Notes About Life: 2 - Don't Fake It

There was this song in high school orchestra. I think it was a concerto. I don't remember it's name. I don't even remember what it sounded like. The only things I remember about the song are (1) the composer's last name sounded like a swear word if pronounced incorrectly; (2) during the final concert the orchestra ended badly--on the last chord, instead of one delightful "strum" there was a "da dum"; (3) during one of the very first rehearsals we ever had on this song the conductor stopped the rehearsal to deliver a very short, very memorable life lesson disguised as musical advice. 

Before I tell you that life lesson I need to give you some background. When I was in high school the orchestra class loved "proverbs." We actually created a wall in the orchestra room where we'd write favorite sayings, quotes, and advice that we heard during the year. It was a cool wall with some really awesome quotes but, much to my dismay, the overarching mantra that the class adopted was "Fake it till you make it!" 

I actually remember the first time I heard that phrase. I was a brand new high school student, fresh in from home school and everything was new. A lot of people think that home schoolers won't survive socially if they move into public school late in life. I personally think I did okay socially. That wasn't the issue. The real problem was that things that were second nature to public schoolers were brand new to me but they were apparently so very commonplace that no one ever thought to tell me about them because I should have just known. Obviously.

Well, that phrase felt kind of like that. As if it was something every public schooler had been saying since first grade but it was the first time I'd heard it. And I didn't like it. It seemed like giving permission for a job not well done. Like, "Oh, you didn't put in the work you needed to but you pretended you did. Don't worry, you don't have to actually do the work, just keep pretending and eventually you'll get there." 

In what alternate universe does that thought process work? If that worked then my mom wouldn't have cared about all the times I'd run through my music without fixing my mistakes because eventually they'd have worked themselves out. If that thought process worked I bet a lot more kids would play musical instruments because they could do minimal effort with maximum (albeit delayed) results. 

People who think they know music will tell you that "Practice makes perfect." I would tell you to be careful what you practice. While perfect practice might make you perfecter, practicing mistakes will not make you perfect. Rather, as my dad likes to say, "Practice makes permanent." Whatever problems you have, whatever mistakes you make, if you keep repeating them they'll become a habitual, permanent part of your life. 

I suppose the fact that I agree wholeheartedly with my dad's philosophies and naturally dislike the "fake it till you make it" mentality supports every child development and social construct theory ever purported. Mix those philosophies with the all-in approach my mom takes to life and you get me. I'm an all or nothing type of girl. If I do something I do it right or I don't do it. There is no half-way in my world. If I've committed to something (anything) I give it all I've got. When things aren't done well, efficiently, or prettily I get this mental itch and a physical twitch to fix them. It makes me both a very good employee and a troublemaker because I honestly cannot just leave things as they are. I don't fake it, I make it.

Most of the time.

Unfortunately for my ego, I do still have a bit of human nature in me and I've recently realized that the human in us commonly tries to hide its inadequacies and pretend it has everything together and perfect. After all, what human in their right mind would feel comfortable showing up with obvious inadequacies, flaws, and blatant ignorance?

None of us. 

I was reminded of this fact a week ago when I was thrown into a completely new situation, facing things I'd never experienced before and, instead of openly asking for help or accepting the grace freely offered by others when I messed up, I spent my mental energy trying to figure out how to blend in most effectively. My mind whirled around possible ways I could minimize mistakes. I was trying to anticipate the unknown in an effort to hide the fact that I didn't know. Even though everyone around me already knew it was a new experience for me and didn't expect me to know anything anyway. 

That experience took me back three years to another memorable new experience--backpacking--when, once again I did my best to pretend I knew exactly what and how and why things were done. I remember at some point on the hike into the camp site, thinking, "Come on, Esther! Why is it such a big deal if people know you're ignorant?! The only way you're going to learn is by showing people what you don't know so they can teach you! Display your ignorance!" 

There are two reasons why that did not make a good pep talk. First, because my ego got in the way, and second, because I wasn't entirely convinced I was correct. It's terrifying to think about openly admitting my own ignorance, saying, "Hey! I don't know anything about backpacking, or high school (ask me about my confusion with the lunch bell sometime, it's embarrassing!), or the apprenticeship I'm starting! I feel super inadequate and less than and that scares me! Can you help me?" The very idea of doing something like that is so foreign to how we are taught to live and communicate that I wasn't entirely sure it wasn't just a crazy, stupid, scary idea.

Until last week at the piano when I rehearsed and rehearsed and messed up and messed up and messed up and messed up and messed up the arpeggios I was trying to master. In a fit of frustration I ran my hands randomly over the keys, creating discordant sound before slumping over the instrument in defeat. And that was when I remembered the song that might be a concerto by a very dubiously named composer. 

On the second page of the song there was a theme involving a run of four quick notes in a scale followed by a slower one. It should have been easy to play, one finger placed down after the other, repeated for several lines. The biggest difficulty was getting it fast enough. Yet somehow, whenever the violin section came to that part of the song we fell apart. We played out of sync, messed up the simplest notes, couldn't get fast enough, and didn't play loud enough.

That was when the conductor stopped the rehearsal, looked at the violins with exasperation and said, "Stop faking it." 

Actually, that's not what he said. I don't remember what he said. All I remember is the life lesson inside what he said. It was: Stop faking it. You can't play this section right. I know that. You know that. So stop faking it. You're working so hard to pretend you can play it right that it's messing you up. Quit being afraid of mistakes. Don't fake it, don't fudge it. When you play those notes do not lift your bow off the string, push it down harder. Don't play this section quieter, play it louder.

At that point I think the raised eyebrows of everyone in the section screamed the obvious--messing up louder is not going to make us sound better.

Without missing a beat he went on, demanding that we quit faking. That we play boldly, loudly. That he wanted to hear every single note in that fast run distinctly, even if it was out of tune.

We were still incredulous. He couldn't mean it! We didn't want anyone to hear the fact that we couldn't play the music. We wanted to hide those mistakes until we'd had time to practice them on our own, in our rooms with the doors shut. He didn't let us. He lifted the baton again and we played that section repeatedly until he was satisfied, not with how good we sounded, but with how loud, obnoxious, and energetic we were. 

I remember being stunned at the end of that rehearsal because contrary to what I'd thought, playing that section louder did make it sound better, even if it was still out of tune. When we played timidly and approached those runs afraid of messing up we were not only out of tune, but offbeat, weak, and muddy. In stark contrast, when we played those mistakes as loudly, distinctly, and boldly as we could, the wrong notes were balanced by the fact that we played on tempo, in time, and with the energy the song demanded. We also missed fewer notes. 

With that memory at the front of my mind, I lifted my head off the piano last week, put my fingers on the keys and played those frustrating arpeggios as boldly and unafraidly as I could. I changed nothing other than how confidently I pressed the keys and rather than messing up 9 notes out of 18, I messed up 3.

So, life note #1: When you're afraid of making mistakes you make more mistakes. 

Why? Because when you're afraid of something it takes control of your mind. The fear alters how you approach things. It makes you tense and rigid both mentally and physically. If you have a habit of making a mistake in a certain situation or section (in my case it was always the 2nd, 5th, 7th, 8th, 10th, 17th, and 18th notes) then you tense up right before you get to that section, anticipate making a mistake, put too much mental energy into not making a mistake, and 9 times out of 10, make that mistake, which, of course, means you're practicing mistakes.

The only way to avoid what you don't want is to focus on what you do want and the only way to do that is to stop being afraid of mistakes. Stop being afraid of what you don't know. Ask bold questions, embrace your flaws, let others support you through your own inadequacy, accept the grace that is freely given (if it's not freely given then find new friends), and display your ignorance.

Because, life note #2: Hiding your mistakes makes you less likely to fix them.

Why? Because when you downplay, minimize, and hide your mistakes (including inadequacy, ignorance, flaws, etc.) it's easier to justify them and harder to get help with them. After all, they're only a few notes, not a huge part of the overall piece. Those mistakes don't affect you that much. No one will really notice if you can't play the section, it's not like it's the melody. Fixing those mistakes would take a lot of work and practice and for what? It's not like anyone will know. 

Except that somehow hiding and faking your way through the music of your life makes everything worse. Just like when the violin section played quietly to hide the wrong notes but they also played out of sync which made the whole thing muddy and icky. True, playing loudly, boldly, and distinctly means that the wrong notes, the mistakes, and weaknesses stand out like black notes on white paper, but it also means that the right things, the strengths (the energy, the confidence--the music) are much stronger.

It's through owning and recognizing, not hiding, our wrong notes that we realize we're not completely hopeless. Instead of muddling our way through an entire section we realize we only need to clean up two notes. If we stop faking our way through and instead learn to blend our weaknesses with our strengths we can accept that we have room for improvement while still making beautiful music. 

There was this song in high school orchestra. I think it was a concerto. I don't remember what it sounded like but I think it was lively, energetic, and vibrant. I know I didn't play it super well.

I just remember that I loved it.