The orchestra plays. You are there, instrument in hand, following the arrangement.
The notes begin high, careful, and you attack them with passion.
Each one is placed with intent, balanced on the edge of a tightrope.
Then one slip.
Not loud, not dramatic, perhaps not even noticeable.
You panic, and the tumbling begins.
One note out of place, just enough to tilt the rest.
What follows looks like failure.
A chord collapses, notes scatter, rhythm breaks.
From above, it feels like everything is gone, like gravity has won and skill has been exposed as wishful thinking.
But the mountain is not judging.
It only reveals what is already true: that motion is part of learning, and that falling is learning, not a verdict.
As the notes descend into chaos, something unexpected happens.
They do not disappear.
They linger, waiting to be answered, and with the next note, the mistake bends into intention, melting into a staff that can carry sound again.

The fall was not the end of the music.
It was the moment where noise waited to be answered, and meaning emerged in the reply.
Not losing my step does not mean never slipping.
It means noticing where the foot landed.
It means pausing long enough to listen to what the fall is asking for.
It means climbing again, not with urgency, but with better timing.
Try again.
Not because you are certain this time will be clean, but because even when it isn’t, the music still moves forward.

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