My job with Pacific Northwest Ballet involves nearly 40 performances of the Nutcracker each season, and I calculate more than 850 times playing it so far in my career. When you play music day in and day out for your job, it can be easy to lose sight of why you became a musician. Sometimes I lose track of the ultimate goal of experiencing and expressing the joy in music and of sharing it with others. I can feel a disconnect with my audience if I am in the wrong mindset—considering it just another gig, just a repeat performance, or just a paycheck. Whether we are professionals pursuing lofty career goals of perfection or novices playing to the best of our abilities, the connection and meaningfulness to the listener is often the same. It’s not what we play, but what we convey that means the most to the listener. What a gift music is to be able to speak an international language that can connect to people on an emotional level of thought deeper than words.

For many in attendance, a concert is an escape from the mundane for a couple of hours, but for some it is much more.

This past December I had a poignant reminder of this toward the end of another marathon run of Nutcracker performances. As I arrived early in the pit to tune on the last exhausting double-performance day, my head was not all there. We had just had an epic snowfall, and on my way to the hall, my car slid down my driveway, nearly taking me over an embankment before my emergency brake stopped me. After coming to a stop, I got out of the car and promptly slipped and fell hard on the ice. As I lay there I briefly considered calling in to the gig injured (my pride suffering the worst of it) but “the-show-must-go-on” mentality kicked in, and I hitched a ride with someone who had four-wheel drive to get to the concert. Still reeling from my harrowing commute, just as I was about to start tuning I heard a voice from the pit railing above me in the audience. “I have never heard a harp before in person.” It was a daughter who was with her mother. I responded by playing an arpeggio and replying that she could now take that off her bucket list. The mother replied, “Coming here today is on my bucket list. I have cancer and won’t be around next year, so I am so excited to be here and get to see the show!”

Gut punch. Things just got real. 

My sister died young of cancer, leaving behind a toddler. Her birthday was in December, and it is always a bit of a somber time for me all these years later. I had a very honest conversation with this stranger who shared such personal information with me and as we discussed her prognosis (nothing short of a miracle would do), I told her that I would be dedicating my “Waltz of the Flowers” cadenza to her and thinking of her during it. Mother and daughter both wished me a merry Christmas, and I wished them well on the upcoming journey they were facing. Shaken, I finished tuning.

My orchestra colleagues, who knew nothing about my encounter, said the harp cadenza had an extra special touch that show. A friend who I discussed this with later responded, “She gave you a gift.” Yes, she did. She reminded me why I play music and how fortunate we harpists are. We never know who is listening in the audience and what their current circumstance may be. For many in attendance, a concert is an escape from the mundane for a couple of hours, but for some it is much more. It can provide a reprieve, some solace, or brief respite from a heavy burden. It may enhance a celebration of joy or romance. It may even connect with someone on a spiritual level. 

I have heard it said we rarely have a neutral interaction with another person, no matter how brief or trivial the encounter may be. We either leave them a little worse or a little better when our lives intersect. In this day and age of division I consciously try to make someone’s day a little better, from a grocery clerk to a stranger I pass on the street.

I am grateful my life intersected with that mother and daughter on a snowy day in December. I will remember the mother’s face with that flash of sparkle on her holiday hat almost resembling a halo. I will never forget her smile looking down at me, so happy and excited to hear the harp that day. I will always be grateful to her for the gift she unknowingly gave to me—a renewed and humbled appreciation for what musicians have the power to do and the opportunities music provides us to touch the lives of others. •