Cindy is a gem among my young flute students. When I return from vacation, while the other children barely remember I was away, Cindy asks, "Where did you go? Did you have a good time?" before her foot hits the bottom step to come up to my second-floor studio. She often inquires, "What did you do today besides teach?" If I wear a new dress or hang a new painting, Cindy notices instantly. After her lesson, she passes my husband in the kitchen and asks what he's cooking. I tell her that for a 10-year-old, she is particularly aware of her surroundings and that I think that's good. "Our school teacher tells us to be observant," she says solemnly.

Cindy loves playing the flute and gets good support from her family. She keeps me well informed about which songs in her repertoire her father likes best, and which are her mother's favorites. She works hard on her music, repeating assignments many times without protest.

Cindy is a bright, enthusiastic, loving, responsive child. And, of all my students, she is by far the slowest learner. After two years of weekly lessons, she has completed only twenty pages in the first method book, while most young students are into the next book. She has learned a few solos, simpler pieces than are mastered by my seven- and eight-year-olds. During the first year, she learned only one or two new lines of music a week, and now she handles five or six. She understands the rhythms, taps her foot correctly, and remembers her fingerings (most of the time). She simply can't progress faster, but her love of the flute and her enthusiasm for making music are as deep as in anyone I've ever known.

I am the teacher and Cindy is the student, but she is my teacher, as well. She is my professor of patience, my mentor for making music in the present moment, my reminder that there is no race to be won, no goal to complete, no deadline to meet. She helps me slow down.