I recently received a very valuable package. My Bach Stradavarius trumpet. I wasn't sure at the time, but asked my mom to send it hoping to find an opportunity to use it. I am studying language at an arts institute, after all. Just days before it arrived, I stumbled across a jazz band rehearsing. I just walked in, sat in the back, and listened. As the band stopped for a break I was nervous at the large number of people aware of my presence (a 6ft+ tall white guy like me doesn't blend in well). One guy came forward and introduced himself. He happened to also be a trumpet player. Chatting a bit, I told him I had studied trumpet in college. We hit it off.
A few days later my trumpet arrived. It was like Christmas. My dear, sweet mother purchased a new gig bag. It was an exciting mixture of new and old. Taking it out of the bag, I inspected my trumpet, noticing all the familiar dings, blemishes, and tarnish spots. Nostalgic memories of hours in practice rooms, private lessons, and performances flooded my mind. Even the familiar smell of metal, slide grease, and valve oil filled my nostrils. It was a quiet sort of satisfaction to slide the mouthpiece in and sound a few notes. At the same time, the result of idle years manifested in my poor technique and weak embouchure. "I'll never stop playing!", I remember saying in college. Yet here I am 11 years post-college writing about picking it up years later. It was a bitter-sweet moment.
So, tomorrow is the concert. The concert features my school's Music Department and includes both vocal and instrumental, jazz to classical to minority, and even a few dance numbers. Agreeing to play with them I honestly hadn't considered the time that would be involved. Culturally it's been an adjustment as there is no rehearsal schedule. My friend usually calls an hour or two in advance and says, "There's a rehearsal in two hours." Several times I have simply had to say 'no' due to my own class schedule. On several other occasions I have rearranged my schedule at the last minute to make the rehearsal. These dress rehearsals have been going on the whole week leading up to tomorrow. All said, it is quite a large-scale production and as such I understand the extra time needed for tweaking details of arranging that many people.
So. After receiving yet another phone call about a rehearsal I was complaining (but only just a little) to my roommate. "ANOTHER rehearsal?! Good grief! Couldn't they let me know in advance?!" Yes, a rehearsal schedule would have been nice. Yet, like so many other situations, I reminded myself that I am not at home, that I am a guest here. Persisting in applying my own cultural values in this situation would only lead to greater frustration. Then I said it, I spoke an epiphany that I feel can be applied to any number of situations. "I am actually really enjoying this performance, I'm just annoyed at how much time it's sucking up! Really loving something can be really costly sometimes, eh?" Loving something can be costly sometimes. "Man. That's deep", I said. "Yeah. You should write that down", my roommate quipped. So I did. Sure I could have spent those many hours in other ways but come tomorrow's performance I know it will have been well worth the cost.
Thanks, Mom and Dad for all that money/time you put into my music lessons. Thanks, Mom, for the new gig bag and sending my trumpet halfway around the world. I'm just starting to understand now. Loving me still costs you a good bit, too, doesn't it?