Here's something you may not know about me: I love pizza. It's been my favorite food since I was 5, as illustrated in a construction-paper preschool project about my favorite things (macaroni and cheese was a strong contender).

We've learned a lot from pizza nights, but we're still tweaking our process. This is true for our teaching practice, as well. We're always experimenting, evaluating, and studying the outcomes.

Last week, I watched an interview with American poet Amanda Gorman. She recounted her experience writing the inaugural poem earlier this year: "I set a really high standard for myself," she said. "Only keep the gold. You're going to create a lot of bronze and a lot of silver in these writing sessions, but only keep the gold so you can say what needs to be said in your six minutes.'"

Here’s how I think that applies to our work as musicians and teachers.

Sometimes we don't recognize what's right in front of us until it's gone. When the world felt quiet that morning, I recognized that my familiar songbird was a small symbol of joy, a sign of hope.

Last month, we marked one year of the pandemic. For me, this means one year of teaching solely online (an estimated 1,000 Zoom lessons!).

In the beginning, it was an adjustment for all of us.

We learned the ins and outs of Zoom ("Is 'original sound' turned on?"), my students sent me their completed theory pages via text, and we held our first virtual recital.

We figured out how to position our devices next to our instruments, brought in lamps from other rooms for evening lessons, and uploaded recordings back and forth on Google Drive. I learned how to create and send digital assignment sheets (look for a blog post on that next week!) and purchased an entire set of my favorite sight-reading curriculum so I could have copies to reference at home.

We've come a long way.

Last week, I set a goal to include one creative activity (composing or improvising) in every lesson – 22 total.

Here's a simple activity I used with my older students:

1. Play two notes (I usually start on Middle C, then choose an interval that's accessible for the student). Name the first note.

2. Have your student play both notes, then add a third. Then, it's your turn again.

3. Play all three notes, then add a fourth.

4. Continue taking turns, playing the melody and adding one new note each time until you come to a natural resolution (or you forget what you created!). (source)

We're one month into 2021. Can you believe it?

Whether you're making great strides toward achieving your goals or still trying to find your way in this new year, here's my February challenge for you:

Choose one thing to focus on this month. One thing you want to improve in your teaching or a musical skill you want to cultivate.

Whatever it is, find a few new ways to introduce it and demonstrate it in your lessons and rehearsals this month or carve out some time to work on this new skill on your own.

It was Saturday afternoon.

We were caught up in a good British audiobook and lost in the scenery of the Thruway, traveling east.

A blanket of snow covered the small river town with the brick church on the corner, the red barns and silver silos, the tall spruce trees that line the field.

The grey line of the horizon separated sky from earth, stretched out before us like a pencil sketch. Always ahead, just out of reach.

The word horizon has a double-meaning, of course. It can refer to the limit of our sight but also our perception: the limit of our knowledge, experience, or understanding. What we see is what we know, isn’t it?

This year, December feels a little different.

For those of us used to the rush of dress rehearsals and holiday concerts, dinner parties and family gatherings, neighborhood caroling, and late-night Christmas Eve services, this December is a little different.

We know what it means to be "the people walking in darkness." We long to see a great light.

And we're growing tired of waiting.

But maybe it's here, in this waiting, that we'll find it. Maybe it's not a great light we're waiting for, but small fragments, like the tiny flames that dot the dark sanctuary on Christmas Eve.

Maybe we've been looking in the wrong places.

There’s a lot going on in the world these days and a lot to occupy our minds and hearts.

There are new rules (keep 6’ of distance from others), old rules (love your neighbor), and a running list of things to remember (first and foremost, what day is it?).

There are racial injustices and protests happening around the U.S., a global pandemic to worry about, and an upcoming election that has everyone picking sides (p.s. Are you registered to vote?)

What do we do with all this information?

I recently discovered a new docuseries called Dear…

Each episode features a well-known figure — Oprah Winfrey, Stevie Wonder, Aly Raisman, Jane Goodall, among others — and letters they’ve received from people changed or influenced by their work. The content of the letters is woven into a biographical narrative, providing greater insight into the main figure and the life they’ve led.

One of the people profiled is musician and writer Lin-Manuel Miranda, of Hamilton fame.