In-Between Time

There is an endless display of possibility— beautiful possibility— sitting here before me. A meticulous pattern of black and white, begging to be explored.  My fingers fit perfectly between each nook. My ear does not know what it wants to hear, it simply desires to be satisfied. I wait a few seconds, my soul prepares for that heaven-bound transfer.

One of my favorite moments of life, hanging in the air of this in-between time. I press downward on the keys.

Music. It is no longer right before me, it is all around me. It heals my past and excites my present; the sound of the piano keys in harmony even creates a sort of foreshadowing to my future. I am in love with every bit of it: the gentle slide of my fingertips on the ivory, the reverberation of the strings inside when the sustain pedal is applied, even the silence of the room after a piece has been played.

For years, I have been taught what sounds correct in music. I am required to reproduce classic arias and minuets because of their “theoretically perfect” composition. “When the bass line goes down, the upper voices ascend, creating contrast and space in the counterpoint.” In Theory I, I learned that part clashing was “unpleasant to the ear”. Still, an intentional, thoughtful clash of parts always sounded quite lovely to me. My final composition sounded ethereal, full of tight, unknown spaces between each part.

I got a C on that composition. Underneath one of my ball-point clash markings was the word “Wrong” written in a judgmental shade of red.

When I think about the way music should sound, I am often deemed “wrong”. What I hear is complete, it is healing. Sometimes, my education teaches me to “take the safe route” because getting too creative could result in an unsatisfactory grade. In this process of thinking rather than learning, I feel something much more personal than the safe, bland counterpoints in my theory books. When I think about that perfect moment between setting my fingers on the keys and playing them, I am free from the standardization of the triad, the arpeggio, and the consonant intervals.

Specifically in the realm of choral music, composers are really thinking. I am delighted to hear pieces that are messier, more dissonant, for they are filled with more authenticity and risk. In the pieces, there is something worth listening to, something worth being vulnerable for.

Following the standard of what is being recycled through the education system does not holistically impact a person. It surely teaches them the basics, what they need to know in order to begin creating; but no class can teach me what that feeling is called when I hear a hundred people come together and sing one solitary pitch— that feeling of wonder, of being totally impressed. Great composers think in that “unique perspective” in order to draw people closer into that feeling of wonder. Hearing the same tune, the same chord structure, over and over only moves listeners into a place of complacency and away from the path of thinking for themselves.

I do not intend to create anything that is not impacting people.

So I live in that in-between time of silence and sound. It is where I think best.

Blooming Innocence

            Vincent twiddles his thumbs politely, as if to imitate our father’s habit. My little brother crosses and uncrosses his legs every minute or so—he is unsure how much time should pass before nonchalantly tossing the other leg on top. “Do boys cross their legs,” I hear him thinking to himself, “or is that just for girls?” Stumped, he leaves his legs to hang, adjusts his seatbelt, and peers out the window. “Meggie Pie, where are we going?”

            Knowing well my inability to make up stories, my older sister pipes up from the passenger’s seat: “We are going to a special place, Vincent. When we get there, we’re going to need your help, honey.” Kristin and I simultaneously unbuckle our seatbelts as the ignition dies. Vincent (whose arms are now long enough to unbuckle his own belt from beneath his car seat) rushes out of the car and onto the sidewalk, hopping about with uncontrollable elation. “A new place,” I hear him thinking again as his eyes excitedly survey the area, “and with my big sisters!” The joy is written on his face.  He takes my hand and gives it a pleasant little kiss. My heart dissolves into my chest every time he does this, and because of him, I am somehow made more innocent, more pure.

            A strident ring pierces the lobby of the flower shop as we enter through the glass door (which Vincent, of course, has offered to hold open for Kristin and me). My nostrils are bewildered by the multitude of floral scents— tulips, daisies, the crisp hint of lilac. At the sight of all the elaborate arrangements, Vincent stretches out his gangly arms perpendicular to the floor and spins, resembling an overjoyed Broadway character. “Flowers!” He exclaims, “who are they for?” Without waiting for an answer, he begins tap-tap-tapping the glass of each refrigerator door, admiring the opulence of it all. “Vince, we are getting flowers for Mommy. We need you to help us decide which ones to buy!” He accepts the challenge by hunching his back and bringing his arms into his chest—like one of his T-Rex figurines— and shuffles across the carpeted floor. The blue-haired clerk glances over at my brother and tries to contain her amusement. Realizing she had spent too much time watching this child, she shakes her head in disapproval at his unsophisticated manner and returns to curling balloon ribbons. Noticing her reaction, I lightly tug on the back of his shirt and ask him to “please stop” while my sister and I peruse the special order books. After a few minutes, I am unnerved that the only sounds in the room are the flipping pages of the book and the tearing noise of the freshly-curled ribbons. I look over my shoulder and see my precious little man staring, with all the tranquility in the world, at one particular arrangement. He speaks without knowing I am watching him. “I want THIS one. THIS one for Mommy.”

            The arrangement he points to was not the seventy dollar collection of lilies in an elegant cube-shaped vase. It was not the hundred dollar arrangement of delicate carnations begetting more carnations. To my deepest chagrin, he points to the most heinous, hideous cluster of five-day-old, yellow and white daisies. An obnoxious yellow smiley face coffee mug served as the vase. Vincent strokes the frosty glass of the refrigerator door and beams with self-assurance— obviously the arrangement with the giant, obtrusive smiley face is the perfect pick to cheer up Mommy.  Kristin and I exchange looks of uneasiness, as if to say, “are YOU going to be the one who tells him ‘no’?”

              I tell him what I can without crushing his giving, thoughtful spirit. I take a knee so that my eyes can meet his on the same level. “Baby, I just don’t know about that one… it’s just, well, maybe Kristin and I better pick out the flowers for Mommy since, um, we’re girls and we, uh, we know what’s nicest for Mommy.” Vincent’s face falls from confused to distraught in a matter of seconds. “So, you’re saying that… that I don’t pick out nice things?” He starts to sniffle as tears begin to collect in the corners of his eyes. My once-dissolved heart now turns to an anchor, sinking to the bottom of my Toms. Vincent covers his blotchy face with his petite hands and Kristin smacks me appropriately in the back of the head, a stinging sensation overpowered only by the weight of my cast-iron heart.  I take him in my arms and kiss his peach fuzz cheek, tasting his salty, teary sorrow. I immediately refute my comment. He nods when I apologize and is just as suddenly filled with the same spinning, shuffling passion as before my careless comment. After putting up a decent fight for the smiley-face arrangement, he eventually gives in to what Kristin and I prefer. As we leave the store with our desired bouquet, he gives my hand another one of his treasured kisses. Finally, my heart can dissolve once more into his childhood.

            Vincent is so quick to forgive in these dissipating moments of childhood. Yet someday, when my Vincent becomes a man, he may even look at his children with impatience, or even embarrassment, when they shuffle about with their arms like dinosaurs, when they insist on the most revolting item in the shop. But for now, he is a child. He knows more of forgiveness and unconditional love than I do. Part of me wishes I had bought the smiley-face arrangement, if only to keep his innocence intact for another day. Still, Vincent blooms with innocence as the rest of my world merely survives— wilting like the flowers in the shop.