Apparently, when you perform to a positive reaction, neural pathways form in your brain, so that next time you perform, you’re primed for that positive reaction and consequently produce fewer of the horrible chemicals that make your hands shake and more of the good ones that give your performance an edge.
This is science.
So those of us who struggle to do things in front of people are stuck in a vicious cycle, and those who’ve braved it and survived are hitching their backsides to a virtuous one. I know the science is so, because I’ve felt it myself. I don’t get sweating palms and a constricted throat at book events any more. It’s not that I’ve done a huge number, but the ones I’ve done have gone well. I love writing, I love talking about writing, I love meeting writers and I don’t mind how many people turn up.
I’ve been to a lot of performance events recently. With four children, all learning at least one instrument, attending three separate schools, recent weeks have been full to bursting with pupil recitals, nativity plays, carol services, festive concerts, last lessons of term ‘so please, parents, come and watch!’
I’ve seen brilliant performances. I’ve seen rubbish ones. I’ve seen children staring like rabbits in headlights, having practiced for weeks and suddenly finding themselves faced with an audience. I’ve seen a lack of rehearsal suddenly ambush a child who thought they could get away with it; I’ve seen children who only saw the script the night before give near-professional performances. I’ve seen children who’ve worked really hard only to be let down by lack of organization, or failing equipment, or so keen to see whether someone turned up to watch them that they’ve forgotten what they were meant to be doing. I’ve been enthralled and moved and bored to tears (this last is one of the great unspoken Parenting Secrets.) But what I’ve always, always done is applaud and find something to praise. All children deserve the chance to develop neural pathways that will help them develop the ability to share their talents and skills with the rest of the world.
Those of us who start late suffer horribly from being adult. There are pianists who have learned, risen, built entire careers and retired before they were as old as I was when I started having lessons. And I’m not sure why this is so large in my head at the moment, or why it feels relevant to Advent. Except this – I always wanted to learn the piano. Having lessons, and practicing, and trying to take a grade exam, felt like I was becoming the person I would have been if all the things that happened to stop me learning properly hadn’t happened.
But last night I played a very simple accompaniment at a concert. I made three mistakes. I was going to get really upset, but I couldn’t because I’d co-organised the concert and I had bigger responsibilities than crying in a corner. The concert went beautifully – I couldn’t claim that my mistakes had ruined it – and we raised essential funds for an essential project.
I was chairing the wresting over the hoover as we tidied up the venue (why is it that all four children were desperate to hoover the aisle carpet in the church when they run like crazy from hoovering at home?), I had a sudden thought, louder even than the protests over whose turn was next. I’m just about to leave for another concert, and tomorrow we have visitors and another pupil recital, but it’s still ringing in my head. And it’s this:
‘Why are you trying so hard on becoming the person you would have been? Why don’t you concentrate on being the person you are?’
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