Wondering how long and how often everyone practices their particular instrument? I try for 30 to 60 minutes a day, concentrating on pieces I’m currently learning and playing things I really enjoy. I probably should devote more time to scales and appeggios etc. I like to change things up so I don’t get bored and if I don’t really like something I find it’s best to leave it for someone else to enjoy.

One of the biggest breakthroughs I've had as a musician is realising that the notes themselves don't judge me. They never have. A note isn't born carrying the labels right, wrong, good or bad. Those labels come from us. Every note is simply information. It tells us where our attention was in that moment. Nothing more. The challenge is that our minds often attach a story to what we've just played. "I always mess that part up." "I'm not improving." "That sounded terrible." Then something interesting happens. Instead of listening to the music... ...we start listening to the story. Have you ever noticed that you can play an entire piece beautifully, yet spend the rest of the day thinking about the one note that wasn't exactly how you wanted it? Did the audience notice? Maybe. Maybe not. But your mind certainly did. It had already decided what it wanted to find. This is one of the reasons I love the Easy Key. It reminds me that music is built on relationships, not judgement. Every note belongs somewhere. Every note teaches us something. When we stop labelling notes as successes or failures, we create space to actually hear what's happening instead of what we expect to happen. That one shift changes everything. Today's Reflection I'd like you to try a simple experiment this week. Record yourself playing a piece you've been practising. Then don't listen to it. Leave it for at least two days. When you come back, watch or listen to the recording as though you're hearing a complete stranger. Your job isn't to prove that you're a great musician. Nor is it to prove that you're a bad one. Your only task is to notice. Listen with fresh ears. Notice the moments you genuinely enjoy. Notice the moments your mind immediately begins criticising. Then ask yourself one simple question: "Am I listening to the music... or am I listening to my thoughts about the music?" You may discover that the criticism begins before you've even had time to hear what you've played. You may notice the same familiar thoughts appearing every time you listen.

One of the biggest breakthroughs in music comes when we realise we don’t always hear what is actually happening. We hear what we expect to hear. A wrong note appears and the mind instantly says, “I’m hopeless.” A teacher offers feedback and the mind says, “I’m being judged.” But is that what really happened? Or is it simply an old story being replayed? Music has taught me that every practice session is an opportunity to listen with fresh ears. Instead of asking, “How did I mess that up?” Try asking: “What am I actually hearing?” That small shift changes everything. When we become curious instead of certain, we stop reacting to the stories in our mind and start responding to the music itself. The more we practise listening without judgment, the more clearly we hear—not just our music, but ourselves. 🎵 Reflection: During your next practice session, notice how quickly your mind labels what you’re playing. Then gently ask yourself: “Am I hearing what’s actually there, or am I hearing an old story?” You might be surprised by the answer.

Have you ever noticed how quickly the mind creates a story? You play one wrong note and, before the sound has even faded, the mind says: “I’m terrible.” “I always do this.” “Everyone’s better than me.” The note lasted a fraction of a second. The story can last all day. One of the greatest lessons music continues to teach me is that not every thought deserves to be believed. The mind is always commenting, comparing, judging and predicting. It assumes every thought it produces must be important. But what if most of those thoughts are simply old habits repeating themselves? The Easy Key has taught me something beautiful. A note is simply a note. It has a relationship to the notes around it, but it doesn’t carry shame, success, failure or embarrassment. We add those meanings. Something I often say is: Every thought is a command unless we question it. Notice what happens after a mistake. Does your face immediately tighten? Do your shoulders tense? Does your body obey the thought before you’ve even had a chance to choose? Music gives us an opportunity to interrupt that automatic reaction. The next time a discouraging thought appears while you’re practising, don’t fight it. Simply notice it. Then ask yourself: “Is this thought actually true, or is it just another old habit passing through?” You don’t have to force yourself to think positively. You only need to stop assuming every thought deserves your attention. As you practise this, something begins to soften. The commentary becomes quieter. The body relaxes. Your attention returns to the music instead of the story. Perhaps that’s where real learning begins—not when the mind finally becomes silent, but when you realise you no longer have to follow every thought it produces. Music really is medicine.