What We Are Still Capable Of

Tonight’s concert had momentum.
A kind of quiet power that built from the first note.
Not because everything was perfect—but because it was real.
Because these kids showed up. Despite everything.
Classes. Homework. Life.
Some came during lunch.
Some stayed after school.
Not for a grade. Not for praise.
But because something in them needed to.

I bark—
(Your spinal energy has to match the instrument.)
Posture. Presence. Dedication.
When it doesn’t align, they feel it. And I see it.
They get emotional—not because they failed,
but because something inside them knows the truth.
Their form, their breath, their sound—
all trying to align with something real.
The truth of the instrument.
The truth of themselves.
And when it clicks—even for a second—
a sound is born that no one has ever heard before.
Their sound.

That kind of vulnerability,
that kind of care—
that’s not just music.
That’s what it means to be human.

It inspired me.
It inspired my daughter.
Watching her watch them reminded me—
this isn’t just for children.
This is for all of us.

Have you lived like that?
With passion? With presence?
Have you ever done something
without a trace of agenda?
Without that quiet self-serving voice
that always wants something in return?

Have you ever
set aside your needs,
your comfort,
your fears,
your long rusted narrative—
for something bigger?
For the good of our children?
For the soul of humanity?

Because if not,
don’t blame the world for what it’s become.
This mess is yours.
And mine.
It’s ours.

It will only change when we do—
when we let passion lead instead of fear,
when we act from truth,
when we give without needing to be seen.

That’s what I witnessed tonight.
Not just notes or rhythms,
but young people reaching for something true—
and, for a moment, finding it.

And in that moment,
they reminded me
of what we’re still capable of.