Six Sided Practice

One of my favorite ways to practice in college was in the dark.

Literally.

I would turn off the lights in a practice room, pick up my tuba, and listen for intonation. Without sheet music or mirrors or visual distractions, all that remained was sound. I could hear when a pitch centered. I could feel when a note locked in.

That was one kind of practice.

There were others.

When I was preparing for my senior recital, I used all kinds of strategies to keep the work from becoming monotonous. I listened to recordings in my car. I invited other music students into my practice room so I could feel what changed when someone else was listening. I played uptempo pieces almost too fast so I could bring them back to performance tempo and find the pocket.

I didn’t think of it as a system at the time.

I was just trying to stay engaged while preparing a lot of music.

Years later, as I moved from tuba to ukulele, my relationship with practice changed. Tuba had trained me in a kind of rigid perfectionism. Stop. Fix. Repeat. Ukulele invited something different. More songs. More flow. More playing from beginning to end.

I learned that if I spent enough time with a song, the errors often softened on their own. Repetition moved songs from unfamiliar to comfortable, and eventually from comfortable to performance-ready.

During my 100 Days of ‘Ukulele project, most of my practice and rehearsal fell into two main categories: building new candidate songs and preparing songs to record. My spot-checking was practical and specific. Could I start the song confidently? Were the chord changes secure? Did the ending land?

Now that my focus is shifting toward live performance, my practicing has become more dynamic again.

Not because I need more discipline.

Because I need more sides.

As I paid attention, I began noticing that my practice naturally fell into different categories.

Some days I wanted to focus on fingerpicking. Some days I wanted to dust off a song that had been sitting untouched for months. Sometimes I was building a new song from scratch. Sometimes I wanted to perform an entire set. And sometimes the most important thing I could do was simply play for the joy of playing.

Although I was still playing every day, I no longer had the singular focus that the 100 Days project demanded. During the project, the question was usually obvious:

“What needs to be recorded next?”

Now the possibilities felt wider.

I wanted some of that focus back, but I didn’t want to return to rigid practice schedules or spreadsheets. I wanted enough structure to point me in a direction without deciding everything for me.

Then I remembered that a die has six sides.

My practice seemed to have six sides too.

So I bought a three-inch foam die and set it on my desk next to its key. After warming up, I roll it and let chance answer a simple question:

“What am I going to work on today?”

🎲 1 — Perform: run a set as though I’m in front of an audience

🎲 2 — Technique: strengthen the fundamentals

🎲 3 — Repertoire Rescue: revisit songs that deserve another chance

🎲 4 — Build: learn something new

🎲 5 — Create: write, arrange, or explore original ideas

🎲 6 — Joy: play because I love it

Some days the result feels perfect.

Some days it feels inconvenient.

Both are usually signs that I rolled the right side.

Rolling Joy means I scroll through my song list and play whatever sounds fun.

Maybe it’s a song with a good memory attached to it. Maybe it’s a request from a friend. Sometimes it’s a song I haven’t played in months that suddenly finds its way back into my hands.

There isn’t a goal beyond enjoyment.

No metronome.

No checklist.

No performance deadline.

Just music.

Ironically, some of my most meaningful discoveries happen on Joy days. Without pressure to improve anything, I often stumble into a new arrangement, remember a forgotten song, or reconnect with the simple reason I picked up an instrument in the first place.

Not every side of the die is about getting better.

Some sides are about remembering why getting better matters.

Some days the die tells me to perform.

Some days it tells me to build.

Some days it tells me to rescue a forgotten song.

And every once in a while, it reminds me to play for no reason at all.

The die isn’t six ways to work harder.

It’s six ways to remain a musician.