Rimsky-Korsakov did not live in Africa

As I stood at the bus stop tonight, hoping the #75 would come sooner, rather than later, since I hadn’t thought to bring gloves when I left the house this morning, I glanced at my hands, and the familiar calluses on my left fingertips. I had just left the last orchestra rehearsal I would participate in before leaving the country for two years, as I don’t expect to be playing much classical music in the desert - I don’t trust my viola to take kindly to the expected 110 degree heat. During the last half hour of practice, in between pages of achingly adagio eighth notes, it struck me how little I was dreading leaving, and how eager I was to move on. I felt I should be sadder to leave this company of friends, but my east coast family is calling my name, and impending visits are filling me with more elation than the prospect of Christmas vacation. That’s not to say that I won’t miss Tuesday nights, or the camaraderie that makes me feel at home since I’ve been playing in orchestras since the third grade. I remember that first elementary school orchestra - there were so few of us we all fit into a tiny classroom, short legs dangling off cold metal folding chairs. I don’t remember what we played, or who else was there with me in the room, besides our big teddy bear of a conductor with his fuzzy caterpillar moustache. But I remember how it felt to be there - special. I was proud to be there, proud to be chosen, and in love with the music. That thrill is something I’ve never gotten over - it’s what keeps me coming back. There is just something undeniable about bringing people together who are all so different, and making something beautiful out of those disparate voices.

Some people have sports teams or church groups, places where they feel truly accepted, welcome, and free to be who they are. For me, that place has always been orchestra.