I found my clarinet at my parent’s house over Thanksgiving. My mom, somehow, was able to talk me into helping her get all 20 tubs of Christmas decorations down from the storage area above their garage, and there it was. Just sitting there. It’s funny how something as simple as a musical instrument can ignite old memories that sometimes feel like they just happened yesterday and at other times they feel like they belonged to someone else. Almost as if I only heard them as a story.
As I opened the case, I tried to remember the last time I played. I couldn’t. Sometime in college. Marching band. Sophomore year. Fall of 2002. Almost 10 years ago.
Maybe I can remember.
Right before Christmas break at Harding, marching band was over, and we were practicing for our Christmas concert to be preformed in chapel. I wasn’t even sure I was going to play because I had just had my wisdom teeth removed, not exactly conducive to playing an instrument, but “not playing” wasn’t exactly an option.
Instead of a memory, maybe it's one big metaphor for my life. The concert went on as planned, not necessarily dependent on my presence. 10 years later at 11:40pm it doesn't seem to have made a huge difference in the world. No one remembers that concert but me, I guess. There were much better musicians in that band than I could ever pretend to be, my my wonderful skills as a clarinetist weren't exactly critical. And yet, 10 years later at 11:40pm, this memory floods my brain, with the resounding theme that seems to have stuck with me.
You always show up. You always play. After all, not playing is never an option.
Right?
