Dal Segno

The curtain was drawn back. The red velvet protector no longer a permeable membrane between me and the reality of performance. My fears settled in and replaced the blindfold that kept me hidden from the viewer’s glares. The listener’s ears.

I sat on stage in the center of the orchestra. Second row. Gazed through an eager lens at the sheet music on the stand that was pushed up far too high and obstructed the view of the conductor. I hyper-focused on the exposed parts of the legs of said stand. The metals peeking through the chipped black paint. The cold industrial reality demanding to be seen past the uniform exterior. Toes on the base and a yank upwards of the flat surface. I couldn’t see anymore… I was now solely focused on the sheet music before me. I couldn’t see them so how could I possibly be seen? I was trying to hide myself, and from people who didn’t even know I was there. How silly. It was part of the process. To be heard and not seen… how very backwards of me. How very me.

I was playing a five movement Maslanka piece entitled “Give Us This Day.” The solos were mine. They always were. Principle oboist comes with that advantage. But to fear the very definition of my role in the orchestra… to fear. To fear anything that wasn’t mediocre. To fear being known, recognized, in charge. Anyways. The lights in the house dimmed, went black. It was beginning. This was the very next beginning. There are numerous births and deaths in a piece of classical music. Swellings, reconciliations, awkward silences that feel like periods but are actually ellipsis… pauses before continuation. This is what I loved to do. To play. To twist the wooden reed in my mouth approaching my solo and to breathe. To feel. To count. To exist as more than just a singular entity. But to do all of this was to become lost and afraid… to overthink. Dal Segno. My familiar friend on that brown tinged paper passed down from generations before. Dal Segno. This story is about that. The Sign.

Step into the chaos of my mind for a short while and discover with me why I learned to trust. How I got to the point of volunteering for permanence from someone I’d never met. Ink engravings in my flesh and beside me someone I’d loved for the last two months but hadn’t seen in my last two lifetimes. Join me for a moment. Silly, I know. But it’s a chaotic ride this mind of mine. What goes through the thoughts of the performer as they play?

Roaring applause. Acknowledged presence. They didn’t know we hadn’t yet tuned. I pressed my first two fingers down. Left hand. Metal keys clank and resemble the exposed portion of that stand I still hide behind. Good tone? Warm sound. Let in a deep breath and exhale through the horn… the oboe an extension of myself. A. They tuned to me. They turned to me. It was all on me. Knees shaking below my black dress, pearls hot and slippery from the inevitable stress. Creation shouldn’t feel this daunting. Or is it because I cared too much? Is that possible? Nevertheless. I ended up lost. I always did. Always do. Swimming in the measures meant to dictate the continuation of time and to keep pace… togetherness. I looked up at the silhouette of the conductor and his baton’s motions of “one and two and three and four and…” But unsure again… which one? Certainly not the two fingers. The three flutists next to me on the left. I was forth from the edge. Back to what I was trying to express. My mind does that. Gets caught up… overthinks… loses track, and with a swift motion in the overture… Dal Segno. The sign. We were back. I was present again. A curved line, two dots, and a dash created a sigil. A symbol that helps me find my way back to the moment. A comfort. A remembrence of where I was going and where I was coming from in the music and in life. And in life. A key change. C Major. Open. Familiarity. The chaos subsided. Every time. Dal Segno. The sign. Take me back. Back to the sign. Back to certainty and away from the black dizzy mess of syncopation and unknowns.

Lost amongst the measures. Or fearful I wouldn’t measure up. I was the only one with expectations. Fear of letting myself down, I suppose. Black ink across the page blurred. No metal peaking through the smears… just a metallic taste as my blood boiled and dread settled in. Dots and lines became one… “and two and three and four and…” Treble. Muted horns. Bassoon growling behind me and fight or flight released because I don’t know where we are. Measure 42? 27? Eight counts maybe… All of this disruption and we aren’t even on movement three? Silly, I know. My thoughts took me away in the music yet again.

In the lost I’d fiddle with the clasp on my pearl necklace. My metal beneath the uniformed black. The music stand I’d hide behind and I weren’t that different after all. Oboe on my right knee… sitting pretty for those I prayed didn’t care to truly see. Deep breaths. “One and two and three and four and…” Cut time. Quicker. My upper back and neck sweaty. My brow furrowed. Blinks of light fading in and out. Cold palms. Uncertainty. Trust. Dal Segno. Grasping the one familiar thing. Oboe in my right hand. Rest marks on the page. Apostrophe. Breathe. Breathe. Discomfort in my upper back and neck. Dal Segno.

Applause.

And that is where I found myself. Find myself. Grasping the right hand of my love. Needle pokes a constant rhythm where I’d once sweat from fear of the stage or failure to perform perfectly. The metal and black are different this time. Metal isn’t prying its way to be seen through black uniform… needle paves the way for ink to express. Metal makes way for black this time. Deep Breaths. Not because I’m lost or need to produce an effortless warm sound… I am found. Dal Segno. From the Sign. There’s always something to go back to. And now… a reminder of that sign engraved in ink on my back.