Fear. We see it in our children more readily than in ourselves. We can identify it in coworkers, friends, even passing acquaintances. But there is nothing more humbling than facing the monsters in your own closet.
I have dreamed of giving a recital for 10 years (the span of time since my last one, as a viola master's degree candidate in Boston). I could give you fifty reasons why I should, why I want to, why it would be beneficial. But as the time lengthened, so did the inertia.
Now, 10 years later, I have committed to walking on stage tomorrow night and giving a public performance. The fact that it is the same venue in which I gave my senior recital (and my junior recital, and my high-school graduation recital, and my eight-grade graduation recital) is both a comfort, and a detrement, for with memories come ghosts.
Now, I face those. The ghosts of "what might have been" have their say at last. "What might you have been, if you hadn't gone into teaching? if you hadn't quit to be a stay-home mom? if you hadn't decided to homeschool and forfeit all your free time to your son?" "What might you have been if you had been faithful with your practice? kept up your studies?" "What might have happened if you had been more dedicated? more focused? more disciplined?" "What might have been if . . ."
Their second cousins, the Finger-pointers, are not far behind them. In fact, they often come hand in hand. "What might have been," morphs right into "But you didn't, so now you can't." or "Because you did that instead, you really aren't good enough to do this."
And they want, expect, demand me to listen.
They want me to fear.
Shall I? Shall I count the cost, reckon the loss, tally up the difference between where I am, and where I "ought to be"?
No. [I say this with firmness born of decision, not of feeling.]
No. In order to make music, I can have no fear. None. Not any. One fear spoils the music just as surely as one fly spoils the ointment.
I must approach tomorrow's performance with courage, and with "selective amnesia," remembering only the good, the beautiful, the lovely.
It seems that even the apostle Paul had words of advice for such a time: Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. (Philippians 4:8)
My mind wanders while I play. I do find myself thinking of other things as the music is unfolding. And if I allow myself to think about past mistakes, past failures, past discomforts, embarrasements, or self-conscious moments, I am drawn down, away from the music and into misery. My performance suffers, serving to reinforce the negative I was already pondering.
Instead, I must discipline my mind to dismiss immediately such frowning judges, banishing them completely, and welcoming in their place images of beauty, kindness, joy, peace, gentleness.
Overcoming fear is not permanent, but each success strengthens the heart and infuses the senses with satisfaction and relief. Overcoming fear is not immediate, but the effort pays rich dividends. Overcoming fear is personal, hidden, unobservable (usually) to all but the most sensitive observer.
If you are in the audience tomorrow night, I hope you will see no evidence of fear. I pray that instead, you will see in me, and hear in the music, visions of loveliness, of happiness, of value and quality, of industry and achievement, of dreams coming true and hopes realized.
Tomorrow evening, I will grow.
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P.S. The picture today is of a children's book which tackles this very topic. The author, Gladys Scheffrin-Falk, has faced her own fears as a violinist, and found joy therein.
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