It's Friday night, but not just any Friday night: the eve before a concert. And not just any concert. How can I fully articulate how momentous a concert it is? My descriptions feel hallow and trite. Yet I know I only have this one chance, this one pre-concert eve, to make an (albeit pitiful) attempt.
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Two years have passed since I last performed. Two years, one pandemic, one new baby. The me performing is an entirely new one. I have been reborn through grief, resurrected by parenthood. My world gained a new life, lost an old one. Most days I've felt variable degrees of exhaustion, fear, discouragement, and anxiety. Tomorrow though, tomorrow there will be music. There will be joyful, beautiful, anguished music. Music with my love, music with my friends. Good souls in the audience whom I love and admire.
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Jon and I have spent months preparing for this concert. Months of dragging our worn-out bodies into our basement each night, after Lily is asleep and our dinner is cooked and eaten. Months of writing in bowings, trying out fingerings, exploring new phrases, getting the exact right bow stroke. Months of disagreements about dynamics and 'who comes out where'. Months of feeling so connected through listening. It hasn't been easy. There were nights when the house was a mess and the dishes were dirty and there was work left undone, and all I wanted to do is sleep. Each night was a small preparation for tonight, the eve of a concert. I hear the silence in our house and feel its weight.
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Even though it is still tonight, I fear that tomorrow will be too fast. That it will disappear without me feeling the fullness of all its meaning. I want to feel my dad there, watching me, tapping his foot while listening to the Haydn symphony. I want to feel my daughter there, years from now, looking at photos and videos ('how young mom and dad were then!'). I want to feel my husband there, love of my life and the best person I could ever imagine to have by my side. I want to feel my friends there, who have been so kind and supportive in myriad ways. I want to feel all the people who have loved us. It is not just any concert. It is a return to music-making. It is a celebration of life and hope over despair.
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I hope I feel how heavy and weighty tomorrow is. I hope it all seeps into me, or at least parts of it do. Goodnight, concert eve. May tomorrow be full of light and music.