Past Stories

Flute Recital

(I remember writing this story very vividly. It's about a flute recital that I had once, and I wasn't exactly fluent in flute (haha). I like this story because it was about that time that I started to progress in a lot of things in my life.)

WARNING: None.

After every grueling practice session, I took apart my instrument and put everything away. By that point, I was in defeat.

I’d go outside into the living room where my mother and little sister would sit quietly, pretending not to acknowledge the chaos that was being played in my room. Of course, my mother would say, every time, “You sounded good in there!”

I would mumble a small thank you and would try to plaster a little smile on my face, but I knew that it was futile. I knew that I did not sound good. No matter what anybody said to me, I knew that I wasn’t good.

What had made me conclude this was that this “Pan” piece was the kind of music that incredible flautists play all the time. They’ll get the music one day and perfect it the next. Not only would they perfect it, they would play it in a performance like they lived for that piece. They would let go of every note and rhythm as if they were actually singing it in a chorus, gracefully positioning their fingers as if their fingers were the ballerinas of the concert. Every flautist I had seen perform could do that. If I couldn’t do this one piece, then what future did I have as a musician?

I dreaded the day of my next lesson. I was prepared to see a disappointed Dr. Dunovant when she witnessed my progression-lacking playing.

We went through the lesson as usual: warm-up, scales, lesson’s book. Of course, all of these elementary exercises I excelled in. I was not worried about my fundamentals in that lesson.

My palms sweated when I flipped my binder to the page where I kept my newest solo. I quickly wiped the perspiration on my jeans and gathered up all my willpower to not sweat that much while playing.

“Okay, Miss Lily. Let’s get to your solo! Go ahead and play the first line for me, please,” she requested, voice as tender as someone cooing to a lost puppy. Her tone of voice made me feel childish, as if she already knew how badly I was doing.

I closed my eyes momentarily, saying a small prayer before I opened them again. In the span of a couple milliseconds, I took a long and desperate breath and began to play to the best of my abilities.

It was awful.

I went too slow on the first measure, then too fast on another one. On the last measure, I didn’t even play in the correct key signature. And, to top it with a cherry, my vibrato on the last half-note sounded less like a music style and more like a a shiver from the cold coming out of me.

I put my flute down and stared down at my feet, anticipating Dr. Dunovant to lecture me on my terrible playing. There was a bit of silence before she deducted, “Well then. It looks like we have a lot of work to do in the next few weeks.”

I sighed a bit too loud so that she actually heard it. I knew this because she added an inquiry for me, “What’s the matter, Miss Lily?”

Now during this time, I got upset very easily. I believe it was mostly because I liked being right. I hated it when I was wrong. Even if I didn’t get super mad about it, I still got emotional when I was alone.

Almost crying (because I would always feel that lump in my throat before I did), I answered,

“I just can’t do it. I have been practicing all week. Everyday for an hour. But I can never get it right.”

Dr. Dunovant kind of just sat there quietly, digesting my feelings in a calm matter. I could see that she sort of looked me up and down as if she was trying to decide something serious. She, at last, offered, “You know. I didn’t mention this to you before, but you don’t have to play ‘Pan’ if you feel uncomfortable doing it. You can still play ‘Scherzino’ at the recital. I picked this piece out for you because I knew that it would challenge you. But you can play your original solo if you wish.”