The Second Life

What happened when I stopped perfecting the first one.

“We have two lives. The second starts when you realize you only have one.”
—Confucius

Confucius probably wasn’t thinking about saxophones when he said that. But the old philosopher understood something about timing.

That line has followed me for years, especially when I think back on one decision that quietly rearranged my life: giving up the tenor saxophone and embracing the soprano saxophone as my musical voice.

Before that moment—before what I sometimes jokingly call my musical rebirth—I was a tenor player cruising along a path that felt familiar enough. The gigs were steady. The skills were solid. The frustrations were the usual ones musicians collect along the way. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing particularly revolutionary either.

In other words, things were fine.

And “fine” can be one of the most dangerous words in the arts. A lot of careers have quietly drifted into mediocrity under the polite cover of things being fine.

Because beneath that comfortable surface there was a quiet suspicion that somewhere beyond the horizon was an ocean of music I hadn’t even begun to explore. I was paddling around in a respectable stream when the map was clearly pointing toward deeper water.

Then one day something shifted. Call it an epiphany if you want. Musicians have those from time to time. Usually they arrive without asking permission.

I picked up the soprano saxophone.

That was the beginning of my second life.

Now switching instruments might sound like a small adjustment to someone outside the music world. But inside the horn it felt more like jumping from one moving train to another.

The soprano lives in a different neighborhood. The voice sits higher. The intonation can humble you quickly if your ego gets too comfortable. And the instrument has a way of exposing everything you thought you already understood about sound.

There were moments early on when I felt like a man who had jumped into the ocean only to realize he might not be the swimmer he thought he was.

But somewhere in that struggle the music began opening up.

I started hearing melodies differently. I began exploring tonal systems that had never really crossed my path as a tenor player. Improvisation became less about running through familiar theoretical highways and more about following instinct, emotion, and the strange logic of sound itself.

In short, the horn started teaching me things I didn’t know I needed to learn.

The second life also changed the company I kept. Once the soprano became my main voice, I found myself crossing paths with artists who lived outside the traditional jazz neighborhood. Improvisers. Sound explorers. Musicians who were less concerned with preserving a vocabulary and more interested in discovering one.

Collaborations began to appear, and with them came the long conversations musicians tend to have when they’re trying to figure out where the music is actually going. And slowly I realized that parts of my musical personality that had been sitting quietly in the background were finally stepping forward.

Looking back now, it’s clear that Confucius was onto something.

At some point you realize that time is not a patient partner. It moves whether you move or not. And once that realization settles in, you start making decisions differently.

Picking up the soprano saxophone turned out to be the catalyst for more than just a new sound. It quietly rearranged the rest of my life as well. Somewhere along the way I became a husband and father. The musician who once measured life gig by gig somehow ended up signing mortgage papers, attending parent-teacher conferences, and discovering that fulfillment often arrives wearing very different clothes than the ones you imagined. And perhaps most surprising of all, I began enjoying the ride in a way I hadn’t before.

That is the strange wisdom behind Confucius’ line.

The second life begins the moment you realize the first one isn’t permanent.

When things aren’t going well, our instinct is usually to try harder. To fix the life we already have.

But sometimes the real answer is not refinement.

Sometimes the real answer is rebirth.