Vachon Imagined

One of my favorite classical pianists is Yuja Wang. If you don’t know her, you will. Or perhaps you’ll know her not by name, but by what she represents: that state of being so completely absorbed in what you’re doing that the constant double awareness of life disappears.

I’ve seen her in interviews—bubbly, playful, a little irreverent when faced with questions like, “Do you get nervous?” as though she isn’t human. She always seems to bring the conversation back down to earth. Yes, she gets nervous. Yes, she struggles. She has even admitted that she hates practicing. Ah, thank goodness. Finally, someone who understands my desire to eat cheesecake while binge-watching a Netflix series when there is laundry to fold and a dozen other nagging tasks waiting for me.

That is what truly extraordinary people do. No, not extraordinary—because that word still places them somewhere above us. What makes them remarkable is that they focus on their craft, whatever that craft may be. They become so immersed in it that the second mind falls away. The mind that asks, What will they think? What should I do? Am I doing this right? disappears, and they simply play.

That is what makes Yuja Wang, and so many others like her, seem beyond greatness. Many of them will never perform on a stage for millions of dollars or before billions of people. Many will never receive awards, recognition, or applause. Some will sit quietly on their couch, at their desk, in their workshop, garden, classroom, or kitchen. They will give themselves completely to whatever is before them.

And in that act of surrender, something beautiful happens. They hand themselves over to the moment rather than to the audience. If a witness comes, wonderful. If recognition follows, great. But neither applause nor acknowledgment creates their greatness.

Their greatness was already there.

It was there in the breathing.

It was there in the playing.

It was there in the simple willingness to be fully present for what they loved.