The Spicy Honey of Potential

An intimate and tender piece about an insecurity of mine...

The last time I saw my mother, she inquired whether I still indulge in playing the piano.

"Every now and then," I confessed.

A grand window graces my bedroom, underneath it rested an electric piano I’ve had for several years now. Playing by this window, improvising as I gaze outward, has always held a powerful charm to me, especially when the rain adorns the other side the glass. However, of late, I've found myself eschewing this pastime, particularly since the humidity of the rain that inspired me so dearly started to permeate the window, leading to the removal of the piano.

Years past, I embarked on a venture to record a compendium of 13 compositions, woven together using my trusty piano keyboard. I committed them to a CD, giving them rather melodramatic track names (a few of these tunes have endured and now find their home on my SoundCloud, each bearing its own embarrassingly corny title). Yet, after their completion, I found myself bereft of the creative spark, playing on occasion but never composing anew, save for one exception.

This singular exception, which I somewhat sheepishly labeled a "symphony" back in the day, bears the title of "Blue Bird Symphony." Despite my sporadic neglect over the years, its opening strains retain a certain allure to me. Many a time, I considered presenting the initial pages of the musical score to the conductor of the orchestra with which I once played for, but courage always eluded me, and now, I softly lament that. "Perhaps hearing it performed would have reignited my creative spirit," I would tell myself.

I ceased composing music,

I abandoned my piano's keys,

I said goodbye to the violin,

I took my leave from the orchestra's fold,

And I forsook the art of ballet, which had been my life for a bit over a decade.

With the exception of ballet, none of these passions came to an overt conclusion; instead, they silently, gently ebbed within me. There was no dramatic farewell, no resolute decision, no creative impasse to blame—just a simple, quiet, and tender cessation. And so I left myself ensnared in the realm of untapped potential.

I faced frequent reprimands from those close to me, who believed that my skills had the potential to lead me somewhere grand. But, could they really? And if so, where to?

Nowhere I yearned to tread,

Nowhere that stirred a passionate yearning.

Nevertheless, I harbor a shy desire to hear "Blue Bird" play in front of me... Maybe one day?

"What about your writing?" my mother inquired. "You used to pen words so nicely."

"Occasionally," I replied, somewhat awkwardly. A statement bearing both truth and deceit… I still stumble words together into little frail things I like to call “poems”, and I still scrawl thoughts like the one im currently writing…

But not with the same fervor as yesteryears,

And in a way, that suits me well.

There existed and still exists a myriad of passions within me, aspirations to become an archaeologist, a biologist, an astrophysicist. Yet, I balked at the notion of confining myself exclusively to any of these paths for the remainder of my days.

So, I embarked on a journey of learning… Amassing a collection of degrees in fields where I'll likely never toil. I delved into Classical Art History, dipped my toes in the waters of Philosophy, immersed myself in several semesters of Physics, and touched upon sundry subjects here and there, everywhere.

I collect degrees, but I fear them.

For a time, I resolved to pursue a career in cardiothoracic surgery, and I even secured a scholarship at one of Mexico's most prestigious medical institutions, which wasn’t easy. However, abruptly upon receiving that acceptance letter, I (oh so fortunately) relinquished that path and eventually found my calling as a midwife (which I adore to be).

Nevertheless, I still resist being confined to a singular role; in truth, I grapple with the concept of being just one thing; because the truth is, I don't know how to be just one thing.

I’ve made myself a living juggling in that twilight of possibilities, teetering on the precipice of “what I could have become”

Fearful of landing somewhere,

And turning love into a jail.

Can I continue along this meandering path for the span of my life? That thought appeals to me greatly. Am I a coward? Do I spread too thinly?

Am I a loser? A failure?

Or is this freedom?