Ahhhh... the annual piano recital. This year, Scott Joplin and Mozart were on the menu.
In addition to the Eldest's usual razmatazz, Prophet made her piano recital debut. As I sat in the library waiting and watching the little back in the front row, I remembered the feeling of raw nervousness at my own piano recitals. I remember hoping I could go first so that I might enjoy the other piano players without apprehension.
For all my performance anxieties, the little folks seem to have inherited nothing akin to a fear of failure. Perhaps I say "fear of failure" when what I mean is "fear of disappointing". Growing up as a child of immigrants with no extended family in the USA made me very conscious of my parents' desire for us to "succeed" and to excel at everything we tried.
My love for performing dissipated in the bright glare of wanting to please those nearest and dearest to me. There's an insight into teenage rebellion here- it was only when performing in roles that I selected against my parents' preferences that I felt free enough to let go and love the stage. Take theatre for example- there was nothing as sublime as picking up a script in high school and putting myself in a character's shoes, trying to walk as they would walk, talk as they would talk, and feel as they might feel.
Little feet nowhere near the pedals.
Love makes things heavy at times. Liberation is not an attack on the love we feel for others but an effort to better love and acknowledge our selves.
I marveled at the performances, hoping that the kids felt no pressure to please, only the excitement and adrenaline of the performing itself. The Eldest bubbled with excitement to have a friend there, watching, grinning when he made mistakes and perservered without angst.
Prophet even mustered her first grand post-recital smile- you know, the kind where your lips appear somehow incongruent with the rest of your face. She grimaced when I showed her the picture- "That's not how I look!". Recognizing our true selves nested within our performing selves is a complicated part of growing up. "That's not who I am," and yet, somehow, it's a part of who we were.
