I have an interesting relationship with my cello. Compared to many musicians my age, I often feel like a “late bloomer”. Although there is some video evidence to suggest I encountered a live cellist at the age of 3, I was not reintroduced to the concept until the winter of my 4th grade year. Just after turning 10, my father took me to the violin shop and began paying the rent on my first cello—an instrument I chose for a handful of illogical reasons: fewer kids chose the cello than the violin, it was still small enough to squeeze onto the bus, and it had a cool “mustache”. There was no reason to assume on that first day that I would stick with the cello for as long as I have, and neither my parents nor I had any inkling of the places music would take me.
After we left the violin shop with my first cello, my father bought me a CD: Yo Yo Ma’s Appalachia Waltz. It was the first time that I truly appreciated instrumental music, and I was excited at the prospect of playing like that someday. I was also daunted. It was the first of many days and experiences I would share with my cello as music performance became an established and routine part of my education and childhood.
My cello grew up with me. I have taken it on numerous bus rides, I’ve danced with it, I’ve taken naps with it, I’ve played it in many chamber groups and orchestras, I’ve stuffed it into the backseat of the car more times than I can count. I’ve knocked it over, I’ve tripped on the endpin, I’ve fallen asleep sitting with my cheek against its shoulder, I’ve snapped strings, I’ve taken it to college. My cello and I have played auditions together, worked on pieces together, made recordings, and made mistakes. My cello puts up with all of my antics and doesn’t take offense when I chuck my bow against the wall in frustration. We’ve endured the laziest practice sessions and the most tedious. If my room is cold I wrap my cello in a blanket overnight. Sometimes we watch TV together.
And for all that I’ve put onto my poor, patient instrument, it has taken me farther than I could have imagined 10 years ago. In fact, one year ago I couldn’t have guessed where I’d be right now. I met Ronald Braunstein in late August 2010 as a cellist in the Vermont Youth Orchestra. I was captivated and energized by his passion (and his quirkiness). The start of that concert season held an enormous amount of promise, and I had never before engaged in a better, more unifying and cohesive musical experience. When Ronald and Caroline—a one-woman motivational act and pillar of my time with the VYOA—left the organization, it felt like the end of an era. And it was.
However, both of these remarkable and compassionate people faced a difficult, emotional, and daunting transition with a grace that ultimately produced the Me2/Orchestra. When Ronald and Caroline told me about their plan, I was both excited and curious. I was pleased at the prospect of working with them, and also intensely interested in where Me2/ would end up.
Nearly 6 months later, I cannot believe the growth of our orchestra and our community. And I would never have guessed that my musical path would lead me here. Me2/ has been a wonderful conglomeration of luck, optimism, circumstance, and good people. I feel lucky to be a part of the “tribe”. I am glad that out of the 4 evenings per week when I drag my cello out into the cold, jam it into the back of a car, roll it along gravel and ice, one of those evenings is spent with the Me2/Orchestra. Ronald’s musical spirit never dampens, and it inspires the music we make. Caroline’s optimism and drive give us direction. Each individual is compassionate, spirited, and committed.
Caroline’s most recent blog post posed the question: what does mental illness look like? It looks like the Me2/Orchestra, a community that embraces differences and promotes good health. We are all regular people, and we are all healthy in our pursuit of finding balance in our own lives. A mental “illness” isn’t a “sickness” or “unhealthy”, it is a struggle that every person experiences in some way—in his or her own life or in the lives of others. The musicians of the Me2/Orchestra—both those personally struggling and those impacted—are healthy, normal, talented people because they choose to create and participate in an environment where those values are promoted. You can’t glance across the room and point out which of us struggle with mental illness and which of us don’t. Fundamentally, we all struggle—to fight the stigma.
On a long list of experiences I never would have had without my cello, the Me2/Orchestra is one of the most remarkable. So many random circumstances brought me to it—that I happened be in the Vermont Youth Orchestra when Ronald arrived there, that I stayed in Vermont for college, that I even chose music in the first place. In 4th grade, playing the cello was about missing half of science class for my lesson and playing in the orchestra with the 5th graders. I picked it for arbitrary reasons—none of them even close to why I choose to stick with it now. For all of the places and circumstances in which I’ve taken my cello along with me, it has also taken me into a host of experiences like this one, affirming not only why music is so important to my life and my own mental health—but the ways in which it can make a difference for social change.
What does music look like? http://vimeo.com/2046250