Introduction
I believe that for most of my life I have been practicing. I have practiced many things throughout my life. I practiced writing cursive. I practiced my multiplication tables. I practiced shooting free throws. I joined the swimming and diving team in middle school and fell in love with the sport of springboard diving. Flinging my body high into the air spinning and flipping at high rates of speeds was always exciting, and always ended with a splash, hopefully a very small one if I performed the dive correctly.
When I first began learning to dive I didn’t care much about being perfect. I loved the feeling of flying through the air and landing in the water. The occasional pain or discomfort from a mistimed entry or smack (i.e. bellyflop) was never enough to keep me off the diving board for very long. Even serious injuries such as hitting the board or dislocating a shoulder were considered milestones in my career as a diver. They became a badge of honor. I spent many hours training my body to memorize certain movements that would allow me to perform more difficult and challenging dives.
In my first years as a diver, I don’t remember considering diving “practice”. At the time, diving was just fun and I loved experiencing the sensation and anticipation of completing a difficult dive successfully. After my first year on the middle school diving team, the high school and club diving coach took an interest in me. I was told that I had potential and with some specialized training and coaching, and a lot of practice time, that I could become a great diver. I began diving for the local club team.
This is when my perception about practice began to shift from being “something that was fun to do,” to something that I worked at to improve my performance. I was surrounded by much more experienced divers at every practice who amazed me by how hard they pushed themselves. Being the new kid, I wanted to fit in so I pushed myself as hard as I could. Practices became more difficult and sometimes were mentally and physically exhausting. It wasn’t uncommon to see an athlete run outside or to a trashcan to vomit during our dry-land cardio exercises, which were a mix of plyometrics, core strengthening, and sprinting. These experiences bonded the athletes and coaches. We worked hard for each other. We all knew it hurt, but we suffered together and became closer teammates. We relied on each other’s support to make it through the really tough workouts.
My experience as a diver has taught me many things about how people experience practice. From an athletes perspective I have been there, and although the experiences were not always positive ones I can say that I will always love the sport of diving and consider myself a diver.
I have a similar connection to how I became a musician and eventually a music teacher, but the process felt different. I began piano lessons at a very early age because of my parents. I remember throwing fits, crying and locking myself in the car so I would not have to go to my piano lessons. It wasn't that I didn’t like playing piano. I would frequently sit and play “by ear” without my parents giving me constant feedback. Yet, when I played in front of my instructor or my parents, I always felt like they were judging every movement and sound that I made. I could not handle making a mistake in front of them.
Now, I wonder what kept me from experiencing piano lessons the same way I experienced diving. Perhaps it was that from the beginning, piano lessons seemed too formal and serious. During lessons, the attention was much more focused. There was usually only one or two people in the room throughout the lesson and at the beginning, I didn’t really know the instructor. I felt insecure and uncomfortable so I would whine, cry and throw tantrums in protest. After a few months with little progress, my parents decided to stop the lessons and let me pursue my other interests. A difference that may have contributed to my satisfaction with learning to dive over learning the piano might have been the community that I felt a part of as I was learning to dive. There were other divers around me practicing and learning similar skills in order to become better. I could watch others attempt dives over and over again, and learn from their reactions to successful or unsuccessful dives.
The community of learning during piano lessons was limited to the teacher, my parents and me. I could not see how other piano students were doing with similar lessons. I didn’t feel like it was ok to fail. However, the community of perseverance that was created during diving lessons often motivated me to take risks, try new dives and accept failure because I felt like it was almost expected from everyone. The community created by the learners in any subject area is a key factor in the success of students. If the students feel safe to take risks and are motivated my their classmates to challenge themselves, there is no limit to what they could achieve.
Several years later I remember going to one of my close friend's piano recitals. He was the same age as me and had started piano lessons the same time I did. But after I had quit, he had continued on. I instantly regretted quitting. I knew that I could have been just as good as him IF I had practiced. What could I possibly be playing IF I had stuck with it and continued? This was taking place around 7th grade, about the same time that I had joined the club diving team. I believe that this was one of the first times where I reflected on the practice time that I was investing and the rewards for working hard. At that moment I was proud of the progress I had made as a diver but I also regretted giving up the piano. I hated the feeling of giving up and failing, but this pushed me to work even harder in my diving. This initial feeling of regret continued to reappear in my life as “What if” questions from time to time. What if I had continued with piano all the way through high school? What if I would have tried a little harder in my English classes? What if I made diving or anything the only focus in my life? Would I be a professional or perhaps even a world champion in those areas?
I wrestled with these questions as I searched for direction during my first years of college study until I experienced a personal revelation. I was never taught explicitly how to practice independently, and I had little success with individual practice until I started taking bass lessons from Dr. Richard Rongstad at the University of South Dakota. The situation felt familiar to my introduction to the club diving team. I was the new freshman from out of state surrounded by incredible musicians. The practice routines they abided by were their personal badges of honor. The music I was expected to play was demanding. I knew that I was going to have to work hard to play it up to my professor's standards, and I felt a competitive desire to practice more than my peers.
Competition plays a large role in music programs. Some of the best performers at our school were on full tuition paid scholarships and each year students would have to re-apply for their scholarship through numerous auditions and recitals. The best players got to play in the more prestigious groups and sat “first chair” in our concert performances. This could be very stressful for students, but it didn’t feel that way to me at the time because of the community that was in place. In the practice rooms throughout the nights, students would often share advice, listen to each other perform and give feedback.
Practicing music in college was liberating. I was in total control of when I wanted to practice and work on my playing. If I wanted to stay up all night practicing I could. Sacrificing sleep for practice time was common for many musicians and artists. It was always rewarding walking home at 3 or 4am through ridiculous blowing snow and sub-zero temperatures knowing that the work you put in that night was worth it. It was worth the lack of sleep and it was worth the effort. Why was it worth it? Because, even if you didn’t accomplish anything in your practice you could always brag to your friends that you stayed up until dawn practicing and walked through a hellacious snow storm, all to become a better musician.
Several questions have emerged from reflecting on my own experience with practice from two different time periods. How do my own music students feel about practice? What motivates them to pick up their instruments, and to push themselves to learn challenging music? What makes being in band or orchestra worth practicing for? Most of all, how can I create a classroom community that supports deliberate practice, mastery, joy?
Continue to Understandings...
BACK TO HOME
When I first began learning to dive I didn’t care much about being perfect. I loved the feeling of flying through the air and landing in the water. The occasional pain or discomfort from a mistimed entry or smack (i.e. bellyflop) was never enough to keep me off the diving board for very long. Even serious injuries such as hitting the board or dislocating a shoulder were considered milestones in my career as a diver. They became a badge of honor. I spent many hours training my body to memorize certain movements that would allow me to perform more difficult and challenging dives.
In my first years as a diver, I don’t remember considering diving “practice”. At the time, diving was just fun and I loved experiencing the sensation and anticipation of completing a difficult dive successfully. After my first year on the middle school diving team, the high school and club diving coach took an interest in me. I was told that I had potential and with some specialized training and coaching, and a lot of practice time, that I could become a great diver. I began diving for the local club team.
This is when my perception about practice began to shift from being “something that was fun to do,” to something that I worked at to improve my performance. I was surrounded by much more experienced divers at every practice who amazed me by how hard they pushed themselves. Being the new kid, I wanted to fit in so I pushed myself as hard as I could. Practices became more difficult and sometimes were mentally and physically exhausting. It wasn’t uncommon to see an athlete run outside or to a trashcan to vomit during our dry-land cardio exercises, which were a mix of plyometrics, core strengthening, and sprinting. These experiences bonded the athletes and coaches. We worked hard for each other. We all knew it hurt, but we suffered together and became closer teammates. We relied on each other’s support to make it through the really tough workouts.
My experience as a diver has taught me many things about how people experience practice. From an athletes perspective I have been there, and although the experiences were not always positive ones I can say that I will always love the sport of diving and consider myself a diver.
I have a similar connection to how I became a musician and eventually a music teacher, but the process felt different. I began piano lessons at a very early age because of my parents. I remember throwing fits, crying and locking myself in the car so I would not have to go to my piano lessons. It wasn't that I didn’t like playing piano. I would frequently sit and play “by ear” without my parents giving me constant feedback. Yet, when I played in front of my instructor or my parents, I always felt like they were judging every movement and sound that I made. I could not handle making a mistake in front of them.
Now, I wonder what kept me from experiencing piano lessons the same way I experienced diving. Perhaps it was that from the beginning, piano lessons seemed too formal and serious. During lessons, the attention was much more focused. There was usually only one or two people in the room throughout the lesson and at the beginning, I didn’t really know the instructor. I felt insecure and uncomfortable so I would whine, cry and throw tantrums in protest. After a few months with little progress, my parents decided to stop the lessons and let me pursue my other interests. A difference that may have contributed to my satisfaction with learning to dive over learning the piano might have been the community that I felt a part of as I was learning to dive. There were other divers around me practicing and learning similar skills in order to become better. I could watch others attempt dives over and over again, and learn from their reactions to successful or unsuccessful dives.
The community of learning during piano lessons was limited to the teacher, my parents and me. I could not see how other piano students were doing with similar lessons. I didn’t feel like it was ok to fail. However, the community of perseverance that was created during diving lessons often motivated me to take risks, try new dives and accept failure because I felt like it was almost expected from everyone. The community created by the learners in any subject area is a key factor in the success of students. If the students feel safe to take risks and are motivated my their classmates to challenge themselves, there is no limit to what they could achieve.
Several years later I remember going to one of my close friend's piano recitals. He was the same age as me and had started piano lessons the same time I did. But after I had quit, he had continued on. I instantly regretted quitting. I knew that I could have been just as good as him IF I had practiced. What could I possibly be playing IF I had stuck with it and continued? This was taking place around 7th grade, about the same time that I had joined the club diving team. I believe that this was one of the first times where I reflected on the practice time that I was investing and the rewards for working hard. At that moment I was proud of the progress I had made as a diver but I also regretted giving up the piano. I hated the feeling of giving up and failing, but this pushed me to work even harder in my diving. This initial feeling of regret continued to reappear in my life as “What if” questions from time to time. What if I had continued with piano all the way through high school? What if I would have tried a little harder in my English classes? What if I made diving or anything the only focus in my life? Would I be a professional or perhaps even a world champion in those areas?
I wrestled with these questions as I searched for direction during my first years of college study until I experienced a personal revelation. I was never taught explicitly how to practice independently, and I had little success with individual practice until I started taking bass lessons from Dr. Richard Rongstad at the University of South Dakota. The situation felt familiar to my introduction to the club diving team. I was the new freshman from out of state surrounded by incredible musicians. The practice routines they abided by were their personal badges of honor. The music I was expected to play was demanding. I knew that I was going to have to work hard to play it up to my professor's standards, and I felt a competitive desire to practice more than my peers.
Competition plays a large role in music programs. Some of the best performers at our school were on full tuition paid scholarships and each year students would have to re-apply for their scholarship through numerous auditions and recitals. The best players got to play in the more prestigious groups and sat “first chair” in our concert performances. This could be very stressful for students, but it didn’t feel that way to me at the time because of the community that was in place. In the practice rooms throughout the nights, students would often share advice, listen to each other perform and give feedback.
Practicing music in college was liberating. I was in total control of when I wanted to practice and work on my playing. If I wanted to stay up all night practicing I could. Sacrificing sleep for practice time was common for many musicians and artists. It was always rewarding walking home at 3 or 4am through ridiculous blowing snow and sub-zero temperatures knowing that the work you put in that night was worth it. It was worth the lack of sleep and it was worth the effort. Why was it worth it? Because, even if you didn’t accomplish anything in your practice you could always brag to your friends that you stayed up until dawn practicing and walked through a hellacious snow storm, all to become a better musician.
Several questions have emerged from reflecting on my own experience with practice from two different time periods. How do my own music students feel about practice? What motivates them to pick up their instruments, and to push themselves to learn challenging music? What makes being in band or orchestra worth practicing for? Most of all, how can I create a classroom community that supports deliberate practice, mastery, joy?
Continue to Understandings...
BACK TO HOME