“You’re on oboe vacation,” my graduate school professor said. “No playing until I tell you to.”
Those were the words I’d dreaded hearing ever since crippling finger tension set in that morning.
“What am I supposed to do then?” I asked.
“Whatever you want,” he replied, with joyful enthusiasm. “Do the other things you love.”
I couldn’t fathom what he meant. I love music, more than anything. But it’s also my job. Music is not only my primary source of self-expression but also my primary source of income as a freelance oboist. Every practice session is both an exercise in creativity and a checklist of skills to work on in my craft: daily scales, long tones, excerpts, and all kinds of repertoire.
Later that day, I recounted to my partner the involuntary separation from my oboe. He suggested cooking a nice dinner and watching a show I like.
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Listening to music, I made myself grilled salmon with quinoa and sat down to “Gilmore Girls.” I couldn’t focus on anything: not even the taste of the food or one of my comfort shows. I realized that even my relaxation is tied to my music-making.
After dinner, my stomach was full, but my heart felt empty. As an oboist, I spend countless hours scraping and crafting reeds. Whenever I am on Netflix, I have a piece of bamboo cane in hand. Sitting in front of the screen, I couldn’t seem to get over the guilt of my idle hands. I decided to hit pause on the show and just sit with this discomfort.
One question racked my brain: Who am I besides a musician?
I grabbed my journal and a pen and opened to a blank page. I started from the basics: My name is Emily Mendez, 22 years old. I have two cats.
My oboe had been my fifth limb for practically a decade.
I feared that letting myself exist without the thought of making music would erase that part of me. Lying down on my bed, my foot fell asleep. I lost feeling in it. Then it hit me: Just because I’m not using a limb at a moment doesn’t mean it’ll disappear. If that were true, we would wake up limbless every time we fell asleep. I decided to let myself put that ghost oboe limb to rest.
I sat with that empty feeling. Laying on my side, I stared at the Vincent Van Gogh “Sunflowers” poster on my wall. Rough brushstrokes remind me of a faint memory that lay in my childhood bedroom. Around 2010, before I even knew what an oboe was, I won first prize at my school’s art fair for a framed oil pastel piece.
I suddenly recalled the joy and peace I felt when drawing the petals of a flower, with no concern about perfection; just letting my hand move across the page, layering all sorts of colors that felt right. Winning was nice, but the pride I felt didn’t compare to the joy of creating the piece.
I felt compelled to open a drawer that I hadn’t since my recent move. I found my set of oil pastels, untouched for years. Grabbing some paper, I started creating a forest landscape with rich dark green pines under a glowing full moon, with a rocky creek running through the middle. I lost myself in the painting for hours, with no pressure at all to create a perfect product.
After, I journaled about the experience and the fog around my initial question — Who am I besides a musician? — had cleared.
I am Emily Mendez, an empathetic, hard-working, and obliging woman. I like to paint, read off-kilter indie books with unlikable main characters, and write free-form poetry. I am a loyal and passionate partner, daughter, sister, and friend.
The next afternoon, my professor met to check in with me about the tension. After doing some stretches together, I closed my eyes and thought about the lightness of my hand when painting. Translating that to my playing, I found the tension gone when holding my oboe. My fingers floated on the keys. I realized that playing my instrument had become a daily test of my fundamental self-worth. How could I not be tense when my entire sense of self relied on one singular thing?
Ever since this realization, I’ve found my love for my music-making come back stronger than ever. I’m playing at a level I could’ve never imagined. Playing without pressure has freed me.
This freedom has expanded other areas of my life as well. Now, I am so much more present for my friends.
The conductor dismissed us, wrapping up a difficult three-hour orchestra rehearsal. I tried to pack up as fast as I could to head home to my apartment and my cats. However, two of my new friends intercepted me on my way out and asked if I wanted to grab dinner with them. The last thing I wanted to do was be around anyone, but then I remembered that I shouldn’t let one bad day affect me. Reluctantly, I agreed, and we headed out.
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At the restaurant, I was totally engrossed in the conversation. In one dinner, I learned so much about them and made so many great memories. My perceived failure in rehearsal was so far in the back of my mind, that I forgot about it for hours. When it finally came back to me, it was simply a fleeting thought.
On my walk home, I looked at my surroundings, taking in everyone around me, the sights, the beautiful fall trees. The meaningful connections I had made had me beaming. For the first time in a long time, I was excited to get back to playing. When I realized that the key to unlocking a happy life, personally and professionally, was to reconnect with myself as an individual, the world became a happier place. Though the world tends to value work ethic above all else, I don’t need to uphold this rigid standard. I’m unique and special and deserve to be happy, no matter what my professional life may look like.
Recognizing my inherent value as a person has been the first step to true success and happiness.