Of music and words

I don't how it always happens, but no matter where I am or what my title, I always end up spending too much time and energy working. I take extra shifts, work extra hours, schedule more meetings, send too many e-mails. Even when I hate my job I overwork myself.

Monday was supposed to be a day off for me. I didn't drive into Liberty or schedule any meetings, but that didn't stop me from spending 2.5 hours on my laptop and phone following up with camp counselors and reminding people of upcoming events. By 2 pm I realized what I was doing and knew I needed to get myself out of the house. I packed my journal and a book on writing and headed to Loose Park for the rest of the afternoon. I made a loop around the rose garden and set off to find a bench when I heard what sounded like the faint sound of a violin. Walls and hedges kept me from a direct route to my destination, but I followed my ears and eventually ended up in the center of the garden.

On a weathered gray bench a small man in black glasses sat playing the violin. He had nothing with him - no sheet music, messenger bag, or water bottle - just the black cloth case that sat closed beneath the bench. I wandered about the inner circle of the garden, avoiding the shirtless man with the long blond hair, beach towel, and radio; searching for a sunless spot to open my book on writing. I picked a patch of shade just a few feet from the musician, and with my head on my tote bag I lied down to listen. Sheltered from the sun, I felt the music wash over. Time passed and the tall green crab grass began itching my legs, urging me to get up. Tiredness won out, and I stayed a while longer, wrapped in my sundress, eyes clamped shut.

An hour later I moved to a bench and opened the book I'd been meaning to read. The gift of the music maker unlocked my desire to write, and so I did, for pages and pages.

"In front of a dead fountain still cloaked in its winter protection
he pours forth music, song after song.
Not for profit or practice, but the sheer pleasure of playing -
of producing a song and sending it out.
A slight cool breeze brought it to me, waking my senses from deep hibernation.
His melody mingles with that of the birds, as he joins in their sweet ceaseless song.
He brings us together - the runners, dog-walkers, soccer moms, and baby-sitters;
The students, senior citizens, and fortunate few who can lounge in a park on a Monday afternoon.
Song after song is stored in his head, danced out out by his fingers, bow upon strings.
He plays away the bright hot sun, and into the cool of late afternoon.
I lie on my back waiting for sleep, wondering what summer dreams may come."

"I, with all of my words, lack the courage to spill them out and offer and them freely as the song of this man. I, the educated writer with my books and tools and methods and thoughts cannot put pen to paper the way he puts bow to string. I am afraid of the noise I will make, or worse yet, that my words make no noise at all. That I have nothing to offer, no song to play. The musician has courage and I hesitation. If I get up the nerve, write a piece, scrawl a poem, will the dog-walkers, soccer moms, and students stop for me? The senior citizens, nannies, lovers, and friends? Will they take in my song? Breathe in my words? Or do I play only for myself?"