Mind Over Music
I don’t like to be told where and when it’s appropriate to be creative. Plain and simple. Because the answer is….oh….ALLLLL the time. It’s always appropriate to be creative, even if I’m sitting on the toilet or in line at the corner store. Ever surprise the checkout guy by saying something unexpectedly funny or buy him a bag of chips for his next break? No? Well, you should. Creativity brings connection, and connection feeds us all.
When I look back, I can’t say that I was an amazingly creative child, although I’m not sure if I have a really good read on the early years. Many were a blur, with music being the center of the universe and me? Well, me simply orbiting everyone around me, being carried by their melodies or painfully aware of any dischord. Yeah “dischord”- a particular kind of tension built upon lack of harmony between music and…my own mind. There was innate conflict of interest, where I couldn’t discern what motivations might be internal versus external, and that would be a pervasive aspect of my relationship to music throughout the first half of my adulthood.
The relationship wasn’t and isn’t always bad. Rather, I’ve simply had to untangle where creativity and connection thrives in me and understand the most fruitful ways to flesh that energy out, because it must be released into…something. Because when I look back at times of struggle, I can easily see a pattern of whether I was both creatively fulfilled and internally driven. Both had to be present and if, IF external forces thwarted my efforts, I retreated inwards all too quickly. The internal drive would dissipate, then turn into apathy and finally rest on dejection. And that’s not good.
My mother had me in piano at six or seven, maybe, and that eventually turned into an additional music theory class before my piano lesson and entering competitions a few times a year. But oh goodness, I did NOT enjoy practicing. Nope, I was not a gifted technician, because there was no motivation present to spend hours or even 30 minutes a day practicing a classical piece that I had not chosen to perform. I never won those competitions, and by 5th or 6th grade, I put my foot down and refused to compete in any way whatsoever, but the basic expectation to continue lessons and put in daily practice time remained.
By the time I was in middle school, I made it home from school before my parents and sometimes found myself at the piano every other day or so, but time was not spent on whatever was assigned. I’d piddle by ear, usually something with simple chord progressions and sometimes move through a little teen angst in whatever spontaneous creation occurred that day. There were even multiple times a week where I wouldn’t practice, but instead, leave little breadcrumbs of deceit next to the metronome.
It makes me giggle a little now, because it was one of my first attempts to avoid confrontation. Right? It was easier to leave a Coke can ring on the bench or granola bar crumbs on the keys, so that Janet would see them and assume that I had spent time there. Tricky, right? Toss that pebble of proof into the mix, so that the worst I received was a simple reprimand for the mess, and that was perfectly acceptable, really. No harm, no foul, and the game would continue.
So yeah…never, never would I begin with what I was expected to do, which was practice the assigned material for one half hour. That never happened, and I’d procrastinate like mad throughout the week, only to contribute to the tension that built all the way until my lesson day where I’d sit upon my teacher’s little black bench with fear and dread of being found out. I had not practiced, and it would soon be obvious. Her two ginormous baby grands in that tiny front room with low ceilings and shutters on the windows only served to represent the massive expectations and inevitable failure that would encroach upon my confidence and creativity in that space and beyond.
In college, I struggled in composition. Always questioned my ear. Always questioned my voice. Always questioned if I chose to be a music major or if I just went along with for the familial ride where all roads led to music, and I would never be in the driver’s seat. At one point I questioned changing my major to business, and at another point I wondered if I should leave for culinary school. The searching had begun, but venturing outside of my musical world was just far too scary. The vast unknown. That fear remained for the next few years and much of my twenties, and the scholarship kept me loyal.
I would be giving up my reduced fees for higher education if I went another way, and I was unwilling to make myself or anyone else around me take that chance, right? Pretty risky. That didn’t seem nice, so the prudent choice was to continue and…figure it out later.
But my most successful and internally satisfying creative endeavors have been primarily solo ventures, and I think I know why. I think it’s easiest to go with my gut when my own mind and heart are not clouded by internal reluctance and external expectation. That seems to the be the theme, really.
In my thirties, I started designing flowers for galas and weddings and dared to call myself a Floral Designer. It would be my first solid memory of the elusive flow state, losing time because I was IN the moment with ideas flowing through me, propelling me forward. My happy place was brainstorming while sitting cross-legged on the couch after the kids went to bed. I’d sketch out designs in my notepad, accompanied by my bottle of Chardonay and allow myself to dive into color, texture, scent and sight. And it was all thrilling, really.
In the morning I’d review my notes, and almost always, the first two pages were pretty brilliant. Clear thought, bold and beautiful. That said, I’d need to rip out any pages following that pair, because you could see the descent of the mind as I must have moved into glass #3 or maybe even #4. The pages of thought simply paralleled the mess that my brain created under that influence. Not so great, and I’m glad no one ever took a gander at those. But alas, the fact that date night with Sutter produced those first two pages was enough for me. Sutter always got me loose and fancy free, and I felt safe at Home.
The creations themselves would remain on the page and in my head for months before anything came to fruition. And the actual wedding day itself was the culmination of that focus and intent, where the pressure to perform was filled with intensity and the intimate knowledge that my contributions were playing a role, part of the role of a lifetime, actually. Because each bride wanted something unique and impressive, and nothing thrilled me more than attempting to make that happen on such a personally monumental day. I got off on the riskiness of it all, and I still seem to enjoy endeavors that carry real downside if I don’t perform in the moment. It’s not a competition, but my own drive doesn’t believe that. Janet knows what I’m talking about, because we both commune well with the expectations that we only hear internally.
I want to impress. I want to inspire. And I want to dig into projects that no one thinks I’ll be able to do…that are born in my own mind, often with little training or knowledge of whether the product is good or bad. That’s how I’m wired, folks, so as an adult, I recognize that and let it move me towards what comes naturally, repeatedly and with no effort at all. Understand what feeds you, because sometimes that keeps you away from the Beast within as well.
Music will always be my muse. I’m steeped in Her language and often filled to the brim by Her love. She’s accompanied me through all dramas of the past, and her soundtrack won the Oscar Sunday night. Therefore, both her composition and contributions should be celebrated.
There is no resentment or regret, because upon inspection, I know that She is in integral part of this writing and all that fuels me each and every day. My thoughts are clear and present and my notepad full of ideas.
Melodies are part of my makeup, but I’ve chosen my Mind Over Music.
