MUSIC OF MY HEART

I’ve been feeling musical lately.
Maybe it is triggered by the intensive orchestra rehearsals at my music school and my daily two hour practices at home.
I really love to be there, in the hall upstairs, where lots of chairs are arranged neatly, two for every music stand: we are seated in pair then, and there’s no fixed rule where to sit, as long you find someone with the same position (first, second, or third fiddlers). We all mingle there, from every age (elementary school kids, teenagers, up to grown ups in mid-forties). Some additional chairs are put nearby to anticipate the laggards.
Sometimes I am one of those laggards. But despite the yells to hurry up from the annoyed teacher and music conductor, I enjoy those rushing moments when we climb up the stairs, two steps at a time, then go inside the small room to put our violin case on the floor, open it up quickly yet carefully, tighten the bow and set up the shoulder rest as fast as we can. Though most of us usually don’t have enough time to apply the rosin into those smooth fibbers, we can still smell it from the residue not yet wiped away from the last practice.
Then we fly to the hall where the music is already playing.
We violinist are lucky never to be singled out for any false tunes (though we hit them anyway), but receive the reproach(es) as a group, unlike the poor and only one drummer, or guitarist, or bassist. The worst is just a playful poke of the teacher’s baton to correct the position of our hands, legs, and backs. We don’t mind his yelling at us, really. It is taken with a grain of salt, and though we loudly boo at his suggestion(s) of prolonging the rehearsal hour, we actually won’t mind lingering there a little bit more.
I think music is beautiful. I can’t agree at all with a close friend of mine who thinks that music is not more than a disturbing noise. He is one of the two people I know of who don’t like music, almost hate it, I dare say. However, our different opinion about this subject doesn’t reduce my respect and affections I have for him.
Anyway, I have learned to enjoy some ‘disturbing noises’ as a music as well. I will never forget the beauty I found in my nephews’ kiddy talks as they fussed over me soon after my hospital release over a year ago. Their loud and cheerful voice could barely contain their joy of seeing again their once almost dead aunty. And it mortified me to remember how many times I had chided them for making those sounds when I needed a peaceful time to nap or study.
I’ve also grown to appreciate the moments when I woke up to the sound of the rustling leaves, tossed by a morning breeze. From my window I can see some almost withered roses nodding a good morning for me, while at the same time keeping their petals from dropping with impressive tenacity I almost cry watching them. They won’t be there too long.
But soon I’ll be comforted with the sound of my parents chattering in the kitchen or dining room. Sometimes when I am not too sleepy, from my bedroom I can catch a word or two of their conversations, hear their pleasant chuckles as they banter light-heartedly, like a song to my ears, affirming that they are already there for me, ready to smile at and love me unconditionally, and the thought of it warms my heart beyond words.
I know they won’t be there for me forever, neither will I for them. I hate to think of it, but someday we must say goodbye too. But I will always keep their ‘morning song’ in my heart, as the most beautiful music of all.