Thursday, April 23, 2026
Playing the organ may be one of the most difficult skills to hone. There are fourteen points of contact with the instrument—ten fingers, two toes, and two heels—all firing in such precise sequence that it looks “impossible” to the average mortal.
The instrument is daunting: layers of keyboards, a pedalboard, and buttons, lights, and levers everywhere. It’s a nightmare for a beginner. To top it off, watch a piece by Bach being played, hands and feet flying, and you wonder how it ever gets done.
It took me years to get the clunkiness out of my playing, and I’m not saying it’s all gone. I had to know the music, the instrument, and my body. At peak levels, all systems are in trust mode; in refined playing, conscious thought disappears. In the midst of a Bach piece, flying a mile a minute, the moment you “step in” and try to force it, the music collapses. However, in absolute trust, you can emote, respond, and enjoy. You cannot clamp, interfere, or control. If the music veers, you must come right back to the easement. Thrashing only frustrates the flow.
I’m finally learning how to apply this “built-in ease” to my life. I trust all systems because I practice being easy, even amidst outward complexity. Involuntary systems like breathing and circulation are no-brainers; now, voluntary systems, such as movement and choice, are becoming a different kind of no-brainer.
The last piece of the puzzle for me was the environment. Now, I trust it all. I don’t sweat the small stuff, and in larger, more complex moments, I maintain that same calm. If I veer, I return more quickly to the easement.
An easement is a piece of property you have the right to use, but do not own or control. The owner and controller is strangely vacant. The “controller” must vanish to live in heavenly refinement. The easement is difficult to explain, but that’s “the place to be,” not out in the complexity trying to control the traffic.