It pricks the skin hard,
burning each beat.
tiny tingling bumps on my arm.
Turns shallow breath
long and slow,
with each count.
Cheeks flush, and I forget
this morning I was angry.
Fingers dance across nickle keys, and I forget
there are dishes in the sink waiting.
My body drifts into the sound, and I forget
yesterday made me cry.
There is nothing left of today other than the beauty of music. Every frustration, unexpected moment, and unfinished project have been pulled from me and left on the stage. If I could rehearse every night I would – there is no other release like it, nothing more complete. I was absorbed by the strength of Beethoven and couldn’t help but laugh at the absurd comment I had heard the other day. Someone had implied that a real musician only plays for pay. They couldn’t believe that I would waste so much time playing for volunteer groups. That is as ridiculous a statement as telling me that I am not really a writer because most everything that I have ever penned has never been read, let alone been paid either. I disagree. We are what we create. We are who we choose to be and whatever we are willing to put in the effort.
Before rehearsal I held on to frustrations with myself, grudges against my children’s behaviour, and anxiety over things left undone. But now I am home, still savoring the sounds and sights my heart holds, filling me with peace and contentment.