It's always hard to say good bye, but it is perhaps harder still to say good bye when one feels they haven't truly had enough time to say hello.  And so it goes at summer music clinic; that one blissful week of seven days away from reality, where some 600 "almost-adults" crowd into a frigid, brightly lit auditorium for concerts.  These almost-adults, young musicians (all first chair at their respective schools) vie for top billing.  Most of them don't get it—and most of the time it doesn't usually matter.

There lies somewhere deep within music a certain urgency that speaks to these "almost-adults."  This urgency to resolve the chords of our lives, crescendo into our adult selves, and improvise our futures—this urgency makes us feel human.  And it explains why we return year after year.

Of course, the friendships forged, sought, and sometimes never truly attained (until the last five minutes before floor time on the last night of camp) play a huge role in the music clinic experience.  Friends at music camp are different from at-home friends.  These fellow musicians understand our urgencies, and more importantly our pains at sitting sixth chair when last year we sat second.  These music friends share our needs and—for that one brief smoldering July week—become our only steadfast pedestals.

But, musicians unfortunately have one of the keenest abilities to royally hurt their best friends.  Without meaning to, we manage to steal each other's attention and time—precious things when we have only seven days.  Yet, music clinic has magic in it… we pull out the cameras, take pictures, of each other, and no one cares who danced with whom at the music clinic mixer.

Musicians can't dance—instrumentalists in particular.  We may have been bred for classical music, but we have no rhythm for modern music.  Yet, we all urge on to the silly little music clinic dance… where no one slow dances because everyone's to shy to talk to everyone else.  At least we can all put our arms in the and spell out alphabet letters… that's our one good dance.

"I only stood up for the good performances."  Ah… the student recitals.  Nerves completely overpowering us, we walk on the stage.  With the down (hippopotamus) up, we bring our instruments up and play… music vibrates in our very soul.  To thunderous applause and standing ovations, we take the final bow, wondering where we found that music within us.

And the final concert… perhaps worse are the final thank you's and the dreaded, teary good-bye's.  The seven-year veterans take their final fermatas with gratitude (and tears).  We've participated in something wonderful for so long that the reality never should have come that it could one day end.  "It isn't fair."

"Don't cry… you'll be a counselor next year."  And so, we keep coming back—again and again.  Till we're old, this steadfast summer rite of passage shall remain until we're teaching our own clarinet classes and directing the bands we once played sixth chair in when we knew in the bottoms of our hearts we were really playing first chair.

We continue with our music—our music clinic good-bye's and hello's.