humility of the soul (music)

A few years ago, when I was still new to playing liturgical music, I confided to Cantor Yvonne Shore that I was feeling a bit nervous right before a duet with an very accomplished flutist. "Don't worry about being perfect," she told me, "you're praying, it's not a performance." An accomplished flutist herself, Cantor Shore's musical talents had taken her in a different direction: she is currently the Director of Liturgical Music at HUC.

I learned to internalize this new way of thinking, or feeling, about sharing music with the public, and it has deepened my enjoyment of playing at services, whether it's just for my congregation, HUC, or the broader Jewish Community. I'm merely sharing from my soul, hoping to touch theirs, perhaps. And just like traditional prayer, it's all good.

I've known this for a while about music, but I hadn't really thought of it in precisely those terms. Ever since 1996, when I left an early marriage which left me no room for self expression, I have been playing the violin joyfully, straight from my soul. Whether the music was rock, blues or jazz, it afforded me the freedom to play as the spirit moved me, accountable to the leader of each band only loosely, because I knew they had hired me not for my technical precision or perfection but for my creativity, my musical expressiveness, which I also think of as soulfulness. This was good, because after all those years without practicing, my technique was pretty much shot to hell. I generally played music which didn't require much technique, only a whole lot of soul.

I recently returned to my classical music roots, joining an orchestra for the first time in almost two decades. Since my musical renaissance in the late 90's, my classical music chops had only been exercised occasionally, reading quartets with some generous musicians from the local symphony. Slowly, gradually, my lost violin technique began reappearing. But suddenly, finding myself not only a member but concertmaster of an orchestra, a lot more preparation is required, and I find that practicing is harder than it used to be, but also much more rewarding. Many orchestra musicians complain that only the ensemble's music director (a.s.k.a. the conductor) gets to express himself creatively, but I do not find this to be strictly true.

Unlike jazz or blues, which is largely about spontaneous riffs, or variations on a simple theme, orchestra musicians have every note written out for them very precisely; moreover, it must be played in a very particular way. However, if he is well enough prepared, the orchestral player is able to commune with great composers through their music. Music of genius, when learned thoroughly, affords each player an opportunity to express himself soulfully through his individual instrument. Even as the musicians in each section generally strive to play as with one voice, the soul of a well prepared orchestra musician can uplifted by the greatness of a divinely inspired composition and by the experience of contributing a a bright thread to the orchestral tapestry.

As for striving for perfection in the midst of all this brilliance and precision, I will close here with some words transmitted from spirit through my gifted friend, Georgina Carter:

Striving for perfection in any practice is yet another example of distraction the ego mind creates. Just do the practice and go where it takes you. Your thoughts are not in charge, your soul is, and the soul doesn't need reward; it is humble.