Something Musical, You say?

I was nervous. No one was watching me, so it didn't make sense for me to feel that way, but my emotions didn't care. I sat up tall on my stool, placed my instrument between my shaking knees, and lifted my posture.

I breathed in.

I could hear the sound before I made it. I could see the angle of my wrist, shifting fluidly as I guided the bow over the strings. I placed my fingers in preparation to begin the scales, and poised my bow at the frog, allowing the crunch of the horsehair to tell me it was time to begin. I closed my eyes and breathed out in time with the sound of the first note I played.

Ahhhhh…

I began slowly, allowing the sounds to say their piece individually; each one showing its own unique voice. As I picked up the pace, the strings seemed to become soft and elastic; a sensation which was all in my head, of course. Nylon was made to hold its tautness, and these were wrapped synthetic strings I had on my cello.

The music resonated through the sounding post, wavering the air, vibrating in my chest, penetrating my being. It was as if the deep tenor of the lower register was actually coming from inside of me, moving my blood throughout my body without the assistance of my physical anatomy. The music carried me, lived for me for a time. I could almost swear I was actually becoming a cello myself.

I began to relax, as was the usual effect in such circumstances. I leaned into the sound and it held me up, supported me. I heard every note even though I was no longer playing them one at a time. I let my instrument dictate my movements, allowing it to compose its own tune without my intervention. It was almost like I had unintentionally summoned  a long-dead spirit at a late night seance; as if a being from the underworld had risen, and had taken a hold of my bow, creating its own unearthly sound and I was nothing more than the mortal passenger. 

I was so involved in my playing, I was completely oblivious of the fact I was no longer alone in the room. And that was quite a feat, because the chairs in the music hall were metal, old, and grumpy, and just the process of unfolding one sounded something akin to the foghorn on some large seafaring barge. It was not until I felt I had finished the impromptu piece I was playing that I opened my eyes, looked up, and saw Heather sitting ten feet away, smiling at me.

"Was that musical enough for you, Heather?" I asked.

She nodded. "Just what I asked for," she said.