Symphony No. 9

It was the first classical music I ever heard that moved me. It was in the song bank on my Casio. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I felt like I was coming home, settling into a part of my heart that had been waiting for me. I listened to it over and over with my headphones plugged in to the audio jack of my keyboard. I fingered the keys without pressing them, knowing that I could never recreate the melody. I tuned out voices and TVs, barking and raindrops. I imagined the kind of person who could create such a thing, what kind of life I had to live to tell such an amazing story. I closed my eyes. I turned up the volume. I let myself be moved. I didn’t want anyone to listen with me. I wanted to be alone in a moment that was made for me. I wanted to cry out of sheer amazement. Why had no one told me music could be like this?

I couldn’t explain what was happening to me. I had always liked music, had daydreamed of being a rock star. But this was love. This was learning to read music. Learning to predict chord progressions. Learning to identify instruments in the crashing waves. This was the beginning of a feeling that would stay with me. I would hear this song in the background of every important moment of my life.

Yet this was a feeling I would downplay. I liked music. I liked to play an instrument. I liked to be in choir. But inside, I embraced music. I needed an instrument to be a part of music. I needed a voice to carry my dream further. I could feel it later when I played in a symphony: the moment in every piece striking someone as that first song struck me. Reaching out to someone until their lips parted in an inhaled epiphany--this was someone’s life, someone’s dream, someone’s melody finding a home in a new heart. This is what it is to compose--to write.

I could give you many excuses for why I left music. How I could feel mediocrity weighing on my work. How I froze in every solo. How I could never be the medium to change someone. The fact is that I could not handle the pressure of not being the best. I could not sit in second chair. My ego was stronger than my melody. I forgot the feeling of the first song, the first time I could not breathe because I did not want to miss a note that someone had written just for me. I forgot how the world swirled and softened while I played until I had no thoughts at all--my body and the music were in control.

That is why I was overwhelmed by a piece I thought I chose at random from a list. It was barely a beat. Barely a note and the whisper of a horn before I knew. My heart seized. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I left music, but music didn’t leave me. It waited until I was lost and then found a way to lead me home. This is what people should feel when they say they love something. They should feel constricted by its hold. They should anticipate every moment as if they cannot continue without it. They should hear their heartbeat pounding in their ears. And it should never go away.