About those wrong notes, Part Two

Mostly, it is the Startle Reflex.
That is why I have the “yips,” and the mangled playing that results.

After some introspection, I realized about a month ago that the Startle Reflex, alongside Impatient Haste, was at the root of my difficulties.

In terms of the Alexander Technique (which is where I learned of it), whenever one is startled, several physical things happen. Blood pressure rises, pulse quickens, adrenaline happens. The neck tightens in a spasm, throwing the head forward – the exact opposite of the Technique’s basics of “Neck free, Head forward and up.”

Whenever one plays a wrong note, the Startle Reflex results. It may be subtle, momentary, but it is there.
One must quickly return to balance. Think “neck free. Head forward and up.” Breathe.

The essence of my practice method outlined in these pages – of any worthwhile practice method – is to avoid wrong notes from the very first reading. Slow practice. Practice with the rhythms. Small bite-sized bits of music, a few measures or a phrase at most.

But wrong notes happen, and with them the Startle Reflex.

I learned that I did not allow myself to recover into a relaxed state of poise before repeating the bit that went wrong. I was not rushing back into it – a temptation to which I was subject for decades, to my detriment, playing the passage again and again with no pause as if by immediate re-play, I could erase the fact that the mistake ever happened.

But I was not fully relaxing. I entered the playthrough with a tiny bit of excess tension, a tiny bit of heightened blood pressure and pulse. And by repetitions (even with the correct notes in the second playthrough, and the third), I built this tiny bit of tension into my playing of the passage. Every time I played it from then on – even years later upon returning to the piece - the underlying tension was part of it.

In similar manner, when I worked on “the rhythms” and I was in a hurry (which is most of the time, for there is never enough practice time), I was not allowing enough time on the notes of repose (the long notes that begin and finish the rhythmic groupings). It was subtle; I would estimate just one or two milliseconds, but again, it was there, constantly in the pieces where I was working especially hard. Practicing in this manner for an hour, a second hour, a third, day after day, I was building in a subtle underlay of tension. The tension, the slight unease and hurry, would be a part of my manner of playing the passage from then on.

And in the added energy of live performance before God and everyone, all of this would come to the surface, causing my brain to “short-circuit” for a moment, just long enough to throw me off track and demolish a couple of measures of passagework.

I am working on this. I think I am making progress, but it is slow. Between every repetition, breathe. Get fully settled, poised. If there is a wrong note, stop immediately. Breathe. Get fully settled. Then play the bit again, calmly. The calm is almost more important than getting the right notes the second time. Leave enough time on each rhythmic group to fully settle before going on to the next. My evensong prelude for February went pretty well; that was encouraging.

But I am not putting in enough time on the bench. For personal reasons, I have not practiced regularly since Christmas. All too many weeks, it has ended up being just two or three days a week – a couple of times, just Saturday, and one Sunday that will remain nameless, none at all. I had hoped to at least have a Sunday warmup, but did not even manage that, my first playing of the day (and the week) being live improvisation. These matters (along with Advent before them) have likewise resulted in my absence from the Music Box for nearly three months.
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David Allen (the author of “Getting Things Done”) wrote somewhere that he is often asked “How can I prioritize my work?” He always asks back “What’s your job?” In Christian terms, “What is your Vocation?” (Allen expresses it as “Why are you on this planet?”) My vocation had a significant shift at the turn of the year. So far this year, music, and especially keyboard music, has been a much smaller part of it.

I am not at present happy with myself as an organist, or pianist for that matter – my piano improvisations these two months have been decidedly substandard, as have the ones at the organ. But I have been pleased by some of the choral music of which I have been a part, especially the Mathias anthem “Let the people praise thee, O God,” the Choral Evensongs for January and February, and our Youth Choir’s recent visit to St. James, Chicago. There was some Real Music in these services. I hope there will be more, perhaps even yet some it through me at the keyboard.

Jesu, juva.

The Three Practices

What is a practice anyway?

To “have a practice” in yoga, say, or tai chi, or calligraphy, is to follow a rigorous, prescribed regimen with the intention of elevating the mind and the spirit to a higher level.

A practice implies engagement in a ritual. A practice may be defined as the dedicated, daily exercise of commitment, will, and focused intention aimed, on one level at the achievement of mastery in a field but, on a loftier level, intended to produce a communion with a power greater than ourselves…
[Steven Pressfield: “Turning Pro” (Black Irish Books, 2012), p. 120]

I observe three practices. They define and structure my days. Other work is important and at times pushes one or more practice to the sidelines – but not entirely off the field of play. At my best, the practices take precedence and other work flows around them. They are: Physical, Spiritual, Musical.

Physical Practice

The physical leads to the spiritual. The humble produces the sublime. (ibid., p. 116)

Without attention to the physical, I cannot for long continue my musical work, or (for that matter) life. This means adequate sleep, exercise, healthy food and water. The details of my practice are not important, and will certainly differ from yours. What matters is to do something, pretty much every day. Walk. Lift weights. Do yoga or Pilates. Play outdoor games and sports (indoor sports, too). Swim. Cycle. Dig a garden bed. Climb a mountain. I am old, and my physical practice is rather more modest than most of these things. But it is daily.

I am indebted to my fellow-laborer in Christ (and yoga instructor) Nora, for the insight that exercise and other aspects of the physical can be a spiritual practice. Movement and breath open spiritual doors that are perhaps impossible to unlock in other ways.

Spiritual Practice

Operi Dei nihil praeponatur. Prefer nothing ahead of the Work of God.
(Rule of St. Benedict: Opus Dei, the Work of God, was the term Benedict used for the cycle of prayer that comprises the Daily Office.)

The foundation and framework of spiritual practice is the Daily Office. In the Anglican/Episcopal tradition, the cornerstones are Matins (Morning Prayer) and Evensong (Evening Prayer), with the Little Hours: Midday Prayer and Compline. All of these services are near the front of the Book of Common Prayer.

The Daily Office is too much; at times it seems to set too high of a standard to pray all of these services, every day, and many people might not find them helpful at all. At the same time, the Office is not enough. St. Benedict emphasized in his Rule that they can exist only in the context of work: Ora et labora, Prayer and Work. And community: spiritual practice may have a strong solitary element, but cannot survive without connection to the wider Church – for example, the Holy Eucharist on Sundays and participation in congregational life, mission, and service.

There are other paths to spiritual practice, more paths than one could explore in a lifetime. Whatever form a spiritual practice might take, it seems important that it include prayer and the reading of Holy Scripture, with generous helpings of both elements. It should also lead to Conversion of Life, another Benedictine concept. Continual exposure to prayer and Scripture with a willing heart and mind almost of necessity will result in some changes in one’s life, bringing one slowly, almost imperceptibly, closer to the Image of Christ, the fullness of being for which God created us. It is very much like the result of physical practice – steady attention to healthy diet and exercise over time changes who we are.

I would commend physical and spiritual practice to everyone. The third practice is a part of my specific vocation; there are obviously many other callings. I suspect that most any of them can be undertaken as a path toward spiritual wholeness, but I can speak for only the one I have walked:


Musical Practice

Practice makes perfect.

As with the others, the details of my musical practice are not important (except to me), and I have written of them elsewhere.

What matters for music is strikingly similar to the other practices: do something pretty much every day. Work in an orderly manner. Be patient, for progress will be slow, perhaps imperceptible. And for music to be a spiritual path, simply be open to the possibility as you work at it. Much of the time, you might not sense any spiritual connection – you might be too busy being a conduit for spiritual healing to those who hear you. But there will likely be times when it is so strong that you cannot miss it.

A musical practice cannot happen without the other two. Without the physical, the instrument (you, that is) falls apart in short order: physical or mental breakdown, repetitive motion injuries. Without the spiritual, the music quickly becomes about oneself, about pride and applause and getting one’s way, and it ceases to be real music that can bring healing to the universe. In the same manner, spiritual practice is strengthened by music: “he who sings prays twice,” as Augustine said. Many forms of physical practice are amenable to music, which can make a hard workout more enjoyable or a meditative workout more open to the Spirit.

Most aspects of these three practices are simple. But they are not easy. They demand a lot of time, and the Adversary (Hebrew: Ha-Satan) always has things for us that seem more important, more urgent. More fun. And easier, with the instant gratification that no genuine practice can offer. “Wide is the gate, and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat.” (Matthew 7:13)


Three thoughts that might help:

Habits – build specific times into your day and week for these things. Do them every day, whether you feel like it or not. After a few months, you will have a compulsion to do the practice at the time when you normally do it. Rejoice and be glad in this.

Placeholders – if you don’t feel like doing it, or have something else you must do, try to keep a toehold in the practice. If you cannot face an hour of exercise, do just one thing, maybe five minutes. The same goes for other practices – if you can’t pray Matins, see if you can say the Lord’s Prayer at the time when you would habitually pray. If you can’t countenance two or three hours at the organ and piano, do five minutes of scales or improvisation. The placeholder keeps the practice habit where it belongs, and very often, once you can get started, you find that you can keep going after all.

When you fall down, get back up – Even with strong habitual practices, we fail. We miss a day. And another. Maybe a whole week. Or more, perhaps a lot more. The longer we are absent from a practice, the harder it is to get back into it, but so long as life lasts, it is not impossible. The secret is to start over again. Today. Now. If we have once established a practice, it will come back to us, like riding a bicycle after many years. The Church builds in two seasons especially for this purpose: Advent and Lent. Both of them are occasions to rebuild what has fallen down, to shake off the dust and get moving again. They last long enough to establish – or re-establish – a good habit. But we can do this at any time, and must do it as often as we fall.

Stand up straight

[As some of you know, I had a blog on LiveJournal before I moved here to Blogger. Some of the essays from those days might be worth reprinting, as I mostly have a different group of readers nowadays. Thus, here is one from 2008:]



“Stand up straight.”

Great advice, but how do you do it? Consistently, and not just when someone reminds you to? How do you do it when our culture and educational system conspire to take the excellent posture that most young children have, and turn it into round-shouldered, stooped-over adulthood?

I blame my bad posture on several factors.

-- I am nearsighted, and spent my early years reading intensively with my “nose in the book,” almost literally – without glasses, I have to hold the page about four inches in front of my face to read it. One can either hold the book up, or slump over it on the desk or table. I did the latter, until getting eyeglasses around age ten.

-- I am tall; that means that fixtures such as kitchen counters and work tables are almost always a little too low for comfort. It is easier to slump a little bit and get down to the level of the counter rather than reach a little further; the un-slumped distance to the counter is a bit further than comfortable visual focus, as well. It also means that when one talks with Short People, one feels uncomfortably tall and tends to slump a little closer to their level. I suspect the opposite is equally true, for one more often sees Short People with excellent posture than Tall People.

-- I am lazy and un-physical by nature: a bookworm and music geek, most certainly not an athlete.

-- Finally, I am an Organist. “Organists' Posture” is notorious. At first, it comes partly from slumping back to see if your feet are in the right place. If one plays a three-manual instrument, as I did for many years, the reach up to the top keyboard tends to make one slump into it. Finally, one's feet are not firmly planted; generally, they aren't planted at all. This leads to a variety of compensatory adjustments of the torso, most of them bad.



Some years ago, Mrs. C. got tired of nagging me to Stand Up Straight. She learned that there was a teacher of the Alexander Technique in town, and told me “It's either him or the chiropractor in a few years.”

The teacher was based in Richmond, and travelled around the Commonwealth of Virginia and East Tennessee, teaching lessons in various small towns once a month. That is not an ideal way to learn the Technique, but it was all that was available. I worked with him for several years, and it changed my life. I am sure that long before now, probably before I was fifty, I would have been in chronic back pain, like a great many people of my age.

The Alexander Technique boils down to three things:

Neck free
Head forward and up
Back lengthen and widen

By mentally encouraging your body in these ways, the spinal alignment improves over time in a natural and balanced way. Similar work can (and should) be done with other bodily parts, such as arms and hands, jaw and facial muscles (especially for singers and actors). But “Neck free, Head forward and up, Back lengthen and widen” are the keys.

During an Alexander lesson, the practitioner puts you on a table and does some gentle adjusting, to help the body get the feel of proper alignment. I had the good fortune to have one lesson at my church, where we spent the whole hour with me on the organ bench and he helped me find better ways of approaching the instrument physically. One learns the Alexander lay-down exercise, which is a way of helping the body remember good alignment. While laying on the floor, one goes through the mental process: Neck free, Head forward and up, Back lengthen and widen. It is invaluable.

All in all, my Alexander training was a Good Thing, and I recommend it to others, and not just musicians. I think it can help just about anyone, unless their posture is already so perfect that they don't need it.

But for me, Alexander was insufficient. I had heard mention of Pilates, and took notice when the current RSCM curriculum, “Voice for Life,” recommended it for singers in their teacher's manual. About a year and a half ago [that is, sometime in 2005], I happened on a Pilates book on a clearance table at a bookstore, and bought a copy. Since then, I have attempted to teach myself Pilates from the book, I think with success. Around here, Pilates training is too pricey for me to afford. Also, Pilates has the image of being a “girl” thing, or for men who are “sissy.” Real Men don't do Pilates, or yoga, or Tai Chi, or any such thing. They lift weights, or do martial arts, or compete in triathalons.

I could add that many of the Real Men that I have known are more likely to be sprawled on the couch, swilling Budweiser by the sixpack and playing online computer games. They are likely to be overweight, hypertensive, diabetic, and afflicted with back and joint problems by their mid-fifties. Pilates would do them a world of good.

The ingredient that was missing for me from Alexander, as I learned once I started Pilates, was sufficient strength in the core muscles of the torso to maintain good posture, and to maintain stability in the abdomen and shoulder girdle while doing things like playing the organ. Pilates is a way of developing that, as well as working on flexibility in the lower back and hips, which I badly needed.

On the other hand, Pilates, in my opinion, lacks sufficient awareness of the alignment of the neck and head. “Neck free, Head forward and up” help make it possible to do the Pilates exercises in a healthier way than I think would happen without that awareness. It does for me, at least.

Practitioners of both Pilates and the Alexander Technique sometimes tend to imply that their respective disciplines are complete cure-alls. They are not. But they are, I think, important parts of an all-around regimen of physical fitness, one that includes aerobic work, strength exercises, and stretching, along with good diet and getting enough sleep.

I am a better organist, thanks to Mr. Pilates and Mr. Alexander. I am more aware of my physical alignment as I play, and more in control of how I am playing. I am healthier, too.

Indeed, a word of thanksgiving is in order. At age fifty-something, I am the healthiest and strongest that I have been in my life. This is mostly because the first half of my life was completely wasted in these matters and I was thus starting at a very low level. Nonetheless, my basic fitness and health are good. None of this is my own doing; it is a gift from the One who made us. The time will come when these things are gone; they could disappear in a moment. But so long as we can, we ought to keep the body he has given us in proper order as best we can, and use it to be about our Father's business.

That relates to an aspect of exercise that sometimes troubles me: it seems terribly self-indulgent to spend hours out of the week doing Pilates, or bicycling, or lifting weights (yes, I do a bit of that), or otherwise pampering myself, while there is work to be done. Exercise can, I think, become self-indulgence. It then becomes part of the broad way that leads to death. If you wind too much of yourself up into your body's health and fitness, you will despair when it decays with age or sickness or accident.

Nonetheless, exercise is part of what we ought to do as stewards of what God has provided. In moderation, it is a worthwhile use of our time.

[Thus ended the essay. At the distance of five years, I would add these points:
- Both Pilates and the Alexander Technique remain important to me. Their benefits have continued to grow. They have made me a better singer and (hopefully) choral conductor as well as organist
- Now that my age is more like "almost sixty," I am neither as healthy nor as strong as I was in 2008. But I remain in basically good health, for which I am grateful. And, as I said before, it could all disappear in a moment. "Memento mori," one of our young choristers (age eleven, or thereabouts) wrote on the whiteboard last Wednesday. "I'm learning Latin," she said.]