Letter to Old Friend: The magical thing that is music
By Heinrich
Dear friend,
For this letter, I’m going to be uncharacteristically earnest. I have had trouble in the past expressing my feelings. But for something this important, I don’t want to mince my words.
When I was younger, I loved any story about magic. I longed to be part of a world where magic existed.
But as I grew older, I came to terms with the fact that that would never be a reality. When I was 11 and didn’t get that letter from Hogwarts, I hadn't truly expected to, but I was heartbroken nonetheless. It was the same feeling that I had when I confirmed with my parents that Santa wasn’t real.
I’ve always had logic but I also always had faith. A hope that some type of magic was out there and that I was going to be lucky enough to wield it.
For a few hopeless years, I thought that magic was stuck in my past. I thought that one day I would grow up, work a job that paid the bills, and that was it. My parents would be proud, my family would be secure, and I would’ve done my job as a daughter.
Then there was this moment. This one unbelievable moment. A moment in which that faith in magic and everything it meant to me came back. It punched me in my gut and ruined my life in the best way possible.
When I was a sophomore in high school, the teacher I was closest to committed suicide. At 16, it was a lot to process. He happened to be the band director and I, his drum major. At the time, my responsibility as a drum major was everything to me.
A week after his death, we had a performance. The biggest performance of the year. The performance we spend months rehearsing for. A performance that he prepared us for but now had to do alone.
I was part of the ensemble that was going to close the show and we were playing a medley from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. A very emotional piece with a myriad of intense moments. To add to the dramatics, we also used smoke machines in our rendition of the song Hell Fire.
I remember being on stage holding my bassoon as tightly as I could, trying my best not to cry. I remember feeling the tension in the air when we played softer. I remember feeling the vibration of every instrument on that stage through the soles of my feet.
Then, God Help the Outcast was four bars away. The most emotionally charged part of the piece.
Tears were threatening to fall but I kept playing. My lungs were about to burst. I could feel it. I breathed in as much as I could just to steady myself and kept playing.
It didn’t matter in that moment that we were going through a tragedy. But at the same time, it was the only thing that mattered. I found myself pouring everything I had into that one piece knowing that I was going to chase that feeling for the rest of my life.
It felt like magic. It felt like this intangible, nonsensical, world changing thing that I was lucky enough to be experiencing. A part of me was so relieved that the version of me that believed in magic was right. It did exist.
I can’t explain it in any other way. The music filled every part of me. I felt whole for the first time in my life. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.
I don’t want to do anything else.
On average, most Americans change careers at least twice in their lives. They don’t find that one thing that calls to them until they’re 40 and have been searching for it for years.
So how lucky was I to find my thing, my calling, when I was just 16.
What a shame I had to give it up.
Sincelerly,
Your friend