post script
May 10, 2016 § 2 Comments
It’s over. Your solo is done. I’m still holding tightly to the memory of your performance and the exuberant message you sent me just moments after your evaluation.
I did AWESOME! I made a couple of mistakes, but otherwise I was amazing!
This day was not easy, nor was your performance perfect. There were hours of dreaded anticipation and moments of panicked uncertainty. I may have wished you an easy performance, but your mistakes were glorious for your stubborn resilience and tender courage.
You walked in to your test withdrawn, hunched over your fear like it was holding your place when your accompanist directed you to lead. Swinging your body toward the sound of his kindness, you tapped your beloved boots to tempo as you raised your instrument to a smile.
Audacious and fiercely genuine, it was a glimpse of the girl I know at her most comfortable in her least comfortable setting. Then I heard the sharp squeak of a single note scrapping out of place.
It seemed traitorous that this lost artifact of early practices would betray you just as you had relaxed your guard. I wanted to push myself through the monitor and tell the man observing you that only yesterday you were home sick, unable to breathe and exhausted; to will you a second chance at a truer performance of ability.
You, however, didn’t falter.
One deep breath as your eyes kept place and you were back. No tears or apology, no excuses or awkward explanations. It was better than if you had played without error.
I did AWESOME! I made a couple of mistakes, but otherwise I was amazing!
And so you did, you were, you are.
Love, Mom
to my daughter
May 9, 2016 § 8 Comments
This afternoon you came to me in tears, asking for permission to quit band. Your posture was folded over in defeat, your voice resonated with remorse.
I couldn’t rectify the shape of your request with the form of your eagerness this past fall. The way you would lean your torso toward the marching band, rolling down the car window in passing to let the notes drift on cool currents that chased after us as we turned the corner toward school.
You had begun to find a place for your future self in these fleeting glimpses of tall hats and sharp steps.
Looking over my shoulder, I could still see last year’s struggle in this year’s commitment. Weekend practices to supplement lost class time after an extended illness; you had been working to catch up when you fell in love with the rewards of your effort.
Then, this year, band was a familiar family of strangers as you settled into a new school. I was thinking these thoughts quietly as you waited for my answer.
In those short minutes, I wanted to muscle past whatever moment had undone your joy, to order you over the obstacle or help you see your way through. Except, you’ve always been as stubborn as you are sensitive and I was afraid I might chase you further from the truth.
So, I quit – first. I outlined your options and itemized the practicalities. It was only after I mentioned we would need to change your registration paperwork to accommodate choir as the foregone alternative to band that I saw the same fear that had driven you to quit.
Only then did I understand you were terrified of tomorrow’s solo. Standing alone. Judged.
The girl who worked comfortably in the artistic details of her class play wanted no part of center stage.
It was tempting to give you safe harbor, but the truth is our fears have a habit of reappearing in new challenges until we move past that horrible place where our knees knock and our voice wavers. Until we shine a light into the darkest corners of ourself and look lovingly on those imperfect images of self.
You confessed you were afraid you might be awful.
So we joked until you were ready to work. Then, you practiced until giving up something you enjoy to avoid something you fear no longer made sense.
Tonight you are still, palpably terrified. I can sense the closed throat and loose fingers clutching numbly at false bravado even as we set aside your clothes for tomorrow and you settle your clarinet into its case.
Even if you are awful, completely and utterly horrible, this time tomorrow the worst will have come and gone leaving only the joy that was there before fear.
I’ll be waiting on your stories.
Love, Mom
scribblechic 