Note: I wrote this essay as a junior in high school. It describes a powerful formative experience.
I was vaguely aware of my racing pulse as I stood in the dim light. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I waited impatiently. Moving suddenly, my free hand found its way to the collar of my freshly pressed shirt and tugged with excited apprehension. “Too tight,” I thought, “I won’t be able to breathe.” I removed my hand from my collar, satisfied with the adjustment, and returned my attention to what I was holding—my violin. I was living a dream—playing as a guest member of a professional symphony—in a real concert hall.
The announcement to move on stage was made, and all around me people began to move hurriedly. “Good luck,” I whispered to a fellow musician. Then, with a shrug of my shoulders and a deep breath, I took an excited step towards the now crowded stage. This would be a night to remember.
The lights were intense and hot. I looked towards the auditorium and saw only a black void where I knew the audience lay in wait. As members of the orchestra began to find their seats, the sound of instruments being adjusted bombarded my ears. Hum, strum, buzz, wail, roll.
The scent of freshly applied rosin wafted through the air and mingled with those of tarnished brass and wet reed. I couldn’t help but notice that it smelled remotely like the bottom of a hamster cage. We were all seated now in soft, green, straight-backed chairs, and the atmosphere was vibrantly alive with silent anticipation. As the last shuffling of bodies died away, the concertmaster rose from his seat and motioned solemnly for the orchestra to tune. The oboe’s steady tone glided out of the silence and was soon rendered indiscernible among the many voices of the tuning instruments. Again, silence reigned, and I was conscience of my beating heart.
Half-knowingly, I felt the smooth neck of my instrument, finding comfort in the familiar contours that I knew so well. I was pushed from my reverie by the sound of applause—the conductor had already made his way to the podium, and I found myself standing in unison with those around me. He bowed graciously towards the unseen spectators then turned to face us and gestured for us to sit. His radiant eyes danced across the assembly of musicians before him, and sparks of understanding—silent communication—sizzled between us. “Let’s show ‘em what we’ve got,” his commanding visage seemed to pronounce. “Ready when you are,” our accepting faces beamed.
Our leader slowly raised his arms, and we followed suit, bringing our instruments to bear. Instantly, the conductor’s baton sliced downward, and the stage shook powerfully with our first sounding. The musty air was an empty canvas, and from our sounds he would craft a beautiful work of art.
I had found pleasure in music before, and taken that pleasure for granted. But now I was feeling something different—something new. The music swelled around me, rising then receding like a gentle ocean tide—then as violently from light to dark as a bolt of lightning in the night. Trumpets soared, shouting their brazen melodies and tympani boomed. The strings ran, and I with them, moving swiftly in perfect unison then ascending to a romantic climax, singing magnificent anthems of joy.
And I felt—no lived—every nuance of each note. For the first time, I was not simply worried about the mechanics of playing. I was exalted in the spirit of the music itself. The notes on the page in front of me were merely suggestions or instructions for finding something inside of me and setting it free. I had been lifted spiritually and nearly physically, it seemed, from that stage full of talented people. I had transcended a barrier between an earth-bound world and what surely must be heaven.
Now I look at my violin. Often it sits in an open case looking well-used and insignificant after an hour of practicing. It is the soft, deep brown of well aged spruce, and it bears numerous nicks and dings. The smooth curve of its lower rib is interrupted by a missing chip of wood lost to some unforgiving music stand in days gone by. The luster of its silver strings is all but gone, removed by my constantly traveling fingertips. Insignificant in the eyes of the thoughtless crowd? Perhaps.
Gingerly I pick it up and blow dust from under the strings. I tighten the slightly frayed bow, and the violin swings to my waiting shoulder. It sits there for a moment basking in the familiarity of my grasp while my mind wanders to distant, yet tender memories of a night years ago. An affectionate smile traverses my face.
“Thank you,” I think fondly, “for that night to remember.”