Lesson #6: Live in a State of Surrender

This is part six of a series titled 6 Life Lessons Playing Piano Taught Me.

“To send light into the darkness of men’s hearts—such is the duty of the artist.” -Robert Schumann

Music has been kind to me. Like a good friend, I’ve always been able to turn to music with my problems and work through them with greater clarity. Music is an understanding companion, with an uncanny ability to peel back the emotional layers and leave me feeling stripped and vulnerable, yet somehow more alive.

So why did I fight music for so long? Learning to play, learning to compose and learning to teach were extraordinarily challenging, but when I finally stopped trying to bend music to my will and instead learned to flow in a state of surrender, I began to experience a measure of success.

I once attended a Sam Payne concert and between songs he said something like, “Songwriting requires striking a balance between the song you want to write and the song that wants to be written.” What he said rang true with me. It can be a struggle to get the music out of my head and onto the page, and often the result is different than I originally intended. But rather than argue with reality, I simply allow the process to unfold.

I worked hard in my early years as a developing pianist to learn to read ledger line notes, with no apparent result. After a while I gave up and moved on to other areas of musical study. Then one day I found that without any specific effort on my part I could just read ledger line notes. I heard later about a concept called “implicit learning” that made a lot of sense to me. A school classroom is an explicit learning environment, but implicit learning comes more naturally and seemingly without effort. Like a toddler who doesn’t need to be taught how to dance to the music but just starts moving, there are things we can learn without even trying—gifts that come to us simply because we exist. When I am struggling to play or compose a difficult song, sometimes the best thing I can do is set it aside for a while and trust that my future self will be better able to handle the challenge.
At one point I decided to take drum lessons so I could focus exclusively on the rhythmic component of music. The result was that I gained a whole new respect for the art of drumming and those who practiced it. The seven year old boy whose lesson was before mine was quite talented, and I would often compare myself to him as I slowly counted out, “One and two and three and ... wait, let me try that again ...” while attempting to perform the incredible feats of multitasking that experienced drummers seem to be able to handle with ease. One of my piano teachers pinpointed the issue when she told me as I was struggling with a particularly challenging passage, “You’re over-thinking it.” And she was right. There is a time and a place for thinking, and there is a time to just let go and feel. When I experience frustration, it’s a clear sign that I’m over-thinking and need to take a step back.

Surrendering has far more to do with an inner state of being than with external behavior. When I’m feeling anxious, angry or fearful, surrender is the cure. When I’m on my knees pulling my hair out because I feel like I’ll never be good enough, surrender is the answer. When I’m wound up so tightly that the slightest disturbance sends me into paroxysms of panic, surrender is what I desperately need. Surrender is serenity and trust. It is a healing balm for the overworked, the anxious and afraid, the unappreciated. And it is never further than a decision away.

Artists are often asked where they find inspiration. For me, inspiration comes in the ethereal space between sleeping and waking. I’ve woken up with original melodies playing in my head and immediately sat down at the piano to channel them into existence. I’ve had peace whispered to my soul during these beautiful and quiet moments. But when my peace is disturbed and my life is out of balance, I wake up to fear and dread instead of music. That’s how I know I’m missing the tranquility of surrender in my life.

I also find inspiration in the beauty of nature: the incredible and dynamic sky that serves as God’s canvas, the endless ocean waves, forests, deserts, animal life, dance, theater, and the lives of so-called ordinary people. There is always something to look to when I am thirsting for fulfillment, and my openness and willingness to surrender invites the creativity of an infinite universe to flow through me. The most important lesson I have learned from music is that it’s not about music, and it never was. It was always, from beginning to end, about being human.

Lesson #5: Find Your Voice and Let It Be Heard

This is part five of a series titled 6 Life Lessons Playing Piano Taught Me.

“The question is not, ‘Who is going to let me.’ The question is, ‘Who is going to stop me?’” –Ayn Rand

  

As long as there have been people, there have been opinions. And everyone, it seems, has an opinion about music. The age-old debate about what is and isn’t “real” music will never be settled, but as a musician I am free to choose my own path. I play what I like and it brings me joy, but it wasn’t always that way. I wasted a lot of time trying to meet other people’s expectations and become what they wanted me to become.

I once complimented a pianist named Dan Starr on his beautiful rendition of Pachelbel’s Canon by saying, “I’d love to be able to play like you.” He responded with a kind correction, “You never will. You’ll always play like you.” I have often thought about that exchange and used it as a guide to shape my personalized approach to piano.

When I first began giving performances I spent most of my time worrying about mistakes I might make or mistakes I had already made. With all of my attention focused on mistakes, it wasn’t surprising that I made a lot of them. I also spent far too much time worrying about what people thought of my playing skills. When I began to focus instead on the beauty of the music and the process of playing it, my attention returned to where it belonged and my performances improved significantly.

I tell my piano students that a piano isn’t like a computer. There’s no backspace key, and once a mistake is made it can’t be taken back. However, keeping a steady rhythm no matter what happens reduces the likelihood that listeners will notice. It’s also possible to make a note sound right by changing the notes that follow it.
Once, after a performance, a fellow pianist said to me, “You didn’t make a single mistake!” The truth was that I had made several, but I played through them well enough that even with her musical training she hadn’t noticed. Making mistakes with grace is a skill that can be learned, and one that has benefited me far more than my fruitless attempts to play perfectly 100% of the time. I’m not advocating laziness or sloppiness; preparing for a performance takes effort! But when perfection was my goal I often fell short, and when I simply strived to do my best without harsh self-judgments my playing and confidence improved significantly.

Another struggle I faced while performing was being overly focused on what was coming next, such as an upcoming page turn or difficult passage. Sometimes I would get close to the end of a song and think, “Hey, I’m about to finish this song and I haven’t made any mistakes!” Momentarily drawing my attention to that thought and away from what I was doing would then cause me to make a mistake. When I’m playing, my one job is to focus on what is happening right now: the current measure, the current note, the current page turn. Reading a little ahead is okay. But taking my brain on an anxiety vacation, worrying about what other people think or celebrating prematurely is always a bad idea. There is nothing like a high-pressure performance to remind me of the importance of staying present.

In the past, I often allowed fear to stop me from acting on my creative impulses. Fear of criticism kept me from living an authentic life, and fear of rejection prevented me from sharing my true self. I worried that if I created something, I would be criticized. But I was living a quiet, repressed life and I secretly wondered what I might be able to accomplish if I ever found the courage to overcome my fears. If receiving criticism is the price of being true to myself, then it’s a price I’m now willing to pay. I would rather be true to myself and risk failure than have a successful starring role in someone else’s dream. I would rather get lost trying to find myself than forget who I even am. I refuse to be defined by critics, I won’t let haters keep me from doing what I love, and I won't go to my grave with my music still in me.

Lesson #4: Awaken to a Higher Awareness

This is part four of a series titled 6 Life Lessons Playing Piano Taught Me.

“The only way of finding the limits of the possible is by going beyond them into the impossible.” -Arthur C. Clarke

Some life changes occur as an accumulation of small things over time, so imperceptible we almost don’t realize what’s happening. Other changes happen all at once, and are so dramatic and impactful we know we will never be the same again. That’s the kind of shift that occurred when I met Daniel, who I later dubbed my “Zen” piano teacher.

I had been playing for about three years when I met him. I attended a piano concert featuring Jon Schmidt (now of The Piano Guys) and after the concert when I walked into the lobby I heard someone playing every bit as well as Jon himself. Furthermore, I recognized him. His name was Daniel. We had met briefly at a speech contest, and it was enough to give me the courage to initiate a conversation. He didn't have any music in front of him, but he was playing beautifully. I assumed he'd memorized the piece, but he informed me as he spok—without interrupting the music—that he was improvising. I didn't even know such a thing was possible, or that it could be done so well, and I asked him if he would be willing to teach me. He agreed, and the transformation began.

At our first lesson he asked me to demonstrate my skills. I started, as many of my students do, by apologizing for the mistakes I was about to make. I then proceeded to give a terrible performance. As the last notes faded I turned to him and he said, "I think you're better than that." I thought to myself, "No, I'm really not." But he saw something in me that no one else could see, and he believed in me long before I believed in myself.

My first few piano lessons with Daniel lasted about three hours each. He showed me what could be done with chords and how to improvise. I was surprised that with a chord progression and a bit of scale knowledge I could instantly create original songs that sounded amazing. The key to successful improvisation, I have since learned, is to turn off the judgmental part of my brain and just focus on keeping a steady rhythm. There's no such thing as a mistake in improvisation, but a good understanding of rhythm and chord function and scales can enhance player and listener satisfaction. The simplest beginning to successful piano improvisation, and one that I recommend to students of all ages, is to play using only the black keys. The black keys sound good in almost any combination, and the novice improviser is spared from the jarring dissonances that can occur while playing on the white keys. Many of my students will begin playing an improvised song and then play a note that they dislike. At this point they will sometimes pause and say, "Oh wait, what I meant to do was ..." and then they will play a different note. This "try before you buy" approach works well for composing, but improvisation is all about flow. If a less-than-satisfactory note is hit, the player should simply continue playing without pausing.

At my second lesson Daniel challenged me to go home and write a song. I told him there was no way I could do that. He asked if I had ever tried, and when I said no he asked how I knew I couldn't do it. I didn't know what to say, so I went home and wrote a song. The next week I wrote another. With a simple question, he had unlocked an ability I didn't even know I possessed.

My lessons with Daniel went far beyond simple music instruction, as he took each of my negative limiting beliefs and put it under the proverbial microscope. Seeing them so starkly allowed me to confront and defeat them, although it was a process that took time. Even now I still find myself contemplating the truths he taught about music and life. Through his guidance I discovered that there was an entire way of thinking that I hadn't realized existed. The tangible knowledge he gave me was powerful, but the increase in confidence I experienced as I began to believe in myself had an even greater impact on my life and playing.

On the outside it might seem like my chance encounter with Daniel was serendipitous, but if I hadn't been looking for answers I wouldn't have talked with him that day, and I wouldn't have asked him to teach me. Because I was searching for truth I saw an opportunity that I wouldn’t have seen otherwise.

I have had several awakening experiences throughout my life. The right person, the right trial, the right idea came my way just when it was needed and an upward shift occurred. These experiences can't be forced, but I can seek them by living with openness and humility. By believing more knowledge than I now possess exists, I am creating space for it to come into my life.

The learning process itself is a process of gradually awakening to a higher awareness. But it is not enough simply to acquire knowledge; I must also learn to apply it. If I think I understand money but am living paycheck to paycheck, I don't understand money. If I think I understand how to play piano but struggle to find time to practice and never achieve mastery, I don't understand how to play piano. When I care enough to take the time to make a consistent effort, it will always result in awakening to a higher awareness.

Lesson #3: Enjoy the Journey

This is part three of a series titled 6 Lessons Playing Piano Taught Me.

“When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive—to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.” –Marcus Aurelius

Many people profess an interest in learning to play piano, but few actually do it. Whether they've never taken lessons or have forgotten much of what they learned from a childhood piano teacher, the most common excuse I've heard for not pursuing musical study later in life is a lack of time. While it's true that children generally have more free time than adults, adults have more control over their lives than children. If something is a priority, they'll make time for it.

When I started taking lessons I was, without even realizing it, wanting to know the answer to a single question: Is it worth the hours and weeks and months and years of practice? It was a long time before I could answer that question in the affirmative, and until then all I could do was wonder and hope.

I teach guitar lessons in addition to teaching piano. Most of my guitar students can, in a relatively short period of time, learn to strum along to their favorite songs. But playing piano requires a higher degree of precision than strumming basic guitar chords—although at a more advanced level of playing guitar can be quite technical. Learning to operate the left and right hands independently can also be difficult and time-consuming for pianists. Coupled with the complexities of note reading and a number of factors unique to each individual, it's hard to say exactly how long it will take to develop basic competence and eventual mastery. I knew I wouldn't be an expert immediately, but I thought two years of playing would be enough to reach a satisfactory ability level. It wasn't. And it would have taken me even longer if I hadn't discovered chords.

When I was very young we had a few music books that contained chord symbols. I taught myself how to play a few songs using basic chords. The results were somewhat satisfying, but I always felt like I was cheating somehow because I hadn't taken the time to learn to play bass clef notes. As an adult I wanted to learn to play piano “right,” so I avoided chords. As it turned out, chords were far more powerful than I had thought, and my definition of “right” was exactly wrong.

For the first several years of my piano training, about 80% of my time was focused on note reading while the remaining 20% was focused on chords and lead sheets. A lead sheet contains melody notes and associated chord symbols such as C, Am or G6. There is no explicit left hand part and it's up to the musician to decide how the left hand should be played. It wasn't until I reversed my approach and started spending 80% of my time learning chords and 20% reading notes that I finally started to hit my stride as a pianist. The reason I found satisfaction and success through chords is that I moved beyond playing simple block chords—hitting all the notes at once, usually just at the beginning of a measure—to playing broken chords, inversions and other creative rhythmic patterns to add interest, variety and virtuosity to my performances.

When I talk with adult students about chords the initial response I get is often similar to my own initial response. Chords are cheating, and they want to learn how to play the “right” way. Some people I’ve talked to are so caught up with the idea of playing “right” that they fail to play at all. Perhaps this is because they also have a subconscious belief that the only way to learn to play “right” is to begin at age five and therefore they've missed their window of opportunity. But “right” is relative, and I only found success after re-examining my ideas of what a piano player ought to be.

I encountered a similar mental obstacle when I began writing songs. After a few simple pieces I created several longer works and the required effort left me drained and unenthusiastic about composing additional songs. When I finally let go of my lofty ideals of what a composition ought to be and instead focused on writing music for the sheer pleasure of it, I began to experience greater success and my skills started to improve. The idea of “good enough” found a place in my life and defeated the creative rigor mortis I had been battling. My composing skills weren't improving while I was doing nothing and only dreaming of greatness. When I shed the burdensome weight of expectation and just wrote the notes as they came I began moving forward again.

One of the mistakes I made early in my development as a pianist was wanting to be better than I was. This might sound like a positive characteristic, but I wanted it so badly that it created high levels of frustration and canceled out many of the benefits of playing. Looking back, I wish I had taken the time to more fully enjoy each stage of my progress. When I was a beginner I could have focused on mastering the beginning repertoire, and I could have done the same as an intermediate player. I wish I had simply trusted the process of learning instead of constantly worrying about whether or not I was doing the right things.

As my skills continued to develop I found myself pushing harder and harder to play increasingly difficult pieces. I achieved a high degree of competence but found myself always working at the edge of my abilities with no strength left in reserve. When I pulled back just a little to a more comfortable level of growth, I experienced greater satisfaction.

There have been times in my life when I've made a conscious choice to do something difficult and frankly not very enjoyable in the hopes of obtaining a worthwhile reward at the end. If I'm not careful, the constant pursuit of future joy can rob me of the joy that is right in front of me. “Suffer now so you can enjoy life later” may work for certain temporary endeavors, but as a lifestyle it hasn't served me well.

The only way to arrive at a destination is to begin, then continue. Finding joy in the journey and not just the destination increases my desire to keep going once I've started. The idea of “arriving” may at times seem more appealing than the journey itself, but in my experience arriving is simply an opportunity to continue the journey at the next level. When I believe my understanding it complete, all progress stops. But when I embrace the process of pursuing mastery and savor each new experience, then every step can be taken with joy.

 Lesson #2: Put Passion in the Driver’s Seat

This is part two of a series titled 6 Life Lessons Playing Piano Taught Me.

“Those who have a why to live can bear with almost any how.” -Victor Frankl

When I was eight years old my mom took me to my first and only childhood piano lesson. At that age I wanted to spend all my time playing outside, and the idea of practicing indoors every day didn’t sit well with me. I begged my mom to let me quit, and I’m so glad she listened. While I didn’t enter adulthood with well-developed piano skills, I was able to approach the study of music on my own terms when I was ready. I recognize that parental philosophies vary widely when it comes to children and music lessons, but because it was my choice to play I felt free to forge a new path that was perfectly tailored to my strengths and interests. Given the choice, I’d take passion over skill because when passion drives, pursuing proficiency becomes pure pleasure.

If something other than passion ends up in the driver’s seat, the desired results may not materialize. Rigor, discipline, hard work and persistence are admirable qualities that can be developed while learning to play an instrument, but on their own they may lead to burnout. Without joy, playing becomes empty and ritualistic—all head and no heart, hardly worthy of being called “play.” There are obvious benefits that can come from activities such as learning theory or playing scales and exercises. For those seeking the highest levels of mastery, such endeavors are indispensable. But if these activities are overemphasized, particularly in the early stages of learning before students have discovered their talent and preferences, boredom, resentment and rebellion can result.

I’ve created external reward systems for my younger piano students to keep them motivated to practice, but at some point music must become its own reward otherwise it will cease to be pursued. I recognize that not every second of every practice session will feel like a trip to Disneyland. Sometimes there will be songs that students won’t like, difficult concepts to master and moments of frustration. But every effort should be made to enhance and customize the experience to each person’s interests. For this reason I've compiled a large repertoire of graded music in classical, pop, blues, holiday, new age and jazz genres to satisfy a variety of tastes. My goal as a teacher is to keep my students playing for as long as possible, ideally for their whole lives. Tapping into what they already enjoy or can quickly identify with is the single most powerful weapon in my teaching arsenal.

During my early years as a pianist, when I felt very uncomfortable performing in front of an audience, I discovered that leading with passion could help me overcome my fears. I developed a repertoire of songs I loved so much that I wanted to play them for others despite my insecurities. I also kept my favorite piano music in the car where it would be available if I found myself with an unexpected opportunity to perform. Each year at my family’s Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations I prepared a few songs to perform, and I also began playing prelude music at church. Later I volunteered to play at rest homes, and these positive experiences bolstered my confidence as a performer.

There were negative experiences, too. I wanted so much to be reliable and consistently good, but getting there was a long process. One time I was accompanying my violinist daughter at church and the air conditioning came on during the performance, blowing two of my music pages off the piano. Someone noticed and dove for them, putting them back up in time for me to keep playing. But my confidence was shaken and it wasn’t my best performance. Another time I joined an organist for a piano and organ duet. I became so flustered during the performance that I dropped out entirely, turning it into an organ solo. If I hadn't loved music so much I might have allowed myself to be defeated by these failures.

When I was in the beginning stages of playing, a trip to the music store could be quite discouraging. The word “easy” often appeared on the front cover of music books, but those supposedly easy songs were still quite difficult for me. After I began to move beyond the basics, however, discovering new music was a delight. I started playing through entire books and marking the best songs, which did wonders for my sight reading skills. And I discovered that when I was passionate about a particular piece, doing the hard work required to play it well was a joy rather than a burden. The key was to find songs I could learn with a few weeks of focused practice.

There is a system for learning piano music that is quite effective. When my more experienced students learn and use this system it can take them from mediocrity to excellence in a surprisingly short time:

1)     Divide a song into short sections of about four measures each.

2)     Set a tempo goal and a tempo starting point. The tempo goal could be 120, for example, and the starting point could be 80.

3)     Practice with the right hand by itself while keeping time with a metronome.

4)     Practice with the left hand by itself while keeping time with a metronome.

5)     Play with both hands together while keeping time with a metronome.

6)     Increase the tempo.

7)  Repeat steps 3 through 6 until the goal tempo is reached and each section can be played correctly with both hands. The first tempo increase could be from 80 to 100, and the second could be from 100 to 120. Or for a more gradual learning curve the tempo could be increased from 80 to 90, then 90 to 100, 100 to 110 and finally from 110 to 120.

This system works best when a song is enjoyable and worth the effort required to learn it well. Otherwise it’s simply drudgery.

There are systems in life as well: tried and true principles that can enhance anyone’s ability to manage money, build a business, lose weight, find a better career or improve their relationships. But it’s not always easy to discern between systems that work and systems that don’t. Furthermore, when I find a system that works it’s not always easy to stick with it. And success is a moving target: what made sense for me three years ago might not make sense today. It’s a constant struggle to keep things in balance, and to find the happiness and success I’m seeking in a shifting and dynamic world.

Fortunately, passion plays a key role in my life, cutting through the noise and leading me to continually seek purposeful pursuits and positive interactions. As I develop a conscious awareness of what consistently makes me feel most alive and fulfilled, it can point me to my passion. And as I regularly make choices that bring me closer to what I most enjoy, I can significantly increase my satisfaction with life.

Lesson #1: Learn the Rules, Then Learn to Break Them

This is part one of a series titled 6 Life Lessons Playing Piano Taught Me.

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

-Lao Tzu

Thinking back to when I was first learning to play piano, it doesn't really seem like it was a deliberate choice. It feels more like the piano chose me. And kept choosing me even when I wanted to give up.

I was 26 years old at the time and most of my waking hours were spent at work or at school. I had ordered the textbook for my next class, econometrics, about a week before, and when it arrived I realized that econometrics was just a fancy name for statistics. Math has never been my strongest subject, and I was worried that the class would be so difficult I wouldn't be able to finish my degree. I needed an outlet for excess stress, so I dusted off my wife's electronic keyboard and started teaching myself how to read music.

The statistics class wasn't as difficult as I'd feared, and after it was over I continued to find solace at the piano. My daughter, Alexis, who was seven at the time, saw me playing one day and asked if I would teach her. I could hardly play myself, much less teach someone, but I found a piano instructor and when my daughter came home from her first lesson I asked her how it went. As she responded, I realized that she had learned more in one lesson than I had learned after three months of trying to teach myself. So I asked her teacher if she would teach me, too.

At my initial lesson I learned two fundamentals that provided a solid foundation for the rest of my piano training. The first was the importance of consistent fingering. I had been playing with whichever fingers I felt like using, and it limited my ability to develop muscle memory. By following a written fingering plan for each song I began to use the same movements each time I practiced it, which allowed me to progress more quickly. The second was the difference between sight reading and playing. My definition of a successful pianist was someone who could open any book and play any song, but I didn't realize that learning to play involves more than just sight reading and that songs are best learned through careful and correct repetition.

For the next two years I practiced almost every day. I learned the language of written music, which felt very foreign to me at times. I learned rhythms, scales, arpeggios and how to play in different keys. I learned that, with practice, it isn't necessary to name a note in order to play it; I can just look at its position on the staff and play the corresponding key without knowing if it is a D, F, or G. And I found that 15 or 30 minutes each day adds up to a lot of progress.

When people say to me, “I'd love to learn to play piano,” my response is always the same: “It only takes 15 minutes a day.” That small amount of time adds up to nearly a thousand hours over the course of a decade. If someone spends that much time doing the same thing every day with the guidance of a teacher or mentor, I can pretty much guarantee that he or she will achieve competence. More time is even better, as long as it doesn't lead to burnout.

There is a set of rules associated with playing piano, and many of them are beneficial. When I first started learning to play I accepted everything I was taught as truth, because I had no frame of reference by which to evaluate it. But eventually I gained enough experience to be able to put what I'd been told to the test and determine what worked for me and what didn't.

I also had a few subconscious “rules” that were working against me without my even realizing it. One of my concerns was that a lot of doors were already closed because I was starting later in life. I couldn't be a concert pianist, for example. I know now that my interests lie elsewhere, but in the beginning I could only see two paths: working towards playing at a professional level or not playing at all. I didn't realize that there is another path: playing purely for my own enjoyment.

Another subconscious “rule” that held me back was the belief that adults can't learn to play piano. I had been working towards that goal for two years, but I wasn’t sure if I would actually “arrive” and possess skills that were comparable to the many talented musicians I knew. My confidence was slowly being eroded by a growing gap between my expectations of what I should be able to do and what I could actually do. I had a very demanding job in the computer industry at the time, and the combination of stress at work and mounting frustration at the piano overwhelmed me. So I decided to quit taking piano lessons. I would have stopped playing altogether, but every night when I tucked my daughter Alexis into bed she asked me if I would play a song for her. That's the only thing that kept me going through that difficult period.

I believe the false idea that adults can't learn to play piano took root in me because I didn't know anyone who had started learning later in life and mastered the skill. I had also heard about scientific studies showing the benefits of early learning in music and other areas. Because I started playing at the same time as my seven year old daughter (who is now eighteen), I was able to compare and contrast our progress. I had expected her to surpass me in every conceivable way at some point, but it didn't happen. What I noticed instead is that we learned differently. I took a more academic and analytical approach to music while she went with the flow and developed instinctive abilities. She is a better sight reader than I am, but I have a better command of music theory and have learned to improvise, arrange and compose. If she'd had the desire I have no doubt she could have mastered those skills as well as I have. And she still may, later in life. But many of the differences between our individual abilities can be explained not by our respective ages when we began but simply by our different interests.

There are rules in life just as there are in music and art. Some rules are beneficial and some are not. Some are explicitly stated, but many manifest themselves as subconscious beliefs that impact everything I do without my even realizing it. Many of the rules I live by, for better or for worse, were learned by watching others. Fortunately, I can change any underlying beliefs that are holding me back. But first I have to be aware of them.

Like guard rails, rules can keep me safe. But like prison bars they can also hold me back. Wanton disregard and mindless adherence can both cause serious problems, but the wisdom of experience can guide my efforts to differentiate between rules that help and rules that harm. I always begin music lessons with new students by teaching them the rules, but as they become more advanced I invite them to break the rules and am often pleasantly surprised by the results.