Today I completed my instructor certification for Tai Chi for Arthritis, Seated Tai Chi, and Tai Chi for MS. In so many ways, this was a major achievement for me. As a child, I was a high academic achiever and excelled in music. Those were my things I did well. I don't know that anyone ever really said that I was bad at physical things, but they definitely were not where my strengths were focused. I was taller and heavier than most kids and although I was sufficiently coordinated enough to play the piano, that coordination didn't seem to transfer to the recess games of kick ball or jump rope. I played. I did OK, sometimes, but I was never really good at it. And a part of me needed to be really good, so I focused my time and energy on the things that I knew I was good at. I had a teacher that would sometimes let me stay in during recess to do other academic things. I loved it, and appreciate the fact that she helped me succeed there, but now, I kind of wish she had forced me to go out and play more.
I remember very distinctly our reading out loud sessions in my first grade class. Why do I remember them? Because I feared them. Every kid sat waiting for Jeannine to make a mistake and I was terrified that I would. From an adult perspective, I can see that the kids just wanted me to be more human, instead of super-human. If I made a mistake, it would be OK for them to make one too. But my child mind began to fear anything less than perfection.
Telling someone, "Do your best," is not always a wise idea. I knew that I had the potential to perform at a very high level. If I just pushed myself hard enough for long enough I could do it. But what people don't say enough is "Do the best you can under the present circumstances." In fact, it's easy for a teacher to see someone not really working to their full potential and push them harder without fully understanding the reasons why they are not working well, or how the words we use to push will actually affect the student. In fifth grade, we had a big project to do. I can't even remember exactly what the purpose was, but I remember the comment my teacher wrote. "You have met the requirements for an A, but I expected more from you." And my tender child's ego read that as 93% was not good enough. I was not good enough. Anything less than 100% and perfection was not good enough.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to actually achieve anything of importance when you are practically paralyzed with the fear of not being perfect? Somehow I managed to earn my Associate's, Bachelor's and Master's degrees in a field where people love to tell you how not perfect you are. In fact, we joke that the classes of your Freshman year as a music major are all about getting you to change your major to something else. And sadly, I'm not really sure it is a joke.
I chose to not pursue university positions where I could teach music majors because I didn't want to have to tell my students that they weren't good enough and they weren't doing enough. I choose to teach in a high school where the department philosophy is that every student, regardless of perceived talent, can learn and grow from choir and voice lessons. I had a wonderful teacher and mentor early on that taught people not voices. The person in front of her, and how they felt about themselves and about music was more important to her than that student's skill level. That was the kind of teacher I wanted to be. Of course I love teaching the really good kids that I can really get into the details with, but some of the most rewarding teaching I do is with students of "average" or "below average" talent. And yes, I put those terms in quotes for a reason. The more I study about how people learn, the more convinced I become that those that we label "average" or "below average" simply have not had the exposure, instruction, and practice time that the "stars" have had. We all learn at different rates and I really believe that with time and guidance, "average" people can do amazing things.
As one of my non-music courses for my undergraduate degree, I took a course called Sociology and Health. During that class we view Bill Moyers' "Healing and the Mind." I was fascinated. That series and the other things we discussed in that class opened my mind to new ways of thinking about health and healing. I especially loved the segment on Tai Chi and Chinese medicine. But I was a singer, hoping to be a voice instructor, so I filed away that interest in Tai Chi in my "sometime in the future" file. Over the years, I would see a class offered through Continuing Education or Community Education and would be interested, but the time was never convenient with my schedule, and I never seemed to have the money to do it.
Then one day, the stars aligned. I was having a slightly manic* day when I'm more likely to do the things I want without really worrying about how I am going to pay for it. It was time to do something for me. That day, I signed up for a Tai Chi class, mini-medical school (another great program I want to get back to) and made a massage appointment. I was very lucky to get into a class run by a teacher certified in the Dr. Paul Lam's Tai Chi for Health program. Slowly, through very similar methods to what I was using with my voice students, she helped me get over some of that fear of not being perfect. I was a morbidly obese, uncoordinated person who often forgets which way is right and which is left, who had issues with perfectionism, and social and performance anxiety, but it didn't matter. I could learn this.
I fell in love with Tai Chi, again. Not only did it make me feel better, I was also seeing all sorts of connections to what I was doing in the voice studio. I decided that I wanted to dig deeper. I wanted to become a Tai Chi teacher, so I could do more than just incorporate the principals into my voice teaching. I wanted to share all of the amazing things I was learning and feeling when I did Tai Chi.
I signed up for the teacher certification class...and the anxiety and perfectionism started creeping back in. Would I be good enough? Would my obesity work against me? Would they really certify someone that looks like I do to teach a health class? With my Fibromyalgia, I wasn't even sure I would be able to endure the two day class. But I knew that all those concerns were my old demons resurfacing. (They do that on occasion.) And I knew that I had beaten them before and could do it again.
I practiced and did everything I could to give myself the best possible chance of success. The night before, I packed my bag with two different sets of shoes in case one got uncomfortable, high protein snacks, water, gatorade, kleenex, Band-Aids, cough drops, and a variety of medications for any of my issues that might be problematic that day. I also told myself (and actually believed it too) that it was OK if I didn't get the certification and just got an attendance certificate instead. There was no pressing need for me to certify immediately, and improving my Tai Chi through this focused work was enough.
I got up early in the morning and gave myself more than twice the estimated travel time to arrive at the location. And then, I couldn't find the place where I was supposed to be. First, I expected the street to be further off the freeway than it was so I drove right past it. I am really familiar with the area, so I soon realized that I had gone too far and was not where I needed to be. No big deal. I turned around and headed back, and then had several other issues. By the time I got to class, I was a mess. I had given myself lots of time, so I was still early which gave me time to think about how I could excuse myself for a few minutes if I felt like I was going to have a melt down. (Crying is not a great way to introduce yourself to new people.) Now that I think about it, I realize that I could have used EB's nosebleed strategy. Why do I always forget the good stuff when I am stressed? (If you don't know EB, you'll have to ask me to explain this to you at another time.)
I'm not a quitter, and I've forced myself to do a lot of hard things. And sometimes, that's not a completely bad thing. It kept me from getting up and leaving, and having a good cry in the car before heading home. I was determined to take from this class whatever I could. And within the first few minutes of class, the instructor had done what all good teachers should do--he created a place where I felt safe and comfortable in learning. He immediately let us know that we needed to do what felt comfortable for our bodies. That might not seem like a big deal to someone else, but I felt a huge burden lifted. I could do what I could do and that was enough. I let of my worries and just did what I needed to do. And I tried not to freak out when we took turns leading or when I knew he was watching. And even then, the anxiety level was so much lower than singing for a voice jury or even some of the voice lessons I've had.
When I sing, I deal with anxiety by focusing on what I am trying to communicate. I focus on the beauty of the words and music. And sometimes, that allows me to let go enough to really create something wonderful. I'm no longer just singing, I'm becoming the song. At the end of the day today, we did a demo of what we had learned. I did fairly well even though that stupid voice in my head kept saying, "Get it right this time. They're watching," which of course always messes you up. The awesome part though was when it was time for the group learning Part II to do their demo. Others that knew the form were invited to do it with them. I was only doing the certification for the first part, but I know the second part as well. During that demo I had one of those experience where you are not "doing" Tai Chi, but "being" Tai Chi. I really felt it. And that would have been worth all the work of the class even if I hadn't received my certificate.
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*Just to clarify, it has been determined that I am do not have bipolar disorder. Those seemingly manic days (or sometimes just hours) are really the days when my fibromyalgia is not causing fatigue or cognitive difficulties and my ADD brain gets super focused on something. The excitement and enthusiasm sometimes looks like a manic episode.
