“All You Have to Do is Listen”
About a month ago I was asked if I’d be willing to play the cello in the pit orchestra for a student directed version of the musical Parade that’s playing for one day at the beginning of April. Since many of the people involved are my friends and I knew the director was having a hard time putting an orchestra together I thought it would be a great experience and decided to help. I hadn’t played in a long time and my parents are always hinting that I should play more so I was ready for the challenge.
Funnily enough, at present I still haven’t actually told my parents that I’m playing in this orchestra and I honestly don’t know why. Is it because I’m ashamed? Perhaps. But I know that if I told them they would only be proud and a little bit surprised (like I mentioned earlier it’s been a long time since I’ve actually played anything more than a hymn or two). I think maybe I haven’t told them because telling them means admitting that I actually am ashamed that I haven’t played in so long. Telling them means that they were right: I really do regret not keeping up with it. It means admitting that every time I listen to classical music that features the cello, I feel a pang of remorse in my heart and sometimes I even cry. How did I get to this point? How is it that something I worked so hard at for so many years has become one of my deepest regrets?
When I came to BYU as a freshman I didn’t even bring my cello with me. First of all, it didn’t really fit in the car when we packed it up full of my other things, but second, I didn’t really plan on playing. My senior year of high school my family moved from South Carolina to Texas and, subsequently, I moved from a mentor of an orchestra director and an extremely advanced orchestra to, well, one that was definitely not that. I found myself hating orchestra and and never wanting to play, while at the same time feeling ashamed that I even felt that way to begin with. My new orchestra director was annoying, and I felt like he didn’t know what he was doing. Looking back I feel like that wasn’t really the case, I was just hostile because of my new environment and prejudiced by my old program. My new high school, however, did had something that my old one didn’t: a theater program.
For years theater had been something that I desperately wanted to get involved in. However, the small high school I attended in Lexington, South Carolina didn’t even have a theater to perform in: let alone any type of program to facilitate it. So, when I pulled up to my new high school during the summer to help with “tech week” for the drama club, my heart nearly exploded with joy. As I followed my printed-from-home map and came to the building marked “Theatre” my jaw nearly hit the floor. This building was everything I had hoped it would be, complete with stage, backstage, classrooms, and other technical amenities. I was amazed: up until this point I honestly thought that facilities like that were only given to fake TV and movie high schools. But now that I was standing in front of these big, red doors I knew this was my chance to try something new. Unfortunately, that meant throwing my cello on the back burner. My second semester, when it time to sign up for classes, I didn’t take orchestra. I stopped looking for a private teacher. I realigned my life to center around theater and the new family I was finding there. However, even as I made these choices a part of me was sad to leave my cello behind. There was a small voice in the back of my head (which, ironically, sounded very similar to my mother’s) which seemed to whisper, “You’ll regret this someday” after each step I took in my new direction. But, as time passed, I drowned out that voice with the sounds of the stage.
I started to thrive. I made tons of new friends and it seemed like they were closer to me than any I had back in South Carolina. I was involved in every event and activity that the drama department did and found myself constantly saying, “WHY did I not live here sooner!?” Ever since I was young I’ve always felt that I was born, as I like to say, “a generation too late.” It seemed that all the friends I made were in the year above me. All of the awesome school trip opportunities, festival experiences and plays were always happening the year before. Once again I arrived at an awesome opportunity years too late, and I think the desire I had to fight against this cruel, cruel “fate” was why I threw myself so completely into theater. Looking back it probably would have been easy to balance the two creative worlds, but regardless, I didn’t. So, when I finally did come to BYU my cello did not come with me. I was going to major in acting, star in all the mainstage productions, and that would leave no time for my cello - which I hadn’t touched in months anyway - so, it stayed in Texas. I figured I’d play at holidays back home and came to the conclusion (or justification) that it’d be like riding a bike - I’d pick it right back up. But I never did. Pick it back up I mean.
Instead of being a hobby to fall back on from time to time, my cello became a burden. In fact, up until very recently it has been a rather sore spot for conversation with my family. Various family members at various family get-togethers always seem to want to talk about “how Shannon used to play the cello” or ask me “So, that instrument we bought for you and listened to you play for 6 years, do you remember what it’s called?” And while I knew that they were all said in jest, it seemed to slowly warp my once healthy relationship with my cello. It especially hurt, I think now, because part of me knew that they were right - I DID feel sorry and sad that I no longer played. That sense of regret led to a sense of failure, and instead of feeling musically bonded to my cello, I felt emotionally chained to it. It became something I desperately wanted to get away from in conversation. Why couldn’t they ask me about what I was doing now? Theater and the stage was/is equally if not more important to me than my cello ever was, and nobody seemed to want to talk about it. So, when the time came to return to BYU after my first summer home I reluctantly brought it with me. I figured if I at least did that then my family would think I was playing again and would stop bothering me about it all the time. It took a few months but, in the end, I was right.
As I moved further along in my college career everyone started to realize how much of a passion I really do have for the theater. The questions at holidays became “What plays are you working on?” and “Have you auditioned for anything exciting lately?” and my cello slowly fell into the background. I thought I had finally found my niche, my creative home, with acting. However, after several failed attempts at getting accepted into the acting program, doubt once again started to plague me. I started to wonder what my life would have been like if I had stuck with my cello. Feelings of regret and failure once again started to fill my mind. As the school year came to a close I was faced with the decision of continuing in trying to pursue acting or looking to another vein of theater for emphasis. I became plagued with those same questions: How did I get to this point? How is it that something I worked so hard at for so many months has become something I’m not going to be able to pursue? If I don’t continue, will acting become yet another big regret in my life?
It was at that point that I decided to turn to something that I had been highly praised for in the past: my ability to work with stage makeup. I had taken the beginning class my freshman year and was told by the instructor that I should pursue the upper level classes, but gratefully ignored her to pursue my acting dreams. Now that I needed direction I my life, I decided to give her advice a chance. I met with a faculty mentor to talk about my graduation plan, and after many prayers and weeks of internal struggle I made the switch. I signed up for intermediate makeup and, well: the rest is history.
Stage makeup provided and outlet for me in which I was able to tap into the creative side of myself that hadn’t been tapped into since my cello days. I began to take control over my life and loved it. I quickly made many close friends, was proud of my work, and started to thrive in the backstage world of the theater. This time, I had actually found my niche: not only a creative home, but an emotional home as well.
I would still pick up my cello every now and again, when nobody was home, and try and play the music I used to be able to play by heart. When I was frustrated and alone I would try and play the music that would soothe me, or when I was feeling like a failure I would try and play some of the pieces that I remember being so proud of learning. Familiar feelings would arise as I played the music, and even though the songs were rusty, it felt good to play again. However, almost every time I would eventually get filled with regret and resentment about not being able to play like I used to, and how badly I felt I actually sounded, and as those feeling would take over I would angrily put my cello away and not touch it for months.
Then came Mari’s fateful text, “Are you busy Tuesdays and Thursdays from 3-6 and Saturdays from 10-1?” Texts like this are pretty common within my major and usually precede a request to help with a show. Thinking that Mari was going to ask me to help with makeup - and since the show I knew she was working on was a period piece - I jumped at the chance to tell her I was free. I’m always looking for opportunities to expand my horizons - and my resumé. Little did I know her request would send me on a completely different creative journey.
It’s funny to think that almost 4 years later the theater would be what brought me back to the instrument that I not-so-regretfully threw to the wayside. As I sit in rehearsals, I am filled with a flurry of mixed emotions. Part of me is absolutely thrilled to be sitting behind my instrument again. The feel of it’s sleek, wooden neck beneath my fingertips, the way it can only sing if I pass the bow along its strings. Something about creating this beautiful sounds touches me and I actually get a little teary during one of the numbers. It’s extremely embarrassing so I quickly pretend to have dropped something in order to wipe my eyes but at the same moment part of me doesn’t want to. I want to let the music flow through me and feel what I feel, but part of me still feels unworthy of it. The regret creeps back in and it’s almost as if, because I haven’t put in my time for the past 2 years, I shouldn’t be allowed to feel the payoff. But as I play I realize something: the regret that I feel is actually a good thing.
Without the regret, I don’t think that I ever would have actually picked up my cello again. I never would have agreed to play in the musical. For the longest time I felt it was my sense of regret that held me back, when in fact, it was moving me forward - driving me to pursue other veins of creativity. The regret was also a reminder of something that I think I had forgotten: that I CARED (or rather, that I CARE). Just because I don’t play very much anymore doesn’t mean I never cared. It doesn’t negate all the time and effort I put into my instrument over the years. It’s alright if I don’t practice my instrument for hours and hours every week. It’s alright for me to have other creative outlets. It’s alright as long as I do what makes me happy. And while my cello does that, I’ve found other things in life that make me happier - and that’s alright.
This information hits me like a tsunami of emotion that practically overloads my body as I sit on stage during our final dress rehearsal for Parade. That sense of catharsis combined with the adrenaline of performing leads to an interesting sensation within my body. I don’t quite know what to and part of me wonders how the performance will go if I just excuse myself to the bathroom and never come back. However, I stop myself and take a deep breath instead. “Here goes nothing!” I think to myself: and without regret, I begin to play.
