An open letter to my daughter.

Dear darling girl,

Funny how sometimes a mother has to write a bunch of strangers rather than to write directly to her girl. Maybe, someday, when you’re not fourteen-years-old and pissed-off at me about half the time, you’ll be able to hear this from me.

No matter. I still have to say it. It’s one of the things that I’ve learned and I hope you learn too: Say it anyway. Even when you can’t say it to the right person. Say it out loud and clearly and then…move on.

So you’ve got this solo violin concert tomorrow: your first. And you’re scared to death. New things have never been easy for you, but standing in front of a group of strangers and playing a fairly complicated piece? Yeah, that’s got to be getting your knees shaking a bit.

The thing is I know you’re going to be great. I also know that my opinion on this doesn’t count for much right now. You were pretty clear last night when I asked you if you wanted to hear what I think: “Mom, no offense, but you don’t know anything about music.”

It’s a lovely thing for me that you consider me someone who doesn’t know anything about music. What it means to me is that your standard is high. Not because I do know, especially, anything about music. I don’t know how frustrating it is to switch to third position when you thought the piece was played in first position. The circle of fifths makes my head hurt and I haven’t been practicing the guitar enough to build even the smallest of calluses on my fingertips. I almost always have to have you sing the harmony because it’s easier for me to hold than to harmonize. I am one of the least musically-talented adults in your world.

I get it. Little do you know, though, that I sing in so many places with so many groups. One time, my women’s group was at a restaurant and we were singing happy birthday to Kristina. We sang in three-part harmonies and we sounded great! (I held the melody, of course.) When we were finished singing, the whole restaurant clapped. And then two other tables, who were also celebrating birthdays, asked us to come and sing for them. You would have been mortified.

Once, I led a national gathering of women in song after song. Yep, me, your musically deficient mother.

So, you’re right that I don’t know the technical details of your playing. If you use an up-bow and it should be down, I’ll almost certainly miss it. But I’ve been listening to you play for six years. I’m surrounded by musicians and music and it’s a huge part of my world.  And here’s what I do know.

I know that the power of music is in the playing. The technical skill is nothing more than how you get to playing a piece like it matters: the technical skill isn’t enough. When a player has her soul come through her instrument, through her fingers, that’s when music hits in the heart.

I know that I am starting to hear your soul in your playing. I hear your passion, your solidness, your feistiness. Yes, it helps that you can do a strong vibrato and longer bows and that you’re steadier on your feet. But what I hear coming through is the power of Irene O’Connor’s fire in the pit of her belly. When you dash your music to the ground and scream that you can’t possibly do it, that you won’t go and that I and no one else can make you…I know you’ll be more than fine.

Here’s the thing—I don’t know what will happen tomorrow. I suspect that you won’t dare disappoint your teachers; that’s so unlike you. And I hope you go. Because when you have to push up against these hard things, you see what you’re really made of. You’re made of some pretty good grit. If you don’t have to force yourself to get up and do something sometimes, my guess is you won’t do much. And that’s not you at all.

Tomorrow at this time, it will all be over. You’ll have done it. And you will—almost certainly—be glad you did.

So, cast me out of your mini-rehearsal. Yell and fuss and agonize. Then take all that passion and feeling and depth that I so love about you, and let it come through the music. Try not to think too much about the notes: they’ll come. Just remember to say your piece in your playing. It’s beautiful, just like you. Everyone will feel that, even if they don’t know a thing about music. 

            P.S. Thanks for reading this before I published it and giving me your okay. Mama.