Spring Recital

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Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone,

in which

nothing much happens.

You feel good,

and then you fall asleep.

I'm Catherine Nicolai.

I write and read all the stories you'll hear on Nothing Much Happens.

Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

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You can learn more about them in our show notes.

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Learn more at the link in our show notes or at nothingmuchhappens.com.

Now,

here is how this technique works.

We need to give your mind something to focus on.

Nothing too exciting.

Nothing that will keep you up.

Hence, the title of this show, we're letting you know right from the get-go.

Nothing much happening here.

But just the steady sound of my voice and the soft shape of the tale I've written for you.

It will be like a lullaby,

easing your brain out of default mode

and into task positive

where sleep is natural and accessible.

I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through.

If you wake again later in the night, turn an episode back on

and you'll drift off,

often within seconds.

Our story tonight is called Spring Recital.

And it's a story about a piano waiting in the spotlight at the auditorium.

It's also about lesson books and rows of family and friends listening with pride.

Obos and biolas.

A deep breath before the music begins.

And the adventure of finding the things you love and that make you who you are.

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Okay.

Snuggle down.

Get into the most comfortable position you can

and let your whole body relax.

Whatever happened today,

it's what happened today.

And now

you are here.

Soften your jaw,

your shoulders.

Feel everything releasing.

Draw a deep breath in through your nose

and sigh from your mouth.

Nice.

One more.

Fill up

and let it go.

Good.

Spring recital.

He was ready.

He'd been practicing for weeks and already played every day.

But these pieces were special

and the recital meant a lot to him.

He'd started playing a few years ago when we came across a used piano at our neighborhood yard sale.

It was a beautiful upright that had been played lovingly by its previous owner for many decades.

When she passed away, her husband felt it needed a new owner to keep it in tune and feel the kind touch of a player's fingers.

When he saw how my little boy looked at the piano,

how he quietly stood beside it

and raised the fall board

and rested his thumb on Middle C.

The gentleman leaned over and told me that it was ours,

no payment needed.

The man had been at each of my son's recitals ever since.

We'd adopted each other as extended family members, and he'd even become a regular at our Thanksgiving dinners.

He'd been checking in with us this week, knowing the recital was today,

to see how the practicing was coming,

if nerves were rattled or calm.

I think there are always a few butterflies in his stomach when he performs.

But playing had made him feel confident in general.

Part of growing up is

finding out what you love and excel at,

what slots your brain and heart fit into.

And music in general,

and piano specifically,

had been a big piece of his puzzle.

He was a quiet kid.

Noisy, busy places could overwhelm him.

It was the same with me, so

I understood how good it could feel

to find something that was quiet, unless you asked it to make noise.

Something you could take at your own pace

and step away from when you needed a break.

His brain was good at understanding patterns.

And when he loved something, he loved it completely.

So it was no surprise that he'd become an astute and creative musician.

He astounded me with his understanding of melody and key changes.

His ear could find things that mine never could.

And he picked up new pieces at an astonishing rate.

This year,

he had more than his own selections to practice.

This year, he'd be accompanying several other students,

helping them shine as they played their cellos and clarinets.

I know he took pride in this extra bit of responsibility.

And if he were nervous about anything,

it was for their songs and not his own solo.

I was thinking of all of this as I pulled up to the back door of the community center.

He had his lesson books and scores in a bag at his feet.

And as he sat in the passenger seat beside me,

he played an imaginary keyboard on his knees.

His eyes were open, but unfocused.

And I knew he was sitting in the performance hall in his mind.

After a moment,

he lifted his hands off the invisible keys and turned his face to me.

He looked excited, confident,

and it was such a joy to see those twin sparks in his eyes.

He gathered up his books, took a big breath,

and opened the car door.

I waited till he made it inside the building

and went to find a parking spot.

When, a little later, I made my way through the front doors of the center and into the auditorium, I saw a small contingent of family and friends already taking up a row of seats and joined them.

Our friend who had given us our piano was sitting beside my own father.

The two of them had become good friends over the years and were chatting away as they read through the recital program.

I waved at a few neighbors and parents of other students that I knew.

The room was perfect for music and theater,

with high ceilings and a dais of glossy hardwood.

The seats had come out of the old movie theater,

but were re-upholstered and comfortable, the kind that flipped up when you stood, with generous armrests and number tags on the edge of the seat.

As I settled in and picked up a program,

I've remembered the recitals I'd been part of in my own childhood.

Chilly

or stuffy cafeterias with the tables pushed back against the walls

folding chairs and too much overhead lighting

standing on a riser with the other altos

and looking at the lines of the basketball court painted on the floor

still

they had been thrilling moments for my young heart, when I was thrilled now.

The auditorium filled up,

and the lights dimmed.

Voices hushed,

and the shine on the lid of the grand piano that stood center stage

seemed to glow brighter.

The first few performances were from this season's first-year students.

I couldn't believe how small they were,

their feet swinging from the piano bench as they played their simple but sweet songs.

Had my own son been that small

just a few years ago?

The crowd applauded with affection and indulgence for each piece.

Then came students with slightly more complicated pieces.

And even when there were a few wrong notes, we all smiled out at them,

proud even

when they weren't our own children, because really they all were.

A small group of string players

stepped on to the stage, and my sweet son took his place

at the piano behind them.

He'd explained to me that

when he accompanied others,

he was there to fill out the sound,

not to shine.

He kept the rhythm.

He grounded the sounds.

I loved that he understood the value in playing that role.

I don't know that I would have had the maturity for that when I was his age.

I watched an oboeist look to him to begin her piece,

how he lifted his shoulders to show that he was about to play the first chord.

Finally, the last group of students began to play.

These arrangements were more complicated, and I found myself closing my eyes,

following the notes as they rose and fell in my ears.

He wasn't the last to play.

There were still more studied performers who would go after him.

But when he sat down for his solo,

it certainly felt like the peak moment of the evening to me.

I'd heard this piece played from every room in my house,

when I'd been making dinner or folding laundry,

when I'd been in the backyard filling the bird feeders,

and several times when I'd been awoken by it on a Saturday morning.

But it sounded especially wonderful tonight.

I didn't worry that he might lose his place.

So what if he did?

I just enjoyed the notes and melodies.

When the final chord sounded,

there was a beat of silence

in the large room.

And I looked down the line of our friends and family to see a dozen faces beaming back at me.

We began to clap.

Spring Recital

He was ready.

He'd been practicing for weeks

and already played every day.

But these pieces were special.

The recital meant a lot to him.

He'd started playing a few years ago

when we came across a used piano at our neighborhood yard sale.

It was a beautiful upright

that had been played lovingly

by its previous owner

for many decades.

When she passed away,

her husband felt it needed a new owner to keep it in tune

and feel the kind touch

of a player's fingers.

When he saw how my little boy

looked at the piano,

how he quietly stood beside it

and raised the fallboard

and rested his thumb on Middle C.

The gentleman leaned over

and told me

that it was ours.

No payment needed.

That man had been at each of my son's recitals ever since.

We'd adopted each other

as extended family members.

He'd even become a regular at our Thanksgiving dinners.

And he'd been checking in with us this week,

knowing the recital was today,

to see

how the practicing was going,

if nerves were rattled or calm.

I think there are always a few butterflies in his stomach when he performs.

But

playing had made him more confident in general.

Part of growing up is finding out what you love

and excel at

and which slots your brain and heart fit into

and music in general

and piano specifically,

had been a big piece of his puzzle.

He was a quiet kid.

Noisy, busy places could overwhelm him.

It was the same with me.

So I understood how good it could feel

to find something that was quiet

unless you asked it to make noise

something

you could take at your own pace

and step away from when you needed a break

his brain was good at understanding patterns

and when he loved something,

he loved it completely.

So it was no surprise that he'd become an astute and creative musician.

He astounded me

with his understanding of melody and key changes.

His ear could find things

that mine never could.

He picked up new pieces

at an astonishing rate.

This year he had more than his own selections to practice.

This year he'd be accompanying several other students,

helping them shine as they played their cellos and clarinets.

I know he took pride in this extra bit of responsibility.

And if he was nervous about anything,

it was for their songs,

not his own solo.

I was thinking of all of this

as I pulled up to the back door of the community center.

He had his lesson books and scores

in a bag at his feet.

And as he sat in the passenger seat beside me,

he played an imaginary keyboard on his knees.

His eyes were open,

but unfocused.

And I knew he was sitting in the performance hall in his mind.

After a moment,

he lifted his hands off of the invisible keys

and turned his face to me.

He looked excited,

but confident.

And it was such a joy

to see those twin sparks in his eyes.

He gathered up his books,

took a big breath,

and opened the car door.

I waited till he made it inside the building

and went to find a parking spot.

When,

a little later,

I made my way

through the front doors of the center

and into the auditorium.

I saw a small contingent

of family and friends

already taking up a row of seats

and joined them.

Our friend,

who had given us our piano,

was sitting beside my own father.

The two of them had become good friends over over the years

and were chatting away

as they read through the recital program.

I waved at a few neighbors and parents of other students that I knew.

The room was perfect for music and theater,

with high ceilings

and a dais of glossy hardwood.

The seats had come out of an old movie theater,

but were re-upholstered and comfortable,

the kind that flipped up when you stood,

with generous armrests

and number tags on the edge of the seat.

As I settled in

and picked up a program,

I remembered the recitals

I'd been part of in my own childhood,

chilly gymnasiums

or stuffy cafeterias

with the tables pushed back against the walls

Folding chairs and too much overhead lighting

Standing on a riser

with the other altos

Looking at the lines of the basketball court

painted on the floor

still

they had been thrilling moments

for my young heart

and I was thrilled now

for those who would perform for us tonight

The auditorium filled up

and the lights dimmed.

Voices hushed

and the shine on the lid of the grand piano

that stood center stage

seemed to glow brighter.

The first few performances

were from this season's first-year students.

And I couldn't believe

how small they seemed,

their feet swinging from the piano bench

as they played their simple

but sweet songs.

Had my own son been that small

just a few years ago?

The crowd applauded with affection and indulgence for each piece.

Then came students with slightly more complicated pieces

And even

when there were a few wrong notes,

we all smiled out at them,

proud,

even when they weren't our own children.

Because really,

they all were.

A small group of string players

stepped onto the stage,

and my son took his place

at the piano behind them.

He'd explained to me

that when he accompanied others,

he was there to fill out the sound,

not to shine.

He kept the rhythm.

He grounded the sounds.

I loved that

he understood the value in playing that role.

I don't know that I would have had the maturity for that

when I was his age.

I watched an oboeist look to him

to begin her piece.

How he lifted his shoulders

to show that he was about to play

the first chord.

Finally,

the last group of students began to play.

Their arrangements were more complex.

And I found myself closing my eyes,

following the notes

as they rose and fell in my ears.

He wasn't the last to play.

There were still more studied performers

who would go after him.

But when he sat down for his solo,

it certainly felt like the peak moment of the evening to me.

I'd heard this piece played

from every room in the house

when I'd been making dinner or folding laundry,

when I'd been in the backyard filling the bird feeders,

and several times when I'd been awoken by it

on a Saturday morning,

but it sounded especially wonderful tonight.

I didn't worry that he might lose his place.

So, what if he did?

I just enjoyed the notes and melodies

When the final chord sounded,

there was a beat of silence in the large room,

and I looked down the line

of our friends and family

to see a dozen faces beaming back at me.

We began to clap.

Sweet dreams