In Good Company

This week we begin building the year at MCMC. We'll map it out one note at a time. You are part of this creative construction project if you’re taking a lesson or a class, teaching, or listening at home or in a concert. You are part of this if you’re here reading, if you’re encouraging someone’s practice or driving them to lessons, and if you’re donating to the organization helping all of this happen. 

If we could add up every single note played in our entire collective year, I wonder how many that would be? I would love to know that number! To me, the value isn’t only in the notes themselves, it’s in the way we encourage each other to play and to keep going - to keep sharing. That encouragement can be direct, acknowledging effort out loud with warmth and connection. But I’ve been thinking about how much encouragement happens indirectly too. It could be a friendly smile passing through a doorway, or seeing someone reading in a waiting area. It could be the presence of a parent sitting on the floor in a Music Together class being a mirror for someone else’s child across the circle. 

My music practice has often felt solitary, but every single time it has also been part of something collective. I took private lessons growing up with Deborah Felmeth at Saint Stephen’s Church in Middlebury. I remember the other kids coming in for lessons before and after me. I remember going with my sister and having a hard time waiting for my turn. Later, I took lessons with Diana Fanning and felt a special connection when those lessons would occasionally happen at Middlebury College, my first glimpse at rooms filled with instruments and people coming and going. I loved the feeling of being one of them. 

In college I was in a band and joined groups. But I loved my individual practice time especially because it was surrounded by other people practicing too. I could zero in on my work and know that I was in good company. Sometimes it was distracting, but every time I refocused on my own work I felt unmistakably part of a community of people committed to the same thing. It emboldened me to keep going.

After college I was in the Prague Conservatory and once again, rooms filled with music lined hallways. Even during the quieter hours, knowing that the whole glorious building was dedicated to music making and the people who make that happen was a huge motivation to plug into that world and devote myself to it. The same thing happened again later on in graduate school in Cambridge. A big, historic building with piano-filled rooms, winding hallways, brought people together who showed up every day, slowly filling the space with more and more sound as the day went on. When I would walk through, looking for an open practice room, it was a sonic experience going from an operatic voice to piano scales to a bassoon crescendo to wild vocal warmup sounds. All welcome. All part of it. All together.  

Later, when I started building teaching studios, I made sure to create overlapping experiences with students, and looked for ways to introduce them to each other. That became an even stronger impulse while building piano class experiences, and giving intentional warm-up activities in the pre-lesson waiting period. Walking into MCMC for the first time was like dusting off some blurry glasses. I could suddenly see what was possible here, in town. Another building with room after room ready to house more pianos than it had ever seen before, ready to be filled with sounds, everyone coming together to learn and feel the invigorating charge that I had experienced so many times, all over the world. 

We have that here, right in Middlebury. And our challenge now is to fit into our space! Our challenge now is also to create experiences and ways of reminding each other that we’re all part of this movement, even if we’re teaching or learning across the county in a home studio on a particular day. Every key played, bow drawn, breath taken, and tone produced matters. It’s really true. Because music happens between us, around us, and through us. We may not even know who we’re influencing. 

First notes of the school year will be happening this week, and we’ll be hearing them blend together from behind studio doors, into the hallways. Even at home, the accumulation of notes feels like vibrancy to me. Learning will happen through imitation, improvisation, guided instruction, and so many attempts to try again. Each note - perhaps uncountable - adds to our collective experience. We get to feel the balance of individual growth and social learning. We can relax into routines that are supported, not isolated. And we can take turns being in a support role, and leaning into the edge of our comfort zone when it comes time for us to share. In that give and take, we get to experience, not just think about, what it means to be part of a community.

-Sadie

Sadie Brightman is the founder and Executive Director of MCMC, a pianist and teacher, and the author of MCMC’s monthly reflections on music, learning, creativity, and community.

The Space Between the Notes

I’ve always found it much easier to freely communicate when an insight feels certain, when I’m on the “other side” of something. Sharing from hindsight feels like crystal clear water. It just flows. But I’m increasingly interested in the spaces in between, drawn to say more about what it’s like when things are incomplete, in transition, suspended, or unclear. 

This liminal space is the territory of a music lesson. Every single one has a beginning, a middle, and an end. The beginning shows the material of the moment, the middle dives into the potential for change. The end may not be tidy with everything fixed, but the new orientation has emerged, and small successes have been shared and witnessed, ready to be reinforced. If we so choose… 

Driving home from a day of teaching, I was thinking about how music has always been this thing that provides me with a direction when I’m not sure which way is up. Once a song starts, it's going somewhere. Driving is similar, just having a place to point and go. 

Once a student leaves a lesson and they’re on their own for the week, practicing can be choppy and not fluid until it is. That’s part of the process. Even in the in-between, all the problem-solving and focused repetitions lead somewhere. Practicing has an aim. For me, sitting myself down is an act of showing up that settles me, gathers me, and points me toward something that somehow organizes the layers of my thinking. And my being. Sometimes it feels like an understanding older, wiser version of me is pointing my shoulders and my gaze, showing me where to start. 

Lately, I feel scattered and distracted before I practice. This month I’ve been so grateful that the music of my friends Matt LaRocca and Michael Chorney has been in my fingers, heart, and ears. I’m playing it in preparation for our August House & Barn Concert. The lyricism is simple and then wildly surprising. The harmonies are wandering and searching. There’s a straightforward two-chord opening with just one extra note that opens up an entire dimension. Unmistakably, there is heart in this music. It's human. There is that unnamable thing that bonds us, or at least makes me feel bonded. It’s reassuring. And it’s also relatably unsettled. Being in this music transforms my scattered state into a feeling of calm.  

If something in my life is that potent and meaningful, how could I not share it? 

Uncertainty exists in between the notes. Tension lives in the rests. One of my most embarrassing piano lesson memories as a student was in Prague, where I lived and studied at the conservatory. My teacher was singing and conducting the music while I played, expressing the essence of the phrase. I think it was the Chopin Fantasy in F minor. Apparently I pressed on with intensity, blasting straight through a rest like I’d run a stop sign with a cop car at the same intersection. My parents were visiting that day. (I had the blind courage to invite them to my piano lesson to observe?!) He turned to them and said, “She doesn't know that silence is in music!!”

Perhaps because it was too risky. 

Slowing down enough to be present. To be still. To be in the pause. My music has evolved as life has unfolded. The lesson from the lesson was bigger than “count the rest.” The lesson that I’m still learning is to be in the space. Savor it. 

That lesson is quite present in my mind today, just two weeks before our older daughter Lila leaves for her first year at Tufts. Music doesn’t lie. It doesn’t say, “don’t worry, reality is predictable and safe and here’s how.” It says, “listen. Life is shifting and there’s still a path.” Sometimes the absolute quiet is part of the design. The melody breathes. The rhythm halts. Stay with it long enough that it’s completely inevitable when the next note comes in.

When One Phrase Ends

I’ve been navigating change lately. Which, of course, could be true of any day, and any season of any life! June started with my oldest daughter, Lila’s high school graduation, and ended with MCMC’s first house concert of a new series we’re introducing this year. Music became a steady thread through it all. The place I returned to, amidst all the changes, was the piano bench. 

I practiced a Schubert G-flat Impromptu over the course of May and June, the piece that opened up the first half of the house concert. It’s technically demanding, with constantly shifting arpeggios beneath a slower, resonant melody. Over and over again, the piece seems to come to a final conclusion only to continue with another interlocking idea. It’s musically demanding as well, asking the performer to make the unfolding of the piece feel natural and continuous even though it’s full of closure.

Sometimes the note that ends a phrase is also the very first note of a new one, bridging intersecting ideas that close and open at the same time. Dynamics, tempo, expression, and tone are all connected elements forming that transition, and they all contribute to the meaning we feel when we hear it. Music mirrors life this way. When a chapter like raising children in the house comes to a close (we still have two more years with Carina around!), how many layers of memory, meaning, and love come together to mark that moment? 

On a Tuesday evening last month, I was in the kitchen chopping vegetables and heard singing upstairs. Lila and Carina were harmonizing, getting ready to perform at an award ceremony, and at graduation soon after that. Hearing them together, in an ordinary moment, my heart swelled with a feeling of connection and love from the other room. No words were exchanged, no interruptions to get closer to the magic, just a quiet moment taking in the independent artistic voices collaborating, making something strong and beautiful together. 

Listening to them I realized, their musical lives have become completely their own. That is a given. What happens next is completely up to them. I feel so grateful for the ways music has woven into our daily rhythms and I’m amazed by how completely it belongs to them now. 

MCMC is 12 years old this month! Looking back 12 years ago when Lila was six and Carina was four, the founding of the center came at a time of clear creative vision and hazy, busy days getting lunch boxes ready and the frenetic swirl of caregiving young kids. 

One of the things that has been true about MCMC from the beginning is that people have always been drawn to the supportive way we hold, nurture, preserve, and present music together. Our environment supports individuals in their becoming, and recognizes the power and importance of the audience as witness in making transformation real. 

I’ve watched this unfold as my own family has grown alongside the center, and in the lives of hundreds of other students and families. 

As the month went on, our separate rehearsals shifted to the three of us rehearsing together for the house concert that marked the beginning of a new series. The whole afternoon was intimate and unhurried. We’re sensing that the way we gathered, and the kind of connection it invited, is something that we’d like to continue exploring and sharing with others.

I’m so grateful to every one of you reading, and for the community we’re building together around our creative pursuits. Wherever you are in your season of transition, or whatever form change is taking in your life, I hope this finds you well, and inspires you to stay close to your own creative practice. It has a remarkable way of carrying us through change while quietly preparing us for what is next.

Lila, Carina, and I rehearsing before our Sunday Concert

What's the Difference Between Repetition and Learning?

I’m committing to practice every day in the month of May, right alongside our practice-a-thon champions. I’m going for quality over quantity, and the best framework I know - deliberate practice - is too good not to share. I’ve taken students through this method in one-on-one lessons whether they’re aware of it or not, and I’m excited to share it more broadly as something that may resonate across other areas of life, like athletic training, parenting, or any kind of goal-oriented work. 

When I first learned about deliberate practice it made so much sense to me. I was overzealous and thought I could dive in on my own and adopt the strategy immediately. It proved to be much harder to internalize than I expected. In fact, the only way I was able to learn this superskill was with a teacher right next to me as coach, referee, companion, and guide all at once. It took months, not minutes, to fully adopt this exponential approach to learning. For me, this took place after graduate school, pretty late in the game of learning my instrument, which is why I’m fired up about sharing it widely, even applying it in micro ways with the youngest learners. 

Most of us want practice to lead to results. We want to feel progress, we want to build something we can be proud of. We want our kids to feel good about themselves. We want increased confidence, fuller expression, freedom and ease. We want practice to be reliable. We want practice to be a pathway, not a wall to resist or a puddle to evaporate. 

Frustration is a key driver for productive learning, it’s part of how we find the motivation to apply ourselves. But for the frustration to be channeled into something productive, we need good input, and clear steps about how to implement it. Most of us don’t stumble into brilliant genius territory on our own.   

Simply stated, deliberate practice is a feedback loop: 

Input → goal → execute → feedback → adjust → repeat. 

While my experience comes from the piano, this way of working shows up across disciplines, in athletics, language learning, parenting, and any type of work that relies on feedback to improve. 

When my teacher asked me to pause (only pause) before launching into another repetition, I felt humbled immediately. My way - looping into another attempt, throwing myself at the passage of music, hurling my way into my best effortful take - was, it turns out, wildly inefficient. I had a really hard time letting go of my way because it had gotten me really far. I was 26 years old at the time and felt pressure to begin my career and to feel competency. Being open to a new way of approaching something so familiar, for me, required some type of intervention. I needed to hear directly from someone who had been through the process themselves and knew how much better it could be. 

My gifted and patient teacher sat with me while I rewired my entire way of moving at the piano. She told me she was passing on what she learned from her teacher, showing a selfless and devoted discipline to the craft, something that allowed me to be autonomous and supported at the same time. 

Now, I see it as courage and conviction - her willingness to say to me for the 13th time in a row in a lesson, “your thumb is still a little bit low.” She stayed with the cycle of feedback as many times as it took for me to see it and sense it for myself. When I finally connected the part of my brain that could command something different for my thumb, a new level of simplicity unlocked that felt too easy to be true.

Deliberate practice was the framework behind the content that allowed me to transform my playing from what had become halted by injury to something generative and sustainable. I didn’t know this strategy by name at the time, but that didn’t matter. This iterative cycle of learning was only as useful as the information I was receiving, communicated one concept at a time by my teacher at a pace I could actually integrate. 

There are a lot of resources on deliberate practice, it’s most commonly known in association with the 10,000 hours rule that was popularized in Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers, 2008. After its publication, Andres Ericsson, the psychologist whose research Gladwell was referencing, among many others in the field, rushed to the conversation to clarify: it’s not just 10,000 hours. Mastery depends on the quality of focus, input, and feedback, with an emphasis on a coach or teacher being present for the process. This mirrors my experience. Both as a pianist and as a teacher. And this is really good news. If we see 10,000 and think, “forget it, that's too much,” we’re underestimating what’s possible when we apply this type of learning. But if we believe that simply logging hours will get us there, we may feel confused when it doesn’t work.

Who cares about mastery, I just want to have fun. I get that. And there is a strong chance that fun emerges from feeling progress and improvement. If progress is the goal, mastery happens on its own, usually detected in hindsight. And the fun comes from the process.

I played this so much better at home. I believe it. The environment at home allows for a type of learning that doesn't stand up to a more activated setting like a lesson or a performance. 

I practiced so much this week and today it’s like I’ve never played it. That makes sense. When we’re operating with repetition that loops on itself we’re not really making progress, we’re reinforcing a short-term memory loop. 

I just want to master this and know it for good. Understandable. Even professional musicians build and rebuild, polish and repolish. We all have to work with the limitations of the human mind. If we are willing to apply the feedback we honestly see, and carry that information into our next attempt, our learning becomes more efficient, and our results more durable.  

Transitioning from the comfort zone to the growth zone has everything to do with the level of awareness we have about the feedback step. Noticing what didn’t work leads to a new approach, which leads to improvement. We see this kind of iterative learning everywhere - systems improving through feedback - but we can apply it in a very human way. Ironically, slowing down our process is what allows us to detect the truth of what’s going on. And then, only if we use that information to our own advantage can we affect change. It sounds so simple! And again, the concept is very straightforward. It’s the awareness that takes time to cultivate. 

We can do that by using our resources, tools, and senses: teachers, video recordings, deep listening. We’re in the state of flow when we get here, operating with a challenge, an objective, and a way to achieve it.  Pulling together this concept visually, here’s a way to see how different practice modes lead to different results. Sometimes seeing this process laid out makes it clearer. 

When we understand how learning actually works, practice becomes less mysterious and more empowering. It’s not about doing more. It’s about seeing more clearly what we’re doing. 

What I notice as I’m returning to this practice now is how different it feels when it’s not driven by pressure and urgency. The framework is the same, but my relationship to it has changed. 

Performance Is Only the Tip of the Iceberg

What is the practical, consistent thing that happens day in and day out that allows our potential to show up when we need it? 

Practice.

No musician is complete without it. And it doesn’t have to be a chore. 

Practice is the way we build ourselves into the reality we can envision. One brick at a time, it lays the foundation for musical freedom. It sharpens our thinking and wires our muscle memory. The amazing part is that our minds meet us more than half way -- layering connections that become our world of understanding. 

When we wire something clearly, reliable results bring satisfaction. When we don’t, we simply have renegotiating to do later. That’s part of the process.

We’re not aiming for perfection, we’re aiming for clarity. And often, detours and mistakes make the correct path easier to recognize when it clicks. Periods of slower progress are sometimes necessary, especially when we’re climbing from a plateau of learning. 

Lowering expectations, in a healthy way, can be surprisingly helpful. Talent is built over time. It’s not something that some people have and others don’t. This is an equal-access opportunity.

Today we’ll look at a framework for initiating and sustaining practice, something that shapes our brain, engages our whole body, and opens our awareness. Practice can even become something we look forward to (I made sure to practice before writing this, so it’s fresh, grounded, and real). 

The definition of practice says: “to perform (an activity) or exercise (a skill) repeatedly or regularly in order to improve or maintain one's proficiency.” The key word is regularly, gently dispelling the myth that anyone simply arrives knowing how to play. 

It is in the doing -- not the thinking about doing -- that we improve. Our task is to get out of our own way and allow a habit to take shape.

And most importantly: if we miss a day, we begin again. No punishment, no regret. Just start again. There is no expiration date. 

The Three Stages of Practice

PRE-PRACTICE

Consider a trigger. 

Is there a repeated daily event that can naturally lead into practice? 

• Get home from school ➡ ️snack ➡ practice

• Dinner is being prepared ➡ practice

• Drop off kids ➡ walk the dog ➡ practice

• Get home from work ➡ take a walk ➡ practice 

• Wake up ➡ brew coffee ➡ practice

Keep it simple. Overthinking and negotiating create openings to opt out. This is where following through with the plan really serves us. 

Know yourself. Are you a morning person, or more focused later in the day? There is no “right” time, but consistency helps when possible. 

PRACTICING

Center yourself. Take three deep breaths. Feel gravity hold you in place.

For young kids, this can be brief, but meaningful. Could a favorite stuffed animal join? For adults, could a small object be a visual cue? 

Remind yourself: you’re doing something courageous. You are stepping into something that many people want to do, but haven’t yet begun. 

Be specific. The more detailed your focus, the better your work. 

Short cues like: 

• “tall thumb” 

• “release”

• “prepare the leap” 

…are often more helpful than playing from beginning to end and hoping for the best.

Next month, we’ll explore deliberate practice, more deeply, a concept from psychologist Andres Ericsson that applies across music, athletics, and learning. 

Include variety. Move between challenging and familiar sections. This balances growth with reinforcement and keeps morale high.  

POST-PRACTICE

Move your body. Research shows that walking or light movement helps consolidate fine motor learning. 

Rest well. Sleep is a powerful memory consolidation system! It’s remarkable how much continues to link and connect while we sleep. 

Acknowledge your effort. Often for me, this comes naturally. Playing itself often brings a sense of clarity, calm, or satisfaction. 

Guiding Principles

Here are a few principles to carry with you, whether you’re practicing yourself or supporting your child.

We play music. Sometimes a mental disconnection makes us think that the instrument is the thing to focus on, which takes us away from the reality that our body plays the instrument. Awareness of posture, breath, and ease has a direct impact on both accuracy and enjoyment. 

Baby steps count. I feel so happy when I can sit down to play intricate pieces that used to confuse me. The reality is that complex passages are built from a series of simple movements. There is no “easy” or “hard,” only clear or unclear. Choose a pace that allows for clarity and let it compound.

Listening is an active thing. Practicing develops a new kind of listening. Hearing the reverberation of notes, strings, tones, and harmonies helps us respond musically. 

Inner ear, outer ear. Can you hear what you intend to play? (inner ear). This is called audiation and it’s linked to imagination. Can you hear what you just played? (outer ear).  Developing both takes time, and this is where teachers are invaluable while we build this capacity. 

Playing isn’t frivolous. Whether we’re thinking about managing kids' schedules, or planning our own day, the creativity and discipline we need to play are essential to being human. The value of playing is beyond beneficial to our confidence, our presence, and our ability to contribute to the world around us. 

Community Matters

Community is our superpower in all of this. 

Seeing others practice shows us what commitment looks like. Your effort, or your family rhythms, can inspire someone else to start or continue. 

The more solitary parts of learning don’t have to feel isolated. They live within a shared context, supported by others doing the same work alongside us.

Learning Interdependence

Collaboration sits at the heart of my favorite experiences and most rewarding moments. Watching an energized group of people bow together with full smiles, beginning to play after another musician cues me in, feeling the energy in a room full of people dancing, or hearing appreciation murmur through a shared meal with clanking silverware. Despite the persistent cultural myth that individual achievement sits alone at the top of a precarious yet alluring pinnacle, we are deeply interdependent whether we recognize it or not.

I say this from decades of forgetting and remembering this essential truth. Learning interdependence is at the heart of both my piano playing story and MCMC’s story. 

Interdependence in music could fill volumes. Layers of interacting elements combine to make a musical experience possible: from creation, to performance or recording, to the moment sound is received by a listener. Over the years, I’ve come to see how this musical concept extends far beyond the piano bench. In its best form, interdependence respects autonomy while seeking interaction.

No artist creates in pure isolation, we all have countless influences. Anytime one of us creates, practices, or presents, it comes through the filter of our experience. Not only that, we use forms, structures, and tools that have developed before us through generations of experimentation. Music connects us to something larger than ourselves not only historically, but physically. Vibrations move in wave form between us across time and space. That invisible yet felt connectivity continues to orient and inspire me. It makes art feel alive, approachable, and necessary. 

What is interdependence? 

I first encountered the term while retraining my piano technique after a career-pausing injury. It entered my vocabulary like a golden word. Guided by my teacher Yoriko Fieleke and colleagues at the Golandsky Institute, I slowly relearned its meaning. Interdependence allows two separate hands to function as one unified experience of playing. The sensation brings coordination, clarity, and natural command.

It sounds simple, but interdependence can contain extraordinary complexity. I often refer to it as the vertical moment -- my favorite description of this freeing experience, as it was shared with me. Rather than a to-do list of overwhelm, it becomes loving attention to all the parts that must be included to complete the sound. There is no rush when it's applied this way, just peace with what is and presence.

Three notes in the right hand. Two in the left. Found, felt (fingertips on keys), then synchronized into one unified moment. 

To experience clarity, even briefly, feels significant. At the piano, a single chord can feel like winning. Success unfolds one vertical moment at a time. Frame by frame, chord by chord, note by note. 

I remember the moment this sensation unlocked for me as a child, way before I had language for it. After years of learning one note at a time and matching notes on the page to keys on my upright piano (F was the one with chipped ivory and brown wood underneath), came the day I played two notes simultaneously. That was it. No going back. I was probably seven years old, electrified by possibility as the world of sound combinations suddenly opened up.

That spark led to solo repertoire and performance that appeared solitary, and began to feel that way too, but it really wasn’t. Composers lived through my hands. Teachers guided me weekly. The myth of aloneness became increasingly confusing. 

Over time, I began to understand that what I was learning at the keyboard was also true beyond it. The coordination required between two hands mirrors something larger: independent parts working with awareness of each other create something they couldn’t produce alone. 

Expanding this idea of coordination outward, I’m inspired by the living web of our musical community made up of each essential individuals -- teachers, students, parents, staff, board members, audience members, partners, donors, and friends -- and together we create the conditions for confidence to grow and creative expression to thrive. There is something irreplaceable about experiencing music together in live spaces.

Interdependence reveals how profoundly everyone’s contribution is needed. Each person’s effort supports another person’s possibility. Progress leads to joy, it’s how we’re wired. From the focused place of planning coordination, awareness of disparate pieces working together may lead to what so many of us want out of music learning: a feeling of play and even fun.

Is Routine Restrictive or Liberating?

It’s a fine line, priority alignment versus taskmaster. Music presents a double bind. On the one hand, progress only occurs with consistency and repetition. And on the other hand, music is ephemeral and offers us a chance to step out of the checklist-and-timeline mode and enter something deeper. It invites flow, a space that restores energy and refreshes perspective. 

In music practice we have a powerful tool, one that teaches us healthy discipline while sharing unexpected rewards.

When I committed to a full-scale solo piano recital in 2018 — a memorized hour of music to complete my long-delayed Master’s degree — I devoted myself to a daily rhythm capable of meeting that challenge. I rearranged family responsibilities, work expectations, and built supportive habits to support my practice. I meditated, walked, and cross-country skied first thing in the morning. The routine was calibrated, regimented, and consistent. Within that structure I would sit down at the bench each morning and mathematically dissect the material. 

Looking back, I see something I couldn’t fully see then. Fear was running much of that system. And a lot of doubt. I experienced routine as pressure rather than support. I don’t regret that phase, it taught me discipline, resilience, and insight. I completed the degree. But it also marked a new beginning, a new curiosity about motivation, sustainability, and what kind of relationship with practice I actually wanted to cultivate. 

Even with the pressure there were breakthroughs. I experienced insights about music, my mind, and meaning that I still continue to shape how I work today. Routine wasn’t exactly the enemy, but it also wasn’t yet liberation. 

I was drawn to music from a really young age. My family says I was singing before I was talking, and I was fixated by performing musicians at local concerts. It’s striking that those two early impulses shape my work and life today. MCMC exists to house, support, and encourage the proliferation of people making music. Through this process, individual potential unfolds, and community spaces are strengthened by the steady investment people make in themselves over time. 

If you’re a parent of a child taking music lessons, the best support often comes from simple, repeatable habits anchored in the day. Like practice while dinner is being prepared, or just before or after a transition. For the children we work with, habit formation is foundational. Small and steady daily repetitions lead to identity formation, which becomes a much bigger driver for engagement in adolescence. This isn’t easy for kids, but it’s pretty straightforward: show up, go through the practice, then you’re done.

For adults, the equation is different. It often involves an act of reclaiming space. It's more about putting the oxygen mask on first, and the radical act of claiming our humanity to work with it in a nonlinear way. I hear many people say they’ll pick up music in retirement. Quietly, I observe others who claim routine earlier, even during busy seasons. I witness steadiness and pockets of joy woven into their lives now, not someday.

In February, we’re beyond the January frenzy of resolution-driven optimism. Maybe we can settle into a different conversation. I’m interested in something quieter: sustainable connection with what matters most. But before we abandon our January enthusiasm, what surfaced? What felt important? Let’s include that in the conversation and stay with it. 

I often wonder what art practices teach us about structuring life, how to set up the day, channel energy, and move toward meaningful goals. Today, I’m returning to the joy of practicing for its own sake. Our musical community reminds me of that value every day. Positioning art as individual and communal sits at the core of our work. Regardless of how we interpret the events and conditions of the world around us today, music meets us where we are. It can absorb and even transform unrest and disillusion. I felt this even as a child. Playing simply helped me feel connected and grounded. 

Every artist I know has a relationship with routine and each routine is unique. I believe we are all creatives, and art practice is available regardless of duration and intensity. I think of practice as time in the bank. Focused attention results in some type of change, whether that’s an internal shift, or an external output. But when routine carries self-judgement about what progress should look like, it can become self-defeating. To stay generative, aiming for ideals over outcomes can help. 

Time in the bank offers us something liberating: we don’t need extraordinary effort today to make progress. We simply engage, reflect, then make another attempt. That neutrality builds an unshakeable bedrock of skill. 

This brings us to today’s question: how can routine serve creativity rather than squash it?

Here are a few creative archetypes. I invite you to play along and see which fits this season of life. Likely, it will be a mix, or another model altogether. I’ve lived through countless approaches to routine. I’ve resisted it, rejected it, returned to it, and finally have begun to see how liberating it can be when it’s aligned with purpose not fear.

I offer these archetypes playfully, invitations not prescriptions.

The 4:00am Creative

Routine: Wake up every day with the precise steps of preparing and drinking a warm beverage, breathing exercises and light stretching, and then positioning the self to commune with the muse. Structure may be a word count or a certain number of measures or lines. Like Stephen King and Ludwig van Beethoven (who counted his coffee beans every morning). 

The Twyla Tharp in the Studio Creative

Routine: Wake up and get to a space where creativity lives and breathes every day. The context is the frame. The freedom commences once the setting is activated. Form becomes clear through iteration and experimentation. Structure is to go unquestioningly and allow clarity to follow action. This is only available to those whose lives are set up with this kind of devotional time and space. 

The Free Spirit Flexible Creative

Routine: Each day is a blank slate to find the right intuitive moment to drop into creative time based on the needs of the day. Flexibility is required due to caregiving or work commitments that occupy the majority of time and space. Structure is to fit creative windows in and around the other commitments as a self-honoring way to stay connected. They may be brief but they’re potent and essential. This may be available in the parenting or caregiving years, or in certain stages of career development. 

The Weekend Warrior Creative

Routine: The work week is all-consuming, and when the weekend (or evening) comes, it’s a total switch into the creative priority. The conditions have been set up to drop right into the beloved activity. It’s cherished and appreciated. It’s anticipated. Structure is the set up ahead of time that allows for the ease of jumping right in when the schedule shifts. This can be a super successful way to tend to interests while other aspects of life are steady and non-negotiable. 

It may seem contradictory to share archetypes while advocating personal design. But all four share is one common thread: we can take initiative today to establish a routine that serves the thing that calls us. We don’t have to wait.

What if you trust your curiosity?

Does part of you jump toward New Year’s resolutions as a solution, and does another part resist and rebel against them?

Hope says: “Maybe this is the year I’ll allow myself to try the thing I’ve been curious about and quietly putting on the back burner.” 

With hope, we’re leaning into the social and cultural support for initiation. 

Doubt says: “Yeah, but I always say these things and never follow through.” 

With doubt, we might be subconsciously hedging against future disappointment and turning away from the nudge once again. 

Out in the world, when I share what I do, I hear two common responses over and over: 

I wish I never stopped playing. 

I’ve always wanted to play…

In both cases, I’m struck by how helpful it is to have other people alongside our path of playing music. Even if it’s parallel play, knowing that other people are putting in the repetitions and following their interests opens a pathway for me to practice too. Instead of will power in isolation, which has a limit, belonging with a group stands in as a motivating force. Sometimes not even a group, but just one other person can provide the relational side of learning. Being seen. Remembering that we don’t have to figure everything out on our own.

What kind of support do we need to pursue our craft? 

What would make the learning conditions feel doable? 

What do we need to remove to create the space to allow for ease and simplicity? 

What would help us feel drawn toward the challenge instead of repelled?

One drawback with New Year’s resolutions, especially when they’re layered on top of past frustrations, is that they tend to act like big sweeps without asking those ground-level questions. I don’t think resolutions are flawed by design. Making a commitment is an important tool. I personally love working with containers, time horizons, and temporal markers for making intentions. 

Here’s a prompt: 

What can I do today to gently move toward the life filled with the things I care about most? 

Even a brief pause to consider what that might look like counts as an action. 

Let’s engage in a loving conversation with doubt, that voice inside that is ultimately there to protect us. As we talked about in a prior post, doubt seems to be a required companion on any creative journey, we appear to be wired this way. In young students, it may not always be voiced, but it can still be detected in hesitation. With adult learners, it can be especially helpful to give doubt a little air time, to really hear what it’s bringing up, so it can be acknowledged and then put in perspective.

What if I’m not good at it?

You might not be, at first. Taking on something new is often a mix of exhilaration and defeat. Not seeing the results instantly is to be expected. That doesn’t mean it’s not worth it or it’s not for you. It simply might mean that the satisfaction and reward you’re looking for will come in time. It may also mean that the quality and specificity of the goal could use some recalibrating.

What if I make a great start but don’t follow through?

You’re in charge of what’s in your reach today. Tomorrow is an unopened package you will get to open up and look into when it arrives. Gestures count. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Showing up and sitting on the bench. Picking up the guitar, even if you put it down again. Approximating and affiliating with your routine is the way to progress. 

What if my dreams don’t come true?

Hindsight often reveals remarkable gains. When we put in efforts that seem dull and flat, but are present, they amount to more than we can imagine over time. We build our musicality like learning a language: halting and vague at first, fluid and free eventually.

Whether you are refreshing your musical aims from a seasoned practicing lifestyle, contemplating a return to music, or planning a brand new beginning, I encourage you to let music do for you what it does so well. Let it remind you that creative work can’t be rushed, mastery can’t be forced, and skill building doesn’t respond well to pressure. 

Music has taught me like a wise guide: 

Take your time. Be aware. Feel it. Hear it. See it. Say it. 

Music weaves many threads together, it's a canvas as rich and vast as we want to explore. And if that feels overwhelming, I encourage you to remember this: you are the one who animates it. Music doesn’t exist without our bodies and minds working together to create something real. 

In an era of rapid technological change, the basic truth about being human, that we are inherently creative and expressive, feels more relevant than ever. It can be helpful to view our daily practices as serving our well-being first, allowing outcomes like sharing and producing to come in time. 

If you’re called to practice music, we celebrate that, and we’d love to walk side by side.

Thanks so much for reading,

Sadie

Stories of Music & Joy: Abby Johnson

Abby Johnson

Over the past decade, the Middlebury Community Music Center has been a steady community hub for musical learning and expression. We’ve seen a lot of people pass through the front door in that time, from brand new babies to adventurous seniors, and we’ve also had the honor of witnessing the growth and maturation of many of our young adult students. One of those students, Abby Johnson, started taking lessons right around the time MCMC opened and is now a junior in college.

Abby started her musical journey with MCMC when she moved to Vermont at age 10. She grew up in a family that believed music was an important part of a well-rounded education. Everyone played an instrument, but the expectation was never perfection. Abby’s parents hoped to instill a lifelong love of music in their children through exposing them to music at a young age. 

This commitment to holistic, student-driven musical growth dovetailed with Sadie Brightman’s practice as a piano instructor and her vision for what MCMC could offer families. When Abby’s family moved to Vermont, Abby gravitated towards Sadie’s approach to teaching. Sadie saw the practice of learning music as offering skills for life, and Abby’s experience as Sadie’s student speaks to the truth of that belief.

Looking back, Abby describes Sadie as “one of those kindred spirits” who has accompanied her “through everything that I’ve experienced in the past decade of my life.” Sadie helped Abby tap into the potential for music to help understand her world and to respond to it creatively. This has shaped Abby’s academic path as well as her personal growth. Even after leaving MCMC and Vermont for college, Abby reflects that “music is still very much a part of everything that I do.” 

Abby developed her musical skills at MCMC beyond her lessons with Sadie. She remembers participating in monthly informal salons and performances at elder care centers as formative experiences that contributed to her sense of what music could bring to her community. These programs highlighted for Abby that performing music could be a way of giving back to the community and celebrating personal growth. 

These experiences, and working with Sadie, shaped Abby’s relationship to music as a core part of her identity. Rather than being tied to a professional career as a performer, Abby now feels that musical expression “will always be there” for her as a source of “solace” and “lifelong learning.” 

This personal growth is reflected in the growth of MCMC over the past ten years. Abby observes how MCMC is “aiming not just to be a place solely for music, but also for this broader level of learning and citizenship.” She sees this growth in the offerings that MCMC provides for infants and new families, as well as its commitment to the “many different ways a person can be educated.” By striving to bring a love of music to the community as broadly defined as possible, MCMC is practicing an inclusive and responsive approach to music education that supports many different entry points and abilities. 

To reach her current perspective on the inclusive potential of music, Abby had to overcome the self-criticism and comparisons that accompany many journeys of musical growth. Working with Sadie as a teen helped Abby to practice patience and confidence that comes from commitment rather than talent. Abby observes how MCMC tries to make connections between the lessons learned through practicing music and skills for life beyond performing. This helped her see that “the world needs diverse types of musicians” and that everyone has something unique to offer through their musical expression.

Abby sees how MCMC’s mission of inclusive and diverse musical instruction has had a great impact in the community. By offering “mediums and art forms… that transcend difference,” MCMC creates a “transgenerational” community that is united around a vital human experience - music.  For Abby, this fosters a sense of belonging not only among her community in Vermont, but also to a global citizenry of music lovers and makers. In her academic studies abroad and in the fields of musicology and ethnomusicology, she connects MCMC to a global music community and history. 

Maintaining this global community can prove challenging. Abby recalls when the global pandemic shut MCMC’s doors and forced a reevaluation of how to keep providing musical instruction and inspiration virtually. Abby remembers this time as a “dynamic” moment for the organization, when it embraced new technology and models to help reach students and community virtually. 

Looking towards the future, Abby hopes to see MCMC continue to deepen its community by fostering creativity and connection, two things she says are “at the heart of what it means to be a person playing music.” She sees MCMC as “the longest educational experience I’ve had in life,” a companion in her growth and part of what has shaped who she is today. She encourages new students of any age to “pick up instruments for the first time, to fall in love with them, and to enjoy the beauty of playing.” This beauty is what sustains and shapes a musical life.

Stories of Music & Joy: Keren Johnson

Photograph by Caleb Kenna

Keren Johnson

As we celebrate our tenth anniversary, the stories of our teachers, students, alumni, and donors illuminate the heart of what makes this music center a true gem in Addison County. One of those stories belongs to Keren Johnson, a piano teacher here at MCMC, whose journey as a music educator has been intertwined with our growth.

Keren first joined us in 2019 after realizing she needed to be part of something bigger than her private studio. "I was going through different changes in my life, and I knew that joining a community of teachers would benefit both me and my students. MCMC had that community I was looking for—people I could learn from and grow with," she recalls. She reached out to the center’s director, Sadie Brightman, and found that the timing was perfect for both her and MCMC.

One of the reasons Keren was drawn to the music center was its sense of community, a value she has always embraced in her own teaching philosophy. "Teaching, for me, is like breathing. To be able to impart a small piece of my love of music, to care for each individual and their unique personality, to give them tools in the power of self-expression and self-regulation through music, is a gift to myself and a gift from myself to the generations to come,” she shares. 

This deep passion for teaching is reflected in her relationship with her students, where she focuses on helping each one achieve their personal goals. "My joy and success as a teacher is when my students find joy and fulfillment in their own individual musical expression," Keren says.

Her commitment to individualized teaching is echoed in her many meaningful moments at MCMC. She recalls one student struggling with mental health who found solace in music. "Walking through that season with her, using music as our roadmap, was incredibly impactful," Keren reflects. Another highlight has been watching young students in MCMC’s group classes discover the joy of music. "I’ve had grandparents tell me how their grandchildren are playing music at home, and I think, 'Yes, that’s what we’re here for!'"

Since joining MCMC, Keren has seen the center evolve in powerful ways. "We’ve added incredible faculty members, and we've strengthened our connections with the community. We're not just one organization on our own—we're partnering with other meaningful organizations in the area, which has expanded our impact," she says. 

For Keren, this collaboration has been a key factor in her own professional growth. "Working with great musical minds like Sadie, and alongside the incredible administrative staff, has helped me set focused, forward-thinking goals for myself and my students. Sadie does an amazing job of inspiring us to reach for more, and having that clear direction has made a huge difference in what we’re able to accomplish."

As a teacher, Keren’s influence extends far beyond music lessons. Her impact on students often becomes clear through unexpected moments of connection. She fondly remembers receiving a heartfelt message from a mother after her daughter had graduated from Keren’s studio. "The mother wrote, ‘You weren’t just an incredible teacher for [my daughter]. You were a mentor and a friend when she really needed someone.’" Moments like these are profound reminders of the deeper purpose of her work. Keren says, "Music is community building, one beautiful relationship at a time, and the profound meaning of that is always on my mind as I am teaching."

Of course, there have been challenges along the way, particularly during the COVID-19 pandemic, when music education had to pivot to virtual platforms. "We had to adapt quickly—teaching online and finding new ways to engage students from a distance," Keren shares. Despite the difficulties, many of those changes have had lasting benefits. "Some of the tools we developed during that time are still in use today, and they’ve helped us continue to offer flexible options for students and families."

Keren has high hopes for the future of MCMC. She dreams of expanding the center’s reach, not just in Addison County, but across Vermont. "My hope is that we can touch the lives of more people, bringing the joy of music and the strength of community to even more places," she says. "I want to see MCMC continue to grow, providing opportunities for people of all ages and backgrounds to experience the transformative power of music."

As MCMC marks this milestone anniversary, Keren reflects on the center’s unique ability to cultivate both musical excellence and personal connection. "What sets MCMC apart is the collaboration. We, as faculty, are allowed to bring our own unique styles and strengths to the table, and that gives students the freedom to choose the teaching style that resonates with them. It’s a real gift to have so many diverse personalities and talents in one building, and it only benefits the community as a whole."

As the next decade unfolds, Keren looks forward to seeing how MCMC will continue to shape the local music scene and the lives of its students. "There’s nothing quite like the magic of music and community coming together," she says.