Lessons
This morning I sat down in front of five middle school trombone players and said, "Today we're going to learn the Bb scale. It's what the band uses to warm up, and after today you'll be able to join them."
35 minutes later, all five of them were able to name the notes and positions, and play the scale from memory. Will they remember it tomorrow? Maybe not ... it takes a while to learn scales for the first time. They probably won't remember all the positions or notes that they were able to rattle off to quickly this morning, and it might take them a little while to recall the sound and feel of moving your slide to match the Bb scale. That's okay; it's not my goal to have them ready for a regional audition by next week, but just to learn how to play a little bit on the horn.
So I was sitting at the end of the lesson thinking about this and starting to set some new goals for the whole semester (all five players are new to the instrument) when something amazing happened. One of the boys was slouching and put his feet up on the chair in front of him, about to bring his horn up to play. Before I could correct him, the boy sitting next to him said, "Hey, sit up. Back straight, feet on the floor. That way you'll be able to breathe better." The first boy asked him why ... and the second boy responded, "Jeremy said so. And he's right. That's how we're supposed to sit."
It might have been trivial, and it might have been something that I could have said myself, but watching a student pass on something I'd taught them ...
There are some things that just make your heart happy, you know?
Happy Wednesday.
September 26, 2007
September 21, 2007
Crap
You study, and you know the concepts, and you can do all the new math and methodology that's presented to you on a test. But wait- suddenly you reach a point in a problem where you can't go any further because you don't know what to do. And it's not the material for the class that's stopping you ... it's some simple math rule, or derivative method, or factoring procedure that just escapes you. You stare and stare at the problem, a handful of steps away from the solution, only to run out of time and write down something erroneous. After the test, your classmates are able to easily explain what you didn't see, elucidating every step clearly and with complete understanding.
Sometimes you see the solution ... and sometimes, for whatever reason, you just don't. Such is life.
So you win again, Laplace. But tomorrow the sun shall rise, and the war shall rage anew.
Laplace - 2
Jeremy - 1
You study, and you know the concepts, and you can do all the new math and methodology that's presented to you on a test. But wait- suddenly you reach a point in a problem where you can't go any further because you don't know what to do. And it's not the material for the class that's stopping you ... it's some simple math rule, or derivative method, or factoring procedure that just escapes you. You stare and stare at the problem, a handful of steps away from the solution, only to run out of time and write down something erroneous. After the test, your classmates are able to easily explain what you didn't see, elucidating every step clearly and with complete understanding.
Sometimes you see the solution ... and sometimes, for whatever reason, you just don't. Such is life.
So you win again, Laplace. But tomorrow the sun shall rise, and the war shall rage anew.
Laplace - 2
Jeremy - 1
September 16, 2007
Fall
I was 6, maybe 7. Fall meant that the air was going to grow colder, that we could spend no more time in the pool that year. That the leaves were going to fall and that when it was sunny, the air was crisp. When it was cloudy, the air was damp and moist and frigid if you were outside early in the morning. I remember standing at the bus stop on the mornings, huddled in the jacket I had fought against wearing (but now was happy that my mom had made me put it on). I carried my back pack and lunch box, but didn't yet realize that school was my future for the next 16 years.
Fall meant that games of baseball in the street would be ending soon. Mornings at the bus stop would be bitter and the wind cutting. The green of the trees would be giving way to the gray of the street as the most dominant color of my neighborhood.
That fall I would learn to read.
I was 11. This fall was different for the first time in 5 years. The old house was gone, the old school was gone, and now the growing coldness felt more foreboding than it did familiar. The only thing that was the same for me was the sky on those early mornings ... it was still crystal clear blue, or various hues of gray, or sometimes lanced with white offset by golden sunshine. Every morning the bus arrived but took me somewhere far unlike the place I had come from.
My own feelings were different. Something was beginning to happen. This was the first time I had been challenged to rise again in a new place. And, that fall, I would meet the first teacher who told me I could do better. He told me I had to work hard now, improve, meet my potential.
That fall I would learn to write.
I was 14, and this was the fall that would forever change my life. The moments which define that fall for me were, for the first time, not at the bus stop. I vaguely remember those mornings, but far more telling for me were the evenings. There was always the same cutting wind from my youth across the field, the same white lanced with gold in the sky, and the same gradual transposition of orange from green, then gray and brown. But this fall was something new. Something that I truly loved.
I will never forget the vision of that first sunset. We rounded the corner to come down the hill into the stadium, me beside my best friend and surrounded by my friends, and there in front of us was the most perfect sunset that could have existed. A third of the sun was still above the horizon, the sky was a fiery red that ever so gradually gave way to orange, then beige, then blue, then a very distinct purple on the opposite horizon.
That fall I would learn to perform.
I was 18, and once again it was my first time in a new place. The fall that year was characterized by the sunrise I saw every morning. I would wake up at 6:30, stretch for half an hour, then jog down to the gym for a 3 mile run. Every morning on the way down, though, I'd stop at the top of the stairs and look down into the valley. Some parts of it were still in the dark, thanks to the mountains on the Eastern side. The rest of it was coming to life ever so slowly, being warmed and invigorated with the light that was falling silently.
Every single morning I would pause for that one perfect moment, amidst all the hope and fear that was inside me. My test would come later that fall- the test of my dream. Deep down I knew that each morning would bring me that much closer to my goal. Every mile I ran was one more ounce of strength my body would have when the time came. Every note I practiced was one more degree of proficiency that would set me above the rest. Looking down silently the whole time was the ever-present sky ... gray and muffled or white lanced with gold.
That fall I would test my limits.
This fall is the same as the previous three have been ... but I shall embrace it as what could possibly be the last one in this place. Next year- we'll see what the fall brings with it. I guarantee that wherever I am, whomever I am with, or whatever I'm doing ... the sky will be there.
Happy September.
I was 6, maybe 7. Fall meant that the air was going to grow colder, that we could spend no more time in the pool that year. That the leaves were going to fall and that when it was sunny, the air was crisp. When it was cloudy, the air was damp and moist and frigid if you were outside early in the morning. I remember standing at the bus stop on the mornings, huddled in the jacket I had fought against wearing (but now was happy that my mom had made me put it on). I carried my back pack and lunch box, but didn't yet realize that school was my future for the next 16 years.
Fall meant that games of baseball in the street would be ending soon. Mornings at the bus stop would be bitter and the wind cutting. The green of the trees would be giving way to the gray of the street as the most dominant color of my neighborhood.
That fall I would learn to read.
I was 11. This fall was different for the first time in 5 years. The old house was gone, the old school was gone, and now the growing coldness felt more foreboding than it did familiar. The only thing that was the same for me was the sky on those early mornings ... it was still crystal clear blue, or various hues of gray, or sometimes lanced with white offset by golden sunshine. Every morning the bus arrived but took me somewhere far unlike the place I had come from.
My own feelings were different. Something was beginning to happen. This was the first time I had been challenged to rise again in a new place. And, that fall, I would meet the first teacher who told me I could do better. He told me I had to work hard now, improve, meet my potential.
That fall I would learn to write.
I was 14, and this was the fall that would forever change my life. The moments which define that fall for me were, for the first time, not at the bus stop. I vaguely remember those mornings, but far more telling for me were the evenings. There was always the same cutting wind from my youth across the field, the same white lanced with gold in the sky, and the same gradual transposition of orange from green, then gray and brown. But this fall was something new. Something that I truly loved.
I will never forget the vision of that first sunset. We rounded the corner to come down the hill into the stadium, me beside my best friend and surrounded by my friends, and there in front of us was the most perfect sunset that could have existed. A third of the sun was still above the horizon, the sky was a fiery red that ever so gradually gave way to orange, then beige, then blue, then a very distinct purple on the opposite horizon.
That fall I would learn to perform.
I was 18, and once again it was my first time in a new place. The fall that year was characterized by the sunrise I saw every morning. I would wake up at 6:30, stretch for half an hour, then jog down to the gym for a 3 mile run. Every morning on the way down, though, I'd stop at the top of the stairs and look down into the valley. Some parts of it were still in the dark, thanks to the mountains on the Eastern side. The rest of it was coming to life ever so slowly, being warmed and invigorated with the light that was falling silently.
Every single morning I would pause for that one perfect moment, amidst all the hope and fear that was inside me. My test would come later that fall- the test of my dream. Deep down I knew that each morning would bring me that much closer to my goal. Every mile I ran was one more ounce of strength my body would have when the time came. Every note I practiced was one more degree of proficiency that would set me above the rest. Looking down silently the whole time was the ever-present sky ... gray and muffled or white lanced with gold.
That fall I would test my limits.
This fall is the same as the previous three have been ... but I shall embrace it as what could possibly be the last one in this place. Next year- we'll see what the fall brings with it. I guarantee that wherever I am, whomever I am with, or whatever I'm doing ... the sky will be there.
Happy September.
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