I spend too much time thinking and not enough time expressing. Long story short: I graduated college one year ago with a degree in jazz music. I was really burnt out emotionally and instrumentally–I had no desire to play my trumpet. Recently, my heart has been pumping to the rhythm of jazz again, and I just cannot let it go.
So, you know what I am going to do? I have decided to take hold of it and pursue it in whatever way I am able to. It doesn’t matter if I am not Clifford Brown or Lee Morgan. I have a good sound on my horn, am able to sing jazz well, and am only in my early twenties.
One of my old jazz professors didn’t even start playing jazz until he was around my age. And if he can play how he plays now (which is excellent), what’s to stop me? My race in life is my race. It’s not the kid who maybe played jazz from the age of 9 until now and is at an expert level. It’s not some comparison I have to live up to.
All I know is that jazz is in my heart and I believe God has allowed it to be there.
There’s just something about jazz that brings my heart and a kindred Amanda back to life. I want it. I really want it. And I miss it. I really miss it.
I remember when I was 11 or 12 years old playing my own rendition of “When The Saints Go Marching In” on my trumpet around the house. I remember when I was in my teens shredding on the C blues scale in my room. I remember how happy and awesome it felt to pour out scat solos. It’s an outflow of my passion and brain functioning in a personal and fulfilling expression. It is sad to think that I should leave all of it behind because “life caught up to me”.
It may seem like a waste to be practicing it when I am not a professional. It may seem like a waste when I have not the slightest clue what I will do with it in life.
It’s a part of my heart, and if I let it die, I only make myself suffer.
Jazz is not a waste to me.