She had broken her first violin. Her parents really had no business giving a violin to a two-year old, but clearly they had seen something.
In the following years, she and her instrument were inseparable. At every family occasion, the call came for her to “play something for us.” She gladly obliged because, perhaps more than anyone, she loved the resonating sound of the gently stroked strings.
She grew in fame, firstly in her little town, but soon she was known nationwide. She toured, playing at schools churches and small music halls. As the crowds grew, she felt a strange stirring inside of her. It was not fear or nerves. She loved music, and she even loved being with people who loved music. But something felt wrong.
The big day came for her first performance on a national stage. Her debut time came and went. The crowd grew restless as they waited, but no one took to the stage to offer a reason for the delay. After almost two hours, she appeared. She walked onto the stage, tentatively, violin in one hand and her bow in the other.
“I almost didn’t make it to this stage today,” she said. “I’ve come to the realisation, that I am not a performer.”
There was a murmur of confusion from the crowd.
She continued, “All my life, I have played my music, but I have never performed. I was always sharing my music with people.”
“I want to continue sharing, playing at small intimate venues where I can see the colours of people’s eyes and feel their palms as we shake hands.”
“So, ladies and gentlemen, this will be my first and last performance,” she raised her instrument. “As I said, I am not a performer, but I’ll make this one exception for all of you.”
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