Possibility

Tomorrow, we will be returning a cello and a flute to their home at the instrument rental company. The cello, a sort of casualty of the flute, stopped being played when my daughter was required to take up a new instrument for school (only brass and woodwinds), and the flute--well, the flute just never took hold. So with the requirement over, she will move on to other things.

Taking the instruments back will surely be a step toward decluttering our apartment, and clearly we can use MANY such steps. But I can't help feeling a little sad about seeing them go. She was good at them, and with the cello, for a while, there was a passion and dedication that was inspiring. There was a feeling of possibility, that playing it might take her somewhere, that she might become especially good, and it might be lovely for us to introduce "our daughter who plays the cello." The possibility won't REALLY go away, just because we return the cello, but it will go away for now. And losing possibility--that's a sad thing.

The flip side is that quite often, passion and dedication don't necessarily just go away. They often just move to other things. The flute and cello aren't going back because my child has decided to become a professional couch potato. There will be piano and singing and dancing and acting and....and many, many possibilities. It doesn't mean I won't be sad handing back that giant case she schlepped on her back when it still stood taller than she did. But sometimes you have to give up one possibility to discover another. Sometimes holding a bow makes your hands too full to grab on to what's next. And what's next might be the best possibility of all.