Music and My Soul

I seem to have almost fully recovered from the nasty virus I had over the past couple of weeks so it is time to sit down again and write. I also am energized from my writing group meeting yesterday. Now I just need discipline and a lack of distractions. I often wonder how much of the novel would get written if I found a cabin in the woods with no internet or television, stocked up on tea, bread and peanut butter and just stuck with it for about a week or two. Would I go crazy or would I actually get it written? These characters are all living in my head. I know them fairly intimately. At times they demand to get out - usually at 11:00 at night when I am trying to get to sleep.
Feeling physically better means I am back on track with my health plan. I shopped for good food yesterday and have done my yoga and meditation for the past few days. The cello has also seen the light of day and is sounding fairly good. These are all signs that I am on the mend.
However, today I feel a little tender. Not physically, but emotionally and spiritually. I was finishing my yoga routine and resting quietly with my legs up the wall when Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata started playing on my CD. It was so moving and sweet that tears came to my eyes and I lost my breath. It was overwhelming and I have no idea where that emotion came from. I am often moved by beautiful music but this seemed to have gone to a soul level and I am still feeling the effects. I am now listening to Yo Yo Ma’s Appassionato CD and find myself stopping to listen to musical phrases and imagining the movement of the bow across the strings. Music has been one of the greatest pleasures of my life, both listening and playing.
I wanted to play music from the time I knew what a piano was. However, my parents both said that they weren’t going to pay for something I would probably play for a few months and then drop. I think they realized I was serious when I started playing the trumpet in fourth grade and even after two months of barely being able to get anything besides the sound of percussive farts out of the instrument I hung in there until I was placing first in music competitions in junior high band. I started playing piano when I was 12 or 13 and fell in love.
My piano teacher was like a character out of a strange novel. Her name was Betty and she was very eccentric, lived with her parents and was of an unknown age. She dressed like a gypsy in flowery dresses and skirts over crinoline and peek-a-boo toe high heels. She had long black hair that hung over her shoulders and her features were somewhat exotic under layers of blue eye shadow. Betty also had very long fingernails that were painted fire engine red. When I imagine her I can almost hear the sound of the nails clicking on the piano keys while she played.
Betty was also one of the brightest characters of my childhood and adolescence. I think her loveliness and eccentricity played a large part in my growing love of music. One day she stopped me while I was playing a Chopin nocturne and asked me if I saw auras. I replied that I had no clue what she was talking about. Then she told me that when I played Chopin my grey eyes turned brown. She said it was my passion for the music that caused this change. For some reason, I believed her. I knew that I loved Chopin and I would not have been surprised if deep cellular changes occurred when I heard his music.
I continued to play piano on and off over the years. My trumpet, unfortunately, went into its case after high school graduation and appeared very rarely after that. It was eventually sold during one of those periods of my life when a few dollars was more necessary than a battered instrument.
I love hearing music played. I have always loved hearing symphony orchestras and pianists. And I love playing music. When I turned fifty I needed a new challenge. I had reached my thirty year goal of visiting the Himalayas and had even managing to have a border skirmish with the Chinese, but needed a new challenge. I had always wanted to play a string instrument. I assessed the situation and decided that a violin would be too hard on my hands and neck so I went with the cello. I have not regretted it since. I am not a prodigy by any means, but I have managed to learn to play well enough that I can enjoy a good hour of playing on my own. I have had a couple of wonderful teachers but neither have the eccentricity of Betty. I wish she was around to hear me now.
When I listen to classical music I am particularly struck by the mellow sounds of the cello but I also love the oboe. When I think about it, the oboe’s lower notes sound very similar to the cello. I think they are often interchanged in some orchestras. I wish one of my grandchildren would play it. Katie plays clarinet and Molly plays flute. Caleb will probably play drums or a brass instrument. Maybe Lizzie will play oboe or a string instrument.
When I went to the Boston Symphony a few weeks ago to see and hear Yo Yo Ma I was seated where I had a direct view of the lead oboe player. Since the director was blocking my view of Yo Yo, I watched the oboist instead. He moved with the music, levitating slightly with the higher notes and dipping down in front of the music stand with the lower notes, swaying gently while counting measures when he wasn’t playing. I think his eyes were changing colors when he played.
Music brings out tenderness and awe. It moves me in ways I really don’t understand but I am willing to ride out that vulnerability and be in the moment that each note is played. If it makes me sad, so be it. If it makes me want to dance, so much the better. I can’t imagine life without it.