The Second Audition

I've had many frightening auditions in my life. In fact, auditioning as a teenager was stressful enough that I can honestly say it left some lasting scars.

Ironically, the most successful audition of my life was also one of the least stressful.

I was 14 years old, auditioning for the Minnesota All-State Orchestra for the first time. When I walked onto the stage, the auditorium lights were dimmed so I couldn't see the judges. For whatever reason, that made all the difference. It felt like I was completely alone, simply playing my violin in an empty hall.

I relaxed.

I played.

I forgot anyone was listening.

It wasn't until I heard the judges say, "Good job," and hand me a sight-reading excerpt that I remembered they were even there.

That audition went remarkably well.

Unfortunately, my best audition was immediately followed by my worst.

What I didn't realize was that after you make it into All-State, the first thing you do upon arrival is audition again—this time for your seat placement within the orchestra.

When I arrived at camp, I felt about as confident as a socially isolated homeschool teenager could feel. My sister Anne had made it too, so at least I knew one person.

And I had prepared.

I had practiced diligently. I had written in every shift and fingering. I had circled difficult passages and spent extra time working on them.

Then I walked into the audition room.

The judges took away my music.

Without warning, they replaced my carefully marked score with a clean copy.

Suddenly, I felt lost.

Without my notes, my landmarks disappeared. It was as if I were seeing the music for the first time. Needless to say, the audition did not go well.

(As a side note, I complained loudly enough afterward that MMEA eventually stopped requiring students to surrender their marked music during these auditions. I've confirmed this with my own students over the years. So at least some good came of my meltdown.)

The next day I learned that I had placed 15th out of 23 second violinists.

I was devastated.

Looking back, it's amazing how much emotional weight I gave that number.

I had already earned a place in the most prestigious high school orchestra in the state. I was spending a week surrounded by extraordinary musicians. I had a wonderful stand partner who did her best to cheer me up.

None of it mattered.

All I could see was the ranking.

To make matters worse, my sister had placed fourth out of twelve cellists. She had an incredible audition and was thriving all week.

Meanwhile, I spent much of camp feeling sorry for myself.

Nearly twenty years later, I can finally look back on that experience with a little grace.

What fascinates me now is how completely I overlooked the larger victory.

I had made All-State.

That was the accomplishment.

That was the dream.

But instead of celebrating what I had achieved, I became obsessed with where I stood in comparison to everyone else.

Apparently, it wasn't enough to be among the best violinists in the state. I wanted to be better than all of them.

And that's where I think the real lesson lives.

How often do we do this in everyday life?

We overlook the blessings already sitting in front of us because we're distracted by someone else's ranking.

We have a home, but wish it were larger.

We have meaningful work, but wish we made more money.

We have a loving marriage, but compare ourselves to someone else's highlight reel.

We pass the first audition but spend our lives worrying about the second.

Maybe the secret is learning to zoom out.

Maybe the important thing isn't where we're seated in the orchestra. Maybe the important thing is that we're in the orchestra at all.

Because when we're constantly comparing our position to the person ahead of us, we miss everything that makes the experience worthwhile.

We miss the music on the page.

We miss the friends sitting beside us.

We miss the joy of being part of something beautiful.

We miss the gift of simply holding the instrument in our hands and getting the chance to play.

And that's a shame. Because sometimes the first audition is the one that really mattered.

~ Mary