VIII
Practice is also a process of unfolding stages in which the practising connects the practicer with their practise. This apprentice becomes connected to the craft they practise, and begins to acquire craftsmanship. Craftsmanship, in its turn, leads to the mastery of practise. This stage, the completion of craftsmanship and the beginning of mastery, occurs when the craftsman attempts to pass on to others their own practise. The craftsman only has what is theirs to give away: the quality of experience and experiencing within their presence, drawn upon, clarified, and presented in a coherent form accessible to others. The refinement and absorption of experience, and then the giving-it-away, is a necessary final step in the process of practice. If the craftsman is able to transmit the essential quality of their way of craft, the practise of the craft becomes a part of the craftsman, and the craftsman becomes a part of the craft. Then, the craftsman acts as a representative of their craft.
The process of acquiring maturity, whether in craft or in life, is bound necessarily and inevitably by the tempo of that process. We are distracted by the increasing tempo of the changes in our culture and surroundings, and forget that the duration of an organic process is determined by the necessary time inherent in that particular process. However, the length of time spent learning a subject decreases with the number of people working at it. Artists do not grow at the speed of craftsmen: craftsmen do not grow at the speed of labourers. But, the quality of the labourer’s work will help the craftsman, and the quality of the craftsman’s work will support the artist. The quality of the artist’s work will lead the craftsman, and the quality of the craftsman’s work will attract the labourer. In process, the work of one will help the work of all.
The stages of a process may be divided into three: the beginning, the middle, and the end. Each of these three stages has three stages: the beginning, the middle, and the end.
The true beginning, the origination, of a process is invisible. When we are underway and look back to discover our beginning, it eludes us. Our beginning moves farther from us the more we seize upon it. At the middle of the beginning, we make demands upon our surroundings: we feel we are deserving by virtue of our talents, or have rights owed to us by society and this situation in which we find ourselves. We demand a certain kind of attention from our environment, and fail to make a certain kind of demand of ourselves. If society never pays its expected debts to us, we remain at this stage. We remain at the beginning, although without the innocence characteristic of a true beginning. This is immaturity. Our legitimate concerns at this stage are with what we do and the quality of our functioning. The quality of our beginning establishes the momentum of the process and largely determines its character. If we begin well, this carries us to the mid-point of the process. The key to this stage is obedience to our instructor.
There is a tradition that at the beginning of a performance, the leader of a group calls on the Muse. This is a direct appeal to the creative level for help, in the recognition that nothing of value can come fromthe musician, but something of value can come to the musician. It is the musician’s responsibility to be prepared for this moment, and the leader’s responsibility to establish a good beginning.
The beginning of the middle is where we address our capacity to make personal efforts. We make demands upon ourselves, rather than upon our environment.
The middle of the middle is where enthusiasm runs out and our commitment is tested. This is the Great Divide: we are too far from the beginning to go back, too far from the end to go forward; too tired to do anything, too exposed to do nothing; we have no interest in our aim, if we can recall it. This is an inevitable part of any process and where it is most likely to go off-course or break down. This is the point of maximum hazard. If the process is to remain true to itself, we must make an intentional effort to remain within the process. This is a measure of our commitment to the aim. Inevitably we will lose interest in our practice. This is in the process of practising. The Guitar Craft aphorism is this:
When you’re tired, you’ve had enough, and can’t do anything—do nothing.
And while you’re doing nothing, practise.
To continue is an irrevocable act, regardless of where it may take us. In the process of craft, the commitment to continue is where we undertake apprenticeship. Here we refine our competence within our craft and set ourselves to work from our own initiative, regardless of personal likes and dislikes, in response to necessity. If we complete this refinement, the end of the middle becomes the beginning of the end. The key to this stage is obedience to ourselves.
The final stage in a process is where our concern is with the quality of our endeavour. Work of quality goes farther than the individual, and so we address the demands of the world outside ourselves. What does the world demand of me? What is necessary for me to discharge my obligations? In the process of craft, one presents one’s competence to the world. Where the craft is necessary, and the competence sufficient, the world will recognise us. A characteristic of this stage is recognition by the world, and a measure of success. This stage is the middle of the end. The end of the end may be a finish, an end, or a completion. If we deceive ourselves and believe the acknowledgement given to us by the world is a reflection of personal merit, this is a finish for ourselves and this particular process of our craft. If we abandon the call of personal success and acknowledgement, recognising that the music makes the musician, we achieve the status of craftsman in the process of music. This is an honourable status. Some choose to maintain the world by remaining here. For others, the abandonment is a completion: the abandonment is complete, and without reservation, to the directing of the craft. One enters the service of the craft, wherever it may lead and whatever it may demand of us. This is the beginning of the beginning of mastery of music. The key to this third stage is obedience to necessity.
Suffering is an inevitable part of a process. Some suffering is unnecessary, some necessary. The rule of necessary suffering is: suffer cheerfully. If our suffering is of quality, it will never be apparent to others. The nature of the necessary suffering changes with the stages, and to move through the process of practising we accept this necessary suffering voluntarily. The first stage of suffering is in the recognition of our inept functioning: how badly we play our guitars. The second stage of suffering is in the recognition of how little we can work from our own initiative. The third stage of suffering is in recognition of who we are: unpleasant, selfish, unkind, smiling winningly beneath a veneer of manners, breeding, and politeness. Until we are able to accept this poverty of being without excuse and without criticism, we are unable to forgive ourselves. When we forgive ourselves, without recrimination, we forgive others. When we abandon criticism of ourselves, we abandon the criticism of others. In this clear perception of the helplessness and wretchedness of myself and others—in its acceptance of myself and others—I am able to accept music. But, although forgiven and forgiving, I inherit the repercussion of my errors.
In the first stage we discover that, although the musculature of the hands is not developed, this is not where the problem lies: we have no contact with the fingers of the left hand, no sense of the right wrist, little awareness of what it means to live inside our bodies. Then, we work too hard: an enormous amount of effort goes into facial grimaces, twitching lips, forcing fingers onto strings by extravagant gestures of the arm and even of the legs. In the belief that skill follows effort, we exert ourselves heroically. In the belief that results follow more speedily by speeding, we rush. A little experience, and we slow down, accepting the tempo of the process of which we are now a part. We abandon the force of our endeavour, recognising it brings violence to our activity. We are now at the second stage.
In the second stage we learn enthusiasm is not enough. Necessary efforts are sufficient, perhaps even graceful, but not so exciting and certainly not as interesting as the unnecessary. Without interest we are unable to continue; without being told what to do, what can I do? We discover our limits, how much we can ask of ourselves, the degree of our resolve, whether this practice is real for us or just an imaginary notion, and we practise commitment.
In the third stage we learn that all we have is what we can give away. This may be worldly success, experience, our expectations, and ambitions. Letting go of what we have wanted for ourselves is a remarkable freedom. Strangely, the letting go creates a condition which permits the return of what we had hoped for, but in a different way, and a way we could not have anticipated. This letting go of what we have acquired is the completion of our process, and a completion is a new beginning.
