Introduction

This is my first holiday season without my mom. She passed away earlier this year, and I've been navigating what that means, especially during this time when memories feel heaviest and most present.

While going through old recordings, I found something that stopped me in my tracks: a recording of me at 11 years old playing "The Christmas Song" (you know it as "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire") on clarinet at our school holiday concert, with my mom accompanying on piano. It was my fifth-grade year. I'd been playing clarinet for maybe two years. My mom was the accompanist for the concert, and she recorded our performance. I remember being nervous, excited about performing, probably more focused on not messing up than on anything else.

But my mom had the foresight, or maybe just the habit, of capturing that moment. And now, more than forty years later, that recording has become something neither of us could have imagined back then.

So I decided to do something: I played a duet with my younger self. Current me, meeting fifth-grade me, both of us held together by my mom's piano.

What happened in that process taught me something profound about what we're really doing when we practice our instruments, when we show up for the people we love, and when we build something that lasts.

The Recording

When I first listened to that recording again after my mom's passing, I heard things I couldn't hear as a child. I heard my mom's touch on the piano: the way she voiced chords, the subtle rubato she added, her musical personality present in every phrase. I heard fifth-grade me trying so hard, playing with the earnest effort of someone performing at their first real holiday concert, nervous energy mixed with genuine excitement.

And I heard something else: a moment of connection that transcended the music itself. We weren't making great art that night. Fifth-grade me was squeaking through passages, probably a little sharp in places, definitely anxious about getting it right in front of an audience. But we were together. We were creating something. And my mom thought it was worth preserving.

What Grandparents Really Do

Here's what I've realized: when my mom sat down at that piano for our school holiday concert, she wasn't thinking, "This recording will comfort my adult son decades from now after I'm gone." She was there to support her kid. To accompany him. To be part of his big moment.

But that's exactly what grandparents do. What parents do. What teachers and mentors do. They plant seeds they'll never see bloom. They create moments that won't reveal their full meaning for thirty, forty, fifty years.

Every grandparent reading this: every time you attend your grandchild's concert or recital, every time you show up for their big moments even when the performance is objectively rough, every time you record it because you know they'll want to remember, you're doing this. You're investing in their future archive. You're building scaffolding for who they'll become when you're not here anymore.

That time you sat through a squeaky beginner concert? That's not just an hour of your time. That's creating a memory that will sustain someone decades from now. That recording you made on your phone? Someone's going to treasure that more than you can imagine. That moment when you showed up and paid attention? You're teaching them that their efforts matter, that you believe in who they're becoming, that performing (putting yourself out there) is worth doing.

You're creating meaning that reveals itself later.

The Forward View

But here's what hit me even harder as I prepared to play this duet: This isn't just about looking backward.

If you're a grandparent now, if you have students or younger family members or anyone in your orbit who's watching you, what you're doing with them right now is creating their future archive. When you attend their concerts, when you record their performances, when you show up even when they're not very good yet, what conversations are you creating that will matter in 2050? In 2060?

When you practice your clarinet, you're not just playing for today. You're becoming the person who can play at your granddaughter's wedding. You're becoming the person who shows up at community concerts. You're creating moments that will matter to people who don't even exist yet.

Every time you pick up your instrument, you're investing in your future self and in the people around you. You're saying, "This matters enough to keep going." And that message (that persistence, that devotion to craft, that belief that beauty is worth pursuing, that willingness to perform even when you're nervous) is what people will remember about you.

The Duet

So I set up my recording equipment, cued up that forty-year-old recording of my mom and fifth-grade me from the holiday concert, and I started playing along. It was harder than I expected.

Fifth-grade me wasn't playing in perfect time. Fifth-grade me had concert nerves affecting the tempo. Fifth-grade me was just trying to get through it without making a huge mistake in front of everyone. So current me had to adapt. Had to meet that younger version where he was. Had to create harmony even when things weren't perfectly aligned.

And isn't that perfect? Isn't that exactly what the holidays ask us to do? Meet people where they are. Adapt to the moment. Create something beautiful even when conditions aren't ideal.

As I played, something shifted. Three generations existed simultaneously in that moment: My mom, who's gone. Fifth-grade me, who doesn't exist anymore except in memory and recordings. And current me, who gets to benefit from all of it.

This is what music does. It collapses time. It makes the past present. It lets us have conversations we thought were over.

Why This Matters to Your Practice

If you're an adult clarinet learner reading this, I want you to understand something: When you record yourself now, you're not just documenting your current level. You're creating a conversation with your future self. You're building a bridge across time. You're making meaning that lasts.

I know you don't like how you sound right now. I know you think you'll record when you get better. I know it feels uncomfortable to preserve your "mistakes." But that's not the point.

Five years from now, you'll be able to play a duet with today's version of yourself. You'll hear how far you've come. You'll have proof that showing up matters. And if you keep at this for decades (if you make music a lifelong practice) you might find yourself in your seventies playing along with your fifty-year-old self, marveling at the continuity.

More than that, you're showing the people around you what matters. You're demonstrating that growth is possible at any age. That it's worth pursuing something beautiful even when you're not good at it yet. That performing (putting yourself out there) takes courage at any level. That showing up matters more than being perfect.

Someone's watching you practice, even if you don't realize it. Someone notices when you perform. Someone hears you running scales in the other room. Someone sees you preparing for your recital. And they're cataloging it. They're learning from it. They're building their understanding of what's possible based on what you're doing.

You're becoming someone's archive.

What Are You Building That Compounds?

The holidays aren't really about this year's celebration. They're not about the perfect decorations or the perfect meal or the perfect performance or even about everyone being together in one place.

The holidays are about building something that compounds. Every time you show up, every tradition you keep or create, every moment you're fully present, every concert you attend, every performance you give: you're investing in someone else's future meaning.

My mom did that for me. She sat down at the piano. She showed up at that holiday concert. She pressed record. She preserved the moment. And you're probably doing it for someone right now, even if you don't realize it.

Every time you practice your clarinet, every time you share your music, every time you perform even when you're nervous, every time you keep going when it's hard: you're creating ripples that will travel farther than you can see.

So here's my challenge to you: Show up. Be present. Record something. Perform something. Even if it's imperfect. Especially if it's imperfect. Know that you're building something bigger than this moment.

The meaning reveals itself later. Sometimes decades later. But it always reveals itself.

A Gift For You

If this post resonated with you, I want to share something practical: I've created a free Clarinet Ninja Practice Log that helps you structure your practice so every session builds on the last.

This is the practice system I wish I'd had at eleven years old. If I'd used this preparing for that holiday concert, I would have been much better prepared. But here's the thing: it still would have mattered just as much. Because the meaning wasn't in the perfection. The meaning was in showing up, in being present, in my mom being there, in creating something together.

This practice log helps you do that more effectively. But it doesn't replace what matters most: that you're actually doing it. Download the Practice Log here and use it to create your own archive. Use it to become someone worth remembering.

Join the Conversation

If you want to go deeper into this work (if you want community, systematic training, and support in making music a lifelong practice) I'd love to have you in the Clarinet Ninja Dojo. We're not just teaching clarinet. We're building a community of people who understand that music is a lifelong conversation with yourself.

And if this story moved you, please share it with someone who needs to hear it. Sometimes the people who need these messages most don't even know they're looking for them.

Keep practicing. Keep showing up. Keep building something that compounds.

Watch the full video episode here:

AUTHOR BIO:

Jay Hassler is the founder of Clarinet Ninja and a music educator who helps adult learners reclaim their musical dreams through evidence-based practice methods. With performance experience from Carnegie Hall to the Metropolitan Opera, Jay combines world-class musicianship with adult learning science to create training that actually works for real people with real lives. He teaches 8th grade music, maintains an active performance career, and lives in New York City with his daughter.