Warrior

By Natalie Zhang

I felt around for my pendant, but only touched bare skin. My head spun, beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Step by step, I neared the circular spotlight in the center of the otherwise dark stage. The light glared into my soul, like a car’s headlight on a deer. I took a deep breath.

My first encounter with the piano was when I was in Mother’s womb – curled up tightly, bathing in hours and hours of music. From infanthood, Mother nursed me with a CD player beside her, playing various concertos by Mozart or Beethoven. While other babies would be soothed by a snuggly teddy bear, my Mother’s collection of CDs became my sense of comfort. When I grew older, Mother would recite a piano piece every night before tucking me in. There was something about the way she stroked the keys, or the way she closed her eyes when playing in espressivo, that drew me in. The way Mother’s piano sang was so alluring that I was determined to make it sing with my own two hands.

Beginning my own piano studies was not easy; it was often frustrating, hearing notes that did not exactly match what was in my mind and my fingers not moving the way I had told them to. Luckily, my mother held my hand through the whole journey, aiding me in every little baby-step.

Nevertheless, I came across many hurdles. My first competition was an absolute disaster; I had been overcome by my nerves during my performance and messed up terribly, vision blurring and head spinning. I exited the stage with tears streaming down my face and endless doubts swimming in my head. Mother greeted me backstage with a jeweled box in her hands, covered in an ornate pattern and laced with ribbons. I was initially confused as to why she gave me a present since I thought that I had disappointed her with my performance. My confusion was cleared when she untied the ribbon on the box.

“This,” she began, “will be your friend for many years to come.” In her hand dangled a brilliantly silver pendant with sparkling jewels on the sides. “Look,” she said, pointing at an intricate detail etched into the pendant, “this is a symbol of your strength as a musician. Touch this necklace before you play and you will play like a warrior.” I squinted, finally seeing the shape of a sword – similar to that of the Roman gladiators – glowing in the light.

I was never the superstitious type, but I always found my fingers caressing the pendant before lowering onto the keyboard. It became habitual, and soon, I began to believe that there actually was magic in the sword that gave me strength.

With the pendant, I was invincible. My opponents would watch me from backstage with their jaws wide open, gawking at my extreme technique and sophistication. I loved to perform, but it was the awestruck look on my competitors’ faces that brought me the most satisfaction. Every note became a slice of my enchanting sword, straight into the judges’ hearts, each planned strategically to outdo my competitors. The stage was my arena, and when the spotlight was on me, I executed every stroke of the keys precisely, like a warrior would with her sword.

Today was different. My pendant was gone, leaving me with just my overwhelming nerves and trembling hands. I felt naked; the stage light that had always fueled my strength made me feel vulnerable. I saw the judges’ eyes gleam in the dark audience, tracing my every move like predators ready to pounce.

All of the trauma from my first competition came rushing back; I even considered turning around and sprinting as far as I could from the piano. Clenching my fists, I resisted this urge. I can do this, I told myself.

Once I began playing, I felt my nerves begin to ease. I was the equivalent of a warrior in combat without her sword, so I completely abandoned my usual sequence of meticulously planned moves. I performed without a plan, taking spontaneous risks and allowing myself to be completely absorbed into the music. Surprisingly, I still felt the inner strength that illuminated inside of me when I had the pendant. I brightened as I realized that perhaps I did have my sword, engraved into my heart after all these years. My hands glided back and forth on the keys, while my head bobbed gently to the rhythms. When my programme came to an end, an unknown emotion coursed through my veins. My heart continued to thump violently, but a wide grin formed on my face.

I finally realized what Mother meant by playing like a warrior. Instead of using the pendant with the sword for destroying competitors, she was referring to the importance of the inner strength of a musician. Music isn’t like sword fighting. Music isn’t meant for outdoing opponents in a competition. Music is meant for expressing and feeling emotions. The feeling of being embraced by your mother’s playing before bed. The feeling of dozing off to a CD player humming beautiful melodies. Feelings that were completely drowned out by my superficial desires to win.

I took a deep bow, bathing in the triumphant light on stage. Everyone was looking at me, the warrior who has defeated her one true enemy: not her competitors, but her own mindset.