“The greatest mistake you can make in life is to be continually fearing you will make one. .”
~Elbert Hubbard
This is the time of year for big events - graduations, weddings, school assemblies, band programs and recitals. I am a piano teacher and every year I coach my students during "dress rehearsal" week for recital. I see, and I struggle with this myself, how nervousness impacts performance. Students who otherwise play fast, furiously and flawlessly, are now experiencing short-term memory loss, sweaty hands and serious cases of stomach butterfly-itis. So, this last week of lessons, I find myself teaching not about phrasing and dynamics, but about life. Why are you playing in recital? What is the worst thing that could happen? We pretend we are there, in front of everyone, and when all of a sudden a student finds himself somewhere in the middle of page 2, with no recollection of how he got there or what to do next, we get through it. I say to the kids, "this recital is for fun, for you to show off how much you've learned in a year, and to say thanks mom and dad for giving me these lessons. Everybody thinks you're awesome just for showing up, and you are! The only person who really cares if you play a wrong note is you, so if you can give yourself a break, you'll have a great time. It's all up to you." And as I speak I'm really hoping some of that will sink in for myself. I know that when you get right down to it, the reason I have the phrase "What you think of me is none of my business" taped to my pantry door is because I haven't figured out how to make that true yet.
We are born with a need for affection, and we instinctively seek it from those closest to us. It doesn't take long before we understand that affection is somehow tied to performance. Somewhere between the lavish praise bestowed on us for our first steps and the day we got grounded for getting a "D" in math, we come to the conclusion that the better we perform, the more love we earn. Some of that is natural. I was very aware of that last night at the rescheduled championship track meet for CYO. During the 4x100 relay we parents were all hanging over the rail wildly cheering at the close race between second and third. Elated that our school athlete clung to her second place position, we clapped enthusiastically as the fourth and fifth place runners crossed the line. I was turned away from the track talking to the mom next to me when I heard a lone "run it through! Personal best!" and realized there was a sixth runner. It's not that I didn't mean to cheer for her too; I just didn't notice her. Sometimes I wonder what's going through those kids' heads. First, second and third are probably feeling pretty good about themselves. Depending on how competitive they are, maybe they felt they could do better. But whatever they are thinking, it's probably quite different than that last lone runner crossing the line to the cheer of one supporting voice, and one pair of clapping hands.
What I work for with my students is the realization that competition can be fun, but the joy in the process is a much greater and long-lasting reward than any ribbon or trophy. If that last place runner can understand that she came in ahead of the other two hundred eligible seventh grade girls who were afraid to try, she's got an advantage over one who can only see that she came in last. Better yet though is the girl who crosses the line in sixth place, checks her time, and is thrilled to report she just shaved two seconds off her fastest time so far. But to me, the ultimate statement of success, the one I have yet to achieve, is this response from a student of mine who is also in track. "Hey Justin," I said, "How are you doing?" He flashed me a huge smile. "Great! It's fun!" I happen to know Justin made the finals in two events, but I honestly don't think he was aware of that. Other students I stopped and queried all had stories of good finishes and bad, new best times, botched hand-offs in the relay, detailed analyses of what went wrong. It's a competitive event after all, so I heard a lot about competition. But I found myself thinking, I hope it's worth it for all the kids that don't make it to finals. I hope they're not going home disappointed. Because I know I was too scared to sign up for track in seventh grade. They're all winners to me.
What if, instead of worrying about the outcome of everything we do, we just did the things we like, and didn't do the things we don't? What if the opportunity to fail was simply eliminated? How many things would we sign up for if we didn't think we could fail? Last week, my students came to their lessons, sat down and played recital pieces they have been working on for weeks or months. They have all mastered their pieces by now, and are simply keeping them polished and performance ready. Long ago we decided if a piece was not going to be ready in time and we needed an alternate selection. The days of playing measure number 57 twenty more times in a row and still not getting the rhythm quite right are behind us. We've experimented with dynamics, perfected phrasing, and changed fingering to smooth out that one tricky section near the end. Two weeks before recital, they all sound like angels. This week, they're nervous angels. What's the difference between this week and last? Fear. So, we play twenty questions. What are you afraid of? Messing up. Why? Because I don't want to make mistakes. Why not? Because I'll look stupid. Why? I don't know. We always get stuck here. The kids don't really know why making a mistake makes them look stupid. That's because it doesn't, I tell them, It makes you feel stupid. But just because you feel stupid, does that mean you are stupid? No, they say. Does it mean your parents think you're stupid? Thankfully, none of my students think their parents see them as stupid. They know I won't think they're stupid. Pretty soon all that's left is brothers and sisters, who, no matter what you do, think you're stupid anyway. So, we conclude, who cares? After that conversation, usually they play much better.
I wish I could say that translates to recital day, but I know some of that nervousness just can't be helped. I also know that, like piano, letting go of fear takes practice. And, in order to have something to practice, first you have to begin the lessons. If you stay home and do nothing, out of fear of failure, all you really get practice in is the art of doing nothing. Many of us, myself included, could benefit from learning to do nothing; however, that's not the point of this particular story. I think we can all benefit from applying twenty questions to our actions. Are we really afraid of making a mistake? Or are we just afraid of how we will feel? Imagination is often much more powerful than reality. I distinctly remember my daughter crying in advance over a booster shot. She was so focused on how much it was going to hurt and hollering about it, she didn't notice when it was over. She stopped crying long enough to ask "when are you doing it?" and the nurse answered "honey, it's all over - I'm just getting the Band-Aid." I will never forget the instant transformation from painful wailing to "Mom, can we get ice cream?"
Like the experience of the shot, worry and fear keep us from noticing what's going on right now. Anxiousness about making a mistake takes the joy out of life. Some of us save that kind of anxiety for performance situations. Others of us apply it to every detail - from leaving a voice mail message and then mentally reviewing and criticizing what we said or how we said it, to missing opportunities to visit with loved ones during a party because we are worried about the bathroom being spotless and the meal being perfect in both taste and presentation. Sometimes, we are so afraid of failure, we actually avoid the things that could give us joy.
Fear is not something that can be eliminated. But avoiding it gives it power. Invite it in. Learn to live with it, acknowledge it, and carry on anyway. What's the worst it can really do? All that you have control over is what's happening right now. What might happen later is not here yet. If you're playing measure 36 and worrying about measure 57, neither is getting your full attention. Play the measure you are on, with all the ability you have, and when you get to measure 57, do your best. And when that's over, please, move on to measure 58, or we be reliving this recital forever, and don't we all have many more pieces of music to learn, and finish lines to cross, and most importantly, joy to experience? My wish for you, and for myself, is Justin's response. When someone asks you "how did it go?" that you can respond in all honesty "It was fun!" and to have that be your only measure of success. ~ Linda Firth (c) 2003, 2007
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