Yesterday, I received a call from our oldest. This call was about completing her Fafsa form for fall enrollment in college. She needs help. I will offer. She is the wanderer. She is always searching, never finding. While many things in her world are spinning and often are, she stands firm on a few things. Music is one of them. She is supremely talented and trained. There was a season I remember when her value rested heavily on her ability to reach outside the trained study she received and risk the imperfection that can happen in learning to play by ear. At precisely the same time, our Son was just learning to play. He had his sister on a pedestal of perfection and sought to impress her with his new skill. She came to visit; he risked. This is what I wrote:
She is home today.
His patience thinned as wool becomes fine-spun thread. It was now his time to craft.
Together, with his 6-stringed companion, He poured himself out.
First, He trembled humbly and played what He always practices. Next, He sang. The procession began to walk toward the altar and His offering was gently laid before the master. While she surveyed His gift, He did not look up from his fingers. They flew.
In the way ice melts slowly and changes form, so did HE. His self-consciousness became awareness and the gift became art. . . became music. . . became the words he sang. . .SUCH GREAT HEIGHTS. (Credit to the artist The Postal Service)
Parents looked on in joy as the master approved of the workmanship and the apprentice found the place where talent meets pleasure.
Oh how the seasons have changed here.