January 2020 was a huge month of growth. It had to be. My grandmother died, but I still had to play two important auditions for graduate school on viola, with the recital length repertoire list they required. I prayed so hard that my grandmother would stay healthy at least until my recital was over– at least until the end of the year– and hopefully for the decade longer that we had expected– but God had other plans and she was ripped from our lives on only the third day of a new year. It was devastating. My grandfather had also died at thanksgiving, and I felt we had not even recovered from that. I was feeling heartbroken, and angry, and lacking in energy, and somehow I had to pull off these auditions.

What got me through was Greta Gerwig’s Little Women. For those familiar with the story of Little Women, Beth– the musical sister– dies young, leaving her sisters and parents to mourn her. When Beth gets ill she nobly says “We have to accept God’s will.” Jo, just as nobly (though perhaps less devout), says “God hasn’t met my will yet. What Jo wills shall be done.” But then, since Jo is not God, her determination can’t save Beth. Jo is still left alone, mourning her sister, and wishing that she had a partner to console her like her sisters did. It is in this moment of ultimate weakness that Jo begins her masterpiece novel: Little Women.

Disaster struck a fire in her heart and she made art from the fire.

I determined after watching the writing scene (three times) that I would do as Jo did. I would take the fire in my heart and make art out of it.

I think sometimes we see life as a hindrance to art: something that keeps us out of the practice room. But in fact, art without life is just dots on a page. It means nothing, absolutely nothing.

I have a good friend that told me recently that I was holding back emotionally when I played and I was. Playing with all of the emotions in my heart was too difficult because then I had to face them. I had to face missing my grandparents, I had to face being mad at God that they were taken from me in such a quick fashion, I had to face my loneliness, I had to face my fears, I had to face my utter desperation, I had to face the fact that I care so much about so many people and I could lose them. And I’ve never played better in my entire life. Because finally, I knew what the notes meant. Now when I play Bach D Minor it’s a plea with God. It is a prayer. It is crying in the dark and wishing my grandmother would come back to me. It’s no longer simply string crossings and chords. It’s actually art.

So when life happens, and we try to run away from it by going to the practice room, let us remember that life is the only thing that makes our work in the practice room beautiful anyways. Life– the good, the bad, the ugly– is the only thing that can turn notes on a page into ART. And for those of you that aren’t artists for a living, when life hits hard (and it always does eventually) try making art from the rubble. It might just get you through.