Art of Practice

Music has been his mistress for long years, and she always waits for him to come to her. Before the words, music was. And ever shall be.

Art of Practice

　

　

He walks through the gardens today and there is song all around him. The sounds of life fill his ears and he rejoices that he can take part in their grand chorus. He is seeing clearer now that less clutter is good. Simplify. To be content with what is his already. For was he not not guilty of the sin of wanting more, as well? Yes, that is sin, yes it is. He has gained wisdom. Slowly at times, but still an advancement, nonetheless. He stands in the kitchen, unsure why he is now inside.

He is drawn through the house to the music room. She is anxious, and he cannot deny her. Music has been his mistress for long years, and she always waits for him to come to her. To caress her and tempt her into submission. To open herself to him so that they may become one. She loves him and he loves her, and he has poured his heart into her and has never been turned away. She lifts him from the earth into places unreachable, and their embrace has always been one of intimacy.

The piano breathes sound throughout the house. Soft and fragile, a butterfly outside the window. Sad and lonely, a little bird alone on the fence. Thunderous and mighty, cloudbursts upon the roof. Happy and precocious, children at play in the park. All of these things she gives to him in those moments. She allows him the power to create worlds from nothing, and he shall forever hold her in his heart. He is made glorious by her light.

His playing, much like his cooking, is improvised on the spot. No staff of music in front of him, no recipes. Use the ingredients at hand and make it delicious. He rarely practices anymore. He simply plays what ever is upon him at the time. He knows the notes, the chords, the theory. He can see how they dance with each other and blend together to complete the trinity of involvement of his mind, his heart and his hands. The people marvel at him and preen over him and try to live vicariously through him, and he is merely sad that they cannot taste the fruit that he has savored. Such a gift she has been to him. She has made him.

And he realizes now that his writing is becoming another willing partner to his passion. She has become ravenous in her appetite for him. Insatiable. And if they marvel at him and preen over him and try to live vicariously through him, he will still be sad for them. He writes in the same manner as when he plays an instrument. In the moment. Straight from the spiritual realms to the physical. Sometimes there is naught but incoherent rambling, but other times.....well, he knows what he has done. And he is glad to have touched a heart along the way.