Flying Solo

Learning a skill that took my breath away

In junior high school, I could take art electives or learn to play an instrument as part of a woodwind band. Already visually artistic and up for a new challenge, I chose band and decided to play the flute. My parents, who didn’t have a lot of money, sacrificed to pay the fee for the flute I’d be renting.

The band teacher (and our conductor) was really warm, patient, and genuine. His love for music was infectious, and we students were eager to please him and were looking forward to becoming trained in the art of playing our selected instruments. A year-end band performance would take place at the school.

We were all learning how to blow into our instruments. I was learning the proper way to position my mouth and blow into the flute. I felt sorry for the oboe players – they struggled to get a sound out of their oboes, and when they did, the instruments sounded like a duck’s vocals.

But I couldn’t afford to be smug, for I had struggles of my own: I couldn’t get a sound out of the flute. Not. One. Sound. I faithfully brought the flute home from school and practiced each evening and weekends without having to be told to practice. But for some reason, I couldn’t get a sound out of this instrument. My practices were full of hot air and appallingly silent.

My inability to get a sound out of the flute was apparent in class, as well. The rest of the students were finally getting sounds out of their respective instruments, and even the oboe section was sounding pretty good. I worked with my teacher on improving my technique.

I fell way behind in the lessons on how to read music, thanks to my obsession with getting a viable flute sound. I obsessively blew into that musical instrument until I finally did the only thing my body knew how to do.

I passed out.

Turns out, desperate to get a sound from the flute, I exhaled far more than I inhaled. I wish I could at least say my unconsciousness was dramatic, such as me falling to the floor, with the flute crashing to the ground and people rushing to my side.

But I passed out like I played the flute – silently and undramatically.

When I regained consciousness, nobody even noticed. I was still sitting upright, flute still in hand. I have no idea whether my eyes were opened or closed, but I know this: I must have looked rather odd. And even worse, I missed the day’s lesson.

As time went on during band practice, my passing out became a regular pastime. When I finally became conscious, I realized that everyone was miles ahead of me in their musical prowess. Embarrassed and desperate, I followed the philosophy of “fake it til you make it.” While blowing into the unyielding, uncooperative instrument, I started randomly pressing keys, believing this faux flute playing would hide my incompetence.

My music teacher knew what was going on. He tried his best to give me pointers on breathing techniques and getting a sound out of the flute. He even had one of his former flute students give me one-to-one lessons while my classmates advanced musically..

“If you feel like you’re going to faint,” she said helpfully, “just stop playing and tell me.” I meant to listen to her. But I blew out all my air, knew I was going to faint, and I didn’t tell her. So I fell unconscious once again. Lesson lost.

One day during band practice, as I was fake-playing the flute and fake-reading the sheet music, a most magnificent note floated over our heads. I was so used to my imaginary concerto, I was unaware that the teacher asked everyone but me to stop playing. That beautiful solitary flute sound came from me.

Now, dear reader, this story is not about how I overcame adversity to reveal my mad flute-playing skills. This story is about failure.

When I realized that the sound came from my flute, that I was finally breathing properly, and that all eyes were on me, I stopped playing. “That’s beautiful. Keep going,” said my teacher, smiling widely. But I was rattled, and I tried to get another sound out of the instrument, but to no avail. This was my first and last flute sound, albeit a beauty.

The next day, I returned my flute to the school office and I proceeded to visual art class instead of band.

The excellent movie Mr. Holland’s Opus is partly about a high school music teacher, Mr. Holland, who spends decades helping students appreciate and learn to play music. What caught my eye was an amazingly relatable detail: one of Mr. Holland’s students, Gertrude Lang, had difficulty playing the clarinet. The music teacher never gave up on her and helped her improve so she could conquer her difficulty with the instrument.

I’m tenacious and work diligently to achieve my goals. Unlike Gertrude Lang, I realized that, for me, not conquering the instrument was the best decision.

So I tuned out of band and tuned into art. I’m not sure if I shared this years-old oil painting before, but here it is below, and I don’t even recall if I ever named it.

Here, my oldest nephew, who was a boy at the time, is overlooking a waterfall in all its scenic splendor. Whenever I gaze on this painting, I am reminded that being immersed in nature and in an artistic endeavor is always worthwhile.