Music moves us, those sounds of hammers striking strings, voices singing words or scatting, mallets pounding taut skins. We are attuned to shapes of time and space sculpted by musicians, the moment-to-moment shimmerings of sound that make our hips, knees, and arms want to undulate. Music is everywhere, is personal, is communal, is magic. Maybe I’ll give up therapy, and just listen to a voice or two, let them sing me back together for the good of all.
When I hear certain pieces of music, I feel my heart expand, the tensions of held secrets ease, and I enter into a room where I am home. The room is lined with friends old and new, some unknown completely, but they all nod a welcome, and someone shifts a bit to make room for me to sit.
A cello hums, a saxophone wails, a piano plays a couple of tinkling notes, soon a guitar picks a pattern, and then the voice. I close my eyes, and sense the old tugging at the corners of my mouth, the signal that weeping might be a good thing. Several others are in the room, and we seem to swim in grace.
God, it’s good to breathe.
Music heals. I know this.