Diamonds and Pearls

I’m greeted at the car door by an over eager assistant to producer, clearly in her first 90 days. She is opening the door, hoisting me from the interior, ‘we’re just a wee bit on the late side’ she admonishes. We break into a trot rounding onto 7^th Avenue from W57th, and she practically pushes me into the elevator, yanking me out a bit later only to shove me down the hall and into a room with a few sofas and a table. Not late at all, I have time to sit and consider the painting they’ve chosen to adorn the wall. It has muted blues and soft browns throughout, and I am reminded of summer days where I grew up.

Attendance was mandatory at Dad’s softball games so, when my recital dared to conflict with the tournament board, only my sister and I were sent to the hall, while everyone else watched Dad and his team. In the backseat, my sister had a recording device resting on the skirt she’d pulled on top of ballpark grime. It was important to appear appropriate, whilst recording my performance so the family could listen and critique at home. Once the game was over.

Dropped at the curb, we entered the recital center where I went backstage, and Jessica navigated the audience and her seat. We’d discussed seating strategy for optimum recording results, determining she needed to be front row, stage left to best catch the sound. For some reason, we were confident that a 12-year-old girl would be able to get the placement she desired.

I sat in a dimly lit hallway with the panel of pianists who would play that evening; the youngest by far, at seven. Days full of practice-hours behind me, my memory was honed and my fingers nimble, even if my skin was coated with playing field dirt. This, I knew, was a moment.

In position three out of four, I listened to numbers one and two, aged 28 and 24, respectively. They performed recognizable pieces, well played. It was impossible to fault them, technically.  And then it was my turn. Standing and smoothing my skirt, I walked out from behind the heavy curtain, encountering the sea of faces-turned-anonymous by bright lights, voices creating a repressed rumble.

Throat constricting, my eyes blinked, fingers stopping mid-curl while my right toe stubbed the stage, facilitating a small stumble. I couldn’t see Jess and it was suddenly church quiet. They were all waiting for me. Sliding onto the bench, my feet and hands automatically found their perch and the opening bars came effortlessly to a halt.

Blank. It was blank where the music always played in my mind. This piece I’d been playing and humming and skipping to and seeing behind closed eyes was gone and I could not swallow though my brow seemed moist.

I began again, those same few bars streaming to a stop, and I felt the first tear form. My teacher came blurring across the stage, holding the embarrassment that was printed music. I would have to continue while using music, which was inexcusable. The inevitable reprimand began in my head while suddenly, warmed by the security blanket, my frozen fingers thawed, and music emitted from my core then out through the instrument. No page turning necessary, the training wheels had enabled a performance. Unearned applause followed me from the stage and a torrent of tears raced to my chin, streaking my face. I tasted salt and diamond dust, anticipating the metallic flavor in my future.

Words of professorial reassurance unimportantly registered through a muffle, and I saw Jessica waiting near the door, her face white. She handed me a moist towelette from heaven and I wiped my face, having replaced my waterworks with hiccups.

“I’ll say the recorder didn’t work.”

It would be the only time Jess provided sisterly support; feminine competition replacing any affection not long afterward.

Decades of public and personal speaking failures followed that day, too long unrecognized as either related or a pattern. Tears when facing conflict, incapable of speech for the massive magical throat lump that appeared only when it was important for me to perform at pace, to articulate the salient points thrumming in my head.

Having learned by watching that alcohol goes with everything, including sorrow and confusion, and that social interactions cannot be had without it, I drowned myself in the spirit of fun. For years, this impeded the ability to gain traction or achieve goals. Bouncing from one facsimile of love to another, bruising the heart and layering on protective shingles, I became a curled-up ball inside myself.

Until the morning I woke and could not recognize my face, blurry and plump from too much of the good times. My nose scraping the bottom, I realized I could flip onto my back and instead observe the stars.

Today, I am in a green room, recalling this while skipping lightly over what came later – that day and for years. The pearls gained from a brutal education - which did reveal the depth of my strength and the strength of my power - string together, creating something so beautiful and inspiring to others that I no longer cry. Rarely does the massive magical throat lump make an appearance.

I also no longer play the piano though, conceivably, that could change. The product from those years of study has gone missing during the journey. My voice is instead my instrument and I find I do prefer the immediacy of singing over what was always, for me, the formality of playing the piano. My son plays now, because it pleases him to learn, and he hardly uses written music at all. Hearing him in my mind, I smile, and my chest loosens allowing my breath to flow.

The room, by the way, isn’t actually green, which is another piece of wisdom we gain by living.

The beaver is back to escort me, and I can hear that rumble as I blink again into lights that are now warm and welcoming.

I sing.