I see the world through music. It is what a music therapist does. The horn of a car, laugh of a friend, or hum of my apartment's air conditioning all serve as the reminder that sound is life and provides calm and steadiness through my day.
Recently, the world has been full of crescendo; of harsh rolling timpani and high soprano shrill echoing the screams and panicked heart beats of friends and strangers. The song I am used to, serving hospitalized children and their family’s, is a song of deep uncertainty. The beeping of med machine pumps are staccato question marks. The sound is a slower, more melancholy music. Now being forced to add the forte sound of pandemic and global sorrow to the symphony of sick children is deafening. I have found myself covering my ears, closing my eyes , and attempting to block out that which I most love. The music of life.
It occurred to me, though, I do not have to be an audience member seated in a velvet chair, frozen by the cacophony of sound, not knowing how this song will end. I can be the composer. I can change the way I perceive and experience the music around me. So I began my composition. Choosing a string quartet made of sunshine. Adding the harmony of holding hands as we walk outside. Resetting the rushed nervous tempo to that of an andante dance. Importantly, I remember, silence is the most crucial part of music. So pause is another pivotal piece of my composition, just enough to remember the value and beauty that music brings to my life. When the sound gets deafening again, I will find in its dissonance my music, and do my best to share this song with the world.
Here is your empty staff music. The opportunity to compose.