Music

I love music, but as something elusive.

I am nearly tone deaf, but I hear music just well enough to know that I am missing out on something magical.

How is it that my firstborn has a voice someone once described as warm cream cheese that melts the soul? It’s not from my contribution of genes. But her mellow mezzo-soprano is a gift to me. After years of hearing her practice, I can sometimes recognize a song other than happy birthday now. 

In a world where everything is song would I learn more notes or become an outcast? I have been the audience, never the performer. The backstage mom finding props and sewing costumes. And while I might wish to hear the sounds better, I am content. I watch the passion of the performers, the swaying of dancers, the transitions of instruments, and the faces of the listeners. I see what the music produces in others.

I may not hear all the notes, but I am the leaf floating in the stream, watching seasons change and awe inspiring waves surrounding me. And so the music reaches me, too.