Hopes and Dreams
If you want to live, and I mean really live, go to a piano recital in support of kids who aren’t your own.
One, you have no real skin in the game. Two, because of that, you’re able to pay attention to things you might otherwise not notice when worrying about your own child’s performance: forgotten music (there was some of that), hairstyle, unmatched socks, memory lapses, or any of the other things that would distract you. One student refused to take the stage at all; that was a new one to me.
Humanity, revealed… in all its glory and challenges. Hope and dreams. Some realized, others crushed.
For instance, I watched one father for the majority of the time. He was in it. I mean really IN IT. His head would nod along to the beat on just about every piece, a big smile on his face, clearly enjoying being there in support of the studio and wishing for all of the kids’ wellbeing.
But then something happened: his own child made her way to the stage.
His face grew acutely attentive, with something of a slight worry beginning to show up. His eyes followed her up the stairs. She bowed, and the look of anxiety grew. While she played, there was no head nodding, only laser focus on his child. I imagined his insides tied in complete knots.
She was not perfect, but it was a good performance. Solid, with every reason to be proud. It took maybe two minutes.
When she finished, the look of relief that washed over him was palpable. His smile returned, brighter than before. And he clapped like there was no tomorrow.
He’d lived a month of worry in those two minutes.
I’m still fascinated by what I witnessed Saturday afternoon. What that father experienced—that sudden shift from happy cheerleader to anxious worrier—it’s proof of a deep, human connection. I watched it in real time. He was so intimately invested in her outcome that it became his own.
I’ve been that father. I once hugged a crying little girl after a particularly crushing performance. I ached and teared up with her. It’s one of the rawest moments of my adult life. I also remember being the student who had teachers and parents invested in me, showing up with that same kind of attentive focus.
Life! Messy, hopes-and-dreams, beautiful life.
I think there’s an important lesson here.
When we’re connected and invested in someone, we can’t protect ourselves from their outcomes anymore. In a way, their success becomes our success. Their disappointment becomes ours. We become vulnerable in ways we didn’t necessarily choose and can’t control. How terrifying is that.
Some people would call that too much. Too risky. Why would you want to feel that exposed?
But that’s backwards.
Personally, my view is that music and creativity are connections to the divine. You might have other persuasions, but it’s worth asking yourself: why do sound waves and expression move us the way they do?
For obvious reasons, I think about this a lot. Scales, technique, and achievement are important, and we certainly aspire to that here at Pakachoag. We want to call students toward discipline, rigor, and excellence. But I also think that there are many different definitions of “excellent.”
Excellence could mean a couple of steps of courage for a shy child. It could mean increased creativity for the science and math kid. It could mean reconnecting with a dormant love of music in the young adult. It could mean picking up a new creative outlet for the senior citizen. I once knew a woman who picked up the cello in her 80s. It’s one of my favorite stories of my professional life.
But underneath all of this, underneath technique and discipline and different kinds of excellence, there’s something else happening.
Hope.
These students, these families, and these supporters are part of something bigger than themselves. When a student steps on stage, they carry with them the people invested in their lives. And for every family member, teacher, and friend in that audience, we’re along for the ride. Bumps, crashes, and all.
So when you ask yourself, “Is it really worth it?”—the time, the driving, the expense, the practice sessions, the uncertainty—I think of that father. I think of the little girl I hugged in a quiet hallway. I think of his two-minute roller coaster of hope and fear and relief.
And it’s easy: yes.
There’s no guarantee of success, whatever that means. Performances may or may not be perfect. But what you get is something that can’t and won’t be forgotten: a moment of living, really living.
To be vulnerable like that dad isn’t weak. It’s evidence that you’re connected to something that matters, that you care deeply enough to hope, come what may.
That’s worth it.
Note by note,
Nick
