Tessitura

When I was a young girl, I begged my parents for a piano. What materialized on Christmas was a child-sized, electronic keyboard, just an octave or two, and hardly the instrument I'd been craving. I threw myself into tapping out the songs in my "play by numbers" book, and after a while, I forget that there was more than one octave available in our big world. I played within in the scope of what was given me: 14 white keys and 10 black.

My mentor and teacher, Jean Houston, used to admonish her students: "Why are you just playing on half a dozen keys when the whole keyboard is available to you?"

This question has been on my mind for the past few days. I feel like I've developed mastery of a few notes, notes I play again and again, and I've hardly noticed the rest of the keyboard. This is the dark side at being skilled at a few things, and having that skill noticed and rewarded by the world. To the man who is good with a hammer, everything looks like a nail? I see it in my weekend, particularly with the patterns I fall into: similar choices, again and again. And work? I find myself having variations of the same conversations and teaching variations of the same concepts.

I have fallen into a tessitura: the most comfortable vocal range for a singer or instrument. There is nothing wrong with comfort, unless, I think, we fall asleep there. Yes, I know my range, my strengths, and maybe even my limits. This entry is a cry to stretch those limits and explore the keys I thought were beyond my reach. I no longer care about carefully preparing my music so that it can be flawlessly played in front of others. I want to experiment and hit every "wrong" note on the keyboard. I want to put the "play" back in playing.

Can we hold each other to this higher standard? You don't have to play beautifully for me. You don't have to sing on key. You don't have to know the dance steps. Just let the keyboard lure you on, major and minor, high and low, until you've explored beyond your tessitura. I will hold you to this standard, and remind you of it, and I ask you to do the same for me.

Rumi's words say this better than my own: The door is round and open. Don't go back to sleep.