Catching Up With Janet See

A few mornings ago, I stepped out of the house and for the first time this winter caught the unmistakable scent of sarcococca - sweet box - that grows near our front door. It’s a familiar smell that always catches me by surprise, as sarcococca blooms in the short, dark days of winter and early spring. This year, under the weight of chaotic and difficult times, I was especially surprised at the arrival of this sweetness to our damp, winter air. That morning I felt as if I’d been tossed a line that was going to very slowly reel me forward into spring and then summer.

Last year in early spring when all performances were canceled, I took long walks every day. The roads were empty of cars, the waterways around us were empty of boats, the skies were virtually empty as well, and the air was crystal clear. It was so quiet. As I walked, I started to realize that there was an unusually bold and lively presence around me – birds! (For about 50 years, it’s been my life’s work to sing through an instrument, so I feel that birds and I share some air space.) Birds of all varieties were everywhere, and they would remain uncharacteristically close as I approached. Engines were silenced, humans were hunkering down indoors. Birds had adjusted to the new, quiet normal, and were not at all fussed by my presence. Over the next few months, cars, cyclists, and joggers returned to the roads, and birds gradually took their distance again - apart from the supercharged hummingbirds that continue to whizz up to our feeder, then whizz away with their special aerial acrobatics.

Looking across the sound I live on Bainbridge Island - a 35-minute ferry ride across from Seattle. My trips to ‘the mainland’ to teach, perform, and to visit friends have been on hold for almost a year now. Seattle floats on Puget Sound like a mirage–like Oz. SeaTac airport, for years my departure point for great music-making somewhere on the West Coast, has nearly faded from memory, as has the Amtrak station that would see me off to a great week of music in Portland. The transformation was sudden, and a new framework around being a musician has been constructed. What at first seemed untenable, or undesirable at best, has been made to work, and often work quite well.

Last March, I took to my computer to begin teaching flute lessons on Zoom. I was skeptical. I also took to group weight training sessions (7:15-8:15 am!) several mornings a week. Very skeptical. I got hooked on the weight training because it soon became clear that the whole day would go better if I had hauled myself out of bed for an early morning session with weights. Also, it was a community of sorts, and community was what I was missing.

But since March of last year, the greatest happiness and satisfaction has come from seeing and working with my students, who log in from all parts of the US. (That, in and of itself, has been an enormous benefit of having to teach online.) I teach adult amateurs who truly embody the French meaning of that word: ‘lover of…’. These students are devoted to playing baroque flute, and absolutely love to play music, especially with others. I’ve been told often that our lessons are an important focus and anchor in their lives, especially now as they cope with the extended reality of being isolated from their friends and fellow amateur musicians. Over the past 11 months, my students have shown such patience with Zoom, and such conscientious dedication to improving their playing. It turns out that the virtual platform has enabled us to work together with a degree of detail that I’m not sure any of us would have had the patience for in a ‘normal’ year.  With Zoom you can get a close-up view of a problematic flute embouchure – closer up than what one might be comfortable with in person! There’s been a huge amount of progress in everyone’s playing. Lessons leave us feeling appreciative of each other and, above all, grateful for sharing the music in our lives.

These aren’t the front lines, and music teachers can’t exactly call themselves essential workers, but in a small and personal way, I think we might be in the running as we deliver a kind of music vaccine.

For many years, I’ve directed a summer workshop for adult amateur baroque flutists. For several years my students, along with about a dozen others from all over the US, have devoted one week out of their year to studying baroque flute together, experiencing the joy of playing chamber music together, to cook and share meals together, to walk together, and to get to know each other. Every summer, a warm and inclusive community is formed – a community that continues to exist in various ways throughout the year. Every summer, we all agree that it can’t get any better, and each summer it gets better. Students often write that it’s the best week of their year. I don’t say this as a way to congratulate myself, but rather to show just how powerful music can be. Music brings people together to create an opportunity for expression, to create beauty, to create community. In a word, music nourishes the good.

I think what is particularly important at the moment is that playing music does not require words or talking. In the past, I’ve left the stage after an utterly moving performance of a piece and am always struck by the fact that there wasn’t a single word uttered in the entire course of the performance. Playing the flute is using breath to make beautiful sounds – either alone or with others. It’s no wonder that music can heal.