Monday night the nephews, George and Whit, had a recital for the piano lessons they’ve been taking. Both have been too embarrassed to let me hear them practice at home, so I was looking forward to hearing them play. Naturally, I think they’re musical geniuses.
Whit did not want to be there. I was afraid to make too much eye contact with him, lest he flee. He gets embarrassed easily and in his defense, there were a lot of people there to watch their kids preform. Last week George had his tonsils and adenoids removed and isn’t feeling the greatest. But both of them played fantastically and I could not be more proud of them — but let’s be honest, I would be proud of them no matter what.
Watching them play reminded me of when I first started taking orchestra. Like Whit, I didn’t want anyone to hear me practice or watch me play. That never really went away. Like a majority of the kids at the recital, I made some mistakes — couldn’t keep time, lost my place, hit wrong notes, skipped notes and sometimes forgot to breathe. But I noticed something watching my nephews; that I didn’t care what mistakes they made, I didn’t even notice them. The pride and love I felt for them overshadowed everything else. I made sure to tell them both how incredibly proud I was of them and how wonderfully they played.
I started playing in the sixth grade, at 11-years-old. I wanted to play violin or cello, but ended up playing viola instead. We had too many violin players and I did not want to lug a cello on and off the bus. My first ISSMA Solo and Ensemble event I played a variation of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” I was a nervous wreck, but I played and despite whatever mistakes I made, I was given a first. And I repeated the torture for the next five years. And every year, no matter how unhappy I was with my performance (which is ridiculous, looking back now, because I only ever got second place one time), my mother, grandparents and Aunt Treva told me how proud they were of me every time. I’m pretty sure I could have butchered every note and they still would have been proud of me — which is exactly how I feel about the boys.
Yes, I definitely remember how scared I was to play in front of people. As well as how much I hated making mistakes (still do). That said, there are plenty of other lessons I retained while learning how to play an instrument.
If you make a mistake, keep going. Sure, if it was a big one, someone probably noticed, but you’ll only make it more obvious if you get caught up in it. Keep playing no matter what and eventually, you won’t make that mistake again. Hyper focus on it and it will ruin the better parts of your performance, or distract you so much you’ll make another mistake.
It doesn’t matter if you’re playing louder than everyone else if you’re playing wrong. No one likes to be loud and wrong. It’s important that you know when to lead and when to follow. Practice does indeed make perfect, but it’s okay to take breaks. A stressed-out mind and body are no good to anyone and will open the door for mistakes. Stress will also suck the fun out of everything and eventually you’ll stop doing what you love.
Sometimes you’ll lose your place on the page. There are a lot of notes you need to hit at the right moment. Maybe you got hung up on a mistake and forgot where you were. Keep playing until you find your place. No one will notice unless you stop playing. Speaking of losing your place, don’t look too far ahead or you’ll lose where you’re at now. A little glance at a few future notes is crucial, but if you let yourself look too far ahead you’ll get lost.
And remember, the people that love you are proud of you no matter what.
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