Dear Daughter, May I Dance at Your Recital?
Dear Daughter,
May I dance at your recital? Is that acceptable? I mean, if your teachers and professors and supervisors knew what I knew, if they had seen what I’ve seen, I think they’d dance too. Or at least they would understand if I got up and danced, right?
When your fingers skip across the keyboard, and you’re hitting every note, I’ll remember all the tears, all the heartache, all the worry, and all the hours of practice. I’ll recall the seventeen years of piano lessons, seven teachers, and countless piano recitals and performances. All those moments will be released in one big crescendo when you get up on that stage.
Think of how far you’ve come. From the little girl who begged for piano lessons before she could read–now the grown-up girl who plays fast and reads slowly. From the quiet one who had trouble saying “hello” and keeping up with the conversation of the chatty girls around her–now the confident, bright young lady who is learning to stand up for herself and speak her mind. From the awkward middle schooler with braces on her crooked teeth and a brace on her curvy spine–now the beautiful young woman with the amazing smile and the best posture.
Remember all you’ve been through. The triple whammy you were dealt. We wondered if Someone in heaven wasn’t paying attention when the hardships were doled out. You received three big ones: ADHD, scoliosis, and diabetes. You cried as you looked around and saw others just breezing through life without an apparent care in the world.
But you have made the best of it. You push onward and persevere. You have found your calling in helping others who’ve also experienced trials. You connect with them because you daily endure struggles that many of us can only imagine. And you use the language you know best–the language of music–to reach out to them. The healing power of music that you know so well. The power we have all felt but don’t always recognize. The magical fingers on the keyboard, the strumming of the guitar strings, and the voice softly crooning a lullaby. These gifts that were given to you–now you give to others.
It may have taken you awhile to get here. As you watch your school classmates graduate from college, you count the credit hours yet to pass, the semesters yet to go, the dollars yet to spend. You remind us there is no “right” amount of time. There might be a “typical” amount, but the right amount is the time it takes you to become who you want to be. And you are getting there. You will get there.
For now, you’ve gotten here. To the night of your recital. Your time to shine. And shine you will!
When those melodies float from your mind to your fingers to the keys to the strings through the air and to my ears–I might have to get up and dance. Because those notes, so heavy with joy and love, might fall from my ears to my toes. And I just might have to dance.
But I suppose dancing isn’t allowed. And you might be a tad bit embarrassed.
Okay. I promise to stay in my seat. But it won’t be easy. Those notes laden with love are going to slip out somewhere. So if you see a mist gathering around my eyes, just know that I’d rather be dancing. Dancing at your recital.
Love you,
Mom