In 1973, when I was just nine years old, I sat at the piano, feeling lost in a world of music that I barely understood but instinctively felt deep inside. Two years earlier, my father had passed away. He was my violin teacher, my mentor, and my best friend. His loss left a void in me that I couldn’t quite put into words. He had always envisioned a future for me in music, hoping I’d become a composer or conductor. But without him, that future seemed distant, like a dream I wasn’t sure how to reach.
I had taught myself how to play the piano after his death, building on the music reading skills I’d learned from the violin. The first piece I tackled was Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony, which felt fitting at the time—both for its haunting beauty and for how unfinished I felt in my own life. But it was Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata that really captivated me. I didn’t just play it; I felt it. There was so much longing in that piece, so much pain. As I learned it, section by section, I was in awe of how Beethoven crafted it, how every note seemed to express something profound. It gave me chills. It was during those hours at the piano that I truly fell in love with Beethoven’s music, especially when my hands finally grew large enough to stretch across the minor ninths. That moment of physical and emotional growth felt monumental, like I was unlocking something more than just notes—it was a connection to the grief and longing Beethoven had poured into his work.
It was after learning Moonlight Sonata that I composed my own piece, which I called Numero Uno at the time. I didn’t know exactly what I was expressing through it, but I knew it came from deep inside me. Music had become my language of grief, a way to communicate what I couldn’t say out loud about losing my father. But life moved quickly—between playing violin in the symphony, being an athlete, balancing college prep courses, and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life, I forgot about Numero Uno. It was just another piece of music I had composed, lost in the shuffle of adolescence.
Years passed, and my path shifted in ways I hadn’t planned. I went into technical studies—far removed from the world of composition my father had imagined for me. But music was never truly gone from my life. It lingered in the background, always there, waiting. During college, in one of my music theory classes, I was assigned to relearn a piece for my final. I remembered Numero Uno and dug it out of a pile of old music. Relearning it brought back a flood of memories—my father, those early days at the piano, and the emotions I had buried as a child.
I hadn’t touched the piece since then, not until this year, 2024. Sitting at the piano once again, I felt a strange sense of coming full circle. My hands, now much larger and more skilled, moved confidently over the keys, but the emotions were the same. The piece, however, was no longer Numero Uno. It had become something far more personal, something that represented the journey I had been on since those early years. I renamed it Lament for Ungranted Wishes.
The title held a special significance for me. As I reflected on my childhood, I realized how gifted I had been. I recently came across letters my father had written, calling me a prodigy. At the time, I shrugged it off, thinking he was just a proud father exaggerating his son’s abilities. But now, looking back at what I had accomplished at such a young age, I realize he wasn’t wrong. If I saw a four- or five-year-old doing what I had done, I might say the same thing. Yet, life had taken me in a different direction. I chose the path of technical studies, and while it led to a fulfilling career, I often wonder what might have happened if I had been discovered and mentored in music.
My father’s death, just two weeks before my seventh birthday, had changed everything. A family member stepped in to continue teaching me the violin, but it wasn’t the same. I always wondered what could have been if he had lived, if I had pursued music more seriously. What would I have accomplished?
But life is what it is, and those ungranted wishes are not regrets, just reflections. I had lived a full life, filled with achievements my father might never have imagined for me. Yet, playing Lament for Ungranted Wishes now, I can’t help but feel that connection to the life I might have had. The piece is a lament, not just for my father, but for the dreams that shifted and evolved as I grew older. It’s a tribute to the prodigy I once was, to the father who believed in me, and to the future I didn’t take—but one that still holds meaning.
As I played the final notes of Lament for Ungranted Wishes this year, I felt the same chills I had felt with Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata all those years ago. But this time, those chills were my own. This composition, now fully realized, is a reflection of my journey, a testament to both the ungranted wishes and the life I’ve lived in their place.
Lament for Ungranted Wishes | An Ode to a Life Unlived and Dreams Forsaken *Available January 24th, 2025? Pre-save now: https://orcd.co/yok0m6o
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Wit
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As an observer of life, Wit crafts genre-defying compositions blending poetic reflection and fearless innovation.
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