(no subject)
People sometimes ask me when I get my best thinking done. I often say it is when I am driving by myself, or alone on a long walk. Sometimes I do my best thinking when I am talking.
My older sister Sarah and I would talk for hours. We discussed life, the way we were feeling as the hormones kicked in, our various jobs, music, writing, what we were reading at the time, chocolate, or our love of the outdoors. We always found something new to marvel over.
I remember one conversation about music. I asked her why she had chosen to play the cello. She said it was because the cello held her. She felt safe in its big resounding tone. After a moment she asked me why I chose to play the violin. For me, it wasn’t just the instrument. Individually I love the violin, and I love the piano, but it is music on a whole that holds my heart. Playing for people, playing for myself, music is where I am home.
There are heartstrings in people that make different sounds when touched by different things. Often times they will tinkle when a moving poem or story flows over them. Sometimes they will hum a little out in nature when the wind blows its soft breath on them. At times I have heard the singing of peoples heartstrings, and it has always been when music was touching them. Music tells beautiful things to the heart. When I play violin or piano, and when I sing, I am showing people these beautiful things. They can be sad, happy, or perhaps silly, but they are always beautiful.
I remember another conversation where we were discussing the best forms of communication. We both agreed that writing was our comfort zone. To write is to think. Putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard is an invitation to the brain. “Get to work. Give me something good.” Talking can be limiting. You are on the spot and limited to what you think of at the time. Writing can be changed. It can be watered and weeded. It can be turned into a garden of our organized (or perhaps unorganized) thoughts. Writing is communication at its best. So is chocolate.
I sometimes think of life as a patchwork quilt. Every idea, every thought, every action is a stitch or a square in my quilt. Music has a big detailed section in the very middle. Writing gets one whole corner. If you look carefully you can see some of those late night conversations in stitches across the surface. They crisscross and jump all over the place, uniting the sections as they go. Like those stitches, thinking unites all the things inside of me, whether they are music, writing, or just everyday life. I guess it doesn’t matter where I do my best thinking; it is a part of my quilt, and each new idea becomes another journey of stitches.
P.S. That is one of my college essays.
My older sister Sarah and I would talk for hours. We discussed life, the way we were feeling as the hormones kicked in, our various jobs, music, writing, what we were reading at the time, chocolate, or our love of the outdoors. We always found something new to marvel over.
I remember one conversation about music. I asked her why she had chosen to play the cello. She said it was because the cello held her. She felt safe in its big resounding tone. After a moment she asked me why I chose to play the violin. For me, it wasn’t just the instrument. Individually I love the violin, and I love the piano, but it is music on a whole that holds my heart. Playing for people, playing for myself, music is where I am home.
There are heartstrings in people that make different sounds when touched by different things. Often times they will tinkle when a moving poem or story flows over them. Sometimes they will hum a little out in nature when the wind blows its soft breath on them. At times I have heard the singing of peoples heartstrings, and it has always been when music was touching them. Music tells beautiful things to the heart. When I play violin or piano, and when I sing, I am showing people these beautiful things. They can be sad, happy, or perhaps silly, but they are always beautiful.
I remember another conversation where we were discussing the best forms of communication. We both agreed that writing was our comfort zone. To write is to think. Putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard is an invitation to the brain. “Get to work. Give me something good.” Talking can be limiting. You are on the spot and limited to what you think of at the time. Writing can be changed. It can be watered and weeded. It can be turned into a garden of our organized (or perhaps unorganized) thoughts. Writing is communication at its best. So is chocolate.
I sometimes think of life as a patchwork quilt. Every idea, every thought, every action is a stitch or a square in my quilt. Music has a big detailed section in the very middle. Writing gets one whole corner. If you look carefully you can see some of those late night conversations in stitches across the surface. They crisscross and jump all over the place, uniting the sections as they go. Like those stitches, thinking unites all the things inside of me, whether they are music, writing, or just everyday life. I guess it doesn’t matter where I do my best thinking; it is a part of my quilt, and each new idea becomes another journey of stitches.
P.S. That is one of my college essays.