Sometimes I just sit in my home “office” staring at my wall of collected musical instruments. I don’t play any of them. I just like them.
It seems nostalgic, yet, real.
It started with a casual garage sale purchase, but now I want a mural of music making contraptions. Granted, most are non-functioning wall hangers, but when I stare at them, I wonder, imagining the sound of each instrument as deaf music flows to hearing ears.
Whether a solo, or a symphony of organized noise produced by metal, wood and strings, sometimes I hear it.
It sounds crazy, but in my mind, it plays. Songs. Music. All kinds.
I wonder, what other songs they’ve played? Who’s held them? Was it a marching band? A rock concert? A smooth mellow solo?
The central air kicks on. Air stirs, moving imaginary sound like a sweet fragrance from deep within the silence, and the music plays.
I hear tiny shoes, toddler feet shuffling, trying to dance to the rhythm. I see proud parents of a student who plays his piece after hours upon hours of agonizing wailing from a horn. I smell popcorn, accented by the fresh turf as the band twists and turns, narrowly missing one another as cascades of music belt forth.
I feel a cringe up my neck during the first lesson as strings are plucked out of order, even backwards at times, yet somehow with a peck and check method, Mary Had a Little Lamb begins to tickle seeking ears.
At other times there’s a soothing embrace of sound as the artist, whether young or old, experienced or novice, talented or raw, makes sounds that makes the spirit sway like a breeze makes leaves dance on a tree.
There’s a oneness, a melding of mind with the instrument. With more practice, the more it’s played, the more the music changes. It becomes something not to just be mastered to sing notes to the world, but rather something that sings the heart of the master to the ears of the world.
My ignorance of musical talent does not diminish the power, for the powerful sound can coddle a baby to sleep in a crib. Its strength can cause a stadium full of people to roar in approval, or an elderly couple to slow dance with cane and walker to the song they first heard together sixty years ago.
Warriors of life take solace in the music too. Those who’ve been cut by life’s circumstances, crippled by cruel ironies, crushed day in and out with a laceration and nothing seems fair, right or just, they find healing there too. Like soothing salve to the wounds of the heart, music can help heal restore a worn and weary soul.
And so the silent music hanging on my wall plays on.
Sing songs with the merry. Play the tunes by which kings dream. Sound your chorus to the downtrodden. Pour out your melodies to the paupers of heart.
It’s there. It’s all there. The notes, sound, the music, the songs. And right now, it’s playing your song as well.
Listen. In your silence, listen. You too shall hear.