I was eight years old when my parents enrolled me in music school.
Everything was completely new, except the look of the music notes – I recognized those little black icons because my older siblings had already started music school. I couldn’t believe I would soon be able to read music notes – all by myself!
The first step was to learn the music alphabet by heart. At the end of the first week, I didn’t know the meaning of the music notes, how and where to write them, but I knew how to recite C major. I didn’t even quite understand what I was saying when I recited it, but I was proud I knew something new.
It was exciting. A whole new world opened its door for me – I didn’t see how big that world was, but I knew the adventure was in front of me.
This adventure became one of the most beautiful parts of my life. One of the most complex parts, too.
While I was in elementary school, there were times when I cried and said to my parents that I wanted to withdraw. There were times when I woke up in the middle of the night, full of panic because of a big audition or concert the next day.
While I was in high school, I was either in one school or another, and I was practicing music most of my free time.
When I look back, I admire how disciplined I and my colleagues were, how ready to come home from school, quickly eat lunch, go to music school immediately, be there until dark, and repeat that almost every day.
When I look back, it all seems unbelievable. Sometimes when I think about that, I try to imagine how I would behave if I started learning music today. What if I knew nothing about music and started today, from the very beginning?
I was going to music school for ten years. And yet, I think I wouldn’t last for long if I started today.
I listened to great guitar players while still playing with my fingertips, not nails. I listened to great guitar players when I played those simple songs that you read and learn by heart in a single day.
And I never, ever thought “They are so much better than me, what am I even doing?”, I never thought that. I was very strict with myself and I often thought that something I played was very bad, and I really felt bad about it, but that never made me stop, it just made me try again, and again. Again.
Because somewhere deep inside me, I knew I could do it – I just needed more time.
Ten years of repeating, getting better, changing the approach, listening to teachers, other players, other friends, trying, and practicing until it was the best I could do.
And then that day came – when a piece that I listened to so many times before, played by a great, world-known guitar player, was the piece that I played in front of my audience.
If I started today, I would try to hold the instrument and play something, and when I wouldn’t see an improvement in the first month, I think I would give up because “I am obviously not good at it”.
We often search for the perfect result very quickly.
And you see, the thing is, it took me years to be able to play something nice. But back then, as a kid, I didn’t expect to see the result immediately. Actually, I think that I didn’t expect any results at all. I just played.
I enjoyed the whole process, from getting the new music sheet, exploring and getting familiar with the chords, bringing them together, practicing and gradually increasing tempo, learning music by heart, discussing the piece with my teacher, polishing all the details, repeating and perfecting the most complex parts.
And when the piece was finally (almost) perfected, I remember the joy while playing it – for myself or to others, it didn’t matter. Nothing compares to those minutes filled with pure, simple beauty, when no hurry exists, no aims, no seeking for results. Just here and now.
“One doesn’t make the end of the composition the point of the composition. If that were so, the best conductors would be those who played fastest. And there would be composers who wrote only finales. (…) Same when dancing – you don’t aim at a particular spot in the room, that’s where you should arrive. The whole point of the dancing is the dance.” Alan Watts
This applies not only to music, but to so many aspects of life.
I remember feeling overwhelmed when I looked around after a whole day of cleaning the bay and removing plastic. The bay was clean because we spent hours cleaning it, but plastic was literally everywhere around it. It felt like our effort was in vain – but it wasn’t.
It brought people together, many volunteers from around the area. It showed people that they can improve their environment. Raising awareness and making effort for our nature is not in vain.
Rather than complaining because there are many more polluted bays, rivers, streets, or cities on this planet, I choose to be present in the process of trying to change and improve something.
“Something” can be anything: our environment or our laws. Our or other people’s bad habits. Our diet or our lifestyle. Our lack of knowledge or other people’s lack of enthusiasm. Our sense of empathy, sensibility, and responsibility.
Let’s choose to be present in the process. So that one day, we don’t have to say that our lives passed in striving to be something that we might not even truly want.
Instead, when I look back, I want to be able to say that my life was a colourful collection of moments, beautiful cognitions and brave attempts, sincere connections and discovering the purpose, full of music and dance.