If anything is for certain, every note played matters. We as a family of musicians, we play as we see, we play as we hear, we play as we feel. Each pitch comes out slightly different from the last, making each note distinct; some could even say, memorable. But is it the precision of the play, the pieces we choose to learn, the time spent learning, is this what counts? What if there is something so much more to becoming the next Mozart, Bach, Debussy, or Chopin? What if it is the music of one’s heart that carries the golden melody?
So many musicians spend hours upon hours, slaving at their instruments, perfecting every note, and crafting it to where it is flawless in their sight. Backs start to ache, breathing starts to get heavier and quicker, and limbs start to naturally wear out. Millions mistake the time one puts into the craft as the one and only key to their success; however, the reality of the situation differs. Legends do not come to be as a result of their perfection, but instead because of their determination to arrive at their desired destination. This message, although hard to hear for many, is crucial to any musician’s journey. In fact, crucial might not be a strong enough word to describe it; maybe swapping it with vital will do the trick.
For a true Mozart, the music stand, piano bench, or even the orchestral pit will always be the place that is returned to, even after suffering through hardship. Although there will come to pass, moments when one wants nothing more than to throw in the towel, the only way to fully unlock the inner icon is to return to the bench continually, consistently, and compassionately. Actually, scratch that last part, compassion may not always be possible. In fact, it may not even be the best option. Sometimes, as musicians, it is our job to pour our truest selves into the music, infusing every note with a feeling that clings to another’s heart like an unbreakable clasp. It is through this vulnerability, this passion that one will finally start to love, even cherish the music they create once more, especially post-trauma.
But even after returning, what is there left to the music? Is there anything more to perfect? Anything more to change? Quite possibly, the answer could be no. This leaves one at a crossroads. Is it time to let go? Is it finally time to move on? How does one possibly discover the answer to this question? Believe it or not, there is no right, nor wrong answer. Or perhaps, there is no answer at all. Some questions are meant to be unanswered, pondered. But this question here has but one way to find out.
There comes a point in time when the music is no longer just notes on a page. No longer is the music black ink on a white canvas, nor pitches picked up by the body. No, the music is felt, but even more importantly, it becomes etched into your DNA. It becomes your weapon, your soul, your mind. It invades every vessel, every artery, every cavity. Alas, the music cannot be contained any longer. At this point, when one turns into a beacon of purely music, one will finally know when it is time to turn the page.
And at last, the notes can peacefully fade, all the while in utter completion.