It is officially too hot to do anything.

It's during times like this that I most need a plan, because if I don't have one ready, nothing gets done. I need a to-do list made and waiting, because in my numbed, over-heated state, all I can do is blindly follow orders. Unfortunately, this means that I have to put aside time to sit down and carve out plans, make lists, set schedules and agendas, or else I will most likely succumb to the lure of sparkling lemonade and a chair in the garden during any empty minutes.

Times like this are precisely why I need technique exercises to turn to. My notebook of scribbled technique exercises -- Five-Finger Positions, scale patterns, chord progressions, and so on -- may very well be one of my most valued possessions, perhaps the first thing I'd grab in a fire (after my husband and two cats, of course). The dog-eared pages have saved many a day lately, when without such resources I might very well throw in the towel completely. Here's a few more to get us through the next heat wave.....

42. Do Re

Do Mi

Do Fa

Do Sol

Sol Fa

Sol Mi

Sol Re

Sol Do

43. Do Re

Re Mi

Mi Fa

Fa Sol

Sol Fa

Fa Mi

Mi Re

Re Do

I love to teach both of these using two-note slurs if students are ready, guiding students into "leaning" into the first of the two notes and releasing "back" off the second. ("Lean-back, Lean-back....") But if a student isn't ready for such subtleties of touch, #42 can be one legato phrase going up and another going down, or the whole thing could be staccato. Because of the repeated note, number 43 is written in such a way that any legato is going to require the notes to be grouped in twos. This doesn't mean you have to teach the two-note slur gesture, but it is great exercise for this skill because with little guidance it almost teaches itself.

The next two are simpler patterns, but demand musical finesse and control of touch. Five-Finger Positions are a great way to practice our control, especially on patterns that by this point we know inside and out.

44. Do Re Mi Fa Sol Fa Mi Re Do

Crescendo going up; Decrescendo coming down

45. Same Pattern

Decrescendo going up; Crescendo coming down

When all else fails, suggest the student compose their own patterns for a couple of weeks. Insist that they write them in their assignment notebooks in solfege and practice them in all positions. This lets you off the hook temporarily, allows you to sneak some creativity into their assignments, and gives them a chance to take some ownership of their practicing and technique work. Besides, you never know when they might stumble upon brilliant patterns that you haven't thought of, and you can steal them for future use!

I probably should go on record saying I don't think theory books are a waste of time. Some people, based on my previous rants , might think otherwise, but I actually think that most of theory books that are packaged with various methods are quite good. Life is full of hard choices, however, and choosing not to assign regular written theory work is one of the tough pedagogical decisions I make about how to use our time. But this summer, I decided to have some of my elementary students do some written work when they have less schoolwork in their lives. I purchased theory workbooks and started handing them out. On the first day, no fewer than 100% of the students squealed with delight as they grabbed the books from my hands, some even asking me, "Can I do extra pages if I want?" "Goody goody gumdrops!" one child exclaimed, a phrase one doesn't hear enough these days, much less in piano lessons.

Now, one might take this response as an argument for using theory workbooks all the time, but instead I think it only strengthens my choice to limit their use in my studio. Because clearly, by doing so -- and through no real forethought or calculation on my part -- I have increased their value and appeal to my students. I can coast on their good attitude about this assignment, and get some dedicated written work out of them this summer. Hopefully, they won't do it long enough to begin dreading it, but surely even a few months will help to further secure some of basic concepts that the books will reinforce.

Life is all about making tough choices about how to spend our time. In and out of music lessons, these decisions have to be made, because if we don't make them, we end up doing too many things rather poorly, instead of a few things well. Theory books aren't the only thing in my studio I choose to do in the summer months that I wouldn't do during other times of the year. I've got a number of drop-in students this summer: extra adults, college students home for a few months, even former students interested in revisiting their piano skills for a few months. I don't have time for these students during the year, hanging on as I am by a thread most of the time, but in the summer, when my normal load is less predictable, I can take on extra lessons. I find myself teaching them differently: I'm more relaxed with these students, letting them call the shots about what they want to work on, not prescribing my usual doses of etudes and technique work. This has got me thinking, wondering if this attitude of: well, what do you want to do on the piano this summer? isn't a healthy change from my always dictating the learning schedule. I'm not suggesting this would be a good idea taken to an extreme, because I have lots of experience knowing the best way to get from Piano-Playing Point A to Piano-Playing Point B, and that's what I am being paid to do. But shifting my focus a bit away from my assumed "best" way to learn the piano, to a more open-minded: what would serve the student best here in the next few months and give them joy? isn't a bad way to think either.

Honestly, I could use a dose of that philosophy infused into my life at the moment; dragged down as I am these days with the heat and unfamiliar humidity. The New Mexico version of air-conditioning, the swamp cooler, which work fine in a dry heat, can't hold up when the air is retaining moisture. I swear some students are going to melt during one of their sweaty lessons, and leave a puddle on my piano bench. Asking the question "What would serve us all best here and even make us happy?" would be a helpful survival technique during these scorching days.

There are moments when the clearest answer to that question is "ice cream." However, if theory workbooks can make a child utter the words, "Goody goody gumdrops," then there's hope for all of us.

It's a good thing that I am not overly dependent upon technology, because at the moment we have a dead television, a dead cell phone, a dead laptop, a 20-year car hobbling along on its last leg, and a dead metronome. This may be the universe's way of mocking me for not keeping up, although honestly, only the latter was a real problem this week; it's hard to be a piano teacher without a functioning metronome. But all of these broken machines serve to punch holes into the assumed routines and patterns of our days, making us think more creatively about how to share our one functioning laptop, causing us to read or talk in the evenings instead of automatically putting in a movie, forcing us to think twice before jumping into our car on some avoidable errand.

This is not a bad thing, to rethink patterns and routines, and summertime seems a ripe season to do so. Schedules and habits are already turned upside down this time of year: I teach at random times throughout the day, instead of the blocks of after-school hours. I fall out of bed with the first light---this morning Lora and I were "scarfing" our neighborhood bird at 5am (Actually "grooming" the bird would be more accurate, as we were preparing the bird for a lovely summer wedding, complete with a top hat and white tie, with a smaller plaster roadrunner "bride" to be put at his feet in a few days---brides are always late for their weddings, we reason.). After our stealthy costuming we went hiking for a few hours in the foothills, but even at such an early hour it was light, the sun bursting over the Sandia mountains by the time we headed back to the car. Instead of teaching through the early evening hours, summer finds me outside at dusk: weeding, watering, deadheading spent yellow marigolds and burgundy petunias. This is my unwinding time every day, happily puttering in the garden, after which Matt meets me with a Campari and soda and we linger in the yard. I have filled a half-dozen bird feeders, making our property a virtual aviary. One feeder I hung just inches outside the study window. Godiva spends hours and hours every day watching the birds with her nose pressed against the glass, guarding the house from any feathered invasion. The Adirondack chairs have recently gotten a new coat of paint: the peeling fire-engine red on two chairs has been replaced with different shades of deep rich purple. Adirondack chairs, with their many slots and edges, are a pain to paint. I resorted to what I referred to as my "Zen painting time" at 5:30 in the morning to get them finished, trusting that during the 30-minutes I allotted for the job that I would be too asleep to notice how much I hated this task. But there is nothing like an hour in an Adirondack chair with a drink in hand to assure you that all is right in the world; even the neighborhood stray cat that I have taken to calling "Pinstripe" agrees, often joining us in the evenings to roll around in the thyme patch.

I love this shifting of tired habits that take place in these long days. Although I have never had the luxury of summering in Maine or on the Cape, there is no question that life tastes different during these months. I still teach a lot, requiring students to take a minimum number of lessons during June and July in order to retain their spots in the studio in the fall. This summer I have already played two big concerts in a two-week span, requiring hours of practicing and rehearsing. One recital included the Franck violin sonata (transcribed for flute) with my musical buddy, Jerome. This piece is my vote for one of the most transformative pieces in Western music, encompassing every human emotion in its four movements. The first movement is simultaneously peaceful and anxious, a dreamlike calm with an undercurrent of restlessness. The second movement rips open in anger, passion and fierceness, only to break down several times with a stirring lyrical melody, heart-wrenching in its beauty. The third movement is the embodiment of desperate, deep sadness and mourning, colored with a passionate outburst of drama. And the final moment seems to me to encapsulate the survival and triumph of all humanity. It is a canon between the piano and the soloist and the tune starts on an upbeat; beginning this movement feels like joining in a universal triumphant march already taking place under the surface of the entire work. This movement is deep contentment, peace and happiness, a resolution of all the upheaval of the previous four movements. Working on this piece I was reminded what an honor and privilege it is to be able to play music like this. To have this kind of sweep of humanity and emotions as part of my life and my days, my work and my play, is both humbling and thrilling at the same time.

But I was so buried in work that I woke up a couple of weeks ago to realize that it was just then officially summer, the solstice taking place that very day. This surprised me greatly, for in my mind, we must surely be halfway through the summer months. We've had a record cool June, only to be hit by an early monsoon season giving us muggy days and low clouds breaking into sudden violent thunderstorms at a moment's notice. Already I am thinking about fall schedules and planning music for next semester's recital, and in just a few weeks I will be finished teaching summer lessons. There's been an increase in break-ins in the city in the last month, fueled by desperate people in a bad economy. But in spite of this nagging worry, summer brings a measure of quiet and calm, space and peace. Tonight will be an al fresco dinner with friends, a bottle of champagne and a martini glasses full of chocolate mousse already chilling in the fridge. These seasonal joys disappear in a flash: these long days of sunshine, these evenings spent outside under the stars. Although its been a great, successful summer already, I can't help reminding myself to stop and really attend to the details of these pleasures, for so quickly they will be gone.

Actually, this year our summer ends in one last hurrah. Matt has a gig in Italy the first week of August. I love saying that: Matt has a gig in Italy....He is helping to prepare a choir for a festival taking place there, and so the end of July has us heading to Rome, to the eastern coast just above the boot heel, and then to Florence for a whirlwind two and a half week trip. I have no duties while in Italy, and plan to spend my time wandering from café to café drinking cappuccinos and wine and looking at art. I can't wait.

Riding home recently from picking up our weekly box of produce from Los Poblanos, our farmers co-op, I was pedaling along slowly with two bags of vegetables and fruit when from behind me came a guy on another bike. "Carrying beets?" he asked as he eyed my baskets. "Now that's a Nob Hill pick-up line if I have ever heard one," said Lora when I reported the incident. "Only here would you have that kind of encounter with a stranger." It's true; I forget how unusual my little neighborhood is. Here it isn't that startling to not have a working television (indeed it has recently come to my attention that I have a huge percentage of students who have televisions but no cable, basically indicating there is little to no TV-watching taking place in many of my students' households. Maybe this is why these families and I are such kindred spirits.). Recently I went up to our neighborhood Flying Star to spend a much needed hour with a pen and a stack of blank paper. I was at the counter ordering iced tea when I realized that in switching bags I had left my wallet at home. "Never mind," I said, "I forgot my wallet. Let me run home and get it." "You only want iced tea?" the girl behind the counter asked, "Don't worry about it. Here you go," she said and handed me a complimentary glass. "We'll catch you next time." Later, sitting in a booth by the window, I overheard two guys talking behind me, "How many cow bells do you have?" one asked the other. How many cow bells do you have? I almost laughed out loud. Only here would this conversation even be somewhat normal.

After all, dressing a bird hardly seems strange on our eclectic streets. Indeed, at this moment, around the corner sits a funny-looking creature, dressed up like a groom, patiently waiting for his roadrunner bride.