Finding Your Voice
I’ve never really thought of myself as a teacher.
When I think about what I have to contribute to the world, I usually think about creating. I think about songs, records, ideas, and the things I’m trying to say through them. I don’t generally wake up in the morning thinking, “Today, my goal is to teach.”
But something happens when I’m actually doing it.
The closest comparison I can think of is surfing. There’s a wave. There’s a board. There’s you. Taken separately, they’re simply the parts. But every once in a while they come together and become something greater than the sum of the parts. You enter this strange state of flow where it feels almost spiritual. For a moment, it feels like you’re touching the divine.
Strangely, I’ve experienced something similar while teaching.
In the class, we may be talking about how to compress a kick drum, arrange a string part, find the right sound, or make a chorus work. But this is only the beginning. There’s a kind of dance between developing the craft and discovering what it is you actually want to say. The technical side gives us the ability to shape an idea, but the choices we make with those tools are inseparable from who we are, what moves us, and how we experience the world. As those two things begin to develop together, the music becomes more distinctly our own.
A song gives you a way into the person who made it.
I think most artists spend a lot of time trying to get better. We want to write a better song, make a better record, become a better musician. There’s real value in that pursuit. But there’s another realization that can begin to grow alongside it: your contribution to the world isn’t only determined by the quality of what you can make. It also has something to do with the preciousness and uniqueness of who you are.
Your history. Your sensitivities. Your strange instincts. The things that move you that don’t seem to move anyone else. Your wounds, your sense of beauty, the particular way you experience the world.
This is your voice.
When someone, whether a musician, artist, or creator, begins to recognize that there is value in who they are, something changes in the way they create.
This is one of the things I’ve come to love most about MMP. A class can become a place where some of the layers that have accumulated around an artist begin to come off: comparison, fear, perfectionism, expectations about what their music is supposed to be. I know we’ve hit the mark when someone starts to become stronger, braver, and more confident in revealing the depth of who they are through their art.
Two former MMP students recently sent me reflections about their experiences, and I was struck by how their words touched on some of the things I’ve been trying to describe.
Abbie Werner described MMP as a “creative greenhouse,” and wrote:
“I was affirmed in how my voice isn’t a problem… my vulnerability and imperfection are not a problem… but rather, my vulnerability and particularity in God’s eyes–even with all my flaws–are the most valuable gifts that I can offer others.”
Odum Abekah wrote about how the experience affected not only his craft, but the way he approaches creating:
“Getting to work with Eric in MMP was one of the greatest privileges of my life. To be able to work with someone as influential and foundational to my musical journey as Eric and Future of Forestry helped me to not only understand more of what goes into the process of modern production, but to think of creating in a way that is life-giving and sustainable.”
Life-giving and sustainable. I love that.
Maybe that’s part of what I’m experiencing in those moments when teaching suddenly feels like surfing. The craft, the music, the artist, and somehow something greater than the sum of those parts.
That’s when teaching becomes one of the most gratifying things I do.
Applications for the next MMP are open through September 21. If you’re a musician, apply below. If you know a musician who might connect with this, please pass it along!
