Fingers on the keys, without knowing the names of the notes, without diagramming the chords but feeling it all out: messing around.
I thought of how mad I was, how offended that my mom made me take piano lessons when I was twelve, starting alongside my younger sisters, forced, I was sure, to play Baby Music.
I skipped all the theory, and I know I sulked. But I nonetheless loved the feel of the notes reverberating through my fingertips, the way every piano seems like an expansive chest upon which to lay my head, the same way I want to whenever I see a horse:
Here is a gentle beast, and I am in need of comfort and a tangible religion.
I took out my guitar today, too. I was swept by notes and words and the relief of sound transmuting emotion, of my breath striking my rib cage as the hammers strike the strings.
Think of all the music pressing against us, ever-present in the air, all the time!– why don’t we stop everything we’re doing and let those spirits out?
Oh, to be the little tin whistle that plays with every breath the Truth!