Home is Where the Heart Is

I am sitting at the back of a crowded stage, Indian-style, curled up in a chair with a book in my lap, waiting for my first entrance in Rachmaninoff's Second Symphony.

My section-mate is sitting next to me studying his iPad, and sounds swirl around me as I glance up into a sea of red seats that paint a backdrop behind our conductor on the podium. There is a slight chill on stage, as there always is in the Victory Theater. The stage lights shine down, dancing as random beams shimmer and bounce off the lacquer of a violin, the silver keys of a clarinet, or the brass of a French horn bell. Pencils click on the music stands as violinists mark their parts. The third trumpet player rustles his newspaper as he folds it in his lap to pick up his trumpet for his next entrance.

I have been in this place on stage for longer than I have been a teacher, wife, or mother. These sights, sounds and experiences have permeated my senses since I was a child, and have been the one constant in my life - the core around which all else has formed. The roots of my identity can be found here, as can evidence of my growth.

This chair. This place.

I am home.