Excuses vs. Strength: A Different New Year's Resolution; or, My 2nd Post about Making Excuses

For the past several years, I have subjected my Facebook friends to a lengthy list of New Year's Resolutions.  They always come with descriptions and explanations of purpose (I've never been accused of being concise), but they boil down to the following four things:

1. Get great at the horn

2. Attain some kind of fitness goal

3. Be kinder to myself

4. Learn a new skill

I've experienced varying levels of success and failure in all four areas.  I've begun to feel silly about making the same statements over and over again, though, so I thought briefly about not making any resolutions this year.

A better solution came into my life last week.

I spent the five days before Christmas in a constant state of bliss in Northern Virginia and DC with some of my favorite people on the planet.  The night before I left, I grabbed a drink in Adams Morgan with my longtime friend Jeremiah.  Jeremiah is a phenomenal musician and teacher, and the founder of Harmony Rising: A Music School Online.  He's also a yoga and spinning instructor, and convinced me over an Old Fashioned to come to the spinning class he was teaching the next morning.  I hadn't been to a spinning class since undergrad- which, as I was reminiscing with my good friend Adam, is now longer ago than I care to admit.  Still, I knew Jeremiah would be an amazing instructor, so I dragged myself out of bed Christmas Eve morning and went to class.

I arrived early so Jeremiah could help me set up my bike.  The class began, and we all started pedaling. I felt exhausted after the first 15 minutes.  I began searching for every excuse possible to let myself stop adding resistance and just pedal at a slow pace for the remainder of the class.  It was at that point where Jeremiah- an extremely enthusiastic leader- said the following:

"Are you looking for excuses?  Or, are you looking for strength?  Either way, you'll find what you're looking for."

Ouch, Jeremiah.  That one punched me right in the stomach.  I knew he was addressing the whole class, but I felt like he was reading my mind. And, it worked.  I decided that I didn't care that my thighs were throbbing, that my face was beet red, that I most certainly looked ridiculous trying to keep pace with all of the fit people in the class.  I pushed myself as hard as I could.  I had a major case of jelly legs when the class was over, and it was awesome.  I felt I had already accomplished a great feat by 9:30am, and the rest of the day was mine for the taking.

Jeremiah's words have remained with me since he uttered them a week ago.  They've helped me achieve small victories daily, and have caused a great deal of contemplation.  Completing a spinning class may seem like a trivial accomplishment, but what if I applied the excuses vs. strength rule to all of life's struggles, major and minor?  How much greater would life feel if I persevered instead of lamented?  What if, instead of falling victim to my many excuses, I instead call upon my inner strength to achieve something better?

Can you guess what my new, improved and concise New Year's Resolution is? No?  Okay, I'll tell you...

This year, I resolve to have the wisdom to search for strength instead of excuses.

Happy New Year, friends!  Let's raise our glasses to a healthy and loving existence for all beings everywhere!

Plow Pose and Perseverance

This post has nothing to do with music, education and culture.  This post has everything to do with music, education and culture.

One of my most stereotypical qualities is that I love yoga.  I still consider myself a beginner yogi, and sadly I go through periods where I don't practice very much at all (even though I KNOW that I always feel much better when I practice regularly).  I appreciate many types of yoga, but the style in which I find the most tranquility is Yin Yoga.  Unlike active (or "yang") yoga practices, yin yoga is a passive practice that involves holding each pose for an extended period of time- usually somewhere between three and eight minutes.

The first time I went to a yin class was around this time two years ago, during my last year of doctoral coursework in Cincinnati.  I was making more frequent visits to my favorite studio, World Peace Yoga.  I had no idea what yin yoga was, and only showed up because the class fit into my schedule that day.  I was expecting a "normal" class (whatever that means) full of sun salutations and warrior poses.  I was definitely NOT expecting to hold pigeon pose for 5 minutes on each side.  I remember being very sore at the end of the class, surprised at the difficulty of that 90 minutes of life. Yet, I kept going back for more.

Usually, the final pose preceding shavasana ("corpse pose") was an inversion held for five minutes. With the sole intention of placing your body in a position where the heart is above the head, the inversion could be as simple as laying flat on your back with a yoga block under your sacrum, knees bent and feet on the floor.  It could be shoulder stand.  Or, it could be plow pose: with the head, neck and shoulders remaining on the ground, the rest of the body is inverted so that the toes touch the ground beyond the head.

A recent "selfie" in plow pose.  It's really hard to take a photo of yourself in this pose.  For a better example, look anywhere else on the internet.

The first time I tried plow pose, I felt an intense sensation in my back.  Since the teacher always warned us to never go so deeply into a pose that you feel a sharp or electric pain, I came out of the pose immediately, opting for a milder inversion to complete my practice.  This happened for weeks: I would attempt the pose, feel the intense sensation, and fearfully back out of it.

Like it always does, eventually my stubbornness kicked in.  I decided to try to wait out the discomfort. With each class, I held the pose for a few seconds longer than the last, but the sensation never went away.  However, sitting with the irritation for progressively longer periods allowed me to distinguish the difference between a powerful discomfort and pain.  I was a competitive gymnast in a former life, and suffered a back injury that ended my participation in the sport, so back pain has always sent up a giant red flag in my brain.  I compared the back pain I underwent when I was a gymnast to the feeling I experienced in plow pose, and realized they were not the same. The feeling was strong and unfamiliar, but it was not pain.  It was not sharp and debilitating. It was not harmful.

Once I realized this distinction, I decided that my next class was the class I would remain in plow pose for the full 5 minutes.  Since I theorized the sensation wasn't actually pain and therefore probably not harmful, I knew I could make it.  I turned myself upside down, prepared to face something similar to getting a piercing or tattoo: intense discomfort during the activity, followed by an endorphin-induced high.  To my delight, I didn't have to wait until the pose was over.  After approximately 90 seconds, the distress went away entirely.  For the remainder of the pose, I experienced what I can only assume is bliss.  I felt euphoric, completely at peace, transcendent.  I was the owner of my happiness, and no one could take it away from me.  This became ritual with every plow pose in every yin class for the remainder of my time in Cincinnati: coaxing myself to endure the momentary suffering for the reward of acute joy.

Then I moved to Boston for 9 months.  I went to yoga classes when I could afford them, but never found myself in a yin class.  I fell out of practice.  I forgot about plow pose.

Then I moved to Lexington.  While I've started practicing yoga again since I moved here, there's only one yin class in the entire city, and it happens to be at a time I can't make.

Fortunately, now that I'm back in the same region of the country, life takes me to Cincinnati quite often (...it's possible that I help life along in that mission).  About 3 weeks ago, I was lucky enough to catch a yin class at World Peace Yoga again.  It had been about 16 months since my last yin class, but I remembered why I loved it as soon as I stepped on the mat and prepared for the adventure.  I found myself longing for the end of class to come so I could do plow pose.  To my surprise, however, instead of just craving the feeling of bliss after the torment, I found myself wanting the entire experience: the intense discomfort included.

I've been to 4 yin yoga classes in the last three weeks, and with each class I have the same desire for the pairing of discomfort and pleasure offered by plow pose.  I found this peculiar at first, but I think I'm beginning to understand it now.  I don't think the bliss is possible without the discomfort that precedes it; how would I know it was bliss if I didn't have the opposite by which to compare it?  Or, maybe the second half wouldn't feel so amazing if the first half wasn't so uncomfortable, meaning it wouldn't truly be bliss.

Whatever the reason, I can only hope that plow pose is one of my life's greatest physical metaphors.  May bliss be at the end of every torment.

Music and Memory: For Andrew

I spent the last two days playing with Orchestra Kentucky, sitting in my 4th horn seat.  This is a great regional orchestra in Bowling Green, drawing musicians from Lexington, Louisville, Owensboro, Nashville, and Evansville (and more places, I'm sure).  Among other fun works, last night's performance included Modest Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition.  This is the third time I've performed this work in my young musical career, and the second time while sitting in the 4th seat.  There are a lot of great moments in the 4th part; the only unfortunate aspect about it is that there are several movements in a row where only one, two or three horns are needed, eliminating the fourth horn for several minutes of music.  It was during this tacet section that I remembered.

This is the piece my orchestra at CCM was playing when Andrew died.

Andrew Austin Howell was an amazing person, who also happened to be a fantastic horn player.  He has just begun his junior year at CCM when he died in the early hours of Saturday, October 23rd, 2010.  He was 20 years old.  I think about Andrew every day, but it's been a while since I've thought about when the event occurred, and the painful days, weeks and months that followed.  Sitting in the orchestra two days ago, it was like I had turned back the clock almost three years.

I remember the text I got from Stephanie late Saturday morning.  I remember calling all of the graduate studio members, telling them all to sit down first.  I remember everyone gathering at Emily's apartment, including CCM director of wind studies Rod Winther, and Randy Gardner's lovely wife Barbara (Mr. Gardner happened to be in Philadelphia, and was frantically returning back to Cincinnati).  I remember Eric putting on several pots of Highlander Grog from Seven Hills Coffee, and Mr. Winther (a coffee enthusiast) saying it was the best coffee he'd ever tasted.  I remember ordering pizza and making french fries, and joking about how this was appropriate mourning food.  I remember us all taking turns laughing and crying.

I remember Sunday when we all gathered at the Gardner's home.  Anni happened to be in town that weekend, and recent graduate Danielle joined us too.  Usually, convocations at the Gardner's home involved bowls of ice cream and games of cornhole.  This was no such occasion.  We all tried to make it a supportive environment, and a time to share happy stories and fond memories.  We did our best, but the tears still flowed freely.

And then, I remember Monday, when we all had to show up at CCM.  I don't think any of us walked in alone that day.  Professors were extremely lenient with us, understanding if we just couldn't make it through class.  At 4PM, it was time for orchestra.  I remember sitting in the section with Austin, Robert, Jeremy and Eric.  I remember Annunziata's kind words.  I remember the rest of the orchestra's compassionate glances.  I remember Pictures at an Exhibition.

I remember Tuesday morning, when we had studio class for the first time since Andrew died.  I do not envy being Mr. Gardner in this situation.  How on earth do you hold a horn studio class when a member of your studio just fell off of a roof and died?  Not surprisingly, he made a great choice.  We listened to music for an hour.  Arkady Shilkloper, among other artists.  The class ended with an impromptu conga line.  The following hour was a grief counseling session, which the Wind Studies Department was hosting all day during normal rehearsal hours.  After that, Emily, Cecilia, Eric and I decided we couldn't handle the rest of the day at CCM.  We went and got giant burritos (again, appropriate mourning food) from Habañero, brought them back to Cecilia's and my house, opened up the futon, and stayed there for the rest of the day.

For the rest of the year, Emily tagged us in any picture she found of four kittens cuddling on a couch

I remember the vigil Wednesday night.  There was a huge crowd there.  Friends and teachers spoke.  The horn choir played an arrangement of Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings.  Cecilia played principal, and was rock solid.  I was sitting in the back row between Eric and Brigette.  It was the most difficult and most important performance of which I've ever been a part.  The vigil ended with a recording of Josh Groban's You Raise Me Up, which was one of Andrew's favorite songs.

I remember studio class on Thursday.  Mr. Gardner was brilliant, and decided this day should be his infamous Distraction Class.  It was the funniest one I experienced in my four years at CCM, probably because we were all so in need of a good laugh.

I remember the weeks and months that followed.  I remember having to go and pick people from CCM because they couldn't handle their sadness, and bringing them back to our house for a reprieve.  Our futon stayed open for at least a month, and we gained several temporary roommates.  I remember the night approximately a month later when, alone in my house, my body finally gave in to the pressure of staying strong for my friends; I called my parents, sobbing and shaking.  I remember the group hug on our last day of studio class in December, and the celebratory feeling we all shared for simply making it through the quarter.  I remember the concerts and recitals dedicated to Andrew's memory.  I remember gathering with his family in January to celebrate what would have been his 21st birthday, going to the spot in Bellevue Park where some of his ashes were spread.

Andrew's family and friends on his 21st birthday

I remember one year later, when we held a giant memorial concert.  Corbett Auditorium was filled.  Our horn studio was joined by members of the horn studios from Ohio State University and Indiana University.  Mr. Gardner asked me to represent the horn studio by giving a speech about Andrew.  I don't remember much from the actual moments I was speaking, but after I spoke I remember immediately running to the hallway behind the backstage area, putting my head between my knees.  Emily came and found me to make sure I wasn't barfing.  When I stood up, Mike held on to me and wouldn't let go, noting that he could feel my heart beating through my chest against his body.


I remember two years later.  I had just arrived in Los Angeles a couple of days prior, beginning my brief residency at Youth Orchestra Los Angeles (YOLA).  It was my first Andrew anniversary away from my CCM family, and I felt so alone.  Two of my fellow Sistema Fellows, Carlos and Sara, were also in LA with me at this time.  I had spent a grand total of 6 weeks of life with them at this point, but wasn't left with much of a choice but to tell them that I was probably going to have a very bad day.  Luckily for me, this was the beginning of a great friendship among the three of us, and they were wonderful about the whole thing.  I was also fortunate enough to share a phone call with Stephanie and Austin that day, who were also spending their first Andrew anniversary away from CCM.

Now, it's almost three years later.  I still have many of the same feelings I had when it happened.  Sadness. Confusion. Anger. And, happiness.  Happiness that I had Andrew in my life.  Happiness that he brought the CCM community closer together.  Happiness that I am fortunate enough to make the most of my life.  In a cathartic way, I hope that every time I play Pictures at an Exhibition, I will remember that time in my life; for me, every performance of the work will be dedicated to Andrew.

_________________________________________________________________________

"Andrew."

This was how I snapped out of my whirlwind of memories during Sunday's rehearsal of Pictures.

"Andrew."

The conductor had stopped the music to address a member of the orchestra.  His name happened to be Andrew.

Sometimes, the universe does strange things.

Keep it Simple

Last week I had the great opportunity to perform in the horn section of the Columbus Symphony Orchestra.  It's always a real treat for me when I get to play with them; this time, the deal was even sweeter because I got to play with my good friend and CCM colleague, Jeremy.  Jeremy and I carpooled from Cincinnati all week, and had a lot of time to catch up.  We had many great conversations about making the most out of life, and living exactly how you want to live.  A subtopic of this conversation involved Jeremy's summer practice routine, which entails getting up at 5:00 every morning.  To a lot of people, waking up at 5am daily is undesirable and may seem impossible. Here's a summary of what Jeremy had to say about it:

"People ask me how I get up at 5 every day.  I say, 'I set my alarm for 5am and then I wake up'.  It's that simple."

This simplicity resonated with me so much.  Like many people, I have a hard time getting up early.  I'm the girl who sets 10 alarms on her phone and ignores every one of them.  Eventually I stumble out of bed just in time to throw on jeans, pour some coffee in a travel mug and walk out the door.  In the moment, it's so easy to make excuses for sleeping in.  I always try to justify it by convincing myself I'll have plenty of time during the day to complete everything I need to.  This is rarely true.  At the end of the day I usually end up being mad at myself for my inability to do the right thing in the morning and just wake up when the alarm tells me to.

Jeremy's simple explanation of how he gets up so early every morning really got me thinking- mostly about how I tend to make simple tasks way more complicated than they need to be.  Getting up early is difficult for me for a number of reasons.  Some are legitimate; some aren't.  Whether the reasons are justifiable or not, I know getting up early will help me live every day exactly how I want.  What if, instead of rationalizing or justifying or making excuses, I just got up whenever my alarm went off?  What if I kept it that simple?  I know that there are more pros than cons of getting up when I intend to.  I'll feel better about myself, and I'll actually have a fighting chance of getting the day's tasks completed.

It's like the old quote- falsely attributed to everyone from Albert Einstein to Mark Twain- about the definition of insanity: "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results".  I can't expect to make changes in my life if my daily routine never changes.  If I want the outcome to be different, I have to consciously make new choices.  For starters, I can't expect to live every day like superwoman if I keep ignoring my alarm.

I'm trying something new this week.  I'm going to get up at 6AM every day.  This will allow me plenty of time to get some face time in on the horn before I set foot in the office.  My trial run this morning was successful.  The alarm went off at 6:02, 6:03, 6:05 and 6:08.  Once the last one went off, the excuses crept up.  "You really could just sleep till 6:30."  "But you're SO tired!"  "It's still dark outside..."  Normally, I would have chosen to listen to at least one of those excuses.  Instead, I thought of Jeremy and how he'd been awake for an hour already, and asked myself one question: "How badly do you want it?"

If I want my life to include everything I desire, I have to make changes.  It all comes down to choice.  I could choose to listen to my groggy excuses in the morning, or I could choose to simply set my alarm for 6am and then wake up when it goes off.  When you think about it objectively, the latter is far simpler than coming up with a half-asleep elaborate ruse of justification.

Getting up early is just one of many examples I could use of how I make my life way more complicated than it needs to be.  I hope this is only the beginning of discovering more ways to simplify my life, taking away baggage and living fully and honestly.

Musical Relevance: Part 1

Before I get into the vegan meat of this post, I should say that when I refer to "classical music," I mean in its absolute broadest definition- symphonic, chamber and solo music from all eras, performed on instruments traditionally found in band or orchestra settings.

Now, on with the post!

As a graduation gift, Heath and Virginia presented all 10 fellows with a copy of Arlene Goldbard’s new book, The Culture of Possibility: Art, Artists and the Future.  You can read more about Ms. Goldbard and her publications here.  Thanks, Arlene, for permitting me to use your words as the catalyst for this post!  The fellows had our first exposure to Ms. Goldbard when she spoke via Skype at the symposium/seminario/gathering (affectionately dubbed the “symposinario” by the fellows) we held at the end of March for members of the greater Boston arts and education community.  Her short “provocation” at the event was indeed just that, and though I’m only tens of pages into her book, thus far she is upholding her title of provocateur.  The following quote sparked today’s blog post: 

...our capacity to act is conditioned on the story we tell ourselves about our own predicament and capabilities. ...To even begin to conceive responses worthy of current challenges means removing all barriers to clear sight.  For me, this translates into a simple proposition.  We need to see like the most committed and skilled artists: eyes wide open, taking it all in, turning away from nothing, cultivating empathy and imagination, venturing forth, taking risks, admitting mistakes, persevering.

This brought so many thoughts bursting from my brain that I had to put the book down and start writing.  These musings will (hopefully, if I don’t get lazy) be broken up into a few different posts.  Today’s post will touch on my interpretation of “removing all barriers to clear sight,” and what that has meant in my life as a musician, particularly in the last two-and-a-half years.  

A large barrier came down several years ago when I fully realized the conditions under which I was able to receive my musical education, and that not every child is so lucky to have these resources (you can read about that here, if you're so inclined).  This is how El Sistema entered my life.  Since then, I've placed ample thought and energy into removing access barriers to classical music.  Some people could certainly consider it a barrier in itself that I still focus on classical music.  I've spent all academic year thinking about this, and will undoubtedly continue to think about it for years to come.  While I value other types of music and intend to utilize them as publicly desired, I still believe that classical music does not need to be viewed as a barrier to sight or accessibility.

I grew up in a little town just outside of Winchester, Virginia.  Winchester is a small and historic city in the northernmost part of the state.  Thanks largely to its proximity to DC, the arts scene in Winchester when I was growing up wasn’t nearly as dismal as it is in other communities I’ve seen; but, to say that classical music is relevant to the overall culture of this area would be false.  There was no extracurricular youth band or orchestra for wind players.  Try as I might, I could never find a horn player to be my teacher; I became a horn instructor myself at the age of 15 because of this.  I didn’t know summer music festivals for youth, like Interlochen or Blue Lake, existed until I got to college.  Upon high school graduation, I was the only person in my class who was pursuing music as a career.  Music was relevant in my personal life, but not in the culture of my community.  I chose this path anyway, and there are a number of other people from my hometown who have gone on to pursue successful careers in music education, performance and entrepreneurship.

Additionally, I am the only professional musician in my extended family, which is quite large.  My mom and sister, and a few of my aunts, uncles and cousins participated in band or orchestra growing up, but none of them possessed the same passion for it that I did.  There was no great musical influence or culture in my family.  Yet here I am.

My story is not unique, as I discovered most intimately when I arrived at CCM for grad school.  One of my favorite things about CCM is that it’s filled with people who grew up in a similar fashion as I, yet still ended up in the field of music performance.  I’m sure this is not unique to CCM, but I’m using it as an example because it’s my personal point of reference.  Was classical music relevant in our childhood?  Personally, sure; but culturally, probably not.  Evidently, it didn’t matter, because we were still deeply impacted by music to the point that we chose to do something out of cultural context with our lives.

Dead European composers could easily mean nothing to me, yet my love for classical music is one of the driving forces in my life.  Additionally, being a classical musician has opened my eyes to so many other types of music.  I’ve performed with everything from jazz ensembles to polka bands to civil war era brass bands.

Shameless proof of the civil war era brass band gig

Don’t get me wrong- I understand that classical music is not for everybody, and it does not have the power to affect everyone in the way it has affected me.  That’s totally fine.  There are certain kinds of music that I will never like, so I don't expect everyone to join me on the classical music train.  I am also fully aware, now more than ever, that I fit two of this country’s primary classical-music-lover stereotypes: I’m white and highly educated.  Furthermore, I know that there are far more extreme scenarios than mine of classical music not being encompassed in a person's culture.  Regardless, it's still fair for me to say that classical music was not relevant in my culture growing up.  Now it’s the number 1 component of my culture, and I can’t imagine life any other way.

Call it a barrier of sight if you wish, but even after countless hours of analysis, I still don't believe classical music as an entity needs to be a cultural barrier.  This certainly doesn’t change the way classical music is perceived by society as a whole, or the fact that there are institutional and societal barriers to accessing classical music.  What to do about this will (again- hopefully, if I don't get lazy) be the topic for my next post: “taking it all in, turning away from nothing, cultivating empathy and imagination, venturing forth, taking risks, admitting mistakes, persevering.”

Bluegrass on the Horn

I'm completing this post from a coffee house in Lexington, KY.  I have accepted a position as the program director for North Limestone MusicWorks, which is the Central Kentucky Youth Orchestra's new El Sistema - inspired initiative.  I could not be more excited!

About 2 weeks ago, the Sistema Fellows graduated from NEC.  It was a small, intimate ceremony with some family members and lots of friends in attendance.

Post Graduation: The fellows, Heath, Virginia, Tony and Leslie

Sara, Carlos and me after the ceremony

The ceremony opened with encouraging words and anecdotes related to our class from NEC president Tony Woodcock.  Then, each fellow had the floor for a few minutes.  Everyone spoke; some used media; some played music.  I bet you can guess my choice.

I did, of course, say a few words before I played my horn.  I spoke of the theme of firsts, and the number 1, in my young sistema life.  I had 1 year with 9 amazing fellows.  I experienced my first trip to a Latin American country.  I taught music lessons with a language barrier for the first time.  I'm about to move to Lexington to help start Kentucky's first El Sistema - inspired program.  Following this theme, and furthering my exploration of musical relevance, my short commencement performance was another first:

I played bluegrass music on my horn.

As this was my first foray into bluegrass, I kept things simple.  I actually started with a shape note hymn, and then bridged into the melody of Bill Monroe's "Blue Moon of Kentucky."  It was nothing outstanding, but for me it accurately represented my year of experimenting in performance; I used my 5 minutes of graduation spotlight as a testing ground for musical courage.

This was the second time that I've performed at a fellowship event.  Several hours after graduation, I was having a discussion with my friend and fellow Xóchitl.  She said something to me that went kind of like this: "You're much more comfortable when you're talking with a horn in your hands.  You're more laid back.  You make jokes."

Similarly, when I returned to Cincinnati last month to give my lecture-recital, I saw many friends from the horn studio whom I hadn't seen since my move to Boston.  I received one comment over and over again: "Rachel, you look so much happier!"

These observations pointed out things that I hadn't consciously noticed, but the words also didn't surprise me.  While I'm still figuring out the balance in my life (and probably will be for many years to come), these comments serve as proof that performance, education and inclusion are necessary elements of my career; I cannot relinquish any of the three.

I still have a lot to figure out, but I'm enjoying the musical journey.  I feel strongly that I'm in the right place to continue to learn and grow as a musician, performer, educator, and leader.  I can't wait to spread the El Sistema love to Lexington!

Venezuela Series: Barquisimeto, week 2

I just completed an indescribable week in Barquisimeto.  I'll try to describe it anyway.  Fair warning: this will be a long entry.

On Monday, Elise, Monique, Sara and I got to the Barquisimeto conservatory around 10am to meet with its music director, Luis Jimenez.  Luis was one of the famous original eleven members of the first El Sistema orchestra, and hearing his story was priceless.  He is originally from Barquisimeto, and has been a major part in making the Barquisimeto conservatory the Venezuelan powerhouse it is today.  The part of his story that affected me the most pinpointed the exact moments when music education went from being a privilege to a social right in Barquisimeto.  It reminded me of why I got into this work in the first place, and what my goals are as a musician, educator and citizen.

After this great history lesson, the four of us met with Johnny Gomez, who is the director of the special needs program at the conservatory.  Barquisimeto is on the top of the field of providing music education for children and adults with special needs, it it was amazing to hear the man who started it all talk about how they got to where they are today.  We were all a little weepy by the time he got through with us.  More on this later.

After lunch, seven of us headed to a breathtakingly beautiful suburb of Barquisimeto called Santa Rosa.  Santa Rosa is home of Lara's Divina Pastora.  It also houses a nucleo that is only a few years old, where the children rehearse mainly in and around the town square every day.

Panorama of Santa Rosa's square

We were all anxious to get back to work, and our wish was granted.  Carlos and I began our week-long journey as team teachers for the brass students.  On Monday, we worked with three of Santa Rosa's horn players: Maria, Maria and José Victor.  I should also mention that before we left the conservatory for Santa Rosa, we ran into Mao.  Mao ended up having the afternoon free, so Xochitl and Diogo invited him to hop in the van to Santa Rosa with us!  Mao was a great addition to the Santa Rosa horn team.  He also gave me the necklace I'm wearing in the photo below.

Thanks to Carlos for grabbing this shot!

The nucleo usually ends rehearsal at 5:30 every day, but Carlos and I got the time wrong and ended up keeping our kids until 6.  No one told us to stop rehearsing.  The kids never asked for a break for the entire 3 hours we were working with them; neither did Carlos and I.

After we finished rehearsing, the fellows and nucleo leaders went and grabbed some sweets at the dulceria in the square.  Some of the kiddos joined us.

The student on the far right is José Victor, who Carlos and I met for the first time last week at the audition prep day at the conservatory.  They were working on the first horn part to Mahler’s 1st symphony.  During a rehearsal break, the horn students asked me which horn part I usually play, and I said 2nd.  José Victor ran out of the room, and came back a few minutes later with the 2nd horn part for me to play along with them.  I was very excited to see him again when we arrived at Santa Rosa.  At the beginning of rehearsal on this particular afternoon, his music was completely disorganized.  Carlos told him that we were going to come back (which we didn't actually know at the time), and that he expected José Victor’s music to be organized alphabetically.  Remember this a few paragraphs down the road.

On Tuesday, I did something I never thought I would do: learn to read braille.  One of the administrative team members for the special needs department of the conservatory spent a portion of the morning teaching several of us the basics of reading braille.  We started with the letters and numbers, and then we went into reading music.  She stressed to us to try not to compare reading music in braille with reading it by sight on the staff because they are completely different ways of reading music, and she was right.  The most notable difference is that in braille, there is no staff.  In reading braille music, portions are actually notated with the expectation that the learner will use intuition to figure out certain things, such as which octave the next note in the series is in.  I think it's so cool that there is a literacy system with inherent intuition built in.

I had to leave the braille session a bit early because Mao and I had arranged to have a lesson, which lasted for two hours.  The only reason we stopped was because I had somewhere else to be.  I taught Mao some horn, and he taught me some Spanish.  My teaching skills were exercised in a completely new way working around a language barrier.  Not surprisingly, we had a great time together.  (Side note for you, Cecilia: you made a guest appearance in the lesson via my laptop screensaver!  I got to tell Mao that you are my best friend and you play horn too!).  

After my lesson with Mao, I hopped in the van with the fellows.  We drove two hours outside of the city to Carora (note: this is an extremely hard word for a gringa like me to pronounce).  Carora is a stunningly beautiful and quaint pueblo.  Once again, we were joyfully put to work immediately upon arrival.  Carlos and I got to work with the wind ensemble for a short while before taking the trumpeters and hornist out for a sectional.  They requested to work on technique, which was no surprise to us; however, we opted to take a different approach and work on buzzing and sound production.  The young hornist had never had a horn teacher before, and I felt lucky to pass on any knowledge that I could in the short time I had with him.

Students at Carora

After the sectional, everyone went to full orchestra rehearsal.  Diogo was the celebrity of the day, conducting the orchestra through a rousing rendition of Mambo, followed by the ever popular Venezuela.  After this rehearsal, all of the fellows were treated like royalty.  All of the students wanted photos with us individually.

 Carlos getting mauled by small children

New friends from Carora

Wednesday, the fellows split into groups and dispersed ourselves throughout Lara.  Some went back to Corora; others went to Tamaka; Elise stayed at the conservatory; and Carlos and I returned to Santa Rosa.  This time we worked with the horns, trombones and 1 trumpet.  As the students were unpacking their instruments and music, I José Victor had something new with him: a thick white binder stuffed full of music.  He went above and beyond Carlos' request.  He made artwork for the cover.  He put in a table of contents.  Every piece of music was organized alphabetically, complete with tabs to separate the pieces.  All of the music was in clear plastic to keep it from blowing away, as they rehearse outside.  We were stunned.

We made another trip to the dulceria after rehearsal.  José Victor joined us.

He definitely ate the whole thing.

Thursday was the most profoundly emotional day for me.  We spent the afternoon at the conservatory being treated to a workshop and performance by the Coro de Manos Blancos (White Hands Chorus).  This choir is for individuals with special needs, ranging from blindness to autism to motor disabilities to deafness.  Everything about this was astounding.  I plan on writing a longer blog entry within the next few days about this experience.  All I'll say for now is that none of us were shy with our tears this particular afternoon.

Friday was my favorite day of the week for many reasons.  For starters, I decided to get in my morning practice session on the roof of our hotel.

This was my view.  And yes, I obviously played the Short Call.

In the afternoon, Carlos, Xochitl, Monique and I returned to Santa Rosa one last time.  Carlos and I had our biggest brass section yet: 4 horns, 5 trumpets, 3 trombones and a euphonium.  Carlos conducted them while I ran around adjusting hand positions and playing along with the students struggling with harmonies.  The last hour was spent in full orchestra rehearsal, where Carlos conducted and I jumped in to play along with the kids.  At the end of rehearsal, the nucleo director and all of the children thanked us deeply for sharing with them.  We thanked them in return, though I doubt I can express the impact the Santa Rosa nucleo had on me.  To experience kids with such hunger to learn in a seemingly constant state of joy is something I will never forget.  Even though I could barely talk to them, they showed me so much love and appreciation.  Wherever I end up in June, I want my nucleo to be reminiscent of Santa Rosa.

The fellows spent the evening with our new friends from the Barquisimeto conservatory and Santa Rosa.  I received patient assistance with my Spanish, and learned how to salsa and merengue.  It was a perfect way to end a fantastic week in a beautiful city full of kind and generous souls.

We are now back in Caracas for a few days, wrapping up our trip.  We return to the US on Tuesday.  I feel like I just got here, like I just started to understand what Venezuela’s El Sistema is about.  I have so much to think about, but right now my brain can only focus on how and when to get back to this beautiful country to continue growing and learning at the source.