I’ve had many students leave my studio. They move away, quit lessons, decide to study a different instrument. I’m always sad to see them go, because these children matter to me. But I’ve never had as hard a time letting go as I am with Janette. I keep asking myself whether I should love them less. I know the answers. Love is not something I can make happen or prevent. Love simply is. And I wouldn’t be who I am if I weren’t attached deeply to my students. I give myself to everyone I care about: my husband, my friends, my own flute teacher, my special family friend, Amy. I don’t want to put up a wall, or even a veil. I remember a line from an old Bee Gees song: "Nobody gets too much love anymore." There’s no such thing as too much love. The way the world is today, most children (and most adults, by the way) don’t get enough unconditional, individual attention. I can give my students a little of that, and allowing that energy to flow is more important than teaching how to finger a high B-flat or count syncopated rhythms.

So, I’m allowing myself to grieve Janette’s departure. I try not to minimize the loss, but I hear society’s voices in my head, "Oh, come off it, she’s just one of many—you have a long waiting list and new students will come." The facts are true but the emotions beneath them are not. As my friend Bo Lozoff, a spiritual teacher and author of We’re All Doing Time, says, "Grief is just love with a bad reputation." Yes. This grief, with all its tears and sadness and pain and loss, is not wrong or unhealthy. My grief shows me my great capacity for love and makes me feel alive. Even my anger is OK: I spent a week being furious at the company Janette’s Dad works for (and I have no idea what company that is) for promoting and transferring him.

As I spend my last lessons with Janette and savor every precious moment, filling my eyes with her beauty and my ears with her music and my heart with her spirit, I’m reminded of the most important lesson of all: live my life, every day and every moment like that, with everyone I love, with myself. Don’t assume I have the future. Live now, aware and grateful.

Good-bye, Janette. Thank you for bringing your sweet gifts to me. Go on and have a good life. The pain of losing you will lessen, my tears will stop; I’ll gradually let go of you, but I’ll never forget you. Maybe you’ll remember the half-hours we spent together for two years. I hope I’ve helped you love music and to love yourself. I hope my resistance to your leaving won’t make it harder for you; you have a difficult job ahead, starting a new life and finding new friends. Grow up well.

Would I again chance the pain of loss for only two short years of love? In a minute.