A Windwood Fairy Tale, behind the mask

Right here,
is exactly where you need to be.

“Little ordinary magic.”

Supposedly.

It’s difficult. After so much work, so much heart, passion, excitement, dedication in the dreaming of the dream, the anticipation of the dream, to then actually live it. To live it in the moment. To even comprehend or feel what is actually happening. Is it worth it. Does it even matter. In this exhausting effort to emote, to create and facilitate something we supposedly believe in, is the magic really there? Or is it in our heads, our wishful thinking. Are we just foolishly blowing the meaning of this dream out of proportion?

I’m always battling the skeptic. And it takes me out of the moment. The constant disbelief. Cutting ourselves short. Especially in those big, ‘important’ moments, when we are standing on stage at the opening or closing concert, looking out at the crowd, smiling our radiant smiles. It’s so hard. It’s so hard to feel real. Fulfilled. Connected, or whatever. That word I sometimes smirk at inside for becoming overused now for being the Windwood motto. Because, look, how after all the big talk of the value of what we do, the impact is so small. The crowd is small, sparse. The attention is scattered. We wish for it to mean something. We tell ourselves - people are so focused! They were so into it! Small but mighty! But - really?

It’s difficult. Extra difficult, this time around. To feel myself actually moved. It can be hard to perceive what is actually received, translated, understood and appreciated when you’re the one performing. Most of the time in a concert hall, I can tell. I feed off the energy of the listeners. But here, it’s been difficult.

Even when I’m watching our residents, pouring out their hearts, sharing their beautifully crafted projects - I find myself distracted, concerned, irritated even, rushing back and forth between trying to entice more people to come fill the seats, setting up those seats, answering multiple logistics questions simultaneously, updating social media and fixing the livestream, all while worrying about whether the performers themselves would also feel disconnected or disheartened.

I end up barely half listening to the actual music. I watch the reality of the magic happening right in front of me all from behind a phone screen.

I have no idea what I feel. Tired? Disillusioned? Blank? Inauthentic?

Sometimes, music can suspend disbelief. But often, I feel naïve or self-absorbed, self-indulgent, advocating for the its so-called ‘power’ to connect.

Even when audiences come up to give thanks with gleaming, teary-eyed faces, even when supporters cheers us on and affirm the impact of what we are doing for the community - somehow, I find myself smiling politely and feeling rather detached inside.

Is it some kind of defence mechanism? This mask.

But perhaps -

Perhaps, there are still tiny moments we can hold onto.

When I catch a brief eye contact or smile exchanged in performance, that electrical current, that understanding of something greater than our need for proof or validation, that warmth or joy in the simple act of play, when two bodies and four hands at the piano breathe and move so acutely, sensitively as one, when the audiences’ feet begin tapping together to the rhythm. When the face of one single boy lights up, glows, in utter awe alongside the joyful tears of his family, a family who has never felt comfortable attending a concert in public due to the boy’s special needs, now transfixed by the sounds of the viola, by Bach, and somehow collectively - performer, listener, composer and all - all of us transforming that small stale library room with no windows and only florescent lights into the warmest, most intimate, softly radiant safe haven.

Perhaps that’s it. Those are the tiny moments when I feel the tears pooling behind the mask. The emotions start to find their way back, if only temporarily. The heart races. The blood stirs. And I am made of as much human as I am of magic and void.

Perhaps,

We have to hold onto something. Some kind of belief. When we suddenly don’t remember.

There are the performances, yes, and then there are the sounds in between the music making that bonds us so deeply.

Moments to cherish.

Laughter.
So much laughter.

Coming downstairs late at night to see everyone gathered around the table chaotically attempting to form an assembly line to help William fold and prepare the ‘passports’ for his concert project the next day as fast as possible so we could play Avalon.

The countless lunch kitchen dances where everyone is working at their own culinary creation while sharing cut vegetables and learning random quirks and habits about each other - Annie’s love of cheese and insistence on washing everything with baking soda, Teresa’s 4 rounds of lunch trying a bite of everyone’s food, Nao’s kimchi grilled cheese, William’s egg tomato stir fry, bottomless giant tubs of potato salad, the rehydrated sweet potato dog treats…

And then, we all sit down and await Teresa’s riddles.

All the silly simple moments in between. The walks, climbing that hill at sunset with our melona popsicles (cheddar cheese flavour!), cooking together, folding dumplings together, making improv cocktails, meadjito, mafia, mall outing trying crazy gowns, late night fashion show digging through old prom dresses, icecream before the Chinook concert, reaching the top of Sulfur mountain, corn, so much corn, it’s corn! fire roasted, steamed, juicy corn, all the inside jokes, the nonsensical jokes, the mania at 2am still refusing to sleep so we can play another round of Avalon, the special kind of bonding during rehearsals, the meals and feasts, every part of living together that adds up to create this camaraderie. Extraordinary.

That’s what Windwood is about.

Ordinary magic. Extraordinary camaraderie.

A Windwood Fairy Tale that translates human connection to music, and music into evermore magical human connection.

That’s all.

I have decided, at the end. Actually, I do believe.

Ordinary extraordinary.

xoxo

Skye Pianist