A discussion forum for the feature article, Eclipsing

It is 6:30 in the morning. The wind is hard in my face and my body is shivering. Tears run from both eyes as I sit blinking in the bow of our speeding boat. No one is speaking, for we are in route.

Not ten minutes prior I was sleeping comfortably in bed. Then, in a blur, I was awakened, dressed, and now somehow find myself here, galloping across the cool morning water of the lake. The sleeping world surrounds me. I yearn for the comfort and warmth of my bed, a bed that is likely still warm without me. Through my tear-soaked eyes, the only sign of life I see is the occasional duck scurrying to evade our determined craft. But we have no time to stop for ducks right now, for we are in route.

I look back at my father. He sits behind the wheel, relaxed, determined, happy. He sees the world with a kind of boyish joy, and he smiles. He points to the ducks flying low across the water. He points to the sun, rising now over the hills, filling the clouds with color like a balloon with air: slowly, steadily. I close my eyes against the wind, shivering. I know the air is not truly cold, but my body is less convinced. I listen. The only sounds are the whoosh of the air and the roar of the engine. I ponder the sounds I would hear if we were still: the call of the Bob White Quail so common in these hills, the water lapping at the shore, and the overwhelming silence of a sunrise at the lake. These sounds will eventually be replaced by those of jet-skis and fishing boats, pontoon boats and ski boats, the sounds of the lake on a hot Texas Summer afternoon. The water will be rough and chaotic, and it will be hard to find a good place to even throw a rope in the water, much less ski. If you do manage to find space to ski, you will find water that has been churned up randomly in all directions. Waves of all sizes and shapes will bombard you. Your legs will be giant shock absorbers, protecting you from the onslaught of the hammering waves. Yet now, in this stunning dawn, the water lies still, its surface marred only by the slight morning breeze. If we were looking for a good place to ski we would simply throttle back, throw out a rope, grab a ski, and go. But we are not looking for a good place to ski. We are looking for a great place to ski. We are looking for the smooth water.

If you have never felt it, then you can’t possibly know. The feeling of skiing across glass-smooth water is like nothing else. The ski glides perfectly smoothly; there is no bobbing and it makes no sound. No chatter. No hum. There is no sense of texture on the surface below. There is only smoothness. The ski dodges and turns at your every whim in a lake with no surface, a lake with no sound. It is a beautiful thing. It is this sensation we are seeking, that is what pushes us forward: the feeling of gliding across emptiness. The water we are riding over now is nothing in comparison. It is adequate, sure, but it pales against that which we seek. In this water the ski would vibrate subtly, driven to dance by the light wind-blown ripples on the surface. The chatter would not be severe. Quite the contrary, it would be very subtle. But that feeling of soaring across emptiness is gone with the least hint of texture on the surface. The skiing here is good, but we are not looking for good, we are looking for magical. Yes, we are in route, in route to smooth water.

The tentative sun pokes its head through the clouds a bit more boldly now, but the landscape is still firmly in the clutches of the cool grey dawn. Thoughts ring slowly in my mind. I do think of the smooth water ahead, but mostly I think of the cold wind in my face. I think of my shuddering body and my watery eyes. I wonder what kind of maniac would be racing across the lake at this hour simply to find a good place to ski. We pass another boat. Their rope is out and a skier bobs in the water, the tips of the skis pointing defiantly skyward. In a flash the boat is gone behind us. I look back behind in time to see the skier rise in the opposite direction. He bounces around briefly on our passing wake, then settles into what must be a very pleasant morning ski. I look at the water we are passing. It is nice, a far cry from truly smooth water, but water that would provide fine skiing nonetheless, certainly the best skiing to be had on this part of the lake all day. In just a couple of hours this area will be riddled with boats and wind, and the water below will be unrecognizable. Most anyone else would throttle back and ski. They would begin enjoying their day, but not us. We are in route.

I sit in the front of the boat, a shivering heap of towels. I dread getting in the water, but I know I will be done being cold once I ski, or at least soon after I begin skiing. I think enviously of the skier behind: no more shivering, no more watery eyes. I dream about carving a line across the water. I wish that I could be awake and alive in this dawning day, but it is difficult to awaken to the world when you only think enviously of the bed behind. I look again at my Dad. He is enjoying the day, taking it all in. He is living with a kind of vibrant enthusiasm. Why don’t I feel that way? I begin to think that perhaps I would have been happier if he had simply allowed me to sleep. We could have left the house a full hour later and still enjoyed good skiing. But as soon as the thought enters my mind, a reply is waiting: he isn’t looking for good; he is looking for great.

The minutes pass slowly by as I sit huddled in the bow. We go under the bridge that signals the beginning of the Colorado River and I know we are getting close. I look at that water below. It has the same rippled surface as the water we have been driving over all morning. My heart sinks. I hadn’t allowed myself to think it, but there was always the very real chance that we wouldn’t find the smooth water, the glassy water. The wind might be too strong or coming from the wrong direction; someone else may have beaten us to the mirror smooth water and replaced it with a heavily churned version of itself, like a distorted funhouse mirror. I tuck my head more deeply into the towels and consider the possibility of going through all of this only to find water no better than that flowing beneath our boathouse, a good half hour behind us. I look again at the water and begin to feel desperate, or maybe simply angry. I certainly didn’t need to be dragged out of bed at 6:30am to find 8:30am skiing conditions.

I wrap another towel around me, peering from my cocoon at the twisting water ahead. We round bend after bend, each of them holding the promise of the water we seek, each of them delivering disappointment at every turn. My heart sinks further still. Wherever we go, the water remains unchanged. I droop lower in my seat and close my eyes, listening to the drone of the engine. Suddenly, I hear the pitch of the engine begin to drop. I feel the weight of the boat as it settles gradually deeper in the water. There is no mistaking the sound and feeling. We are stopping. It is time to ski. I hold my eyes closed out of anticipation and fear. I am sure that when I open them I will see the same rippled surface that we have been skimming over for the last 40 minutes. I sit perfectly still, not wanting to experience the inevitable.

“It’s now or never,” calls my Dad. “What’s the matter, are you too sleepy to ski?”

I sit frozen for just a moment longer, then, like a diver soaring off the board, I open my eyes and gaze at the world around. A light mist sits on top of the water, unmoving, yet not stagnant. On one side of the boat is a giant pasture where a few cows are grazing on the dew-bitten grass. There is the occasional call of an unseen Mockingbird that breaks the stranglehold of silence on this peerless dawn. I look finally at the water below, and I see what I dared not believe. Stretching in front of us for as far as the eye can see and disappearing around a distant bend is a lake of glass: smooth, untouched, unblemished water.

I rise quickly and stiffly, towels falling everywhere. I grab my ski and life jacket and quickly disappear into the water. A rope is out. My ski is on. I am perched at the end of 75 feet of man’s finest nylon, my gloved hands wrapped around the spongy handle. I give a signal and hear the power pour from the engine. I wait patiently for the ski to plane, then dart instantly outside the wake. It is there. The sensation. All the magic man could desire. I am floating across nothing, yet I do not fall. I lean hard to the outside and then cut quickly, low now, my shoulder almost grazing the water, and in that instant my mind takes a picture, a picture to be stored forever, something to reference later in life, the kind of image you can conjure when you can’t see the good times because you are surrounded by the bad, when you can’t hold yourself together against the weight of the world, when you are sure that your heart can endure no more, or at a time when you simply need to go back to being young, enjoying a magical moment with your father.

That picture was snapped in my mind 20 years ago, and it still remains as vivid now as that day on the water: the molten glass water filled with the color of the rising sun, the mirror image of the boat powering through the water, the pasture and the cows forming the perfect backdrop. And in the center of it all sits the beaming figure of my Dad, his whole face draped in a smile that could melt stone, the face of a man who has found, at least for a moment, all the happiness that the world allows.

It has been 13 years since my Dad passed away, and as I sit here, with two children of my own whom he never met, I wonder about his impact. I wonder what he would think of my kids, and I wonder how I can possibly explain him to them. What did he teach me? What imprint did he leave? For all of my life I would have answered those questions in a manner different from what I think today. My previous answers were valid to be sure: he introduced me to music and to playing the trumpet; he instilled in me the need to work hard, the need to focus. But it occurs to me now that the single most valuable thing he taught me was not to be found in this list. No, what he taught me was much too imbedded, too much a part of my being to see it clearly. What he taught me can be seen in the image in my mind, in the story above. He taught me to pursue greatness, whatever the cost, whatever the risk. He taught me that the true magic in life often lies outside your comfort zone; that if you want to experience the best, you have to be willing to go the extra mile, to take chances, and to make sacrifices. He taught me that simply being good was merely that: simple, common.

As I sit turning that life-image over and over in my mind, I keep coming back to his beaming face. I think about why he was so happy, so content. He had chased greatness that day and found it. Yes, it was only water skiing. Nothing profound changed in the world. No lives were saved, no wars ended, but still he had found it. He had discovered greatness in the least likely of places. He pursued greatness in everything he did, and he instilled that same trait in most people he touched, whether they were students, colleagues, or family. He would not settle for the merely good, but pushed forward to that which was great, knowing full well that the only experiences in life that are really worthwhile lie far up the river, around countless bends, past vast stretches of monotonous hopelessness to where the smooth water lies, smoking in the dawn.

This article is written in loving memory of my father, Cecil Morris, who passed away on this date in 1993.

I remember the feeling well: the feeling that responsibility was lifted, that opportunity lay around every corner, that every day contained the seed of adventure. I had just finished my junior year in high school when my best friend and I were heading out in his blue MG convertible. We pulled out of the school parking lot and turned on the radio. The not-so-dulcet tones of Alice Cooper belting out “School’s Out” filled our ears, only to be overwhelmed by our own really-not-so-dulcet voices joining in. Freedom was our wind; time was our sail; the whole world awaited us. We would achieve great things and have unforgettable experiences…

I have no idea what I did with myself that summer. Well, actually I do, but I have no idea what I did to improve myself as a trumpet player or musician over that summer. I had already decided that I wanted to be a professional trumpet player, and I know I practiced over that summer, but I don’t know what I improved, if I improved anything at all. There I was, focused on a career in which it is excruciatingly difficult to achieve success. I had the whole summer to focus on improving my playing and make big progress towards achieving my dreams. How did I spend my time? Well, I won’t tell you her name, but suffice it to say that I wasn’t too focused on my trumpet playing! Even with no distractions at all, though, my progress may not have been great. Why? Simple. I didn’t really know what I needed to be working on in order to be truly productive.

Determining what to work on while outside the guidance of a teacher is a very common problem and/or concern among students. At the end of every school year, I am bombarded by questions from students about what they should work on over the summer. Sometimes the students seem bewildered, curious, or even a bit afraid. These reactions are understandable. Staring into the kaleidoscope of seemingly endless summer can be daunting. There you are, perched on the abyss of long and empty summer days. You are certain you will jump, but uncertain about how or when, or, most importantly, what the outcome will be. Having so much freedom in your life is truly a blessing, but it is also a challenge. How will you mold your putty of time into something that satisfies your various goals and desires? On the surface, this question may seem simple, but the deeper you dig, the more complex it becomes until you suddenly realize the dizzying array of options that are at your disposal. Ten different things that you want or need to do are whirling around in your mind, but plucking one out of the air and setting your aims on it can often be like the scene with the keys from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone: once you grab one, then the rest instantly and ruthlessly give chase.

Some of you, I know, can feel no sympathy for someone that has so much time that they are not quite sure what to do, and you are probably thinking that you would gladly trade your problem for theirs. You may well be justified in feeling this way, but it is certainly easier, and more common, to underestimate the thorniness of this issue, rather than to overestimate it. You might be surprised how difficult it is to know what you should be working on or how to go about organizing your practice day when you have an array of endless possibilities at your disposal. Imagine kayaking in the middle of the ocean; you can go in any direction you please, but going the direction you want is another matter entirely. For those of you that are operating without a compass, this article is for you.

When deciding what you should work on over your summer break, you first need to establish some goals. Your goals should avoid focusing on achievement – like getting a higher chair at the beginning of school auditions – but rather with your playing itself. Pick the five trumpet skills that create the most fear for you – the skills that make you squirm in your seat when an upcoming passage features them prominently. Write these five items down in order, with number one being the skill you fear the most. Once that is done, begin building a practice schedule that will help you eliminate those weaknesses.

Without fail, I recommend that people do a big amount of foundation work over the summer. Heavy doses of Stamp exercises have done wonders for some of my students over the years. If you have questions about how to practice these exercises or are unfamiliar with them, you can refer to my earlier article series, Stamping It Out, Part I, II, and III, to get more information. Focusing on the true foundation of your playing can help you play in a healthier, more efficient manner. It is easy to treat summertime practice like summertime reading: whimsical and carefree. But it is important to remember that this is probably your best opportunity to change or solidify your basic playing setup.

Beyond foundation work, take a look at your previously mentioned list of five weaknesses. Decide what type of exercises need to be done to improve that particular aspect of your playing, and then bury yourself in them. Keep focused on the fundamental weaknesses in your playing. Do these things first in your day, every day. After that, enjoy discovering some new music. Make a list of music that you have wanted to learn, but have never quite found the time. As your summer marches by, check pieces you have played off your list. These can be solos, etudes, or excerpts, or any combination of the above. Focus on material that you have the greatest desire or need to learn, but remember, your fundamentals must have top priority.

If you do all of these things, your playing will improve, but if you really want it to flourish, then you would do well to keep a practice journal. Make a practice schedule for the following day and write it down. As you move through your scheduled material, write it down. Augment your entries with notes about how it went and how you felt. Keeping this type of journal will keep you on track and focused, and it will help you track the progress you are making. At the end of the summer, you will be able to flip through your journal and see that an exercise you initially struggled with at quarter = 64, you now play effortlessly at quarter = 138; or you will read about your straining high C that has turned into a confident Eb. These types of written notes are powerful. Don’t underestimate their value.

It is true that staying on course over the sparse summer landscape can be a challenge, but it is this challenge that represents perhaps your greatest opportunity for improvement. Get organized. Work hard. Make the most of this incredibly valuable time. And God help you if you meet a girl…

Three days, 12,000 performances. The plausibility of the numbers may seem dubious, but they are correct. What’s more, each performance was given by a high school teenager enrolled in band, orchestra, or choir. Where can one see such an event, you ask? If you know much about high school music programs in the United States, the answer will come as no surprise – Texas.

Each year the Texas State Solo and Ensemble Competition (TSSEC), held at the University of Texas and Texas State Universities, plays host to the most talented high school music students from all across this sprawling state. From twirlers to trombones, voices to violas, this competition has categories for just about anything that relates to music at the high school level. Busloads of high school students arrive at the campus and disperse into small packs that prowl the area looking for a place to meet, warm up, have lunch, or relax. Everywhere you walk, you hear playing or singing; you see equipment of all shapes and sizes being whisked here and there. You see Band Directors frantically trying to gather their students together, only to launch them off a moment later in twelve different directions, a room number nervously clutched in their young hands. These students will somehow find this room and go on to perform for what they may see as some grouchy taskmaster of a judge that is there to dissect their performance like one of those frogs from high school biology class. Yes, you guessed it; that’s where I come in.

Truth be known, those judges aren’t actually grouchy taskmasters at all. In fact, the judges are people who dedicate their valuable time, energy, and expertise to helping young students learn and improve ­– doing whatever they can to further the art of musical performance amongst the young people of today. When I was asked to serve as a judge at TSSEC, I was honored and delighted. For me, judging this competition is a means of coming full circle. I have attended it as a Band Director’s son – watching the chaos through a child’s eyes – as a participant – nervously anticipating a performance into which I have invested hundreds of hours of preparation – and now as a judge – listening to the performances and setting the standard by which these young musicians will be evaluated. I have now seen the full spectrum of this unique event, and quite honestly, the more I see of it, the more I am amazed. It is an organizational miracle that it doesn’t simply implode upon itself, a miracle that is secured by the tireless work of its Director, Richard Floyd, and his incredible team.

Even more incredible, however, are the performances themselves. They aren’t all spectacular, though some of them should definitely have you scurrying to your practice room, but they are all interesting in one way or another. Some students arrive dressed in suits or formal dresses, others in jeans and sandals (not the best choice for a good impression on the judge). Some walk in confidently, shaking the judge’s hand and introducing themselves, while others enter quietly, as if they don’t want to be seen. The students come from a wide array of racial, cultural, and economic backgrounds. Some of them sport shiny new professional level instruments, while others arrive with something that looks like it was bought for $50 at a local garage sale. But almost every one of these students shares common bonds: they care about music, and they care about playing their instrument. Sure, some of them care more than others, and some of them are not blissfully in love with playing their instrument, but they all care on one level or another. They have all made sacrifices to attend. They have chosen to practice instead of watching TV, talking on the phone, or playing a video game. They have spent many hours refining their solo, trying to make it the best that they can. They have experienced the frustration of continued failure and the joy of the unexpected breakthrough. In addition to this, there is the matter of their attendance. After all, they are present and accounted for. They have chosen to dedicate their Memorial Day Weekend to one short performance of 5-10 minutes in a place that for some of them is over 500 miles away. They could have gone to the lake, to the beach, to a movie with friends, or on an outing with their family, but they have shunned theses things, and instead have traveled to Austin, Texas, where they sit chewing their nails in nervous anticipation of the performance that awaits them. Of all the things I observed as a judge, the mere presence of all these people is perhaps the most meaningful. Some of the students would be very quick to point out that this competition is not a big deal, that playing their instrument is not so important to them. We can’t necessarily believe everything they say, however. After all, it is seldom cool to admit that you are gaga over playing your trombone. But at the end of the day, where are they? What choice did they make for how to spend their weekend? That’s right, they are at the competition. It’s another classic example of actions speaking louder than words.

So what’s the point? You understand it’s a nice competition, but why write an article about it and broadcast it to trumpet players all over the globe? The point is about passion and significance. In this day and age of pop media rule, of techno-gadgets and video games, where we are we brusquely informed about what is cool and what is not, it can be very easy to feel as if playing an instrument is simply not that significant anymore, as if we are exercising some ancient ritual that is getting more and more detached from the pace of modern life. But before you put playing a musical instrument in the Museum of Ancient Human Hobbies, remember these things: one state, three days, 12,000 performances. Also remember that all of the performances were given by teenagers – the same people that are the painted by the media as self-absorbed, iPod using, video game playing slackers, whose lack of work ethic and morality surely signal the end of civilization as we know it. This, however, we know cannot be true. I took a long, hard look around while walking the halls at TSSEC. I saw students with a purpose, students with a cause. These young people have worked hard to hone their musical abilities in order to display them in the best possible light. Some have succeeded, some have failed, but all of them are making a statement: playing a musical instrument is important; it is worth making sacrifices.

The next time you start feeling like playing the trumpet is an obscure obsession, the type shared only by stick-horse jockeys and professional Scrabble players, just remember these numbers: 12,000 and 3. Remind yourself of the sacrifices, the hard work, the frustration, and think too about the joy of a performance that exceeds expectations. Think again about that last weekend in May, where a bunch of Texas teenagers remind us about the value of making music that is all your own. Remember these things when you are lost in the blinding array of modern marketing and gadgetry. There are a lot of wonderful things in our world today, but no matter how you draw it, it is certainly clear, playing a musical instrument remains firmly entrenched as a valued pursuit in our fast-forward world.

There’s no escaping it. It is always there, nipping at your heels, nagging at your conscience, trying to convince you that this time is different. You had it all planned out: what to practice, when to practice, that essential strength session at the end of the day. But now “something” has come up, telling you that today is different, that today is special, that this time you just can’t work according to your plan. “Tomorrow will be different,” the little voice in your head tells you. “It will be better. This will be done by tomorrow. This is something special.” And you know what? It’s right. Well, at least it’s half right. It is right in that this particular event may well be very special and may need to take priority today. But it isn’t totally forthcoming in telling you that tomorrow will be better, that all of these distractions will at last have passed you by. “Just wait until tomorrow,” the voice urges. “Tomorrow there will be no exceptions. It will go absolutely according to plan.” When you hear that phrase, you should be afraid, very afraid indeed.

You are likely wondering what this mysterious “something” could be. In reality, it could be anything: it could be a repair on your home or car, it could be an errand you have to run, a big project that you have to finish for school, a girlfriend’s birthday, a boyfriend’s party, a holiday, a big game, a chance to see an old friend, a chance to make a new one… In short, it could be any one of about a thousand things. But this “something” always has one trait: it always believes itself worthy of an exception or deviation to your original practice plan.

Life is full of unforeseen responsibilities or opportunities. It is full of things that you simply can’t miss. The problem comes, though, when you realize that there just isn’t enough time left over to fit in those long hours of practice that are required in order to have a successful career. If you always listen to and agree with that little voice that is telling you to change your plan just this once, then you will be changing it almost daily. In the end, you simply won’t be able to put in the time that is needed.

This doesn’t mean that you should always stick to your plan. Indeed, there are many times when something comes up that absolutely warrants a change in what you practice, or when. Sometimes the occasion is joyous, sometimes tragic; sometimes it is simply a matter of necessity. Whatever it is, it takes priority, and you simply must adjust your schedule. The magic word here is priority.

You must have a very clear idea of your priorities. You need to know what is absolutely pertinent and what is a passing whim. If you succumb to too many day-to-day desires then you won’t be able to maximize your potential. On the other hand, if you lock yourself in your practice room every day and do nothing but practice all day, then you won’t have any life experience to express through your music. It can be a tricky balance, and, in the end, you are the one that has to be comfortable with the decisions you have made; it is your life, after all. You will be the one that has to decide if it is more important to go out with your friends or get in that evening practice session. You must choose between giving your friends or family a helping hand, or staying home and lending your helping hand to your career. Sometimes you will be able to find a way to do both, other times you will not. Knowing what to do comes down to the priorities you have made for your life.

Sit down right now and make a list of priorities. List 5-10 things that are of the utmost importance in your life. The list should include things like: immediate family, extended family, boyfriend/girlfriend, school, job, trumpet, and other hobbies or interests. As best you can, order them in order of their importance to you. Warning: if you put trumpet ahead of important people on this list, you may want to rethink your priorities, or at the very least, keep the list to yourself! Now, take your list and estimate the amount of time per week you need to spend on each item in order to achieve your goals for that item. Make a second list based on these weekly time requirements. This list is your list of practical priorities. The items at the top of this list are the items you have the least flexibility with, simply because they are the ones that demand the most time. They may not be the things that you care the most about, but they are the things that will take the most consideration the next time something threatens to derail your daily plans. Try to maintain your schedule for the things on the top of this list, because they will be the things that will be the hardest to fit in later.

With these lists in hand, draw up a schedule for your week. First, put in anything that is required and has no flexibility, e.g. work, school, appointments, etc. Now, begin filling in the gaps. Start with the top thing on your list of practical priorities, schedule it in at the ideal times, and then proceed accordingly down the list. Once you have plotted times for every item on your list, you can fill in the rest of your schedule with other responsibilities and desires according to their importance.

In the end, these lists will help you think about what is really important in your life. They will help you create a schedule that will lead you to fulfilling all of your important goals. Of course, as we all know, life can be demanding in surprising ways. Always maintain the flexibility to be able to adapt your schedule to whatever curve ball life has thrown at you. It is these types of on-the-fly decisions that can greatly affect your overall productivity, for better or worse.

The next time that very important “something” comes careening into your life, think about your list of priorities and decide where it fits in. Decide if it is really as important as it seems, or if it is merely one more in an endless stream of self-important distractions. Look at it carefully. Weigh your options. Remember, it is always something — something standing between you and your dreams.