What a Canceled Recital Taught Me About Life, Legacy, and Schubert
This past Sunday, I was scheduled to perform Franz Schubert’s The Shepherd on the Rock (Der Hirt auf dem Felsen) for a Marine Chamber Recital. It was meant to be a full-circle moment—a piece I first performed as a high school student, now revisited as a member of "The President’s Own."
Then, the snow came, and the recital was canceled.
In the Marine Corps, we are familiar with the concept of "Hurry Up and Wait." But in music, we usually expect the downbeat to happen when the schedule says so. As I sat home watching the snow and sleet pile up, I was reminded that our identity cannot be tied solely to the scorecard—or in this case, the applause. The music doesn't disappear just because the hall is empty.
Here is what nearly 30 years of living taught me about a single piece of music.
The Adjudicator’s Advice
When I was 16, I was hungry. I was a student of modest means with big dreams of attending the Interlochen Arts Camp. I didn't have the money, so I had to find the grit. I spent months cold-calling venues, asking local businesses for donations, and self-fundraising my way to attend the summer camp.
I had the hustle and some talent. But I didn't have the life.
A few months before I first tackled the Schubert, I performed Darius Milhaud’s Scaramouche for Solo and Ensemble. I played it well—technically. But during the adjudicator’s feedback of the slow movement, he took a long pause, then looked at me and said, "You will understand this more after you experience some more life."
At the time, I didn't get it. Frankly, I was frustrated by it. I was trying to play the second movement—a piece heavy with reminiscence and nostalgia. But it is challenging, if not outright impossible, for a 16-year-old to "reminisce." You cannot look back when you have only ever looked forward.
One can attempt to assign and practice "meaning” to any given piece of music or art, but I’ve found being open and patient to live it to be more effective. A great Alison Krauss quote comes to mind: “a good story lasts, and life sounds good on those”. That 16-year-old had the technique, but he didn't have the story yet. The obstacles—whether a confusing adjudication or a snowstorm—aren't roadblocks, but necessary waypoints on our personal compass.
The Art of Seeing
During my freshman convocation, the University of Michigan president, Lee Bollinger, encouraged us to find a piece of art on campus, visit it once in a while, and “see how it changes as you change”.
I found a landscape painting at the Museum of Art called Valley of the Pemigewasset. It was a grand, sweeping view of mountains and light. I liked it, though I couldn't say why.
But over the years, I kept going back. As I changed, the painting changed. Suddenly, I saw the shading. Then, the specific brush techniques. Then, the way the light hit the valley floor. The painting hadn't altered a single pixel, but I had acquired the lens to see its grandeur.
Revisiting the Schubert hit me in a similar, yet more profound way. The notes on the page haven't changed since I was a teenager. But now, as a husband, father, and professional Marine musician, I can finally hear and feel what Schubert was trying to say. Self-reflection shapes what we expect from the world, and I don't have to "act" the joy or grief anymore. I just have to remember.
The Circle of Grace
Back when I was fundraising for Interlochen, I wasn't alone. A community lifted me. My teacher designed the programs; her husband played piano, and one of her soprano friends performed the Schubert for the benefit recital; various donations came in, and an orchestra friend's parent donated frequent flyer miles.
As I arrived on the Interlochen campus and had the life-changing experiences attending the Arts Camp, I learned about the year-round Interlochen Arts Academy. I was eager to attend, but means were still a factor. However, as kismet would have it, a man named Richard Epstein came into the picture, becoming a mentor and—through his role as executor for a friend’s estate—a source of financial grace that changed my trajectory.
Rich didn't lecture me. He just offered a trusting presence. He let me know he was always available.
After my sophomore year of college, Rich helped cover the cost for me to attend a summer program at the Mozarteum in Salzburg, Austria.
It was a massive leap. I went from a practice room in Seattle to the very soil where Schubert walked. Among others, I befriended an American pianist and soprano, and together found ourselves being coached by Alfred Prinz, the former principal clarinetist of the Vienna Philharmonic. The stakes felt incredibly high. We wanted to show we could honor the music in its home.
But being there did something the practice room never could. When I played the opening section—where the Shepherd calls out from the "highest rock" into the "deepest valley"—I didn't have to imagine the scenery anymore. We were surrounded by the Alps, eating the food, and breathing the air. The grandeur of the opening wasn't just notes and dynamics on a page; it was the landscape right outside.
I carried all those memories into the rehearsals preparing for this recital, and the roles were reversed. I was no longer the student needing a plane ticket. I was the seasoned colleague performing alongside two brilliant junior colleagues: soprano Hannah Davis and pianist Chris Schmitt.
Watching them, I saw that same "wonder and possibility" I felt earlier in my career. Their command of their craft is inspiring. In our rehearsals, I moved beyond individual preparation to craft a culture of harmony, offering a trusting presence and transforming potential pressure into a creative partnership.
The "Supernatural" Rehearsal
Because of the forecast, we had a strong feeling our dress rehearsal was going to be our performance. So we didn’t hold back. We didn't play to fix anything; we played to feel it.
Near the end of the piece, there is a line:
“Dass es die Herzen himmelwärts / Mit wundervoller Gewalt ziehet.” (“That it draws hearts to heaven / With wondrous power.”)
Now, I don't practice any particular faith, but in that dress rehearsal, I felt it. That "wondrous power" that draws you up. We were deeply present, locked in a flow state that felt transcendental. We left everything on the stage, even with very few people in the seats. It was a reminder that progress isn't always about the public victory, but about the integrity of the effort itself.
The Takeaway
Growth took place even as the recital was canceled.
To the student: If you feel that pull toward a dream, get started. Honor that compelling feeling. You have no idea who will step up to help you, but they won't show up until you embrace the momentum from starting.
To my peers: Consider being a source of grace and a trusting presence for those around you.
To anyone: Find your piece of art. Find your Valley of the Pemigewasset, your Shepherd on the Rock. Visit it often. It will wait for you and be a friendly witness to your life as you grow.
Questions for Reflection: Please share your answers in the comments
What art, music, literature, films, or places do you revisit that have changed as you change?
Who offered grace when you were just getting started?
Think of a time you put in the work but didn't get the public 'win.' Looking back, what was the hidden value in that preparation?
