“Those things which are earliest impressed upon our minds cling to them the most tenaciously.” ~L. Frank Baum, 1899
On the day I was born, my father sang to me. He was never much of a singer. When he sang, the notes came out wrong, and the tempos changed. But when he sang, he told sweet stories of the sun, the water, and a father’s love, and this made the melodies sweet.
Music filled the halls of my home. My mother’s fingers tickled piano keys, and her breath gave life to the pure sound of a horn. Her footsteps create a rhythm and her voice the melody. My parents’ symphony echoed in every room. Sheets of music were stacked from floor to ceiling. CD’s and records decorated our shelves, so many that they weighed it down. Once I could read, I would sit and read the titles, squinting my eyes to examine the tiny font along the edges. I learned their names, their songs, their stories, memorizing each by heart. I knew song titles as if they were my own name. As they spun, I danced along, twisting and turning and carefully listening.
“She’s so energetic!” was what my parents often heard from strangers as I danced across the earth. I leapt and bounded in every which way. Outside, I would fall, grass staining my knees, dirt caking my nails. But I would rise up and dance again. It didn’t matter where I was, as long as I had a song. It didn’t have to play out loud; I needed no speakers. I could orchestrate a symphony in my head with only the beat of my heart to keep the tempo.
My mother taught me to read music: whole notes, half notes, sharps, flats, and rests. It was a language of its own. The music spoke in riddles. There were no words to unscramble the meanings, only rhythms, tempos, and melodies. Once you learned to decipher the puzzle, a whole new world opened. Vast stories unlocked at your fingertips. How astonishing it was that a piece of paper could contain a symphony. This new skill allowed me to grow astronomically. Slowly but surely, my fingers danced on the ivory keys. Not quite as gracefully as my mother, which caused me great frustration. When she moved, it was like water, smooth and flowing. I learned to use my voice, which quickly became my favorite instrument of all. I didn’t have to work hard to understand the inner workings of my melodies. My voice could be soft and gentle, or it could be strong, spilling out the inner workings of my soul. It became art. A painted picture within a song. Landscapes and portraits flowed from my mouth. The music was a part of me.
What I learned then clings to me now. The grass I danced upon became a stage. No longer the glare of sunlight in my eyes, but instead, the lights of a stage. My father still sings with his improper notes. My mother still plays like an angel. Music filled my home then, and it fills my home now, just as beautiful, but the tune has changed.
