Balloon

Sometimes I feel like the unknown of “The Future” floats balefully over me like a birthday balloon that’s escaped a little hand and drifted up to the unreachable ceiling of Costco only to be stuck there for weeks on end. That which is uncertain about The Future far outweighs (or outfloats, rather) that which is assured. The longer I spend in college, the less I know what I actually want to do with my life when I get out of it, a sentiment I expressed recently to my good friend. Her response? “FINALLY I’m not the only one who doesn’t have their entire life figured out! Or any of it, for that matter...” 

I’ll probably always feel inadequate so long as I’m not spectacular at math, but occasionally I remind myself that I am equipped with other skills. My other consolation is that if I end up in heaven, at least I can always find employment as a harpist there. 

Fortunately, last week I perceived the balloon of The Future float down a few inches closer to where I stood far beneath it. My mom was volunteering as a coordinator at last month’s Suzuki Association of the Americas’ conference in Minneapolis (the land of enormous malls and impressive lightening storms). I tagged along to join her and the group of harpists (students and teachers) that had gathered from across the United States to discuss teaching methods and practicing strategies, learn more about harp regulation, introduce new Suzuki repertoire for harp, observe master classes, and more. We were surrounded by 800 other musicians (many of whom were violinists, of course) attending the conference.

And a wonderful thing happened. 

I’d abandoned a certain balloon to the ceiling of Costco, and I now wanted it back. I realized it as I tried to remember all the steps to re-felting a harp. I realized it as all the harpists sat around in an informal circle laughing hysterically while sharing stories about wedding-gig mishaps. I realized it as I pulled sound from a harp fresh with rich tone and varnish from Lyon and Healy. I realized it as my mind worked frantically to process umpteen different instructions and the notes on the page as I played a new piece during a two-hour lesson. I realized it observing virtuosic (and hard-working) ten-year old harpists perform spectacularly. I realized it as I saw my mother’s colleagues again -- many of whom have pioneered the Suzuki method for harp, and many of whom will I’m sure be legends in the harp world like their teachers before them -- and as I realized that their hair is graying and their hands are tired.

I’ve grown up listening to my mom teaching harp lessons in her studio...I’ve watched some of her students progress from plucking out Twinkle Twinkle Little Star to rippling through harp concertos...I’ve heard all her hours of practicing, and I’ve struggled through my sometimes more grudging hours of repetition and fine-tuning (no pun intended) as well. I’ve observed her frustration when some of her most incredibly talented students quit the harp and decide they want to play soccer or guitar instead. I’ve known how much arduous time and effort she has poured into kids, teenagers, and adults who might not tell her for years, if ever, how taking harp lessons transformed their lives. 

I’ve seen her love for music and musicianship, her dedication to her students, her attention to detail and excellence. I admired these things, but never particularly understood them. The older I get, however, the more I appreciate her pursuit of teaching music well: analyzing learning styles, motivating “difficult” students through sheer creativity, acting as a psychologist of sorts between kids and parents, instilling musical sensitivity and skill...adapting, adapting, adapting. 

I’ve watched and literally listened to the hardships and the joys, and participated in many of those as her student and daughter.

When I was a little girl I never questioned that I wanted to share in her experience as a teacher, especially in the triumphs and sweetnesses of that experience. But as I grew older, perhaps I became disenchanted with the idea. That balloon looked drab, limp and faded up in the rafters. I didn’t quit playing the harp (obviously) but I told myself that I wanted to aim for other pursuits -- I would be an actress, a dancer, a magazine editor, an author! Oh and I suppose I could teach harp “on the side.” 

As if people who really cultivate a passion for music can ever put that love on the back burner. 

As if you can refuse to accept the circumstances of a music-infused lifetime (however short) that gift you with sensitivities, experiences, observations, and relationships of beautiful value. 

As if we can ever really laugh at God, except to say, “You told me so.” He’s the one making the balloons, after all.

And so that was the wonderful thing that happened last week -- the realization of how playing harp didn’t need to be the only skill with which I resonated, but nonetheless the realization of how much I would love to teach music. It’s been pulsing in my blood all along. 

I know I’m not the only college student to feel overwhelmed by so much that is unknown about The Future. There are still a lot of baleful balloons floating over my head. But there are ways to pull some of them back down from the ceiling.