In a past life, I was a pretty serious musician.
Day in and day out, my life revolved around my music: my choir practice, my jazz group performances, my piano lessons and recitals and scholarship competitions. I would compete. I would audition for every opportunity that would allow me to perform. And, when I wasn’t formally performing, I huddled in a corner of campus with my choir friends, and we’d make our own a cappella arrangements.
Looking back, I was kind of a weirdo. I was extremely obsessive with my craft. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. That obsession gave me an overwhelming sense of happiness and fulfillment.
I don’t know what happened, but — over the past seven or eight years — that passion has all but disappeared. People have asked me on occasion: Are you still singing? Do you play the piano? Can you play the piano for us now?
My answers to the questions are always a firm: No.
That saddens me.
But I’m not writing this blog post to complain about that sadness. Instead, I’m writing to share an interesting development: today, for whatever reason, I invested some time into my music. For the past three hours or so, I was playing the piano, singing, singing while playing the piano. I even sang while taking a break from my piano playing to take a shower.
I don’t exactly know why I had a sudden urge to play some music. But it felt great. I feel both tired and invigorated as I prepare for bed, and I’m realizing something: there has been a bit of emptiness inside of me that only music could fill. After spending the past few hours tapping into my inner musician, that hollow feeling has decreased.
Here’s hoping that I can continue to hold onto that…