Kubalek on Great Teachers:

"Rebecca, there is no such thing as a great teacher. There are only great students. If you're a teacher stuck with a class full of idiots, then you'll never be known as a great teacher." -- Antonin Kubalek, a great teacher



Of all the professions in this world that are pursued for whatever reason -- be it for potential earning power, to please a parent, upping social status, to affect a greater good, security, to fulfil a dream, to be rewarded -- Teaching, in my opinion, must be among the most meaningful.

Nothing in my life has allowed me to directly influence so many impressionable human beings in a positive way. From an early age, despite our circumstances, we make choices that ultimately lead us to certain paths. And teachers have the ability to guide our every move; teachers have the ability to shatter hopes or create dreams.

It petrified me at first, realizing this responsibility. Understanding dawned on me when I saw the power my teacher had over me: one look, one word from her could send me home from the lesson with euphoric enthusiasm or the other extreme, depression. Over breadth and time, a series of 'looks' and 'words' will be just the attitude to raise good or bad piano players.

Thankfully, I haven't had to figure out the good basics of teaching musicality or technique on my own. God is good, and blessed me with the right teachers at the right times. But the long-term development of my students are endeavors in which I have a personal stake -- at times, the amount of energy I spend thinking about their pieces or technical issues is truly overwhelming.

There's a rich tradition involved in this business of teaching music. Although the evolution of various schools of thought have changed over time, teachers will always be storytellers. They tell the stories of their teachers quilted with the stories of their own musical journeys. A student can travel the world through stories: Shanghai, Prague, London, remote villages of Africa. Through stories, students can meet the great artists that have influenced their teachers. And so the stories continue with each generation, with new legacies.

* * * * *

Last night, my students waited anxiously as I unraveled the gift they bought me with their "very own savings".

"Rebecca, it's something you really need", one said with certainty.

"Oh really?"

I put aside the gift wrap and saw the box: an electric pencil sharpener!

"You really need this because all your pencils are always dull."

I laughed. I must've complained every single lesson about having my pencils eaten by a cheap pencil sharpener I had from childhood.

And the accompanying handmade card read, "Thank you for being my piano teacher"

* * * * *

My students show me the heart of a great teacher.

Let's have some Cummings, shall we?

I don't usually like to do this -- simply cut-and-paste a poem and pass it off as a post. Forgive me. But I've given much thought to this poem; in bed at night while resting a pillow by my head I have mulled over its meaning, its beauty, because it captures a rarity, an ideal, in a world of selfish conceit and absorption. It is Love, something which -- in poetry and in life -- is hard to get right. So I seize it while I can.


somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

-- e.e. cummings

If help can ever be gratuitous...

My eye caught the empty spot in a busy shopping mall parking lot. I quickly signaled to claim my prized spot, just a few feet from the mall entrance. Congratulating myself on my keenness, my note of confidence possessed me to decide on backing in to the spot. I angled the car and put it in reverse, ready to back in with one clean, effortless turn of the wheel. 'Whoa, these spots are pretty tight', I thought, as I checked the rear-view mirror. I went ahead and turned the wheel, changing my mind halfway to accomplish this feat with not one but two clean, effortless turns of the wheel. Still, all was under control.

Oh wait -- I should let this sweet old man pass first. I braked and he thanked me with a smile. However, he didn't proceed. Instead, he stood there and started flailing his arms at me.

What is he doing? Is he crazy?

NO. He can't be doing what I think he's doing. He's trying to guide me into my parking spot! I gave the little man a smile and wave of gratitude -- in other words, Thanks But No Thanks, Please Go Away. But he insisted; he wouldn't leave until his job was complete. His large expressive movements, not to mention his shouting of directions, started to garner attention. I could not believe this was happening. Hopelessly fluttered, I kept turning the wheel in whichever direction my shaken hands would lead. I lost all instincts in my embarrassment. The old man continued, now making circular motions with his index finger to indicate another turn of the wheel, while offering phrases of encouragement like, "That a girl!" and "You've almost got it, but not exactly!" Passerbyers turned their heads, some high school homeboys with baggy jeans and a walking limp snickered at me, and I decided this would be a good time to die. That, or a good time to run over that sweet old man. I mean, did it look like I was parking an airplane between pylons? After what seemed like hours of wrestling with the wheel, I finally straightened out the car while he started towards me, beaming at our good work. I groaned, and reluctantly smiled and lowered the window as he pressed onward,

"It just takes more practise -- but don't you worry, little girl, you'll get it after a few more tries! At least you're trying; my wife of forty years never liked to back in and so to this day, she don't know a thing about parking a car! But you've got the right idea, just keep at it!"

He was satisfied with himself. And he even went on to stop another couple walking by to tell them of the great service he just did. He pointed at me and I saw the couple look at me. Then, he winked at me and gave me the "thumbs up".

I batted my eyelashes and clenched my teeth. "Yeh, thanks buddy."