A colleague asked me what would be the right instrument on which to start a six-year-old. My first (unspoken) reaction: Six is already late.

A revealing conversation ensued in which it became clear that we were talking about music defined two completely different ways--again, like the windows seen from the outside, or the inside.

I told her of my young son who began by drumming under the piano as I practiced. She was horrified at the prospect of the disturbing sound of the drum and insisted that he was a "special child." I assured her that he was always together with me; he never disturbed a thing. And he has always had impeccable phrasing and timing.

Her definition is music as something one does. For me music is something one hears. Invited into an act of shared hearing every child unless neurologically damaged will want to participate, not disturb. Inviting in starts the day the baby is born.

The difference between white key and black key sonority on the piano is striking to a child. It is perhaps one of the reasons why children balk at reading music in the flat keys. I decided to test that proposition the other day by having a child read and react to, one sound at a time, a Haydn minuet in E-flat.

Her responses to the specific voicing of intervals, position of black in relation to white keys, registral placement on the piano -- all revealed extremely vivid ear-pure response.

I asked her if the sounds bothered her when she heard me play. "No," she replied, "because you know what is coming next."

Incidentally, the strategy was to begin not at the beginning but at a cadence. Reading "backward" from the cadence -- i.e., approaching it from increasing distances -- clarified a context in which all kinds of dissonance became meaningful. She ended up playing the whole thing at first sitting, by her choice, though it was not at all a simple piece.

I take this as a clear demonstration of why I do not teach major keys as if they are interchangeable: they are not!

It is one thing to protest against a tyrannical political situation. How does one protest meaningfully against an accepted canon of knowledge which does not correspond to perceived experience?

Traditionally one takes one's case to painting, to tone, to something--anything--non-verbal or if verbal, poetic or fictional.

The evidence for such protest is, of course, anecdotal. But one has to examine the source: what is the level of experience behind the protest? Doesn't that carry some weight? Or do we have to wait 150 years to recognize the validity of the finding?

A book that treats this phenomenon bears the unlikely title "Proust was a Neuro-Scientist." Though I disagree with some of its presentations, the point is well-taken. Those who demand proof are often 150 years behind those who detected the phenomenon by experience and found a way to convey their experience, though it went unrecognized for the intervening 150 years.

Even a casual reader of The New York Times cannot help but notice that hardly a day goes by when the results of some study or another are cited as convincing proof that .... Reading carefully one runs across the word "anecdotal" in contrast to these scientifically controlled tests.

Then there are the obituaries. In today's paper is the compelling story of Arnall Patz, a doctor who observed a possible link between the high levels of oxygen delivered to premature babies and blindness, and who took it upon himself (together with a pediatrician colleague) to test the possible connection "[d]espite a lack of training in research and grant support."

The obit goes on: "At the age of 78 he went back... to earn a master of liberal arts degree....In one term paper he explored how Beethoven's progressive deafness affected his music."

Clearly an observant man, interested in exceptions to the rule and unafraid to be himself an exception.

Yesterday I heard a beautiful presentation on the subject of stained glass window restoration in which process the windows are photographed both from the outside and from the inside. I thought how like music that is.

Most of our culture defines music as seen from the outside; a better working definition would surely be from the inside.

If you asked me to define music I wouldn't know where to start. But I notice that there a kind of barrier implied in the word. People either consider themselves insiders or outsiders. Over and over again I hear people say they cannot sing or that they can no longer sing, or something like that. They defer to those who have developed skills in music.

As much as I always wanted to feel real competence as a musician I was not willing to give up that other aspect of music, which is the sheer fun of making a joyful noise together with others. It gets people all confused: how can one have it both ways?

The answer sounds simple but is not really simple at all: By listening for the intent behind the effort. Skill is not very interesting all by itself. It is not easy to listen that way. I compare it to going for a walk with either a very young or a very old person: you must forget for the moment that you know how to walk.

Beginning next week I will present a series of three informal afternoons at the piano, in what will be more performance art events than recitals. The idea is to stimulate audience awareness of the piano as a young peoples' invention -- which it would have been had it been invented after, rather than before the Industrial Revolution.

The focus of these events will be the ear, as it always should be in a performance of music, but all too often isn't. The ear is fast--really fast. But because we live in a culture of too much sound, a lot of our ear-energy is spent tuning out rather than tuning in. Being tuned in means being rapt in the aura of sound that makes every one as magic as the tinkling of a bell or of the triangle in the orchestra.

If you are interested in more information please get in touch via email: nancygarniez@tonalrefraction.com. It would be great to see you there.