A year ago my Uncle died (), and I vowed to reach out to family and solidify connections with his daughters. I told myself it was to keep closer to my cousins that I allowed my Aunt to talk me into joining the Bloomington Community Band.
Many Monday evenings, I came home determined to write about the complexities of community band. I want to share the fun in listening to loud complaints about out-of-tune trombones, or, one of my personal favorites, a lament about the injustice of having to be in tune. The band director making bad jokes while his wife (and first flutist) rolls her eyes, the age range in the flute section from early 20’s to 90’s- all of these elements combine for some mysterious harmony.
I’ve played in many ensembles. I’ve done concert bands, marching bands, weddings, a funeral and participated rather poorly in jazz “jams.” I can only recall rare occasions in my life when I participated just for the beauty of the music. Singing duets with Gina Minor in middle school. Playing AJ’s flute and piano compositions, and closest to my heart, playing “heart and soul” with my grandfather. In those moments, there were elements of my soul laid bare for others to hear. It was an authentic, generous moment of creating joy. Playing with the BCB has allowed me, step by step, to recapture that playing for joy, rather than proving my worth.
Community band just doesn’t really allow room for proving anything other than a commitment to expanding our musical repertoire together. A shared purpose of making music and sharing it with others guides us.
There are moments I sometimes pretend to be elsewhere- when we play “On a Clear Day,” for example, which for some reason seems painfully long- and there are times I feel trapped in a Christopher Guest Mockumentary but I attend as often as our childcare situation allows. It’s two hours a week when I’m not thinking about kids, food, work, finances, family- nothing but can I play this next lick in tune. It’s two hours a week when I can feel my heart and brain beating in time with a room full of other music lovers from all walks of life.
Last Tuesday, I got an email from a fellow flutist, saying someone had donated a music stand to me, since I never have one. (I use my piano at home, and it’s hard to carry). I got a little teary when I read it- a little Sally Fields moment “they like me, they really like me,” or else, “they notice that I don’t have a stand and my constant mooching is annoying.” Even bigger, they saw me. I mattered. They heard me, knew I was there, and tried to meet one of my needs, unbidden. How often does that happen?
Even with the generous music stand donation, I didn’t realize quite how important band was to me until last week when I got a quick email from Kevin that said, in my perception, “Monday night rehearsals can’t happen this semester, I’m teaching a class,” and I burst into tears. I was simultaneously crushed and angry with myself for being upset.
I ranted and raved, attempted to communicate my upset to Kevin without being irrational, settling on, “I feel sad,” sent a frantic email to my aunt requesting she use her connections to land me a satisfactory babysitter, who wouldn’t mind the most labor-intensive bedtime routine in town, and slowly took a few breaths to quiet myself.
By the time I was calmer, I found emails sent from Kevin’s mentor, reassigning him to a different course. Relieved, but also worried that my selfish geekery cost him that magical opportunity that was just what he needed, so I could make music.
I also sat and wondered why it was a big deal? Why don’t I roll with the punches better? A PhD program isn’t lifelong. Perhaps community band participation could be- a break from it wouldn’t mean the end. I’m certain there will be sequences in my life when I won’t be able to be as active in it. I mean, it’s an extra- a bonus. It isn’t an academic adventure- it certainly isn’t anything that couldn’t be accomplished without me.
But when I’m there, even on the bad nights, when I can’t get in tune to save my life, or the nights I think I’m really hot until I’m the only one playing along having missed a repeat sign- I’m part of that heartbeat of unselfish music. I’m participating in the creating of a gift of harmony, peace and thought-provoking music. I am a part of something bigger than me, something that in small and big ways– with music stands and oboe solos that make me want to weep with joy– expand my life, and the lives of those we touch.
So thanks, Marty and Kevin, from the bottom of my heart, for accomodating my Monday night schedule. If you feel like dropping by, here’s our performance schedule: