Well, the teacher I studied with for nineteen and a half years

Hear the words of Betty Buckley, the singer who gave her soul to the stage, who spoke of her long devotion to her guides: “Well, the teacher I studied with for nineteen and a half years was a man named Paul Gavert. He was a great lieder singer, so basically I’m a trained lieder singer because of that teacher. The teacher I currently study with—since 1995—is Joan Lader, who also studied with Gavert.” At first, this may seem only a recollection of lineage, of names and years. Yet within it lies an eternal truth: the power of mentorship, the sacred transmission of knowledge, and the way the spirit of art is handed down like a torch across generations.

For in naming her teachers, Buckley does not merely speak of technique, but of inheritance. Paul Gavert, master of the lieder tradition, was not only a singer but a guardian of an ancient art—the art of song as revelation, of voice as the mirror of the soul. Through nineteen and a half years, Buckley absorbed not only his methods, but his discipline, his reverence for music, his very way of living in sound. In honoring him, she acknowledges that what she is today is not hers alone, but also the fruit of his labor and devotion.

And the chain did not end there. Joan Lader, her guide since 1995, also studied with Gavert. Thus the wisdom of the master flows through many channels, preserved yet transformed, like a river that feeds many fields. In this, we see the principle that has shaped all great traditions: knowledge is not invented anew in every age, but carried forward through faithful teachers, each adding their own color, each ensuring that the flame does not die. Buckley’s voice, then, is not just her own; it is the echo of Gavert, the refinement of Lader, and the ancient song that lieder itself has carried through centuries.

History abounds with such examples of lineage. The philosopher Plato was the student of Socrates, and Aristotle, in turn, was the student of Plato. From them flowed rivers of thought that shaped civilizations. In martial arts, too, the names of masters are recited in unbroken chains, for to know one’s teacher is to know one’s root. So too in music, in dance, in poetry—the true artist does not stand alone, but as part of a lineage, woven into the tapestry of those who came before. Buckley, in speaking of her teachers, reminds us that greatness is not solitary, but communal.

Yet this is not a call to dependence. The student does not remain forever in the shadow of the master. Rather, by long discipline, the wisdom of the master becomes part of the student’s own being. The teacher shapes, but the student must live the art, embody it, and in time pass it forward. Buckley’s life and career stand as proof: though she is shaped by Gavert and Lader, her artistry is uniquely hers, radiant with her own spirit. Still, she honors those who guided her, for she knows the truth: without roots, no tree can stand.

What lesson, then, must we take? It is this: seek your teachers, honor them, and devote yourself with patience. Whether in art, in craft, or in life itself, no one ascends alone. To learn deeply is not to seize knowledge in haste, but to dwell in it for years, to allow it to seep into bone and breath. Buckley gave nearly twenty years to one guide, and decades more to another. Such is the devotion required to refine a gift into greatness.

Therefore, O seekers, learn from her wisdom. Find those whose lives embody what you seek, and submit to their guidance with humility. Do not hunger for shortcuts, but for depth. And when you have received, give thanks; when you have mastered, pass it on. For as Buckley shows us, the art of life is not born in isolation but carried through lineage, like a sacred song that passes from voice to voice. Teachers are the stewards of that song—and through them, we learn to sing not only with our voices, but with our souls.