So this week I had to teach the National Anthem to some kids. (Actually, I did this last week too…) It’s a really good version, with an excellent backing track – a local Elder has written a version in Dharawal and Dharug, and then we sing the song in English.

Last week was really special. The Uncle who wrote the first verse came in to talk to the kids, to speak about the words he’d chosen, and his inspiration. It was really lovely – everyone was engaged, and respectful. And boy, did they sing!

This week wasn’t so special. Well, the start was. We sang the verse we’d learned last week. Again, fabulous singing. And then I started teaching the English version. And things started to get uncomfortable. Kids stopped singing. Lots of people looked at the floor. It all got really uncomfortable. A few little people got upset. We – me, the teachers and aides in the room, and the kids – stopped singing and started talking. About how it was okay not to sing. It was not okay to be disrespectful, but it was okay to not sing these words. The choice is yours.

I know this is not going to change. Well, not soon. And that makes me sad. Because this song divides people. It makes people uncomfortable. It makes children have to make decisions they shouldn’t have to in a music lesson. (I also know that the fabulous teachers I work with then continued this discussion after music – so that all these little people could know all they could about this issue. How’s that for excellent teaching, ‘eh?)

I know there will be people that say to me ‘Oh, it doesn’t hurt anyone.’ Or, ‘We’ve sung it for years, so why change?’ But the same used to be said for smoking. And if it doesn’t hurt anyone, then why can’t we change it?

So, after our discussion, we tried the whole song. We stood to sing. The first verse of the song is outstanding. And then most of these beautiful kids made their choice. They stood, and were respectfully silent. And for the final line of the song, in Dharawal and Dharug, they sang again.

Now, I am overworked at the moment, and practising a lot. My emotions are close to the surface. I found these little people hugely inspiring. And those kids showed me a few things. That many young people don’t like these words. That they will choose to do something about it. And that when our country is in their hands, I it’ll be changed.

In my opinion, it can’t be done soon enough.

Someone once said to me that if I taught adults, then I should also be learning something too. So that when I challenged them, or took them out of their comfort zone, I knew exactly what it was like. It’s incredibly good advice, you know.

Over a year ago I was diagnosed with high eye pressure. Who even knew that was a thing, right? But I had it. Most likely down to stress. (It’s nearly always stress, isn’t it?) And I needed to lower it, otherwise I would lose my sight, slowly. Alarm bells rang. Some re-thinking happened.

It was the end of me doing headstands for a while. Sad. I love turning myself upside-down. (Don’t knock it till you try it…) I went onto Google, and did LOADS of reading. And one of the best ways I could reduce eye pressure, along with less stress in general, was to run.

Now, I am NOT a runner. I am not sporty. I hated sport at school, and did everything I could to get out of it. Everything trick in the book possible. But I knew I had to do something. I didn’t want to go on medication until the end of time. So I learned to run. I followed a free running program brought out by the NHS in England called ‘Couch to 5K’, and I followed it. It took me twice as long as it said. But by the end of 18 weeks, I ran 5K.

I learned how to run. How to keep going. What to do when I felt awful. How to not worry about running fast. How to pace myself. I learned – just like my adult students. I was frustrated at times. I ran not-so-well. I ran better some days. I didn’t look glamerous. But I did it.

And then a friend (who is a runner) convinced me I should run 10K with him. And I’d had too many wines, and so agreed. So I followed another training plan – this one harder. And again, I learned. I learned about interval training. I learned how to deal with humidity, and wind. I learned about what I could do, even when I thought perhaps I couldn’t.

Last weekend, I ran 10K with this friend. He encouraged me every step. Literally every step. For those who know Sydney, we ran over the harbour bridge. And through Barangaroo. And wound up at Hyde Park, and then finished at the Opera House. It was amazing. In one big sort-of-circle.

So, my adult students, I know what you go through. I admire you. I think what you do is incredible.

And yes, my eye pressure is back to normal. I did it. No meds. And a gold star from the optom!

Over the last two weeks of January I’ve had to do a LOT of admin. I’ve written countless music lessons for generalist teachers to deliver. I’ve drafted up ideas for workshops. I’ve worked out all sorts of timetables, and written lessons for me to teach when I start back. I’ve drafted up programs for concerts, and dealt with admin for ticketing and web-listings.

A few days ago, long-suffering-husband came home from work and I was edgy. I’d got a lot of stuff done at the computer, but I didn’t feel great about it. The to-do list was getting shorter. The piles were getting smaller. But I wasn’t so happy. Then I realised – I’d not sat at the cello enough. I’d not had long days of practising. (BTW, l-s-h knew exactly what was wrong. And he also handed me a very good g and t too… He’s a keeper.)

The next day I did. I sat at the cello and did loads of practise. And it fixed my mood. I felt, well, ME again.

Here’s the funny thing. I get told by teachers (or parents, or people in the education sector) all the time that I should be a full-time teacher. (This is no exaggeration. It happens at least once a week.)  I’m really good at what I do. And the world is crying out for really good music teachers. And I love teaching. I love the days I spend in schools, dealing with whatever the day throws at me. I love the people I work with (okay. Well, mostly…). I love the kids I see. But I don’t want to do it full time. I never have done.

I don’t think I’d make a good full-time cellist either. I’d get a bit obsessed. And possibly lose my sense of wonder. And silliness. Because that’s what the kids I see remind me of each week.

This career I have suits me really well. It confounds people a bit. You see, good performers mostly aren’t good teachers, especially not in the classroom. And good teachers aren’t mostly polished performers, because they don’t have enough time to practise. Somehow I can do both. And by doing both, I feel myself.

On Saturday I played a concert. It was an excellent concert. I was playing with one of my favourite musicians – Genevieve Lang –  on harp. We were working with a group of wonderful, wonderful actors from a company called Sport For Jove. We’d spent a long time working on a program where the actors had chosen a piece of Shakespeare that would match to the music that Gen and I had proposed. The music was fabulous – lots of really different pieces that would make a great concert without the readings. But the music was made even better by there amazing deliveries by various actors that not only used the stage, but walked around the space, through the audience.

Have I painted a good enough picture yet? We’d done this program once before, so it was polished. We were in an amazing space in Katoomba. The sound was good. There were about 150 people there. I think you can understand how special the night was.

Before we started, one of the actors asked everyone to turn off their phones. I had then come out and repeated that. And as I was talking, someone’s phone went off. So I made a joke about it. So we’d well and truly reminded everyone. Three times. Thrice. Not one time. Not two times. But THREE TIMES.

About two-thirds into the concert off went the first phone. It threw the actor speaking, although they recovered really well. Then, within seconds the SECOND one went off. This time, it wasn’t just a ring. It also had the AI voice telling whoever the damn person who owned the phone the damn person calling. It threw me. My F sharp at the start of Mendelssohn’s ‘Song Without Words’ wasn’t well in tune. (And yes, I know I shouldn’t be thrown by this. But I am human.)

We got to the last piece. It was a beautiful moment, all about sleep. 7 of the 8 actors recited something about sleep from some moment in Shakespeare’s writing. Then Gen and I played the Aria from Bach’s ‘Goldberg’ variations. It’s HARD for me. The actors had spoken beautifully. We began really well.

You know what’s coming, don’t you? Yep. THE THIRD PHONE. By this stage I was angry. (I am pleased to say it didn’t affect my playing on the outside. But I was still angry.) I still am, a bit. Because we’d all worked really hard. We’d set up something for everyone to enjoy. To experience. And for the third time, someone wrecked it.

Now, I get that sometimes you are waiting for an important call. So sit at the back, with your phone on SILENT. And then leave the room before you answer it.

But don’t be this person who doesn’t turn off their phone. Because live moments get ruined. I’m not that important to leave my phone on. You’re probably not, either. And yes, you can tell me no-one died. It’s not that important. But performers work so hard to make things perfect for their audiences – to play the best they can. So it does become important. Don’t people come to live concerts to be transported? To be taken away from their life, and all the distractions? So – please – when you are asked by someone to turn your phone onto silent – DO IT. Or don’t come.

I’ve had a long term. And there have been SOOOOOO many performances. And afterwards I’m often mobbed by the kids who just performed. And they are all on a huge high. They are telling me what they did, and how good they were (forgetting that I was kneeling in front of them. But that’s fine. I agree with them. They were excellent!).  And then audience members talk to me about how much they loved it – perhaps a particular song, or piece, or even just the walking on and off.

Now – just step aside from all this post-performance chaos. There’s a big push by parts of the school system to ‘teach every child music’. And that’s a GREAT thing. I applaud it. But often, it’s a one-size-fits-all program. Or it’s teaching kids music things that don’t excite them. Not every child WANTS to learn a violin. Especially not in a group.

Back to the post-performance chaos. Some one who I respect HUGELY turned to me and said… “Rach, it’s not enough to just teach kids music, is it? You have to excite them. Make them want to learn it.”

That person is totally right. Because then they will love music for the rest of their lives. And the magic will keep happening. This musical craziness.