Promoting Mental Health Through Teaching the Meaning of Our Work

   I have been meditating lately on the state of mental health for college students, particularly music students because this is my primary lens.  Students seem to searching for meaning in the things that they do, and at universities this also means the work that they are required to do, perhaps against their wishes.  There is a simultaneous hunger for purpose and a desire to only do what they already see as meaningful.  I don't mean this in a mean or sarcastic way.  Rather than some kind of "you kids get off my lawn!" I'm simply making an observation that I believe is important in understanding what is happening with students today, and we cannot even pretend to try and help them if we don't first try to understand their perspective.

A Transcendent Experience

My first transcendent experience making music was when I was a junior in high school, playing in the Massachusetts All-State concert band, under the direction of John Paynter.  We were rehearsing Fred Fennell's transcription of Elsa's Procession to the Cathedral.  I knew nothing of Wagner at the time, and my classical music experience was limited to school band and handful of records that I grew up with.  In this rehearsal, I had tears streaming down my cheeks for reasons that I could not understand.  It was like the music was pulling my heart up into my head.  It was somehow painful longing and healing catharsis, all in one.  I struggled to wipe my face without getting caught, when I noticed that others were also crying, including band directors that lined the walls of the rehearsal room to observe.  It opened a door inside of me that I would never be able to close.  I knew that this was the kind of experience that I wanted to have with music.  I have chased those experiences ever since, and not just with music.

Embracing Emotional Vulnerability

By the time that I arrived at music school, I had an agenda.  I wanted to open that door wider.  And wider.  I wanted to bring my friends with me, through the looking glass.  I wanted to feel the creative process as deeply as possible.  While my mental, and physical health was not always great, and sometimes it was pretty terrible, I never lost track of my internal compass for truth in music making.  When I got lost in the weeds, it was almost always about trying to play what I thought people wanted to hear.  It was about trying to impress or to qualify for the cool kids club.  That kind of performing is always hollow, and we sometimes pose for the audience in a completely subconscious way.  But when we play so that people will love us, or at least accept us, even when it works, we are left with a feeling of failure.

I had some incredible teachers that cared almost entirely about the process.  They taught me that failure is an inevitable part of getting out on the ledge, and that failure will be our best teacher.  They shared their own failings.  I slowly learned that true art, and good teaching, can only exist in that zone of uncomfortable honesty.  You can't walk through that door; you have to physically hurl yourself through it with your eyes closed and your limbs flailing.  You have to risk everything to tell your story in your own language.  It doesn't matter if that means howling like an animal or violently spraying paint on a canvas.  It has to be real.  Even if you are performing Bach (or Wagner for that matter), you have to take chances and listen to the stuff that makes your heart explode in your chest.  I am not being dramatic here.  You have to somehow appear to be effortless while being a hair's breadth away from crashing and burning in front of everyone.

I got this idea pretty early on, even though I didn't always live up to the challenge.  It is difficult to resist the urge to make an "easy kill" with cheap tricks and flashy technique.  I can still succumb to that pressure, although I always feel badly about it afterwards.  But by the time I was nineteen, I recognized that I was only going to crack myself open by accepting the wisdom of my teachers, even when their advice sounded like total bullshit.  Sometimes it turned out to be crap after all, but I had to figure that out for myself.  I knew that I couldn't teach myself the technique without submitting to the mastery of my mentors.  It was through acceptance of my own limitations, and embracing my own inability to immediately understand, that I found my way as an artist.  I released myself of my own opinions and preferences, so that I could steady myself on the path that leads forward, instead of the circular path of worshipping my own ego.

Earning Trust

Looking at contemporary students, I see that they have a lack of trust in their teachers.  Some of this is a direct result of "teaching to the test," where their teachers are forced to say things like, "I know that this is stupid, but you just have to do it on the test."  Our children are not idiots.  They recognize hypocrisy when they see it.  This makes it even harder for them to accept the seemingly contradictory realities that we face in high-level learning.  They have less trust in their teachers, but even less faith in the system itself.  The Zen master that speaks in riddles that are intended to shift us into meditation on the universe that is absolutely critical to finding meaning in whatever we do is becoming an impossible barrier for the student that has no belief in the long and winding road to begin with.  There is a large and important difference between "learning to pass the test," and learning the rules so that they can be artfully broken.  Young people have more difficulty believing in the struggle to learn difficult concepts because they have less reason to trust the test.  This lack of faith makes it nearly impossible to find meaning in the work, leaving them depressed, angry, or detached.

What can we do?

Firstly, we have to make sure that they have mystical experiences.  We have to invite them into a world where beauty expresses itself in ways that we cannot hope to understand.  That can mean performing with them, conducting research with them, or coaching them through work that is just slightly above their heads.  Next, we have to engage them in conversations about finding meaning in doing the work.  I'm talking about setting aside time, even if that means less time for other things that seem vital to the learning process that is already compromised by a dearth of resources, to directly talk about the deep, philosophical issues that surround our disciplines.  We have to show them why we do what we do, understanding that this might be a tough sell, at least at first.

When Yusef Lateef told me that I should listen to Lester Young, and I told him that I was dubious of what seemed to me to be old and simplistic playing, he took most of a lesson to share with me stories of him repeatedly sneaking into clubs to hear Prez, and getting thrown out because he was underage, and then crouching in the window well to even catch a glimpse of the master.  He had tears in his eyes.  His honesty and passion caused me to question my own opinion of Lester Young, and that internal cross-examination made way for the door to open.  To this day, Prez is a major source of inspiration to me.  I needed to be told that my opinion was wrong, and to be told in a way that raised doubt in my stubborn, youthful mind.  I trusted my teacher because he invited me into his transcendent experience.

I have always found solace in my work, not because it is a distraction from our hopelessly imperfect world, but because it keeps me organized with my eyes on the impossible goal.  I like to use the analogy of Herrigel's Zen in the Art of Archery, where we must forget about hitting the bullseye and focus on perfectly drawing the bow and loosing the shot.  The endless quest for perfecting technique makes the target irrelevant.  In the end, the dignity of sincere labor that leads to a meaningful life is food for a healthy mind.  Practice, teach, and be well!