garden of sound: part two

Everything around me is quiet, and the atmosphere still, but inside I feel the opposite of peace. Sitting on the stage, waiting for the concert to begin, I feel every extreme of nature. My heart pounds like rain in a thunderstorm, yet a bright light washes over me like the sun. The air is filled with anticipation and nervous energy, like lightning about to strike. My palms are sweaty as I grasp my flute, nestled among the other musicians, and yet I feel the chill of winter. The familiar anxiety rolls over me like black clouds roll through the sky, slowly churning into a tornado of all my fears, gaining speed and reaching, reaching towards the ground, towards destruction.

I am sitting in the eye of a hurricane. Chaos surrounds me on every side, yet no one else can see it because all is still. My eyes like anchors are fixed permanently on the conductor as I wait for the approaching waves. The slightest movement of his hand will cause all the world to burst to life with the crash of drums, the tsunami that sends me spinning into a swirling sea.

Waiting and watching, I take a deep breath and swallow my fears. They travel all the way through my body, feeling their way through every corner but finding no way out. Trapped, the noise builds inside until I close my eyes and try to think of a new song. I know that the music can take me to another place.

Tighter, tighter I close my eyes until the noise begins to fade, and my lungs are filled with a sweet fragrance. I look around and find myself in a garden, only faintly aware of the symphony still around me as the stage and audience melt away. I am in a garden of sound, surrounded by life and song. I hear the music of leaves scattering from the treetops and floating on the gentle breeze. The warmth of the sun and the fragrance of the flowers fill my lungs with a sweet melody and my heart is calm.

A million distinct sounds fill the air, and in my dreamlike state I hear each instrument. Each so different, I watch them burst into bloom, filling the world with their colors. The brass is the soil underneath me, a foundation from which flowers can grow. Roots break through the earth with the laughter of the bassoon and oboe, and then soar on the wind with my flute.

Suddenly, the notes I am hearing are coming from my own lips, travelling through my flute and following the movements of my fingers over the keys. I am transported back to the real world, standing upon the stage that haunted me for so long. But this time I do not turn away from anxiety’s millions of watching eyes. Rather, I invite them inside. I continue to play my song, so that they can see my garden too, because I love the flowers, and I think that maybe love is more powerful than fear.