It is difficult to articulate the amount of growth and gratitude in my life I can attribute to my time on the Hill. I could write hundreds of pages of stories about my classes, my professors, my roommates (now lifelong friends), my travels, and more. But when I think about a cohesive idea that my time on the Hill comes down to, it all revolves around my time in the St. Olaf Band.
On the Hill, through the St. Olaf Band, I learned more about myself and about loving other people than I could’ve ever dreamed of.
When I came into St. Olaf as a freshman, I hoped to play my clarinet in an ensemble on campus. I never in my wildest dreams would’ve thought I would’ve earned a seat in the top band immediately. I did not feel worthy. I doubted myself around every corner and was seconds away from quitting on several occasions because of a rampant lack of confidence. I kept (and still keep, from time to time) a blog of personal experiences at that time. Here’s what I wrote about my first few weeks with the band: “I distinctly remember walking into Boe Chapel for that first rehearsal absolutely terrified, a little bit convinced I would either die in there or be discovered as a sham and tossed out. … I couldn’t help but feel like I had skipped a step and felt very behind, very much outside of the joy and tradition that came with being in the St. Olaf Band. Honestly, I felt like I didn’t deserve the seat I was sitting in, knowing there were probably better players that also would love it more than me.”
I came from a close, supportive family and had a great high school experience, so adjusting to college in general was also a struggle for me that first semester and first year. I wrote in another post at the time: “College is hard. It’s the first time in 18 years that your life is entirely uprooted and you have to build from the ground up. It’s the first time you don’t have a house and parents to come home to, to support you, help you, walk through everything by your side. It’s the first time you’ll be separated from the community of friends you’ve been building since elementary school. … You have to start over.” Freshman year, I had trouble leaving my original home to return to campus after breaks sometimes. I felt like a fish out of water at times, despite being surrounded by a growing circle of friends and holding my own in my classwork.
Then, somehow, each day started to get a little bit easier than the last. I realized I could be myself. I realized that my struggles were fairly common experiences … that I wasn’t the only one figuring out this new life. And I began to see just how magical pouring my effort into music with the St. Olaf Band could be. During fall of sophomore year, I wrote: “I sat on stage, listening to the glory of the music that was surrounding me and thought those exact words: This is why. That sound we made is why I, and anyone else on that stage, put so much time and effort into their instrument … I looked around a room full of about 100 silent people, minutes before embarking on a concert together, and felt this rush of pride.” This thing that pushed me out of my comfort zone, this thing I saw as difficult and scary, was actually full of purpose, joy, and love.
“I sat on stage, listening to the glory of the music that was surrounding me and thought those exact words: This is why. That sound we made is why I, and anyone else on that stage, put so much time and effort into their instrument … I looked around a room full of about 100 silent people, minutes before embarking on a concert together, and felt this rush of pride.”
Band rehearsals became something I looked forward to. Building community with the other musicians became a priority via band dinners or Milkshake Mondays at the Cage after clarinet studio class. I felt myself let go of the pressure I put on myself to be perfect. I allowed myself to just enjoy each minute the best I possibly could. I played wrong notes sometimes. But I became incredibly happy to be just a small part of this ensemble with so much extraordinary heart. My senior year, I served as the vice president of the St. Olaf Band. I cried tears of joy over it as I thought back on the intense fear I had once felt in that space.
When I graduated, I wrote one last blog post about my time in the St. Olaf Band, and I think that sums up my story about as well as anything could:
“This is a love letter.
A love letter to a being that is
Ever-changing, dynamic, beautiful,
And full to bursting with love itself.
This is a love letter
To many, many people
Spanning many, many pockets of time.
This is a love letter
To my home,
My band.
It is a strange thing
To love something so much
That you once never knew existed,
That you once didn’t know was ahead.
It is a strange thing
To love something so much when once,
It had never crossed your mind
Or even come close
To touching your life.
Once, it was its own world
Operating without you.
But it was waiting.
When I didn’t know I’d be coming along,
It was waiting to embrace me.
It is a strange thing
To love something so much
That you once feared so deeply.
But that happens with love…
Doesn’t it?
It’s scary because it’s vulnerable.
It’s scary because it demands change.
It’s scary because it’s unfamiliar.
But one day you realize
It’s just what you need.
One day you realize that without it
You wouldn’t be you anymore.
This is a love letter
To my home, my band.
For loving me in and through my fear
For waiting for me to see its truth
For its patience until I opened my heart
For offering me so much
In spite of my own doubts
(In it, and in myself).
This is a love letter
To my home, my band.
For showing me the truth about me.
For smashing those voices in my head
That said I couldn’t,
That said I wasn’t enough,
That said I didn’t deserve this.
For delivering me more love
Than I could ever have imagined.
For believing in me wholeheartedly
When I didn’t do the same for myself.
This is a love letter
To my home, my band.
For providing me a place to land
Time after time after time
When I wondered where home
Could possibly exist anymore.
This is a love letter
To my home, my band.
For being a place where passion thrives
Alongside laughter
Alongside compassion
Alongside deep friendship
Alongside deep care.
For making music
That carves its way into hearts.
For making music
That gives overdue tears an escape.
For making music
That gives everyone a place
Where they’re needed.
This is a love letter
To my home, my band.
To the people who showed me its love.
So this is a love letter
To all the other humans around me
Who played and laughed and cried
By my side for four years.
To the humans who came far before I did
Who paved the way and forged the trails
That eventually joined up with my own.
To the future humans
Who will sit in the chairs I once sat in
For sharing this love.
This is a love letter.
To my home, my band.
For happy elevator dances in New York,
For hypothetical-turned-actual celebrity meetings,
For frolicking through Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade,
For modernized Julia Child recipes,
For visa photos that include a stuffed dog,
For dancing in the street in New Zealand,
For almost getting skunked on a late-night walk,
For having No Talent but so much all at once,
For endless things rising on the truck lift,
For spoonerisms and ornithology bus,
For 2 a.m. never-ending award writing,
For way too many selfies
(That I look at way too often),
For pep talks in the instrument locker room,
For pep talks right before performances,
For moments of silence after devotions,
For moments of happy loud on a bus,
For hugs inside concert venues about to perform,
For hugs outside buses with tears on my cheeks,
For true until-your-belly-hurts laughs,
And for sitting on the floor with me when I cried.
This is a love letter
To my home, my band.
For being a home however I needed one
Through people
Through music
Through sharing
Through silence.
This is a love letter.
To my home.
My band.
For every moment it gave to me.”