“Against Raging Tides”

A micro memoir by Felix Ma (9).

The world stirred in and out of focus, as a divine power was tinkering with the lenses I used to see the world. I gathered my thoughts and stepped into the deafening silence. One step rang out, and then another, crisp like a fine spring morning, but they were soon drowned out by thunderous applause. I stood, gazing into the dark, and the time before I would perform wisped away into thin air. With a quick breath and flick of the bow, I started playing.

I first started practicing for my performance five months earlier. It was easily the most difficult piece I had ever taken on in my musical life, and the further challenge presented by the performance drained me of all my energy and spirit even though I had just started my preparations.

However, as days passed by, my mindset began to change. I found myself longing to play and thinking of ways I could improve my piece during school. I should work on this passage tonight, I mused to myself. My notes here are not clear enough. Just like that, everything changed. Practicing was no longer a chore to be dreaded. Rather, it became a cherished part of my life.

Those weeks were a golden age, and I made leaps of progress every day. Unfortunately, they didn’t last. As the day of the concert drew near, I felt increasingly burnt out. The fire that once burned in my playing began to waver, and I started thinking, I’ve done enough work. I should take a break now. The only voice that kept me going was the fear of mistakes onstage. Every day, one voice drove me to other activities, stating that I did not enjoy practice, and therefore it was a waste of time. Yet a weakening but stubbornly persistent voice in me told me to carry on, for no reason except that I inherently loved music.

Weeks melted into days, which quietly slipped away, until I found myself standing in the performance hall on a chilly March morning. I was taken aback by the high ceilings and garish stage lights that exuded power and hostility. One performer played, and then another, and then another. Before I knew it, my turn had come.

“I got this,” I whispered out loud. These simple words were meant for my ears alone, and they were the most intimate expression of my fear and nervousness.

I took a deep breath and walked stiffly into the limelight. The weight of a thousand invisible stares from the audience pressed on me. I could not see anyone, yet their gazes seemed as tangible as the floor below me. After what seemed to be an eternity onstage, fighting against a raging tide of emotions, I began playing.

It is hard to describe the feelings of performing, as they are unique and rare. As I played that day, I felt in tune with the entirety of my body. I was no longer holding a violin and playing it. The violin was a part of me, and my body moved with the music. No amount of practice could have replicated what took place that morning, where music was not about right or wrong, but instead was raw emotion and beauty. My performance was not amazing, both by the world’s standards and mine. However, for the first time in my life, my music had come alive, and I had opened my heart to the world without saying a single word.