The courage to keep playing

Today, Petra played in the Saskatoon Music Festival for the very first time. Her piano teacher sat behind us and when her name was called, both of us whispered words of encouragement. And when Petra got to the piano, she didn’t hesitate. I think her fingers hit the keys before her body touched the piano stool. I’d like to say it was confidence kicking in but I think it was more like ripping off a Band-Aid.

Immediately, there were eighth notes in the left hand, even and precise. I was impressed! But the tempo? Alarming. I felt it in my body, that sensation like watching someone run downhill too fast. You know they’re gonna wipe out, you just don’t know when.

And then it happened. A stumble. Those quick notes tripped into silence. Barely missing a beat (pun not intended, but now I’m keeping it), she picked herself back up and ran again. And another trip. One last tiny skip and she was back on track with those beautiful eights, finishing the piece. She bowed. The audience clapped and we all went back to silence while the adjudicator’s pencil kept moving.

Several more children played after Petra. I couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or proud, or just relieved it was over. She’s not an easy read, my girl. Her music teacher and I whispered about how proud we were, because we were, but I also worried. Would this experience shrink her confidence? Or maybe (oh please be this one) grow it?

Then came adjudication.

And here’s where the day surprised me.

The adjudicator, a woman with an expressive voice and gentle eyes named Cherith, began by complimenting Petra’s left hand technique. “The Alberti bass moves fluently along with ease,” as it says on the marking sheet. She acknowledged the speed, sure. Suggested relaxing the tempo. But her tone was kind, constructive, and full of respect. I felt like she saw the whole picture: the bravery, the skill, and the very human reality of getting knocked over and choosing to get back up.

Honestly, I wanted to hug her. The adjudicator, I mean. But also Petra.

And sitting there in the audience, I couldn’t help but think back to one of my most memorable experiences at Saskatoon Music Festival, over 30 years ago now. I played the festival many times with both trumpet and piano.

In this particular memory, I was probably about Petra’s age and was entered in a piano session. My piece was by Béla Bartók, a modernist classical composer. It was lyrical and expansive and had a kind of weirdo elegance. I remember feeling confident walking up to the stage. But the moment I sat down at that piano, all the notes evaporated. I stared at the keys thinking, Pretty sure it’s in C minor? I took a few moments to look poised and invite the music to return. I could fake confidence pretty well, but the melody? Completely gone.

Dear reader, this moment will live rent free in my head for the rest of my days. When I couldn’t conjure Bartók back…

I MADE UP A SONG.

When it came time for adjudication, the woman smiled at me with a bemused sort of grace. “Well,” she said, “that wasn’t Bartók. But it was interesting.” Obviously, I didn’t win my category (Tatrina probably did… she always did haha!), but I didn’t burst into tears either. And hey, interesting isn’t the worst thing I could have offered.

So today, as I watched Petra take her bow and receive her own kind, insightful feedback, I felt a little link in the chain between generations. A reminder that bravery doesn’t always look polished, and that showing up, no matter how imperfectly, is its own kind of triumph.

I hope Petra remembers this day not just for how she played, but for how she kept going.

Maygen