Life’s seasons all have their own rhythms.
That sounds beautiful, of course, but the truth is that learning a new rhythm isn’t always easy. And some rhythms are harder than others. Some are real doozies (as mom would say.)
Remember the first time you encountered that awful measure, the one you thought for sure was a mistake, the one you carefully circled in pencil so that you could remember to ask your teacher just what in the world that was supposed to be? You know — the eighths over triplets?
And if you had a good teacher, they probably smiled in a “welcome to the real world, kid” sort of way, and then sent you home with a long list of things to do. So you would spend a whole week patting triplets one one knee, and awkward eighths on the other. You would tap out your limping rhythm on the kitchen table while you waited for your soup to be served. You would close the piano lid and play the whole piece, listening for those taps to become less like falling, more like dancing.
And then slowly, ever so carefully, you would add notes to this rhythm. And then phrasing and shape. And then, holding your breath, you’d string it together with the measure before, the measure after, and ta-da. Music.
I’ve been thinking about that as I encounter this new season’s rhythm (2 kids.) If I try to be stubborn or show-offy or refuse to practice well, I could well endure months of limping along. But if I humbly acknowledge that I need a few more days of table-tapping before this measure can be successfully played, I may find myself progressing evenly, capably, beautifully.
This weekend, I added this note to the rhythm:
I’m holding my breath, hoping it wasn’t too much, too fast. But even if it has to be taken back, at least I had a happy glimmer of how beautiful it will all be when it comes together.