Saturday morning in St. Michael’s Church …

We cellists (about 40 of us – not 25) played six short pieces: Cranes, Oblivion, Russians, something from Haydn, something from Mahler and something from Coldplay.

As we waited outside the church for the door to be unlocked, I sat down beside a girl, maybe 9-years-old.  “You’re the youngest and I’m the oldest.”  She smiled.

With the rehearsals we’ve had, I’m gradually learning names, and I greeted several colleagues as we unpacked our instruments.  We would rehearse in the sanctuary before “show time”.

My cello teacher is Lieven.  Vincent is the other one.  As we found our places on stage, I saw Vincent approaching.  He said he’d be playing next to me.  My first reaction was fear – a brilliant cellist beside a struggling one.  “He’ll hear all my wrong notes!”  My second reaction was embarrassment.  “The teachers think I need help.”

“Well what’s the truth, Bruce?  You do need help.  So suck it up and play!” 

Hmm … Bruce was right.

Vincent’s playing helped mine.  He demoed the correct rhythms.  For the first time I said “The rehearsal went well.”

And then the audience drifted in.  About eighty human beings would be cheering us on.  Family and friends know that we’re students, not professional.  There’ll be mistakes.  (Tell me about it.)

Now for real.  There were passages in some of the pieces where I was spot on: the right notes, the right rhythm, vibrato for the left hand fingers, expressive bowing for the right ones.  And … passion flowing through my body.  Cool.

Then there were those other times.  (Sigh)  Lost in a flurry of notes, losing my place in the pieces, the wrong pitch, the bow squeaking on the strings.  I was grunting rather than flowing.

However!  I kept my head up when the mistakes came.  I returned to playing with gusto after I figured out where I was in the piece.  And at the end I took a full bow with my fellow cellists.  We did it.  I did it.  And the audience applauded.

That was Saturday morning.  In the afternoon, the fatigue flooded me … just in time for my nephew Jagger returning to Gent from Italy.

And new adventures beckoned …