A while back my wife and I were watching baby Robins fledge right outside our bedroom window. The three babies were ready to fly—almost. The mother Robin sang to each one from the eaves of the house next door. With that motherly encouragement the first baby robin stood on the edge of the nest, looked around, jumped, spread its wings, and flew. The second baby robin stepped up and did the same thing. Two for two! But as the mother robin continued to sing encouragingly, the third baby robin stepped up and then froze, unable to take the plunge. Was it fear?
I remember back when I was a teenage musician playing first tenor in the high school jazz band. The first tenor part was always juicy with plenty of solos. But early on I remember the fear and trepidation I felt when it came time for me to stand up and take my solo. I had practiced tirelessly—hours every day, learning my scales, chords and creating riffs. My teacher, Jimmy, encouraged me at every lesson, helping me line out melodies and themes to develop my improvisational chops. I was making significant progress in my lessons, but as soon as it came time to solo during our jazz band rehearsals, my fingers seemed tangled and my thoughts jumbled. I felt like an improvisational mess. While Mickey (trumpet), Dan (trombone) and Niles (alto sax) stood for their solos, I remained seated during mine. It seemed like the more I tried the more my solos sounded like a jumble mess of disconnected notes.
Looking back, I don’t think their solos were much better than mine. But they had one thing that I lacked: confidence. Or at the very least, an adventurous spirit, trying to make their creative statement while the back played behind them. You probably can guess by now that I was a shy kid lacking self-confidence, and fearful in taking a step, let alone a leap!.
Back to the robins . . . Finally, after singing and singing, the mother bird flew back to the nest. Standing behind her hesitant baby, she prodded it with her pointed beak. With one poke, the baby robin had nowhere to go but forward. And so, it did, plummeting from the nest. But before it hit the ground, reflexively it stretched its wings, stopped its fall, was suddenly airborne and began to fly. Sometimes a mother has got to do more than talk. Often she has to give her child a well-placed nudge.
As our big performance drew near, I felt more and more immobilized. During my lessons with Jimmy my improvising seemed to come together, but when I played in the band my solos continued to be mediocre. A few days before the concert I confessed my solo mediocracy to Jimmy during our lesson. He gave me an important piece of advice:
“It’s not how many notes you place,” he said. “Not even which notes you choose. It’s how you play them. Just imagine you’re telling a story, straight from your heart. Let your music be the real you.” Then he told me that he was planning on attending the concert. I realized then that I had to take the leap.
On the day of the concert there was Jimmy sitting in the first row where he could see and hear every note. If I remember correctly, I had solos in three songs. I stood up for each one and put everything I had into the music remembering that I was telling a musical story.
How did I do? I don’t remember a single note I played, just that I tried to play confidently and creatively. I had many folks come up and congratulate me afterwards. I must admit I felt pretty good. Jimmy waited until the last one left, came over put his arm around me and said, “Great job.” And then with a smile said, “But don’t let it go to your head. There’s more to work on.”
There is always more to work on: to hone one’s craft, discover one’s story, find one’s wings. The first step is a leap!
