My music

I was a musician.

Was, because I'm not sure that I am anymore.

I've played the violin for the past eight years. During those eight years, I have played nearly every day. In an orchestra, by myself, with a teacher. Every day.

When college started, it stopped.

No more orchestra. No more lessons. No more practice.

For the first two weeks, I faithfully trekked across campus to seek out an unoccupied practice room in the music building. I worked over and over on the last assignments my private teacher had given me before I left. I prepared audition music in the hopes that I'd be accepted in the University's non-music majors orchestra.

But I wasn't. I didn't make the cut. They didn't take me.

For another week or so, I kept on practicing, but halfheartedly, only every other day. Then once a week. Then I stopped. I didn't feel like walking a mile in the scorching Texas heat with my heavy case slung on my shoulder, to practice a music that no one would hear, no teacher would comment on, no one would correct and improve.

I've never done music by myself. I've always had a conductor to tell me what to play in class and a private teacher to make me work solo. My musical education is severely lacking. I didn't start with the right bases, never learned to memorize a piece, never structured my practice and my playing. I am utterly incapable of playing in front of a judge or an audience of any kind without fumbling, being terrified out of my wits, or bursting into tears. I am not the musician I should be after eight years.

I decided I couldn't keep this up by myself. So I stopped.

For four months, my beautiful violin lay in its case in a corner of my room, collecting dust. At first, I was ashamed and apologized to it every time my eyes wandered over to it. Then I tried to avoid it, hoping that the horrible feeling would go away if I pretended it wasn't there.

It didn't.



I finally started playing again tonight. And it was hard. Only four months of disuse has left me crippled. Yes, I can play. I can play the notes I learned almost a year ago, but I can only play them because I already know the music. I am not playing music, I am playing a recording. It isn't music if it's not coming from inside, and nothing has ever sounded so hollow as those etudes. My pride hurts. I thought I was too good for my violin, and was punished for it.

But I can't let it go. I can't go back to not playing.

I've decided that, since I can't get lessons from the University until next year, if at all, I will find a teacher elsewhere. I don't know if it will work. I don't know if I will find the time. But if I don't start again this semester, I never will.