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I still recall my first staccato performance at age six, as my diminutive fingers transversed a sea of ebony and ivory keys. My audience consisted of a motley group of three canines who loved to howl to the chorus of my songs, and occasionally bark until I stopped playing. Luckily for both my dogs and my entire family my piano playing is no longer so unpleasant and the dogs no longer desperately try to escape from the torture chamber my room once was, but instead perk their ears and listen to the now melodious chords rising from the piano.
For the first time at age eleven I was ready to perform in front of my first non-canine audience. I had practiced for this moment since I was six years old and finally I found myself setting on a hard wooden piano bench on an enormous stage behind a viel of luxurious red curtains.
I sat pondering my performance and a sudden wave of self doubt began to cast its shadow on me. I thought to myself, “what if I can’t remember a solitary note? Were all those years of practice just a waste of time and effort?†In the background I heard a voice vaguely say, “one minute.†Time crawled by second by second turning that single minute into an everlasting eternity. Finally I heard the same voice as before command that the curtains be opened. The curtains that had seemed inseparable slowly parted revealing a solitary figure on the stage. My fear soon subsided as the hundreds of faces in the audience morphed into just three familiar ones. I played passionately hitting chord after chord without hesitation. I hit the last chord of the piece I was playing and a thunderous round of applause arose from the audience. The three faces that had been there since the very beginning were no longer visible, but replacing them I saw hundreds and I knew that I would never again doubt my abilities.
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