Your Recovery Plan

Chestnuts at Appalachian Forest Museum, Arc of Appalachia, Taken October 14, 2008

"You are chestnut burr, prickly outside, but silky-soft within, and a sweet kernel, if one can get at it. Love will make you show your heart some day, and then the rough burr will fall off."— Meg to Jo in Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

I love the spiny burr that encases these chestnuts. It looks protective to me, part of a grand preparedness plan by Mother Nature to ensure that the chestnut would be protected in its journey. It's also a metaphor for me of the fruits — the heart — that lie beneath the exterior of things — if only you are willing to look past appearances.

Last night, I had a bongo lesson with teacher/sage Jeff, who dispenses philosophy as readily as he does the finer points of percussive technique. I'm not sure he realizes what a wise soul he is, but I so appreciate that the lessons that I'm learning with bongos applies to so many of areas of my life.

He was teaching me a new rhythm — the bolero. It is a simple rhythm, a beginner rhythm. But I was completely lost in it, confused by switching hands and drum heads, going blank at synching my hands with the notes or with my verbal cues (high, low, high). I could not hear the beat at all. Several times, I just stopped, blank and panicked, in the middle of our playing to "Dos Gardenias" by Ibrahim Ferrer of the Buena Vista Social Club.

In the moment, what was going through my mind as my cheeks began to flush was "I'm failing, I'm making a mistake, I'm not good at this." (Being a beginner bongo player is such good practice for me to notice where old ways of thinking crop up.)  I could feel my prickly burrs shoot out to protect me from being in this vulnerable place.

Jeff stopped playing and turned to me. "So, what's your recovery plan?" he asked. "You're going to make mistakes and get lost when playing. What is your recovery plan when that happens?"

What a brilliant question. For so much of my life, my perfectionist tendencies only focused on preventing mistakes. I'm not sure I've ever considered what my "recovery plan" in any given situation.

But last night, I paused and thought about my recovery plan: Pause. Connect back in with the beat. Listen to the music. Trust. Begin playing again. Breathe.

Good advice for all areas of my life — writing, art-making, living, loving, being. (Thanks, Jeff!)

Tell me, what is your recovery plan for when you get lost or make a mistake?

P.S. My husband and I are heading out to study, grow and expand at a seminar with the inspiring James Ray in Las Vegas. The Milwaukee Public Museum's Titan Arum has not yet bloomed (patience, grasshopper, I know) — I'm hoping that there will be something to see when I return on Monday.