I stressed out over this wedding for weeks.
The only request the bride adamantly made was that her processional entrance music be Debussy’s Arabesque No 1.
Knowing that I didn’t have the technical ability or even the time to master it completely, I bought the sheet music, and painstakingly transcribed into C, several short phrases that sounded to me like the main motifs of the piece.
Or at least, what would make my version of it be recognizable as the piece.
Then I added by ear, what I thought were the right sounding accompanying chords.
Armed with the well-practiced version of this abridged arrangement, I performed at the wedding ceremony, fearful that I would be told afterwards that I ruined a dear childhood memory, or grandmother’s favorite piece of music.
Such is the dance I constantly make with the fear of failure.
That my best is never going to be good enough. Or that I am less equipped than everyone else around me.
When the dance I should be making is one of joy.
The bride loved the music. Not just the Debussy. All of it. She told me so after her first dance, with tears in her eyes, how amazingly special I had made her day.
And this pride weekend, I also intend to dance, fully aware of what the arabesque pattern of a rhythmically curving line really means.
It signifies an accordance with nature and mirrors the celebrations of those natural forms.
I am made to be exactly, right.