I WAS A JUNIOR when I crossed the threshold into Assistant Professor of Music Larry Weng’s classroom, and a familiar blend of excitement and apprehension washed over me. Surrounded by this pianist’s many global accolades and accomplishments in classical music, I felt both dwarfed and inspired, especially as I was mostly self-taught. My musical foundation wasn’t built on young, disciplined practice and recitals but was a gift from my mother, whose voice had the power to penetrate both silence and darkness. It was this unique connection to music that I wanted to explore further and refine with Dr. Weng’s help.

The first task was choosing a piece for me to learn, which I quickly discovered was more complicated than simply picking one off a list. Dr. Weng first challenged me to articulate why I wanted to play music. I tried to explain that I always yearned to play something that mirrored the complexities of life — both shadows and light, simple and complex, but my why probably sounded more like an existential crisis. The unspoken depth of human emotion and struggle is what I sought to find in music — you can hear someone’s heart shatter or soar without a single word uttered. I chose Beethoven’s “Piano Sonata No. 14” in C-sharp minor, familiarly known as the “Moonlight Sonata,” as it matched my desire. That concluded the first lesson: defining your why.

As my practice deepened, the sonata grew increasingly complex, each session bringing yet another hill to overcome. During one session, panic ensued with every misstep; I was making desperate attempts at fixing things, only making them worse. “Stop! Observe!” Dr. Weng said, forcing me in that moment to pause when everything in me just wanted to push blindly forward. Lesson two taught me something profound about approaching life’s obstacles: Observe, understand and then proceed with intention.

Amid all the sessions about how to play notes better emerged another kind of lesson. How to breathe better struck me as odd, because I play piano, not a wind instrument. When I rushed into Dr. Weng’s office one day bubbling with stress and ready to pop, my professor didn’t give much advice at all except, “Breathe.” And so we did together … just for a second … just long enough for tranquility to settle over every part of me cowering behind layers of anxiety and frustration.

“Breathe,” he whispered again as the fire died down, my mind now quiet. “Whenever you start to feel overwhelmed,” he told me, “just breathe.” And I did.

Dr. Weng’s mentoring lessons — observing why you’re doing something, addressing mistakes with carefulness and taking deep breaths — transformed my view of not only what is possible in piano, but also in the world. I soon dreamed of what was possible at Wake Forest.

Dr. Weng’s guidance, coupled with my newfound confidence, led me to organize students and create the inaugural Wakeville Arts Festival my senior year. A celebration of art and community that demanded us to understand our collective why, a strategic problem-solving and logistics planning method and the courage to breathe through any kind of challenge thrown at us. Each individual lesson with Dr. Weng, every error we corrected along the way made this dream tangible, transforming it into life’s melodies observed and celebrated by a quarter of our student body in April 2023.

Recalling my time in the piano classroom, I’ve realized that Dr. Weng’s mentorship was something extraordinary and went beyond the usual boundaries. Dr. Weng didn’t just teach me; he traveled alongside me as we discovered expression and enlightenment. Blending lessons in music with life, I found more than a mentor. Dr. Weng has been a guiding light to follow not only through musical notes, but also in illuminating the intricate steps of existence itself.

Roscoe Bell (’23), a psychology and music graduate and a second-year Wake Forest Fellow, is an advocate for healthcare access, mental health and the arts. He is a program coordinator for the Program for Leadership and Character while aiming for a career as a physician.