Letting the pre-trained version of yourself out to play

My main objective lately (and by lately I mean for a few years now) is healing my relationship with music and my instrument. So far, one of my favorite practices I’ve developed for working on this objective is listening deeply to my sound with suspended control and judgment. By practicing this, I make space for my inner pre-trained self and help her heal. I want to share this practice in case other people might also find it healing.

As professional and/or trained musicians, we are both craftsmen and athletes. As craftsmen, we hone our ears, tastes, and fine skills. We learn discernment between good, bad, getting there, better, excellent, etc. in our own playing and in others’.

Like athletes, we strive for total control of our bodies and minds, from the tiniest details of embouchure or bow hold, to our breath, to our mental strength in performing highly complex tasks in real time under extreme pressure. The big overlap here is control. All this is important and necessary to become a highly skilled musician.

However, I’ve come to learn that it is equally important to get to know and love the untrained versions of ourselves too. We can do this simply by giving that version the space to exist. Underneath all our training is a naturally pre-existing body and spirit. Everyone has an energy, a chemical makeup, whatever it is that makes us individuals, all of us reacting differently to living in the world. Underneath the control and refinement, we each have a chemistry that makes us uniquely ourselves and also binds us together as a greater living spirit.

Playing an instrument is a way to observe, explore, and play with this chemistry, but we can’t do that if we’re always suppressing our natural, unrefined selves beneath the trained versions of us. So we need to let go, even if only momentarily, of the judgment and control of our training, and allow our natural, unrefined selves to express what’s inside us.

This can sound intimidating to a musician still steeped in their training. That’s okay. Our training often encourages - even expects - us to forget and forgo our natural bodies and spirits in favor of the trained body and mind. The problem is that if we do this unquestioningly (as I did), it can eventually feel like we’ve become empty. We can lose touch with the artist in us. Not only might we lose touch with the artist - we can deeply wound the artist by doing this. So, we must practice undoing some of our training in favor of our being. Rebalance the scale.

The first step is to take a breath in and out. Notice that you probably didn’t judge the breath that came out. Next, take a breath in, and sound your instrument as you breathe out (for me, this means blow through my saxophone). Whatever sound comes out, let it, and try not to judge it. Keep doing this repeatedly. That sound is a resonance specifically determined by your unique body. It’s totally original and unrepeatable by anyone else. It’s an expression of your natural, pre-existing self. Listen deeply. What sounds can you hear inside and around the sound you are producing? Once you are comfortable, you might even try loving the sound that comes out. How does that feel?

When we pay attention to the sound we produce on our instrument when we are in a natural, uncontrolled state, we put our trained selves aside and listen with non-judgment, acceptance, and curiosity. We can listen to our bodies and inner selves on a very deep level this way. Our inner selves, our pre-trained bodies and minds, are worth paying attention to. Doing this is what gives meaning to playing an instrument, and it can help heal our inner artist if we feel that they are wounded.

As we get more comfortable doing this practice, we can start expanding our sound to include fragments of phrases, and eventually full phrases, of music. This might take more time than you expect though. Trusting and accepting your untrained self - the self that was simply born one day and is continuously reacting in the world - doesn’t always come easily after so much training in control. But if you practice listening, you will hear more and more.

New Year's Resolutions (Because Why Not?)

[I just came in here and realized that I never posted this when I meant to back in February. Oh well, here it is now.]

I’ve always liked new year’s resolutions, despite the amount of hate they get. Maybe cliche, but I think the turning of the calendar is an opportunity to reflect and start fresh. Not to mention the crisp new planner…

This collection of resolutions was written in late December, after a good long reflection on 2022. It was a big year for me. I literally multiplied. My life changed completely and permanently. I changed completely and permanently. Hell yeah!

I’m a little late on sharing these (or maybe I’m just on time). I thought it would be fun to put them out there.

WORK

  • Make music, freely. Create something by the end of the year, even if just one track.

  • Continue to build my website. Blog, saxophone resources, share music.

  • If Every Day Is Good journal: Work on material, body of work. Create products, begin to sell.

  • Be an excellent employee: Help bring growth & wealth to the business I work for.

GOALS (“to-do”)

  • Money: Spend joyfully, invest aggressively, save wisely.

  • Home improvement: paint kitchen, bathroom, and sunroom. New garage door.

  • Get outside more.

  • Reflect regularly, utilize planner.

  • Give my land some love. Grow flowers, food.

  • Continue to meditate, journal, exercise, practice.

  • Love every moment with Casey (easy, always).

INTENTIONS

  • Embodiment, living in, honor self, deepen roots

  • Expression, building out, creation, make visible

  • Let loose, find freedom, inner child, play, connect

  • Manifest, grow wealth, grow autonomy

  • Follow through, decisiveness, action-taking

  • Groundedness, ponder & connect with god, inner guide, radical trust

  • Record keeping, remembering, honoring, savoring, documenting, organizing

Why I stopped playing saxophone, Part 2

Six months have flown by since Part 1 of this reflection, where I talked about the simple and straightforward reasons that pregnancy caused me to stop playing. Now with pregnancy and postpartum over, I have been able to reflect more on the mental and emotional issues that were already driving me toward quitting saxophone long before pregnancy. The most general way to put it is that my sense of self-worth outside of classical saxophone metrics was basically zero. That was an unsustainable way to live, and I needed to fix it.

One setting where my lack of self-worth was particularly crippling (and strongly reinforced) is the saxophone repair shop I’ve been going to since college. I used to dread going into this shop, especially the older I got and the more “successful” I “should” have been. The patronizing small talk with the technician or shop owner felt so sinister. “What are you up to these days?” was like an entire test. Hidden under that question were other questions: How much are you playing these days? Enough to be a serious musician? Are you making money at it? How much are you sacrificing for this career? Are you even still on this career path, or are you a failure? Are you still one of US? I became afraid to go to the shop, terrified of facing this perceived scrutiny, and even more terrified of feeling like an outsider.

Yesterday, I took a couple of my horns into the shop. Instead of crumpling under the pressure of “What are you up to these days?” I subjected myself to my own test: Can I answer with pride and self-assuredness? With honesty, and without shrinking? And I did, I passed my own test. I unashamedly talked about how I was in the area for my non-music-related work. I even let it be known that my saxophone was in such rough shape because I just haven’t needed to play at my highest level of ability for a while, so I hadn’t prioritized its professional maintenance.

It felt good to be honest about my job and to not wince when the technician said “If you were playing 40 hours a week…” I noticed that with my mental distance from using practice hours as a worthiness metric, I felt more confident letting my background speak for itself. I went to good schools, I have a master’s degree, and I’ve obviously played my horn a LOT of hours in its lifetime. I can be proud of those facts (not that a poorly maintained saxophone is necessarily a point of pride…). But I also admit that it was still nerve-wracking. I purposely avoided the shop owner who has known me since I was 18, and I was glad that the new technician was someone I had never met before, so I didn’t have to deal with any reputation (or lack thereof) I might have from the past.

To get to the point of not fearing the scrutiny of people still immersed in the field (or at least of fearing it less), I needed to detach my self-worth from those people’s value system. I had to learn that I have value in this life completely independent of the number of hours I practice, the amount of recognition I gain, or the depth of sacrifice I make. I had to realize that it’s okay to feel pride and purpose in things other than saxophone. I had to learn to rely upon my own inner guide. I needed to emancipate myself from the abusive, mind-fucking world of classical saxophone.

That’s the work I’ve been doing for the past year. For me, it has looked like taking a lot of time away from the horn and realizing that I won’t die, or disappear, or become “irrelevant.” Instead of practicing to fulfill an unfulfillable void, I’ve been making up for lost time, enjoying life and learning about myself as a whole person and musician outside of classical saxophone. I’ve been flipping the paradigm so that classical saxophone doesn’t own me; It’s just something I do. And I do a lot of things. That is a good and healthy fact about myself. Not a failure.

Practice Journal 11.30.22

Should i even bother (with classical music)??? A bunch of questions

I haven’t started playing yet because Casey just went down for his nap. While he sleeps I’ve been listening to some performances on Youtube, and something important occurred to me: that in all my years of classical music training and playing, I never learned how to listen to classical music as music, rather than as a performance. All I hear when I listen to classical performances, including my own, is an inner monologue of technical critique and evaluation. That note is out of tune. The articulation isn’t right. Their tempos aren’t aligned. The direction of the phrase is unclear. Blah blah blah blah. My inclination to pick apart a performance drowns out any ability I might have to just freakin’ sit back and enjoy a piece of music.

This causes me to wonder, is this a flaw in me? In classical music? The performers? What differences are there between a time when I listen, connect, and enjoy a piece of music, and a time when I get lost in a spiral of negativity and anxiety about the performance of it?

I can listen to some performers (even saxophonists!) whose playing has mistakes and imperfections, and still truly enjoy the music. Folk and jazz music are easy examples. The fact that I can enjoy technically imperfect performances by certain artists tells me that as a performer, it’s possible to connect to listeners without getting hung up on every detail being meticulously crafted and executed every time. Being out of tune, or out of time, or missing a note can ruin a performance, but it doesn’t do so automatically or inherently. This also tells me that great musicians don’t execute perfectly every time (or perhaps ever in some cases), and therefore technical perfection is not always a necessary part of being a great musician. So why does it feel so necessary in classical music?

Classical performance may be one of the most rigorously technical and challenging ways to do music. Classical musicians are insanely skilled, even the mediocre ones! Yet, by my observation, few are able to meaningfully connect to the music or the audience on a regular basis (Either this is largely true, or I am seriously missing something. Maybe it’s just me…). So, why are people pursuing it? Why did I pursue it? Maybe I didn’t notice the lack of connection, or I didn’t know to look for it, or I willfully ignored it.

Do other people feel this lack of connection? Are they in it just for the unicorn performances, both of their own, and as a listener? Are these rare excellent performances really that significant for humanity? Is it the case that, as a species doing this thing, we just have to throw a bunch of people in the ring in order to find a few greats? Is it worth it???

I digress… Clearly I have a lot more questions than answers, and I have to trust that if people keep doing classical music, it must be important.

I admit it’s both possible and likely that many other people really do deeply connect with classical music on a calm, casual basis. In that case, perhaps I can look at myself and admit that classical music just isn’t for me. Or isn’t it? Could a change in approach shift my mindset, my perspective? Can I enjoy the practice of classical music without really loving to listen to it? Is it possible to find value in the field, the history, the study, without bothering with the pursuit of greatness? Can classical music be a means to an end, the end being deep human connection through music regardless of genre?

Anyway, it’s been long overdue for me to take a cold hard look specifically at classical music’s role in my life. It has been a fraught relationship for years. The fact that listening to it not only gives me little to no pleasure, but actually gives me anxiety raises a red flag, as well as a lot of questions. What exactly that flag indicates… the answers to those questions… I need to do some more thinking to figure those out. Stay tuned, I guess!

3 Simple Actions That Inspire Me To Practice

1. Write. Since starting the “re-entry” process, I begin every practice session with a brief journal entry. I use a dedicated journal because it’s so satisfying to fill pages about this one particularly important area of my life. As I fill the journal, it becomes a volume of evidence that music really matters to me. This evidence builds self-trust, and it helps me challenge old patterns of self-doubt and criticism.

Writing before a session helps to express the mental blockages and thought clutter that interfere with focus during practice. It helps me get a read on my current mental landscape, and then I use that information to create an effective practice strategy for the day. I like to start with a simple statement about how I’m feeling or just something that’s been on my mind. Then I explore some thoughts about how practicing has been going vs. how I would like it to go. I end the writing session with a concrete practice agenda, which I can then jump right into.

Beginning a practice session can feel really daunting. Because my life is completely different than it was a year ago (because now there’s a baby in the picture), I am basically building a habit from scratch. Journaling about it takes the edge off. It relieves some of the pressure of expectation while providing structure, focus, and pace, one session at a time.

2. Listen to music I love. This one is pretty self-explanatory. Of course listening to music that I love inspires me to want to play - It’s what made me become a musician in the first place. It’s always good to revisit that place emotionally, mentally, to remember falling in love with music. Doing this doesn’t necessarily compel me to sit down with my horn and hammer out a session immediately, but if I didn’t listen to my favorite music as a regular practice, I would likely never feel inspired enough to actually play. Cultivating a landscape of inspiration and love for music is just as important as the things that spark immediate action.

3. Listen to old recordings of myself. The older the better! I love listening to my old recordings because they remind me of how far I’ve come. They also seem to ground me and freshen up my sense of musical identity, especially when I’m feeling unsure about myself. The older the recording, the more distant I feel from the experience of making it, and the warmer I feel toward it. When listening to an old recording, I can see through (or not even notice) mistakes and rough patches that once made me cringe. I get excited and inspired by the potential of my younger self and her ideas, and I can remind myself that I’m still that person. Someday I will look back on my work right now, and I’ll get the same warm feelings. Thinking about this makes me want to practice and create for my future self, right now. Even if I can’t clearly see the potential of my work in the moment, if I allow it to keep unfolding, my future self will be so grateful.

Practice Journal 10.13.22

Today I practiced even though I didn’t want to. I got in about 55 minutes of playing before I needed to take care of the baby. It feels good because the practice was quality, engaging, and enjoyable once I wrote out my plan and picked up the horn. All I needed to do was start.

It’s important to try and remember that a lot of times, whatever feeling you have about the idea of work will not be the feeling you have while you’re actually doing the work. That’s why starting is the hardest and most important part of the process. This is true for any form of work. Once work actually begins, I find that any feelings about it tend to just disappear.

This isn’t the case every single time. I definitely have days where I can’t escape the negative feelings and resistance even after I start something (This happens most often for me with exercise, sadly!). A lot of times, that’s a valid cue that a break might be necessary, or at least worth considering. I think it can be harmful to always force yourself to “push through” when it’s contrary to your mental state. Doing so can damage the relationship to the work, creating unnecessary fear of coming back to it next time.

Sometimes it’s tempting to think that pushing through an enduring negative mental state will build resilience. I don’t think that it does. Starting when you don’t feel like it builds resilience. Continuing when you don’t feel like it can create trauma, diminishing resilience.

So start the things you’re afraid of. The fear and resistance will more often than not melt away on their own. But if they don’t, honor the message your body and mind are sending you: Step away, and try again later. By doing this you’ll learn to trust yourself, which will build resilience and make room for more joy in your work.

Particular Anxieties

not being original

even knowing that everything great —

everything that matters —

is just a part of the ongoing conversations

of humanity

being cliche

even knowing that someone else

sharing the same sentiment

doesn’t make it less meaningful.

it makes it more

how can my voice matter

in a sea of voices?

it feels like it doesn’t

even knowing that without voices

there is no sea

matter exists and therefore

existing matters

believing that you matter matters

even knowing that everything matters

and therefore nothing does

Intro to Re-Entry (Why I stopped playing saxophone, part 1)

The last time I played saxophone was May 1, 2022. Now it’s August and time to start my re-entry process, which will include reflecting on my time off, building a roadmap forward, documenting my practice, and writing after each session. I’m using a handwritten journal as my main tool in this process, but I hope and plan to share pieces of it on my blog too. I think this journey will be unique and worth sharing and documenting.

This project must be highly mindful and have adequate reflection time. I want to notice when I’m falling back on old toxic habits and learn to let them go. It will be scary because when those habits are let go, a new space will open up, and I will need to figure out how to fill it. My ultimate goals are pursuing better creative fulfillment and building a healthier relationship with my instrument.

I never imagined that I would take a break from saxophone for as long as three months. How this time off came to be has two components, the most salient being that I was pregnant, and the other being burnout (which I will dive into later). As for the impact of my pregnancy, during the first two trimesters I was too nauseated and exhausted to meaningfully practice. During that time, I only performed and could not adhere to any practice routine. I performed my last significant project, Awakening, debt, at 8-9 weeks pregnant when my nausea was reaching its highest point. I remember sucking on “Preggie Pops” like my life depended on it and trying to ignore my fear that I was definitely going to faint (I didn’t - thanks, adrenaline), all while keeping the pregnancy a secret from most of my collaborators.

Finishing that project was exhausting beyond measure. As my energy was siphoned into growing a baby and out of everything else I normally did, I accepted that playing music wasn’t possible to keep on the daily agenda. I needed to budget my limited energy toward things like eating, going to work, and walking up the stairs. When I wasn’t doing basic survival things, I was reduced to a nauseated lump on the couch. Practicing saxophone was all but impossible.

However, I did continue to play my weekly church gig. I appreciated having an ongoing, low-pressure professional music responsibility, just to keep me acquainted with my horn. But upon approaching the last month of pregnancy, the baby in my belly limited my lung capacity so much that I would faint if I tried to play. After my vision blacked out for the 3rd or 4th time during church rehearsals, I knew I had to stop altogether.

Luckily, pregnancy ends. As I write this now, my baby is 2 and a half months old, and I’m finally starting to feel like myself again. When I was in the midst of feeling terrible, I had guilt that I should be practicing, that I should just try harder and push through the nausea. But as I reflect upon that time, I don’t regret that I had to stop playing. Pregnancy was more challenging than I expected it would be, and I’m not mad at myself for not knowing that. During that time, I discovered a lot about my relationship to music, lessons I never would have learned otherwise. As I enter this process of reflection and rebuilding, I expect to learn even more lessons that wouldn’t have been possible without the time off, and I am grateful and excited to find out.

Play What You Know

If the reason not to do something is “it seems too easy,” do it anyway. If I don’t do it or can’t do it, then the real reason is that it’s too hard. I must start again with what I know.

There will never be a step toward success that doesn’t feel too vulnerable. If I don’t let my friends become my biggest fans, who else will be? Play the show tomorrow. Have a good time. Don’t overthink, nothing really matters that much anyway. Be honest. Play like I play to myself. Write like I write for myself. It doesn’t need to be great or the next big thing. It’s just the next step.

The immediate next step is always the easiest and the hardest. Easy and obvious because it’s right there in front of me. Hard and terrifying because next I'll have to take another step in a direction yet unknown.

Trust. Fall. Play what you know. Start where you’re at. Write it down when you can. Remember some stuff. Forget some stuff. Forgive for forgetting. Use what you remember. Transform. One easy hard step at a time.

Welcome

My name is Kate. I’m a musician, a thinker, a little bit a writer, and a (dare I say it?) lesbian homemaker. This website once served as a cold, professional tool geared toward a career in classical music. After many twists and turns, questions of the heart, and a little bit of burnout, I find myself heading in a new direction, in pursuit of truth and self-trust.

I considered shutting down this site altogether and starting fresh with a new domain. But instead I will use it as a central space for my archives and updates. I will be sharing a broader scope of my creative output here than I have before. Offshoots may come later, but for now I think the best use of my corner of the internet is to share my whole, honest self. No more pigeonholing or agonizingly over-editing in order to fit into a one-dimensional identity or career that doesn’t cover the whole truth.

This is a terrifying change to make, especially publicly on the internet. There are a lot of voices in my head calling me a failure, but those voices aren’t mine. They are echoes of messages received over the years I spent on a toxic career path. Voices of old teachers, colleagues, role models, friends. These messages became so embedded in my psyche that they began to sound like my own voice, but I’m ending the cycle now. I’m untangling the jumble of shame, confusion, and self-punishment that masqueraded as intrinsic purpose and motivation.

There is more to me as a musician than my academic classical training. There is more to me as a person than just being a musician. I hope that the work I share here might find its way to inspire others to create more freely, share more honestly, and go a little easier on themselves. We can be brave and gentle together.

"Validation & Service"

(July 2021)

I just listened to Marcus Elliot’s video “Validation & Service,” in which he talks candidly about his shift from making music for validation to making music as service (“Serve Your Medicine”). It has me thinking about why I play music. For a long time I’ve taken this question and my answer to it (or lack thereof) for granted. So I’m here to ask myself: Why do I play music, and why did I start in the first place?

I started playing music partly because it was expected. It felt like a given, like not playing music was never even an option. I’m not sure how much of this compulsion was external vs. internal.

Beyond that, I continued to play music because I liked it. I was good at it. It gave me community, connections with people I liked. I played because a lot of people who I loved and admired did it, and I wanted to do it with them.

Pursuing music as a life path made sense to me because I love experiencing music. I love listening to music, getting to know a song inside and out and falling in love with it. It felt like it just followed then that I would try to get inside, or rather, try to get on the other side of this experience. I don’t think I’ve accomplished this yet because I’ve been approaching it backwards.  Marcus’s short video along with the short exercise of asking myself today why I play are already clarifying this for me. I’m not sure if “validation” is the right word to identify my initial motivation for playing music. I think my motivator all along has been service, but backwards. Service to myself.

I spent my whole life being served by music and musicians. I love that feeling so much that I’ve been trying to emulate it through my own playing. I’m chasing my own tail doing this. Self-service isn’t very different from validation. This is my problem.

If what I really want is to get on that opposite side of what I’ve always experienced and loved in music, I need to flip the entire picture, not just the part where I’m playing instead of listening. I cannot be on both the giving end and the receiving end (even if the gemini placements in me really want to). If I’m going to be a musician, I need to get on the giving end, and relinquish my occupation of the receiving end. This decision to let go will bring its own rewards, and I need to trust it.

Making music for me will have me dizzying myself, spinning in hungry circles, forever. It’s the perfect explanation of what I’ve been feeling all along, my whole career of making music, though I’ve never been able to succinctly identify it until now: Dizzy and unable to catch up with myself, spinning myself to exhaustion and exasperation.

So I need to make this adjustment: Instead of making music because I want to fall in love with it, I need to make music because someone else might fall in love with it the way I have already fallen in love. My sharing, or “serving my medicine,” could be the reason why someone else wants to venture onto the stage, to the other side of the giving/receiving dynamic.

That dynamic of giving and receiving, of serving and being served, is exactly music’s power. It’s a self-perpetuating chain of service, an endless thread of inspiration and motivation that connects us through every generation. It doesn’t break. It’s a given, something irrevocably woven into the fabric of humanity that helps to keep us from unravelling.

Luckily, there are other threads that keep the fabric of humanity intact as well. Beauty, curiosity, and inspiration are found in science, cuisine, design, parenthood, and countless more parts of life. We as individuals residing in a finite stretch of time are lucky to be instruments in the invisible processes that keep these threads woven & weaving.

These processes and their hold over us may be beyond our comprehension or control. Realizing and accepting this is a matter of faith and surrender.

It’s possible that not everyone will find themselves drawn into one of these chains of service, even though everyone is susceptible to the touch of beauty and curiosity to some degree. Those who do get drawn into one of these chains might find it suiting to name it a “calling,” “gift,” or “blessing,” something bestowed upon them without their asking. This may be true. Some may have to work longer than others to discover they have a calling, or to figure out how to use it. I think I might be in this camp, maybe. That’s OK. My work at this means that someone else has done their job and passed a torch onto me. Taking on music as my calling, accepting it as a gift, entitles me to the time necessary to figure out how to use it to my full potential. I’m on this path, and I’m using my time to learn how to better use my gift, fulfill my calling, serve my medicine.

I am deeply humbled and grounded by this much needed wake up call. Music as a call to service may be the most important lesson that has ever clicked for me, and I am choosing to forgive myself for the decade I spent not understanding this. I’m happy, terrified, and relieved all at once, like maybe I wasn’t bullshitting all along. I was just confused. Now I have an opportunity to course-correct, and I will do my best to do so. What an amazing blessing.