i walked down the hallway that seemed to go on forever,
walked on wood floors that creaked with each step,
passed rooms filled with files and files and files of black notes on white paper...
as music swirled out in the air above and below me from rooms with doors closed
and voices hushed.
her studio was at the very end of the hall.
her studio was at the very end of the hall.
and with an old sofa pushed up against that plaster covered wall,
i waited there for my lessons to begin.
small,
small,
diminutive,
reserved,
a spinster...
in the quiet moments that appear throughout the day...
and maybe it is reading of the setting of germany,
of the beauty under all that pain that has me pulling out schumann.
his music from his Album fur die Jugend, Opus 68 fills our home and as my fingers find their way over those keys i've known most of my life,
elias races his cars
in
and around
and through
my moving fingers.
and it's as i look up for that next measure when i see those words in pencil;
the ones that she would lean over my shoulder to jot down,
the ones placed to remind me of how the music was supposed to sound.
and now,
and now,
even now,
she reminds me...
that woman who had dedicated her life to Jesus and her music,
the one whose piano i haven't sat at since i turned 17,
she still teaches me to play pianissimo,
to shape a piece of music that draws out the emotion behind each note,
and to count when i lose my way.
i hold the very Word of God in hands made of dust,
words jotted down by men whom He used to show us His Heart,
His Way.
He teaches me how to live in the words that i read,
He teaches me how to live in the words that i read,
that sink deep and change my heart if i let it...
through words written thousands of years ago,
He shows me how to return when i've lost my way.
and it's in the markings of a pencil,
faint and fading with time,
that she teaches me to still...
and to live out my life with the beauty of what The Composer intended...
