how...

 When  Mr. B and his wife  moved out of our area, I was left scrambling to find a new piano teacher. Mr. B had suggested that I would do well under his former teacher, but, for reasons I might delve into another time (in fact, probably should, because it might be helpful to those of you who are looking for a piano teacher), I wasn't sure I was ready for that. My personal preference was a female teacher in our own community, not a male teacher which we would have to drive 45 minutes to get to every week. (I was shy. That was the real issue.) Mr. B, ahead of his time, was also offering  online lessons  to the students he was leaving behind, but we lacked the most important thing needed for a successful online lesson: an internet connection that would not cut out after three minutes.     Thus I wound up with Mrs. C (yes, I am nicknaming my former teachers in alphabetical order). Compared to Mr. B, she was quite tame, but at that point I didn't care. ...

 I want to share something from  one of my earliest Piano Parent Helps posts . I'll never forget it. I was standing by the church door with our handbell director and several fellow handbell ringers, thanking people for coming to our concert as they left the building. One of them stopped to express appreciation over the piano solo I'd opened the concert with. I told her, as I try to, that I had a great mom who had really helped me out the first few years of piano.    After the lady left, the ringer standing with me -- a gifted pianist himself -- smiled and said to me, "Yeah, now I'm so glad for all those years my mom made me practice."    I chuckled. Clearly our 'recipes for success' had the same ingredient . . . the 'tough' moms who simply wouldn't let us quit.    I think my opinion is pretty obvious: I'm a piano teacher today (and I love it, and hope you all know that!) because Mom didn't let me quit piano in my second, third, or ninth...

Throughout my childhood music experiences, there were two messages regularly communicated to me:    #1. Fix your hand position .    #2. You are playing too loud.    My first teacher would bluntly tell me to stop banging on the piano. My second teacher, Mrs. A. , had gentler, more creative ways, but she had to use them frequently (e.g. "This is a lullaby," "Think of your wrists as shock absorbers," etc.). And Every. Single. Festival adjudicator I ever had told me to tone it down.     I might not have changed my playing style, but I did get the message.     Then came my very first lesson with  Mr. B.      Oh, I was so nervous. And thrilled. See, I wasn't the kind of girl who followed boys' bands or pop stars. My musical heroes were the people in my own church, those I heard play on a regular basis. And Mr. B. was one of them. In my mind, he was the best.     Naturally, I wanted to make a good im...

 I couldn't think of any piano-related stories to share with you today. So you get to hear a little more on some of the handbell mishaps that I briefly referenced in the post  Bells are Ringing.  Namely, mishaps involving gloves.    Of course, if a mishap happened during practice, it was no big deal. When the director would look up to see what had happened, the person could just shrug and say, "Sorry, I grabbed the wrong bell." But naturally, most of our mishaps didn't happen during practice. They happened during concerts.     We wore gloves to protect the bells from getting tarnished by our skin's natural oils. This was all fine and good, as long as you remembered where you put your gloves right before the dessert intermission. During practice, we just left our gloves at our spot. During concerts, there were two choirs playing, so you couldn't just do that as easily. There were several mad scrambles as ringers tried to find both their gloves foll...

Ever wondered if you really should send your child back for another year of piano? If it's worth it for them?    My mom didn't wonder. But that had nothing to do with me. Absolutely nothing. I wasn't a Handel or a Mozart. I wasn't motivated to practice late nights in an attic, write my first (independent) compositions before finishing MYC, or go on a performing tour of Europe. No, I was very... normal.     Want to read about my early music education? Maybe you'll find that, as a child, I resembled... your child. It might give you a laugh. I hope it encourages you, as a parent, to keep on pursuing the talent you know lies in your child.  Click here to read about the young and not-so-outstanding me.  And to find out why my mom chose not to give up.

     In case you haven't noticed yet, I am definitely old-school when it comes to my music tastes. If the reference to hymns rather than praise and worship songs in  Church Pianist, Part 1  didn't tip you off, then my opinions expressed under the label  The Christian Musician  probably have. When it's time to turn up Spotify, hymns and classical is where I usually go. (And the occasional  movie or musical track.  But I try to listen to those sparingly.)     Anyways, to get back to the story, in my late teens, our family made the decision to step back from the church we'd called home for ten years, and try something different. There were a lot of personal reasons for that, none of which are particularly relevant here.     The point is, we wound up in a small church where the music was... different.     It had a drum set. Now, I know, that's fairly normal for most churches, but it had been ten years ...

 As you may recall,  Mrs. A  (not her real initial, first or last) was my piano teacher for a good chunk of my preteen and teen years. She was and is also our church's main pianist. Therefore, you can imagine, church music was an important part of her lesson planning. The first time she made arrangements for me and a couple of her other students to each take a number in Sunday's service was probably when I was about 11 (give or take).    This was a good thing, because taking a melody and arranging a left-hand accompaniment for it is not a required course in the Royal Conservatory of Music. However, it is an important skill, one I may not have learned well under my other teachers, despite their impressive credentials and skill.    When  Mr. B  and his wife moved away, Mrs. A was left as the only pianist. Several young people in my peers group were qualified pianists. Who would fill Mr. B's spot? As it turns out, we all did. Over time, everybod...

 At the age of fourteen, soon after discovering a new passion for music, my friend began telling me about this handbell choir she and her brother had joined. When they had been ringing for about four months, she said to me hopefully one day, "There's an opening in our choir. It's lots of fun."    And that was how I came to learn the art of English handbells!     Our choir director had one focus: to share God's love through our music. When I came on, I got the second easiest spot, up with the high bells. My friend was three spots down from me, also in an easy spot. For those not familiar with handbells, the higher the bell, the smaller it is. Also, everyone except the bass ringers had around three to five bells each. Usually only two or three of them would be used in one song, so it wasn't that hard! Because the bass bells were not used as often, bass players could have six to eight bells each. For performance, we had two concert seasons: Christmas and Mothe...

 I have given my tribute to Mr. B ; now, before leaving Mr. B and Mrs. A, it is time for me to give tribute to Mrs. A.    Mr. B's gift was that passion that sparks, then inflames, the love of the music in the soul. Mrs. A's gift was the dignified, quiet, gracious strength of character which is rare in our day and age, and when it is found, is often mistaken for being anything but strength. Today I will share a short incident which may help the reader see why I hold Mrs. A in regard as an excellent role model for young women.     I was fifteen, and busy preparing for, I think it was my Grade 8 exam (maybe Grade 6, I'm not sure), and completely unprepared for a tragedy or crisis. But it did come. My best friend unexpectedly suffered a stroke, an unheard-of thing in my world, and wound up in our local children's hospital.     For about a week, I worried and prayed -- and cried. I had visited my friend in the hospital only the day after her strok...

    Last time I wrote a 'My Story' post , I mentioned how Mr. B's free-structured recital plan did not set well with me. I would not be doing Mr. B. justice if I left it at that. He was one of the key musical influencers in my journey.    Up until the time he began to play piano for church, I had drudged along in piano -- a typical, uninspired child who grumbled about practice. (I'm so glad Mom didn't let me quit in those days!) I had always loved to listen to music. I loved it when some of the young adults in our church would give a spontaneous, post-fellowship-lunch concert for us. I loved it when Mom would pop a classical CD into the player, and she and I would invent a story to go with each song on our way to the grocery store. I just didn't like to play piano myself.     I can't pinpoint the day, the moment, or the hymn number when that changed. I just know that it gradually began to change as I listened to Mr. B. playing in my early teens. I gues...

 It's been a while since we've had a 'My Story' post. At least two years and three months, before I decided that getting my ARCT was a good idea. It's about time for another one, don't you think?    So, it goes like this: I'm not spontaneous, and while I like performing (occasionally) now, as an extremely introverted child, that wasn't always the case. Also, I always cried easily. Not proud to admit it -- but it's fact. That should set the stage for this story about... yes, a recital.     It was around Christmas. We were attending a small church (the same one we're still going to) that boasted two piano teachers: my teacher (whom we'll refer to as Mrs. A.), who made me feel comfortable with her quiet, elegant, gracious ways, and the male teacher (we'll call him Mr. B.) whose music prowess was, simply put, dazzling. You'd think there'd be some rivalry, but as it was, he lived nearly two hours away, and she was local. However, he di...

I had three experiences between my childhood and teens that taught me about how God can work through music. This is one. When I was a child, I was terrified ... of a lot of things.    The dark.    Heights.    A bomb being dropped on us. (You want irrational?! I had it! This particular fear, by the way, began after reading a WWII novel set in China. The novel was for 9-12 year olds, but I was probably 8.)    That first fear -- the dark -- was about to become more than a little problematic in my pre-teen years. We used to let our dog into the house for the night, to keep him from barking at the moon. At night, an old, ratty comforter was spread over the floor for him. In the daytime, it was folded up and hung up on a clothesline.    A clothesline that happened to be closer to the woods than the house.    It wasn't actually that far from the house -- we lived on a one-acre plot back then, and so when it was dark, and...

"She has talent," my piano teacher confided to Mom after I had finished my first year of piano lessons.    I spent the next seven years trying to figure out where my teacher had gotten that idea. I wasn't the worst student in her class. But, I did have a problem ....    I didn't put attention. At least, not enough.   I was the student who opened my book to the wrong sight-reading page. Who spent an entire week practicing the wrong exercise, even though the right one was written in my notes, and never realized till I got to class (even then, Mom had to show me when I -- loudly -- protested that "I never practiced that one!"). When we learned about eighth-notes, my teacher bluntly commented, "Yours look like lollipops." (I had put the stems right into the middle of the noteheads, rather than on the side.) When she gave us a mock-theory exam, I finished first -- due to the fact that it never occurred to me to check the other side of each page....