My Christmas Carol

I locked my heart to the holiday spirit this year.  Yes, I played in holiday concerts and yes, I wished everyone holiday cheer, but I just didn't want to feel it.  But Christmas is insidious, winding and slithering its way into the heart of even the most stony Scrooge, and there were a few nights when I was caught up in the glimmering, hearty holiday and invited to ponder on the reasons why Christmas is so special.

Sam (my cellist), Katie (my violinist) and I (our pianist) were finishing finishing up a Tria Fata rehearsal last Monday.  It had been a great rehearsal -- we'd made some noticeable progress in the Mendelssohn C Minor, and the Babadjanian was just as exciting as ever; an added bonus: Sam's fiancee, Anna, had done a superb job of turning my pages.  As Sam was putting his cello back in its case, he said we'd been invited to play in "a living room concert" at the home of one of his students.  Katie wasn't too keen on the idea, and my only focus after a rehearsal is finding the nearest place to eat, but we decided we'd all go after, of course, finding Nic some food.  We needed the practice performing anyway, as we were preparing for an upcoming competition in Hawaii.

We giggled in the car on the ride over about Katie's newest crush and told her she should just go for it! I smiled as Anna scolded Sam over driving too fast around the icy corners of the twisty canyon.    And we all fawned over the loveliness of Anna's lemon-head-scented lotion while slathering it over our arms and hands.

We finally drove up to a beautifully lit, big and inviting house, its long front drive packed with minivans and SUV's.  It was a gorgeous house.  We're playing in there? I thought. We've played in mansions before, but this takes the cake.  A walkaround porch framed the perimeter, and large windows let their lights spill out on the snowy ground.  We knocked on the the heavy wooden door, soon to be ushered into a large foyer littered with shoes and coats and mittens of all sizes.  A brawling herd of five- and six-year olds ran, zipping around us to climb the stairs as we added own winter wear to the haphazard collection.  A big black lab sniffed at our instrument cases, and deciding we weren't a threat, wagged his tail and licked at our hands.  Paintings of a beautiful mother and each of her seven children smiled warmly, looked thoughtfully and embraced us quietly as we walked down a short hallway to the kitchen and music room  where everyone was gathered.

I was buzzing with the invisible, effervescent pillars of joy pulsating throughout the house full of adults and teenagers and children, all gathered to sample holiday treats and listen to a myriad of carols played by an array of performers.  I could not stop smiling.  Anna was standing next to me, "Can you feel the happiness?" I asked her.  She turned and looked at me, grinning that specifically elvish, Anna-grin.  "Yes," she whispered.  The mother-in-the-paintings came from the kitchen to greet us, welcoming us and telling us about the little girl who was at the piano, playing an Easy Note version of Jingle Bells.  She halted every time a new line of music began; she played a few bad notes; her rhythms weren't always perfect, but when she stood up, she was beaming.  So was everybody else, and we applauded like we'd just heard Krystian Zimmerman perform Beethoven's three last Sonatas at Carnegie Hall.  It was supreme, and it was delightful.

We heard all sorts of performances that night, all of them accompanied by the racket of boys chasing each other on the floors above us.  Some performers were beginners.  Others were a bit more experienced.  Some played classically rendered holiday favorites, others were a bit more down-home and twangy.  We heard fathers playing violin duets with their young daughters; middle-school girls singing sweet hymns penned by Christina Rosetti; and we watched young mothers directing their toddling youngsters  in dances about Santa Claus and sugar-plum fairies.

We were announced, and we went to the front of the room.   As Sam and Katie set up their chairs and stands, I stood up to say a few words.

"Oh, you guys," I said to the room full of happy people sitting on folding chairs from the nearest ward building, "We have had so much fun watching and listening to all of you who've performed!  As a trio, we play a lot of music over and over and over, trying to get it just perfect.  Sometimes we forget that music can be just a lot of fun.  Each of you has had so much fun!  Sometimes we classical musicians need reminding that music can bring people together, like it's done for all of us tonight.  Thanks so much of reminding us of that."

And then we played parts of our Mendelssohn and Babadajanian.  It wasn't seasonal music by any means.  We couldn't really hear each other.  We couldn't really see each other.  But we played, and we loved it.  And our audience loved it.  And it didn't matter that babies were crying or that dogs were barking or that the dishwasher was running on its highest cycle.  We were making music in a house that was brimming with love and merriness and cheer, and that was what we all needed.

The holidays are special because they do give us what we need -- Christmas invites us to take time to reflect upon the love in our lives.  It gives us means to recognize the need we have to share love with others.  As my best friend, Corey, put it in his blog,

"No matter who you are, how you were made (or how you believe you were made), or how people treat you, there are good people out there that love you in this world. There is no greater Christmas lesson than that."

I'm so glad I was reminded of this lesson in time to appreciate spending my Christmas with the people I love most.  I hope you had Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, too.