Courage and Acceptance
We know there’s a price.
But we don’t know, exactly. How much. And when. When we have to pay.
How. How on earth do we process?
What does that even mean? For you. For me.
For me now. Today. For me tomorrow. Ten years from tomorrow.
How do we process? When. When do we process? Process again?
Why. Why bother.
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Sometimes I have no idea. How to have the experience. How to reflect on it so I can feel like I had it. I honured it, perhaps. It’s complete. It’s remembered. But. Sometimes I have nothing. Nothing. For a long while. Nothing to write. Nothing to feel. Sometimes I need the most convincing, myself, of my own words.
Sometimes we neglect the most important things.
Sometimes it’s hardest to follow our own promises.
I said, be kind to your pain, your mess, your paradoxes. But how challenging that is, still. Sometimes we don’t have the privilege of space, or void, or solitude, of emptiness, silence, to process. What then?
What’s the cost?
Sometimes we just need a day to not put on make up. To just curl up and cry and cry and cry. To not eat because we just don’t want to. To be exhausted. Dizzy. Dazed. Terribly terribly. A mess.
When nothing’s beautiful
Nothing’s beautiful.
Let. That. Be.
O.K.
My first doctoral recital was centered on the words: hope and courage. I think this time around, it’s courage and acceptance. It’s a personal, vulnerable deep-dive into some of my own darkest moments, and a testament to my growth from acknowledging those pasts. This concert is about life and death. The dualities. Of suffering and hope. Grief and joy. The extraordinary intensity and dignity of the human pathos, transfused with pain. Courage. And acceptance. The demons that come back. The cyclical nature of pain and grief.”
All these pieces are associated with some part of my past that I am still learning to come to terms with, some of the darkest moments I want to redefine, and also some of the most trying and most courageous moments I want to honour again.
That being said, it’s funny how while preparing for this recital, a testament to my strength and growth, I’m again and again astonished and humbled by my limitations: how certain demons still come back, how we need to learn to live with them, face them again and again.
So this program has become more of a story of courage. And acceptance.
I told myself - courage is not about not having fears, it’s about being aware of those fears and embracing them. I knew I worked hard. I gave myself that much. I gave it my best shot. And now just the leap of faith.
“Shock, anger, panic, fear, regret, hope, love, attachment, guilt, everything, every emotion possible I felt all at once in endless waves that won’t let me sleep or eat or function. I could go on forever about details of my suffering - how I couldn’t see, couldn’t remember anything, bursted out crying when I tried playing anything, Schubert especially. How I was so lost I stood in the kitchen with a knife, then on my bed with a box cutter, desperate to find any way to release that burn in my chest. I stood on bridges looking into traffic, everything a blur, and over the Charles, staring into the dark cold water.”
“I’ve never accepted a bigger, more frightening challenge. Never been more brave, more determined. I really gathered all my strength and faith in myself. In who I am, what I can do, what I am capable of accomplishing. It was a real test for myself. A battle I had to face, and to fight. And I believed in it. I am Tong. I know. I know what I am worthy of.”
This is my choice. My beginning.
“Breathe in deep. Feel your heart still breathing. Let’s go see the reason you’re alive. So take your fear, and leave it all behind. This is the joy, and it’s the pain. And all the pages in between. Your finest hour. Your weakest moment. It’s where you’ve been. It’s where you are. It’s where you’re going.”
There can be a kindness to our pain. Kindness to our contradictions, our madness. That’s another mantra for myself for these characters for our loved ones “be kind. Be brave.”
“Chopin’s second sonata is one of my most beloved yet also most emotionally draining works - no matter how much time has passed, it’s still triggering to come back to it. I wanted to program this work originally as a testament to my growth - overcoming those traumatic moments, but how naive. What I’ve come to accept is that there’s a cyclical nature of death. Of grief.
But what’s more important - I realized, is that this music, its meaning, its message, story, has become so much more than just for myself, about myself.
9 years ago, after I performed this work, when I didn’t even know if I could or would wake up that morning, an audience came up to me and with tears in their eyes shared with me how at that return of the funeral march after the sublime trio, they finally were able to process, remember, and feel a deep buried grief, how cathartic, how beautiful that moment was. And those are the moments and stories that stay with us forever.
There is strength in sharing stories. Grief in solidarity. And I encourage you again to let me know, your story. Because these are the pieces of each other we’ll carry in our hearts for decades to come.
During the past decade, and even recently, I’ve witnessed friends lose parts of themselves, their own flesh and blood. I’ve heard people’s struggles with losing their family - mothers, fathers, grandparents. Whether suddenly, recently, a year ago, or ten years ago. It still comes back to haunt us. It still can hurt so visceral, so unpredictably. It comes with the seasons, it lives in our bodies. So this is my story to yours, a homage and tribute to all of you, all of you who have loved and lost. Thank you for bearing that love and grief. Thank you for living.“
I think simply, this concert has been about acceptance and courage, but also, ultimately, as always - gratitude. That’s the magic.
Gratitude.
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Thank you all for being here. I want to especially give a shout out to my family, as always. My teacher. My friends. And my partner, for taking care of me through the ups and downs, and seeing this who journey and through my finest hour and weakest moments. I am so grateful for you all. Thank you.
End.