Meg Donahue is cofounder and chief creative officer of MamaSezz.com, an online enterprise that works to "revolutioniz[e] the snack space with convenient, whole-food, plant-based delights."
BRATTLEBORO-I went to a recital recently at our town's music center, which, against all odds and economic logic, is a world-class space nestled in a community of just 13,000.
The building is light-filled and elegant, the acoustics finely tuned, yet it feels entirely rooted in this place. It is a town with more heart than money, where people show up for each other, and, when needed, for Brahms.
There were about 20 performers: children so small their feet dangled from the benches, teenagers doing their best to appear casual, and a few brave adults who decided later in life to chase the music they had once put aside.
And one of them nearly cracked me open.
* * *
She was older, probably over 40, and she stood in front of a full auditorium. Her young son walked to the piano and sat down. She stood beside him, holding a violin, stiff and visibly nervous. Her bow trembled slightly. This was a recital, after all, and nerves were expected.
The room was full of families, with parents, siblings, aunts, and uncles gathered to support their own children or loved ones.
We waited. I felt anxious for her.
I didn't know her, but her vulnerability was familiar and human, and I silently willed her to succeed. "You can do it," I whispered. I wasn't alone. The whole auditorium seemed to hold its breath.
They began. Her son's small hands played the opening notes. She followed, her sound uncertain at first, stiff, then slowly unfolding into a melody. We all exhaled a little, but not completely.
Then, she lost her place.
Her face tensed. Her son slowed down, trying to hold space for her, hoping she would find her way back in. Her bow shook again. Panic crept in. She stopped playing.
The silence returned. This time it felt heavier. Her voice trembled as she spoke. "About a month ago, I picked up my violin after being away from it for 30 years."
We felt her fear. Her vulnerability was total.
The audience erupted into encouragement.
I found myself out of my seat shouting, "You got this!" as if I were at a soccer game rallying the team.
Then something unexpected happened.
A professional violinist jumped onto the stage, violin in hand, and stood beside her. "We'll do this together," she said with a kind smile.
Stunned but open, the woman lifted her bow again. The professional played alongside her, gently steadying the rhythm and smoothing out the nerves. Slowly, the woman found her place. She finished the piece.
When it ended, the auditorium rose to its feet in applause.
* * *
It was not about precision. It was about courage. We all knew what it took to stand in front of your community and try your best at something you love and seemingly fail.
But the strange and beautiful thing is that no one saw failure. We saw bravery. We saw inspiration. We saw the deep joy of being able to support someone's leap into the unknown.
That is the magic and the necessity of the arts.
As William Carlos Williams wrote: "It is difficult / to get the news from poems, / yet men die miserably every day / for lack of what is found there."
It wasn't about perfect notes. It was about the unspoken music that binds us, an ordinary afternoon transformed by the extraordinary joy of being part of something larger than ourselves.
This Voices Essay was submitted to The Commons.
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