(Plays Bach's "Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, Prelude")
(Plays The Piano Guys' "Cello Song")
(Cheers and applause)
(Applause ends)
Thank you. Thank you so much. As Victor Borge used to say, "I'd like to thank my parents for making this performance possible, and my children for making it necessary."
(Laughter)
So many people in our lives make our life purpose possible -- and necessary. I'd like to take you on a musical journey that connects you with one of those people, someone you love dearly, someone you wanted to have a little more time to love, someone you wish was still with you. This is my mom. Isn't she beautiful? And then there's this guy. (Clears throat) Yeah. I'm afraid that's me. Now, don't let that childlike grin and superstylish Beatles haircut fool you: I was trouble. But as you could see, I was happy when I was with my mom.
She's one of the greatest lyrical sopranos that's ever lived, ineffably gifted with the voice of an angel. She could have had center stage anywhere -- anywhere in the world -- but she gave that up to be my mom. She gave me this stage with you today. She's been by my side when I've been particularly nervous for a big performance, touring the world with The Piano Guys, or when I've been off the stage and struggling and at the mercy of anxiety and depression. Or when I felt like I'm under the thumb of this perniciously pervasive demon known as inadequacy that so many of us are fighting. She's gently nudged me forward right at the moment when I've felt like giving up.
So I'm a musician today, not only because of what she gave up for me, but also because of what she continues to give me. And that support is profound and especially powerful. Why? Because it comes from a place about which we know very little. Not long after that first picture I showed you was taken, my mother fell to the floor of our home suddenly, in this really scary seizure. Such an intense moment. My dad rushed her to the ER: brain tumor. A big one. The doctors didn't know how long we'd have with her -- one, two, maybe three years before we'd lose her. But due to her strength and a series of indescribable miracles, she defied that prognosis and fought that brain tumor for 18 years.
(Applause)
Thank you. I'll let her know. Thank you. She fought that brain tumor for 18 years, but think about it: some of those years were really rough, as you can imagine. But we learned to be grateful for every day. Now, when her final curtain call came, I couldn't applaud, because I wasn't ready for it to end. So after she passed away, I spent some time being angry, bitter, resentful, confused at these years that were stolen from me, at the chance I never had to know the soprano in this beautiful woman; to hear her sing in full voice without pain; to perform with her -- oh, I would have loved that, just me playing the cello right next to her, just looking up at her beautiful face singing. Oh, I would have loved that chance.
I never got that chance. So I struggled with this, I really did. But then, I discovered something, something that has compelled me to be on this stage, talking with you today. Isn't it true that our life's most sublime melodies tend to be written during the dark symphonies of our struggle? And in this dark symphony, I found the healing for Mother --? The very thing that had wounded me was the same thing that healed me: the power of music. You see, since then, I've spent some very special time with my mom. Through music, I've discovered that the people we've lost aren't lost at all, and the holes their absence leaves inside us are not meant to be filled by someone or something else. Instead, they are intentional, mindful places, meant for us to go to take refuge, to reconnect and to reunite with our loved ones, to find them there, still interested, still invested and somehow, still involved in the details of our lives. That is where I found my mom.
Now, I can't prove this to you with science; there's no chance. And spirituality helped me take the first step, but ultimately, you just have to go there yourself in your own way. And music, the power of music, can act as a guide for you on this incredible, important journey. If you're willing, I'd like to go there together right now. And I want to show this to you because if you need to use this later on, when you're on your own in a quiet place, and you've got a song that's personal to you, I want to show you how this can work.
I'd like you to close your eyes if you would, please. Choose a loved one you want to connect with. It could be someone you've already been thinking about as I've been talking. I want you to picture a favorite place, a relaxing place. It could be a place that you both adored together. Now picture your loved one sitting or standing across from you. Make this as detailed as you can; it's important. What are they wearing? What is their posture, their expression? Is it a smile? Is it a look of concern? Or is hope written in their eyes? I want you to hold this image in your mind, and you could do so continually with your eyes closed, or you can open them; it's up to you. But I want you to live in this place while I play for you one more piece of music. It's a piece I've never performed in public. Why? Because I feared that I wouldn't do it justice. It's my mom's favorite. And as I play, I want you to have a conversation with this beautiful person across from you. I want you to hold their hand, share a long hug, ask for forgiveness or finally give of it freely if you need to. Ask for help with something you're struggling with. At the very least, express gratitude for how they've made you possible and necessary. Express love.
My mother is a soprano, with the voice of an angel. And that voice for me is still sweet and rings with a resounding relevance. And as I play, I hope you can hear the voice of your own angel and let music find someone you've lost.
(Plays Puccini's "Nessun dorma")
(Plays Puccini's "Nessun dorma")
(Plays Puccini's "Nessun dorma")
(Cheers and applause)
