Those who do . . .

The old saying, "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach" has always bothered me. It suggests many things that are simply wrong to me. For example, I know that I wouldn't be able to teach anyone anything that I don't know how to do. And I find it immoral to teach anyone something that I am unable to do myself. If it is something that I know can be done, I would send that person elsewhere to learn how.

It occured to me the other day, while talking with a friend, that there should be a category for "those who do." Some of us get joy from doing things, regardless of the outcome. But when that task (project, piece, work of art) is finished the joy of doing soon fades. Giving it to somebody who can enjoy the spoils of doing (an object, a piece of music, a meal, a recording, a household task, etc.-- even a blog post) allows that joy to remain alive, for a time. The goal of creating something that will have a life of its own once it leaves my "care" inspires me to make "it" the best it can be, so it doesn't disappoint (or annoy for its incompleteness or its weaknesses), and inspires me to continue to do.

I once (it was thirty years ago!) met a young composer who told me that he prefers to "have written" than to "write." This was before I started writing music. Once I started writing I realized that I prefer to "write" than to "have written," though occasionally when I hear an expressive performance of something that I have written I feel proud to have played a part in the larger flow of music, and am glad that I put the pitches in the right places, and was able to notate the rhythms and dynamics in such a way that they present possibilities for another human being to engage in the musical lines in a meaningful way.

There is also a joy of doing without having a notated or concrete object to define the end (or doneness) of that doing. When I practice I enjoy the act of practicing. I enjoy the way it engages my mind and my body, and I enjoy the way it makes the next day's practice more enjoyable. I also enjoy the way it makes the "nowness" of a musical experience with others more connected; more about the music itself and less about my ability to play it.

The physical developments remain (as long as they are kept up) but the experience of practicing fades into the realm of memory. I can embrace that memory of a previous "doing" as I try to replicate or echo the value of the experience at another time. 

I suppose it works when reflecting on the "doing" of people who are no longer alive too. People who have left us the options for musical experiences in notated music, experiences with language in all forms of language, or experiences of the visual in pieces of art. Also all the people involved in preserving images on film and sound on recordings. We cannot forget the people who have left us genes and childhood memories, and the people who left us houses, buildings, and streets. And parks.

I know. Memories of my recent reading experiences are showing. Sometimes people we don't know (never would have known) and don't particularly like put their best selves in (worthwhile) things that they left behind. Also, the joy of reading allows us the joy of re-reading. And the joy of discovery of connections between the things we read and the world (literary, artistic, and otherwise) at large is itself a kind of doing.

Now I find myself thinking about a post I wrote this past August about eternity and now, and the joy that it brings me to be able to sit down and write a blogpost to share with you (whoever you are and whenever you read this) on this very quiet and snowy day, before I think about what I want to have for lunch.