Narrative Essay: One Stroke Away From Perfection

The mind is essentially a labyrinth of thoughts and concepts, forever conjuring new perspectives and ideas everyday. A concept that plagued my mind when I was younger from time to time was perfection. The feeling that everything needed to be done in exactly the way it is supposed to be, is one that I could not seem to escape. Though being the best at any skill drove me towards improvement, with improvement comes unavoidable mistakes. One event that solidifies just how infatuated I was with perfection was a fall concert that took place when I was in 7th grade at Westwood Middle School.

The concert was an event that involved the orchestra, band, and choir. With the band leading the concert  the musical standards were set high, eyes were watching in anticipation. As the caramel colored wood of my instrument rests between my knees, reality finally sets in. There is no going back now. Here, in a silent auditorium I sat, bow in hand, in front of an audience that expected to hear a phenomenal orchestral performance. Soon my shoulders were heavy with the burden of knowing that I would be under intense scrutiny due to the size of my instrument,I  began to play my cello. The first piece of music was played with almost no error .It was as if every second was planned in advance. The piece felt never ending but it finally concluded with the sweep of the conducterś hand. The sensation of accomplishment immediately flowed through my veins, leading me to let my guard down, something that should have never happened. 

As tranquility washed over my form, the grip on my instrument  slightened. By being the only cellist playing I did not have the others to hide behind. The luxury of a section playing the same part of the song was not given to me. The beginning of the next song flowed smoothly from my fingertips until the second section. There was a note that for the life of me I could not recognize. That note left  me completely alone inside of the entire auditorium. No longer was the orchestra a smooth ensemble of sounds because of my mishap. In a rush, I remember my teacherś words. “If you ever find yourself lost or messed up then continue to play because the audience doesn't know¨,but instead of being comforted by those words , I became frantic with trying to find the correct measure. With blood pounding in my ears, I finish slightly a couple of seconds behind the orchestra.

My father  approached me after the concert and began speaking highly of my performance. He spoke about how uniformed the movement of the bows were. He also spoke about how professional I looked dressed in all black attire, holding the only cello on display for the performance. As my father continued speaking to me,  my mind wandered.  Why did I mess up? Why did I relax when my performance was far from over? Countless hours were spent practicing, countless hours playing the same notes over and over again  as if I were stuck in an infinite loop. Countless hours spent after school with the orchestra teacher trying to replicate the piece placed in front of me. It was as if everyone was relying on me, only to be let down due to my negligence. No words could console me for a while until my sister was the only one to truly get through to me. 

She was also in the orchestra, the only difference was that she played a mahogany bass, so she attended the concert as well as an instrumentalist. She spoke about how even if I messed up there was always another concert for me to play in and how she also butchered her song. These words were different from all the other words because they did not  just focus on my mistakes. The ability to relate to someone else who also played a deep sounding instrument soothed my wounded ego. She understood what I was going through and made her thoughts known. Her words showed me how much I was overreacting. While I felt as if the world was ending, she was as laid back as humanly possible.

Perfection is a concept  that seems that I will never be able to escape. When  heavily focused on personal mistakes, they often get blown out of  proportion. It always takes an outsiderś perspective to see just how dramaticized something is. My performance was not the best but it definitely would have been worse. I could have stopped playing entirely, alerting the crowd of my mishap obviously. Or perhaps I could have dropped my bow or something else entirely. Now as I look back I realize that nothing I do will be perfect and that is ok. If I ever feel like something I do is imperfect, I try to fix it the best I can and move on. There is no point in trying to change things that cannot be changed. Humans are just walking imperfections so to say.