“How do you memorize the music that choir directors throw your way even though you’re blind?” many people have asked me with awe in their voices.

I never quite know how to answer questions like these, as I don’t think what I do is particularly awe-inspiring or interesting. I usually try to deflect the question with humor while promising to write about it in a future blog post.

So how do I remember all that music?

When I started singing in choirs nearly 45 years ago, choral music in braille didn’t exist, so I had to learn everything by ear. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to sing, but I did want to play drums in the marching band. As the adults in charge thought I might be able to sing, but definitely couldn’t march, my best shot to be accepted in the band was to do well in the choir since the same man conducted both groups.

But learning the music was not all that hard because, thanks to my mother, I had been exposed to music of varying styles through recordings. I also took piano lessons, which, because of the quirks of braille music notation, forced me to learn about the structure of intervals and chords. I had to memorize everything I played, since my hands couldn’t be in two places at once. Playing the drums also sharpened my ability to connect rhythms with music styles. So memorizing one choral line, even without braille music, was simple, almost relaxing.

In high school, my involvement with the marching band, pickup rock groups, church music ensembles, and Broadway pit orchestras sharpened my music intelligence. Along the way, I worked with several terrific musicians who took time to mentor me. As I moved into college and young adulthood, composing music became an increasingly important part of my life.

Today, when confronted with a new piece of music, my first goal is to determine the style in which it is written. Baroque? Classical? Romantic? Jazz? Contemporary classical? Americana? Top forty? World music? Gospel? Modal? Something else?

“Oh, it’s one of those,” I catch myself saying once the style becomes clear. Then I can predict with some certainty the way my choral part (bass) will connect with the harmony and the structure of the piece based on my prior experience. Of course, I make many mistakes at the beginning, but being wrong gets my attention, and over time, I’m more likely to get it right.

Like skilled cyclists, skateboarders, and race car drivers, I’ve learned how to benefit from the energy that comes from being the proper distance from something that’s more powerful. Sitting or standing next to a stronger singer not only speeds up the learning process, but also prepares me for a conductor’s cue that I can’t see. Never underestimate the value of an intake of air.

Then, there’s the Lewin effect.

Kurt Lewin, one of the founders of social psychology, was famous for conducting “experiments on the fly”, which he later called action research. According to one of my mentors, one of these “experiments” took place at an outdoor cafe where Mr. Lewin hung out with a group of his students. A server would take coffee-pastry orders without writing anything down — and give each person what he or she asked for.

Every time.

One day, immediately after the waiter had flawlessly completed another complicated order, Kurt offered the waiter a large amount of money if he could remember what each person had ordered — without looking, of course.

And the waiter couldn’t do it.

The same is true for me. Usually, several days after a performance, the music I’ve “memorized” recedes into a cranny of my brain. Like the waiter, I need to clear some space in order to fill it with something new.

So, it’s all about that pattern recognition, being a good follower, and clearing some mental space after a performance in order to start again.

I never thought that forgetting might be a critical part of remembering.

It must be one of those …