And they're cutting the Arts out of schools?

I was a child, at some point in elementary school, the first time we lined up to go hear the symphony. Field trip days were always the best days, though the jury was still out on how this one would turn out. Our school was filled with common, country kids who ran summers barefoot and drank water from hosepipes. The buses lumbered into downtown Atlanta. We lined up again and filed through to our assigned places. On the stage, there were lots of empty seats, except where the harpist sat, dreamily streaming through her warm-up. I was hooked. One by one, the musicians meandered in, preparing their instruments and music, playing their own little personal concerts with scales and pieces of melodies floating up to where we sat. It was a cacophonous riot on the ears, none of it making sense yet. About the time I began to wonder if this was all that was going to happen, the conductor, bedecked in his luxurious tuxedo, strode up to the podium and commanded everyone's attention. A hush fell over the whole place. An eternity went by. I leaned forward, silent, waiting. Just as I was about to tip out of my skin, the air burst into sound. A roller coaster ride, romp in the woods, whirlwind in a chariot, float down a river, and a triumphant ascent to a mountaintop later, I collapsed in my seat, never to be the same. The rich and intricate music, mysterious yet universal, so inexplicably knit into a living fabric, made my heart want to burst. I looked around and wondered if the others around me felt it too, but I didn't dare ask. It opened this huge place inside that I didn't know existed. It was a universe of endless possibilities, beautiful, dangerous and wonderful. Adventures that I knew, even then, there weren't enough time for, at least in this life. But that was okay. What an epiphany, that this small dip in the pond was a promise that there was also an ocean.

When I reached sixth grade, my parents bought me piano lessons, a huge sacrifice for them financially. These things are usually taken for granted by the grantee, and I zig-zagged through six years of lessons before succumbing to basketball, boys and band, not necessarily in that order. I loved my first piano teacher, Elsie McDow. She had music in her soul. My second teacher, well.... she was a technical wizard, but didn't like too much of your soul coming through the keyboard. I learned expression and classical music from Elsie, but I resisted the second teacher's coldness. Which is unfortunate, because I could have used more technical prowess. Either way, I fell in love with the flute in high school. My parents rented me a flute the summer before ninth grade (five bucks a month) and bought a band book to learn it with. I eagerly dove in and found a voice that could sing better than my natural one. I never had lessons but mustered through by listening to other flute players and practicing, which is something I didn't give the piano. I never abandoned that instrument and have played in churches that we've attended, taught flute to beginners, and played in small orchestras around town. I play now every Sunday for our church in Douglasville. I thought this would be the sweet, lyrical way things went from now on. No real challenges, no huge reasons to practice intensely. But then...

I heard about a community ensemble (Carroll Community Wind Ensemble) and thought it would be fun to play with a group again. So I showed up one Tuesday night. What I expected was some easy music and the camaraderie of other players. What I got blew me away: a professional conductor who volunteers his time, numerous professional-level players, a bunch of old fogies like me (who could play really well), and music that scared the fool out of me. Because this fool couldn't play it. I was intimidated by the excellent flute player beside me. She mentioned another group in another town, so I thought she was giving me a strong hint to take my lowly flute elsewhere. I said something about trying the other group the next week. But bless Pat, she wouldn't hear of it. She encouraged me with kind and compelling words to come back. So I practiced my guts out that week and came back, limping not as badly as the first week. Each week was similar....a lot of practice, a little progress. To be honest, I'd never played music that difficult in my whole life. Was never asked to. We did numerous, beautiful concerts in the spring and summer, with me still struggling through much of it but holding my own. I even took my first flute lesson, just because....and this lady blessed me and gave me new confidence.

Surrounded by amazing players, it pushes me and makes me practice. There is nothing like the joy of getting to throw in with a group of kindred souls to come together in (mostly) harmony and make gorgeous music. So in my little corner of the world, at my age where there's no fame or fortune or even remote ideas of professionalism, I get to swim in that vast ocean of song that defies everything ugly or illogical in the world.