Her opening notes pierced the shadows of the darkening sky and startled me like lightning strikes illuminating a barren landscape. More than sounds, more than beauty, what her bow pulled from the strings spoke of experiences more foreign to me than even her native language. I still remember her name - Dasha.

The year was 1983 and I had just graduated from High School. I was at a boy's boarding school of all places, in the middle of the country about a two-hour drive from London. It was a massive, yet elegant structure: a singular, long, two-storied building with large, impeccably-maintained, grassy fields in front and a shady grove of trees in the back. It was a dreamlike place. An ideal setting for the inspired musical compositions of Haydn, Brahms and Beethoven to settle into the hearts and minds of young, aspiring, string players and solidify their allegiance to classical music forever.

The sun had set, but there was still light enough in the sky to cast linear impressions of the large window frames across the desks and chairs. Gazing outside, I could see the blurry shapes of a line of trees across a small patch of grass and the paved paths that wandered off into its secret places, disappearing into the darkness. 

This room that we had snuck into was detached from the main building and served as a rehearsal space during the day and a hideaway of sorts for us in the evenings. We were alone here, communicating back and forth in the only language we had in common: music. Using the only tools at our disposal: our violins.

We were exchanging excerpts from pieces that we had been working on. I played the opening measures of Prokofiev's Violin Concerto in G minor that I had performed with an orchestra a few months earlier. Now it was her turn. She stood before me, violin and bow in hand. Fearless. Prepared. Eager. 

She played the opening measures of Saint Saens’ Violin Concerto in B minor.  The music spoke of Strength and Sorrow, Grief and Resilience but her interpretation took it to depths that I had never known existed. What did my new friend know of these things to be able to speak of them in this way? What would I give or be willing to sacrifice to have what she had, to make the music speak for me?

The following night I separated myself from the rest of the group and went into the room alone. I was troubled because earlier that evening I had performed poorly at an impromptu musical gathering. I was feeling sorry for myself, frustrated at my mistakes and embarrassed that I had teared up in front of everyone. Many of the students at this chamber music retreat were exceptionally accomplished musicians and I was struggling to keep up. Staring out into the darkness, I thought back to the previous evening with Dasha and tried to recall my impressions and the questions I had asked myself as I listened to her play. 

Did I believe that music was more than just notes on a page? More than a tidy performance of perfectly executed musical phrases? Or, did I believe I could use my violin as a tool to transform my own experiences into a musical Odyssey as Dasha had done, giving voice to my emotions and channeling them into something more powerful and real than I could even comprehend?

That night, I played for myself and for myself alone. I played for what seemed like hours. The blackness of the night enveloped me in a protective shield and the stoic silence of the trees promised to keep my secrets. I played fearlessly and freely and emerged from that room with a clarity of mind and soul: music had called to me and I would answer.

Image Credit: My marked up Prokofiev music -- all suggestions from my teacher, Anne Crowden.