The Music Between Us, the Reciprocity of Ben’s Legacy

Boston Philharmonic Youth Orchestra || Tour of Possibility in México

Benjamin Zander

June 18, 2025 | Jen Mabray

Cruising by bus through the Mexican countryside from León to Veracruz revealed a patchwork of color and charm.

Small villages dotted the hilly landscape like hidden treasures. Many windows had no glass—just open spaces breathing with the air. It’s tempting to see this as idyllic, as if the breeze were part of the design. But the view also speaks of vulnerability—exposure to wind and rain. The resilience here is quiet, but powerful.

Mexico carries its own rhythm, its own tempo. Even without knowing everything, we understand something essential.

As musicians, we know: music isn’t just about playing. It’s about being heard—and received. That intimate exchange is presence, connection, and my favorite: reciprocity. Could it be that the things we seek in life—strength, balance, depth, empathy, value—already exist in music?

Certainly, it is the right of every artist—and every human—to share their voice.

I began learning piano at eight. Over thirty-five years later, I still need it. The piano is a refuge, a translator, a friend. But over time, I’ve come to understand that music has at least three parts: contributing, receiving, and—perhaps most important of all—listening.

Ben is the star of our tour. He speaks to audiences before a single note is played—and his words are musical, lyrical, connective, even healing. Anyone who’s played under Ben knows: he doesn’t just conduct an orchestra—he commands reciprocity.

But Ben isn’t the only one in this exchange. Musicians, staff, chaperones, professionals—we’re all part of the give and take, the listening and responding, the offering and receiving.

Let me tell you what I saw…

At Hotel Oviedo in Club Campestre Teotihuacan, I fell a little in love.

Our trumpetists played across a lantern-lit pond. Peacocks sang to their lovers, fanning tails in slow, deliberate choreography—a kind of music made visible. Chickens murmured secrets to those who paused to listen. Horses neighed, one just days from giving birth. Beneath the bougainvillea, the vines beckoned, and the giant aloe commanded reverence.

Our laughter could be heard: percussionists, woodwinds, and cellists played soccer, girls fed birds, Bob chased waddling ducks, Silvia admired native embroidery. A group from the viola section giggled as horses kissed their hands like greeting old friends.

As night fell, we were treated to a magical concert—vibrant and alive. A soloist in traditional Mexican attire graced the stage, her black hair adorned with a striking red flower. She sang in Spanish, her voice both fiery and tender, weaving stories through song. With powerful movements, she danced among us, gently taking our hands, drawing us into her world.

Her energy lit up the room as she sang directly to some of our most handsome musicians and staff—Camden, Ben, Hans, Cole, Taka, Chris, Eric, Ian, Greg, Max, Christian, Aidan, Dylan, Sebastián, Bob, Mauricio,  Herald and Ernesto—making the night feel intimate and unforgettable.

And then—silence. The kind that holds you. The kind that answers back.

In that space, everything spoke. Everything listened.

This is what reciprocity feels like: not just giving, but being received. Not just seeing, but being seen. And in this sun-drenched pocket of the world, the world said yes.

Not far from the hotel, we climbed the ancient pyramids of Teotihuacan. They rose like silent witnesses—stone upon stone, weathered and enduring. Built by hands long gone, they speak not through words, but scale. Through time. As we ascended their sunbaked steps, something in us quieted. Here, reciprocity took a different form: we offered our breath, our reverence, and were given a wider sky, a deeper stillness, a glimpse of something older than memory.

From there, we continued to Veracruz, where the terrain turned lush and coastal. Now, Tropical Storm Erick sweeps the horizon like a conductor of wind and wave. The ocean answers with surging swells and thunderous rhythm. No one speaks above the storm. You can only listen.

And so we do. Rain drums on rooftops like distant timpani. There is love in this too—not the comforting kind, but the kind that demands your attention. The kind that says: if you truly listen, I will show you something sacred.

Even here, with the storm swelling outside and the pyramids echoing in our bones, Ben’s presence hums beneath it all. He is not here physically, but his voice lingers like a low string vibrating beneath the melody. His leadership doesn’t need proximity to be felt. It lives in how we listen now. In how we reflect, offer, respond.

Ben has always said: music isn’t a one-way act. It is not performance—it is relationship. At its highest level, it is love. And love, we’re learning, lives in attention, in presence, in generosity. It requires reciprocity. And Ben, in his way, demands nothing less.

Even as the rain thrashes the sea and the wind pulls at the palms—we are still listening. Because Ben taught us: music isn’t what you play. It’s what happens between the notes. And life, it turns out, is the same.

In Veracruz, a woman at the hotel asked me,

“¿Sabes el hombre?”

“Sí, él es nuestro maestro.”

“No puede dejar mirarlo––ya van como diez minutos! De alguna manera, sé que es alguien muy especial.”

“Sí. Ese es Benjamin Zander.”

Written by: Jen Mabray