With a Little Help From My Friends

For some reason, it seems like kids are driven much harder these days than in my childhood.  Among the plausible explanations is the fact that I now see the world through adult eyes, while in my youth I was focused on my own journey.  I was pushed hard to be the best at everything at which I tried my hand.  “Unless you are the lead dog,” I was taught, “the view never changes.”  I never felt the pressure on all the other kids.

I took great pride in my personal accomplishments, especially those that involved music.  I worked hard—sometimes practicing the piano as much as 8 hours in a day--juggling my homework assignments to maintain good grades.  My childhood was a very self-centered existence.  While kids my age were experimenting with drugs, hippie-fashions, rock-n-roll, dating (I use that term loosely), I was perched at the piano trying to perfect difficult passages of a Rachmaninoff Concerto.  I wasn’t just a nerd; I was a nerd who tripped on Bach.

I never regretted the time I spent pursuing my musical interests, even when those activities isolated me from the social center of my classmates.  I was doing something that for me had its own natural gravitational pull.  I felt especially blessed to be able to perform the works of great masters proficiently.  I also felt a certain calling to do what others could not.   They say hard work is its own reward—but I was always very conscious of the doors that opened for me and others with musical skill.

Today I commit a lot of personal time to raising funds to support musical activities for students.  Across history, the arts are the most enduring artifacts of past civilizations; yet ironically, in a recession, the arts are the first targets of budget cuts.  No one wants to live in a world devoid of art and music.  But with a perceived public good, who takes responsibility for ensuring that the arts continue to be cultivated?  If we do not commit to keeping the arts alive, they will not continue to flourish.

Recently, I began thinking of all the ways that anonymous donors elevated my music studies with their support.  I had a scholarship to a summer music festival that gave me my first exposure to musicians beyond my own backyard.  I had a scholarship from the Miami Music Club that funded my piano lessons through much of high school.  I was a prize-winner in a local Concerto Competition—sponsored by the Kiwanis Club—that allowed me to perform with a major symphony orchestra.   I had a college scholarship that paid half of the tuition to a school that would otherwise have been far beyond my financial grasp.  While there, I had funding from the Office of the Arts on campus to help pay for the piano lessons I took at the New England Conservatory.  

All of these awards had one thing in common:  I never saw the faces of those who contributed to my success.  My life was made possible by dozens of generous grants from countless individuals whose only thanks was the small part I played in continuing to make music.  These are debts that can never be repaid.  Nonetheless, this does not expunge my obligation.  My slate is not wiped clean until I have successfully transferred an equivalent level of my own support to someone else’s debt column.

Tomorrow's blog:  Back in the Saddle, Again