Being the Harp...

It was a cool, brisk Friday night, and rather than veg at home binge-watching something I probably shouldn't anyway, I took the long trek to the other side of town. I picked up my sister. We rarely get to hang out anymore. Between us, we have 15 grown or nearly-grown children, scads of their spouses, grandchildren, puppies, activities, responsibilities and drama. Our paths diverge into fantastically beautiful splinters and then converge into meaningful similar trails. It's just a lot. So I'm really grateful for any us-time that we get to carve out. On this night, we went to hear a lovely lady play a senior recital's worth of harp music. Yes, there are Harp Doctorates. And after hearing this magician, my chin was on the floor. I kept thinking, "How many actual hours did this take to master?" And you don't get to rest on your laurels. That stuff doesn't just stay there. You have to keep practicing, growing, learning, and changing or it turns to rust. I'm a mature woman, and have been playing the flute most of my life, and have really just starting seriously practicing scales and such. No. I'm a toddler. I'm trying to figure out what planet I've been living on, because I'm seeing that there is a whole lot more to know. And there's also some more kind-of ceiling to things. Just because you practice, you might not get to be that great. You might not have the greatest ear, or the best eyes, or the nicest idea about rhythm. God has to give you that. Then a great teacher might help a lot. And luck...you might get lucky and land in just the right group of folks or school that help you learn the right skills. And on and on. But no matter what, you could make perfection your goal in life, work your fingers to the bone, wear out all your tendons, spend all your money, be an obnoxious diva to everyone you know, be outrageously skilled and famous, and still never get it. 

As this young lady started to play. she stilled herself. She closed her eyes, laying hands on either side of the harp. It seemed an eternity before she began to play, but then her swift fingers ran over the strings, nary missing a beat. What I noticed, maybe even more than the individual notes, was the way that her face immersed into the spirit of the music. Forgetting the audience, she became the song, be it classic, quirky, folk, quirky, fearful. Her pure-hearted preoccupation with the music was a thing of beauty. It was why we show up for these things, isn't it? It's why we listen, in the end. Ah, music...