Keep Going
I started fiddle lessons one year ago. Despite a childhood fascination inspired by numbers in my favourite Gene Kelly and Judy Garland musicals, I had never touched a violin before then. My desire to participate in the traditional music scene in Belfast, with which I remain enamoured, encouraged me to finally take the leap.
As I shared this news with my friends and family, I found myself being, unconsciously, really hard on myself in my answers to their questions about my progress. When asked how my lessons were going, I responded invariably with either “I’m really bad at it” or that my playing “still sounds like dying cats”. One evening, about two months after beginning lessons, I was practising in the living room while my husband, Alex, was doing the dishes. Through the open door between us, I called out an apology for still playing so poorly - hoping that confession might cover the multitude of squeaks emitting from the instrument under my chin. I specifically said something along the lines of “I’m sorry I’m still so bad at it. It's probably so annoying to listen to”. He wiped the soapy water from his hands and walked through the doorway into the living room. He knelt down in front of the couch where I was sitting and gently asked if I would look at him. I looked into his eyes as he simply said “You’re not bad at it. You’re learning. I’m really proud of you”.
Saying my rehearsed line about the quality of my playing to someone that I am so honest with helped me to realise that, in speaking that way about my new hobby, I was repeating a pattern that I developed in childhood to shield myself from the pain of criticism: beating them to the punch. I never feel like what I have to offer is good enough, so I expect that people will judge me. I believe that others’ criticism is inevitable. I think that I try to make that criticism less painful by leading it. My rationale is that if I criticise myself first, then the effect of the impending blow of judgement from others, whether perceived or real, is less. I save face by saying, its okay that you think I’m not good enough, because I already know that I’m not good enough. If I make it clear that I know I’m flawed, I think that will somehow compensate for my lack.
“I was repeating a pattern that I developed in childhood to shield myself from the pain of criticism: beating them to the punch. ”
What I’ve learned over this past year is that the criticism that I’m anticipating rarely comes. In its stead, I have found encouragement. I wanted to share my progress with my family, and asked Alex to record me playing so that I could share it with them. But with every mistake, every note that squeaked when it should have rang out, I would start again. I so deeply feared, and if I’m honest, expected comments in jest about what little progress I had made. I expected a “sounds like you have some more practising to do” or “I hope Alex has some good ear plugs if he has to listen to that all the time”. But their responses to the video, full of squeaks, and the sounds of my nicking multiple strings and hitting wrong notes, were resounding messages of pride and encouragement. These loving responses have left me as the single voice tearing myself down. While my instinct, in an effort to save face, is to extend to others an invitation to criticise my efforts, it is one that no one else seems interested in accepting.
I’ve similarly found that same desire to save face in response to making mistakes. I'm attending fiddle classes through a school of Irish traditional music that hosts group lessons for a number of traditional instruments. In place of a recital, we have a session to mark the end of term. In a session, one musician starts a song and any other musician who knows the song, on any instrument, can join in and play along. After my first semester of classes, our class had really only learned one song. But in the week before the end of term session, our teacher introduced us to another song so that we might be able to join in. He taught us the first note of each bar and the bowing pattern, and encouraged us to play that alongside the students who were playing the song in full. When that song started, I joined in. After just a few bars, I lost the plot. I noticeably played the wrong note more than once. I lost count and my bow was gliding along the strings in different timing than my peers. I stopped playing.
I stopped in an effort to show people that I was aware of my inadequacy. I thought that, if I stopped, not only would I not embarrass myself again, but that I would also redeem myself in the eyes of those who heard my foibles by showing that I know I’m not good enough. I could preserve my self respect by acknowledging my inadequacy.
Just as I was about to lower my fiddle from my shoulder in defeat, my teacher, a kind older man gently shouted at me “Keep going!”. He called out the relevant notes for the next few bars to get me back on track. I followed his lead. And as I kept going, I got back into the groove.
What I learned from my teacher’s response was that he holds space for learning. I was the one who didn’t. In my attempts to save face - both in criticising myself and stopping at my first mistake, I wasn’t holding space to learn and grow. I can only do that if I keep going. Keep trying. I was the only one demanding immediate perfection.
This approach to learning was informed by my pain and by my fears. By the times that I tried to do something outside of my comfort zone and felt embarrassed. By instances where I felt overlooked because my performance didn’t measure up to that of my peers. By times when my vulnerability was met with disdain, or I shared a delicate piece of my heart but still left an interaction feeling overlooked and misunderstood. In response to that pain, I developed an inner voice who would remind me of those experiences in an effort to avoid more, and potentially deeper hurt. As I began to trust her, she would reveal more; like the flaws that other people saw in me and the actions that I could take to hide them.
Her voice became my guide towards a risk-averse, calculated, and rehearsed life. One in which I traded freedom for control, and authenticity for an image. When I mentioned my lessons to my family, hers was the voice that chided me to crack the self-deprecating joke. When I played the wrong note at the session, her call of “Stop now. You’re embarrassing yourself” rang out louder than the melody resounding from dozens of instruments. But because I knew enough about her, her motivations, and what I wanted for myself, I could let my teacher’s kind eyes and encouragement overcome her voice. I knew that her dataset is a supercut of my most painful experiences and that like all algorithms, she’s showing me only one perspective based on what has worked in the past. I also knew that I don’t need to follow her instructions. I could instead gently assure her that I understand why she’s scared, but that I don’t want her standard of perfection to keep me from developing a skill that I desire to have. I could remind myself that I don’t want to live by fear.
“I have unintentionally built a defence mechanism to withstand an army that isn’t coming. ”
In that critical voice, I have unintentionally built a defence mechanism to withstand an army that isn’t coming. I am simply criticising and silencing myself. I am harming my relationship with myself in vain. Instead of listening to the knee jerk reaction to stop to preserve myself, or criticise myself in anticipation of others’ judgement, I will join the chorus of voices encouraging me to “keep going”.
