Walking a Tight Rope

World Famous Muriel. We made Aunt B read the story over and over again. Muriel was our favorite detective. She saves the day by returning all the stolen paper lanterns just in time for the Queen's birthday party and then gets to walk the tightrope in front of all the party guests. She's wearing her blue hat as she puts one pointy shoe in front of another. She safely makes it to the other side without a glitch; no need for the safety net below. That's just one of the reasons she's World Famous.

* * *

When I practice my violin, I like to balance on one foot. Maybe because of Muriel, or maybe because that's how cousin Matt plays sometimes, and he is almost World Famous. He travels around winning fiddling contests, which, in my book makes him very nearly World Famous. It drove my Mom nuts when I was younger, but I found the balancing act slash bowing exercises routine just the ticket to pass the tick-tock of the clock a little quicker.

In the recital the week before, things had gone perfectly; flawlessly. So well, in fact, that my teacher let me skip my lesson that week, as long as I practiced my Federation piece several times a day, and at least once in front of an audience of two or more people. I flew through my piece, every note memorized. Every crescendo. Every coda. I had the music there as my safety net, and not once during that week did I lose my balance.

* * *

My mind went blank. My body froze, except that it couldn't freeze. Not here. Not now. Not when I was on stage without my music as a safety net to break my fall. The piano went on as I bobbled back and forth with my violin bow, air brushing the strings. I tried to picture the staff in my mind, the place on the page where I had tripped up. Missed a note. Skipped a passage. Nothing. I looked out at my Mom, my stand-in safety net. The music was sitting on her lap. I desperately hoped her eyes held the answer. That the notes could somehow be written on her forehead. The pianist played to the end of the section and stopped. It was just me now. Solo. In a room full of fellow violin students, proud parents and picky judges, Queens awaiting my Big Top performance on the tightrope and I was desperately trying to find my way to the other side. That was the moment I knew I was anything but World Famous.

It was minutes before I was able to compose myself, conduct a little detective work as to where I was in my piece and get back on track. Even then, I was only able to remember a few lines. At the end, I paused at the tip of my bow as I'd been taught, took a bow, and sat down. I was humiliated. Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched the next student and the next and the next, all perform unchained melodies that rang through the acoustically-sound room, rendering the safety net surplus.

When the certificates were handed out, I was marked an entire level below almost everyone in the room. I knew it, and I knew they knew it. I had failed. Fallen face-down into the net and stayed there. I was afraid to get back up again. How could I rebound after such a fall?

* * *

The next year, my Federation score was crucial. With my previously poor performance, I had already forfeited my chance at a gold cup. But this year I was eligible. With stage fright at an all-time high, I took my place on the stage. Poised and prepared, I played the best I could. I left that night, not world-famous, but with a gold cup in hand, just famous enough to start practicing my bowing exercise balancing act once again.

There is something to be said for taking risks. For preparing. For getting up on that tightrope and taking the first step...and the second...and the third. For putting one foot in front of the other until you slowly reach the other side, not matter how long it takes. Stand tall. Breathe deep. Plant your feet firm. Keep your head level and your eyes skyward. Then, if you happen to fall, take advantage of the rebound. Enjoy the possibilities of it. Sure there will be other performers around us whose lives are an unbroken chain of perfect melodies. Those who hit every note. However, for most of us the ascending path is punctuated by times of descent and downfall. But, there is always a second chance. As the author Sam Keen (who knows a bit about falling into nets himself) states, "What I have managed to create after falling has often turned out to be better than the trick I planned. Failing gives fallible human beings the chance to start over." This is why man, woman, and society needs a safety net. Even World Famous girls name Muriel.

muumuus and minuets

First there was Cristin, who, at seven a.m. looked like a Barbie doll, her eye-liner, shadow and lipstick as if it had been hand-painted by the manufactures of Mattel. The pink Barbie Mobile was just behind the violin studio doors. I was sure of it. It took her to all the musical events around town, and she always got priority parking. She was the picture of perfection, teaching Suzuki with style.

Then, there was Judy. Night and day wouldn't begin to describe their differences. Judy went make up-less, unless she was playing for the Utah Symphony, and even then, it was lipstick and a little mascara. Judy roamed her house teaching minuets in a Hawaiian muumuu. She had dozens. Pink, yellow, blue, green. Going from Barbie to frizzy-haired, au naturale muumuu-wearing Judy was an adjustment, but how I grew to love Judy. Every aspect of her. Her dry wit. Her mechanical pencils. Her 70's style spectacles. I even grew to love Twinkle, her dog.

Her house smelled of rosin, xerox machines and dried out Crayola markers. Her piano ledge was peppered with markers of every shape and color. She slipped sheet music between them, creating a make-shift stand. A radial rainbow of marker lids spread out on the carpet beneath the piano bench, creating a colorful cushion for Judy's orthopedic shoes. She'd pump the piano pedals with the tick, tick, tick of the metronome, in her orthopedic shoes, smashing marker lids as she'd go.

Any time I'd arrive at my lesson with a crisp new Vivaldi, Bartok or Gluk, and before we could begin, Judy would scamper down the stairs to the xerox machine, her muumuu fluttering with every quick step. She'd come back in the studio with a fresh copy of my piece ready for marking. There was method behind her markers: green meant second position; purple meant third; orange was fifth. -0-0- meant "watch out" (a type for Judy's 70's shades) meaning, even if she wasn't there, she was always watching (think Big Brother in a muumuu). By the time federation or a recital came around, my music had been copied at least four times, hues turning to black with each copy, making room for new colors, new codes. Judy would plunk out the melody on the black and white piano keys, pausing to make any necessary marker editions. I'd follow along as best I could, paying attention to all the marks on yet another concerto of many colors.

I've had some recent run-ins with a few teachers as of late - one past violin teacher (not Judy) and another elementary school teacher. They still have those kind teaching, nurturing eyes. I want to tuck myself under their wing of wisdom and reap everything from their very beings. N still has those sparkley blue eyes and Miss P. still has the license plate that says JP 4 BYU. I'm sure Cristin has kept up the oil changes on her Barbie Mobile, and I have no doubt Judy still meanders in her muumuus, humming minuets as she scampers up and down the stairs to the xerox machine.