Mistakes, Choices and Habits

In chamber, there are four pianists. Unfortunately, the school did not dedicate enough money to the music department to own two pianos, so half of the pianists play the keyboard instead. Keyboards are electronic, so the players have full control over whether they want sounds to emit from

the speakers. One time, when I did not feel confident about the fingering on a particular part of the piece and the conductor said “Violins only,” I was given the chance to finger the notes. In my head, I ran the melody, while I physically practiced skimming the top of the keys as I was cautious not to pepper a sound. My partner, annoyed that I was fingering the notes decided to turn the sound of the keyboard off, to ensure that I did not press a key by accident while the violinists were rehearsing.

When our conductor was finished drilling the violinists, he turned to my partner and me. “Okay, you guys start at measure 67.” We turned the two pages backwards to measure 67. The conductor counted “5,6,7,8…” he breathed in a deep breath and anticipated us to begin when he let that breath go. The room was deathly silent, as everyone was waiting for the beginning of our playing. Of course, my partner forgot to turn the sound of our piano so all was quiet except for the conductor’s breath and the swooping of the air created from the sound of his hands rapidly moving through the air to the rhythm of the music. The room cracked up with laughter.

Now, if this situation hadn’t happened again, it would have been considered a mistake. But since it happened twice, it is considered a choice. Here’s what I mean:

How many times you made the same mistake…	What it’s called at each stage…
1	Mistake
2	Choice
3 or more	Habit

My dad introduced me to this idea a couple of months ago when I told him the same story. He told me, the first time you do something wrong, it is a mistake. Mistakes are made when you truly were not aware that it would happen. “Mistakes” should only happen once. But what happens when you make them more than once?

The name mistake turns into choice. It was a choice to ignore the causes the first time, and it is a choice whether you will make the same mistake again. Unfortunately, some mistakes are made more than twice. These are called habits. Below is an example of one tremendous mistake I made in sixth grade and one habit I continue to have.

Mistake

In sixth grade, my friend and I were invited by the new lower school music teacher to accompany the third and fourth graders on the piano in the annual Winter Concert, respectively. From

what I experienced, the fourth graders worked really hard to prepare the song Dominick the Donkey. My friend told me that the third graders were working really hard to prepare Jingle Bell Rock.

Mr. Fernandes–our new music teacher– handed me the accompaniment to Dominick the Donkey one day and said that as the new music teacher, he wanted winter concerts to be more student based. He wanted students to play the accompaniments and wanted as much involvement from students as possible. I agreed with his philosophy so I began to practice the part.

I am excused from class twice to rehearse with the diligent fourth graders. My friend is excused as well to rehearse with the third graders. I could tell how much this winter concert meant to the younger students of the campus. The fourth graders practiced at least three times a week for this upcoming event. They were quiet and attentive when Mr. Fernandes wanted their attention and the rounds in the song were elegantly woven together. I sat at the piano, nervous of messing up this beautiful tune. I only wanted to enhance their performance. Soon, the winter concert was coming around…

“Wonderful job, third graders with Jingle Bell Rock. Now, we have the fourth graders singing Dominick the Donkey!” Mr. Fernandes announced the afternoon of the concert. The room dark, with only little streaks of light that had slipped inside the room. It was packed to the door and the acoustics muffled the hustling of third graders exiting the stage. My friend comes off the stage and I whisper to her,

“Great job! You were a fantastic accompanist.”

“Thanks!” She replies with a smile, “can I leave my music on your stand, I don’t have a stand right now…”

“Sure, no problem!” I reply. Now, it is the orchestra’s turn to perform. Then it is the fourth graders. I nervously twitch my fingers.

The orchestra has finished their performance. I nervously begin to stand up. As Mr. Fernandes introduces the crowd the to hard-working class and the title of their song, I grab my sheet music and head to the piano. It sits in the front of the crowd. An adult accompanist, who accompanies the first, second, fifth and sixth graders, moves over on the bench. He is an old man with graying hairs, a kind face, and a warm smile. He asks whether I need help turning the pages. I say yes so he patiently sits, prepared to follow the notes.

Mr. Fernandes gives the countdown, then I begin to play. I start the music, so the only sound in the room is the heartbeat of the backbone of this piece. I lighten up my mood as I hear the fourth graders begin to sing. Their voices harmonize with the melody of the piano. The first pages flies by and soon, we near the end of the page, so the accompanist turns the sheet over to the second page.

I freeze. Where are the notes? I glance at the lyrics on the bottom of each line. Not right, not right. My fingers freeze and flutter because they can no longer remember the notes from my piece. I had the first sheet of music for Dominick the Donkey. The rest of the sheets belonged to Jingle Bell Rock. My brain stops turning. My friend left her sheet music on my stand. When I had ignorantly stood up with some music without a second thought, I realized how I didn’t bother to check whether I had the correct music or not, I had simply just stood up. Dominick the Donkey was still sitting on the music stand. Jingle Bell Rock lay in front of me.

I couldn’t play. My fingers froze. My brain froze. All of a sudden, the only sounds I heard were the tones of the fourth graders. The piano was gone. Its voice swallowed. Its vocal cords mute. My first instinct, when I came back to my senses was to stand up and go grab the correct music. I decided against this because it would be really embarrassing. I whispered to the accompanist.

“This isn’t the right music. What do I do?” I felt like I was almost wailing.

“Can you remember part of it? Can you jump in when you remember it?” I shook my head no. “Just keep playing as much as you can.” He continued whispering. My legs went numb on the bench. I kept staring at the wrong piece of music and my brain felt frothy. Half way through the piece, I still hadn’t remembered any part of the music. It felt like I had been brainwashed. I whispered to the accompanist,

“I really can’t do this. Can you play?” I felt hot tears well into my eyes. I felt my heart pounding, and my blood pumping into my brain, which felt like a million rocks were being thrown at it. I felt the tears. Wet, little drops, pooling in the brims of my eyelids. I fought the urge to wipe them away. The accompanist, seeing my welling tears, nodded his head. I slid over on the small piano bench and he plopped onto the middle. Using purely his ears, he managed to pull together some of the chords. I listened to the fourth graders. They were flawless. So well drilled that they hit the correct pitches without the guidance of the piano. Their rhythm was on beat. Yet, I was the person who had messed up. I felt a heavy, sagging feeling in my heart. I had left down Mr. Fernandes, the fourth graders and myself.

The pianist played the chords by ear that sounded exactly like the ones that were written on the sheet music. The final note rung. The audience clapped. I ran backstage, crying hysterically.

Mr. Fernandes found me backstage. I knew from this moment on, that no student would ever play the accompaniment again. I hoped against this. I hoped that I had not ruined the reputation of students on the piano. I felt like I screwed the whole performance up. So many fourth graders, who had all put in so much effort and time, had just lost all of it because of my stupid error. Mr. Fernandes comforted me by saying,

“It’s not about the mistake. It’s about the recovery.”

Now-a-days, I check through all my sheets of music before entering the stage. I don’t want this incident to become a choice.

Habit

I was diagnosed with mild asthma when I was three years old. I woke up one night, unable to breathe and I ended up in the Emergency Room. The doctors prescribed an inhaler, and it was to be used as needed.

Earlier this month, I went to my annual check up and complained about consistently having to

use my inhaler. I took a breathing test, and the results informed the doctors that my “mild” asthma was a little bit worse than they had predicted. They prescribed FloVent, which was to be puffed twice everyday. My bad habit: I keep forgetting to take it.