Poetry/Prose

Sheet Music (stream of consciousness)

In the West, all notes must resolve by the end of the piece—what goes up must come down and must be justified by a partner note that balances it, somewhere, even miles ahead, in the movement. Perhaps this is the case in Eastern music as well, but the way of achieving this for both ‘ends’ of the Earth is radically different.

In the end, our life is but a single symphony, among many. Reborn into different initial notes, we must resolve, again and again, what we embody different recognizable shapes of flesh, bone and nerve to do.

When the last note is played, the book is set down, and another is lifted to the pedestal. We will do it all again, starting on a different note, in a different hall, in a different city, with a different crowd. Again.

I don’t care anymore who says we are living just one life and going to heaven or hell—it is clear to me that we create these things on Earth anyway. And we must soon all take responsibility for our part in their manifestation!

You are in the midst of this particular life. Your eyeballs reading this screen here in this patch of time, before you see it on glasses, and then contact lenses, and then through a chip in your brain and then not at all because you just know it because you are a cave person in an unsettled land on a newborn habitable planet, and on and on the future unfolds and unwraps beyond our imaginations.

You see anyway, when you realize this life is but one of yours, that the smaller few-day spans of time, that used to cause us such agony in unknowing and anxiety in the unforeseeable, become way more bearable, even laughable. Detaching just enough, we see how life rolls. Yet this will never preclude the stark reality that we must get in there–lest we be thrown in– to role around with it too … we are part of the orchestra after all. We cannot escape, or we will be politely yet firmly invited to face, again, those parts of the music.

When we loosen our bow ties or exchange our heals for soft soles–walk swiftly to the parking lot with instruments slung over our shoulders–what do we feel following behind us? What is our legacy? Even through perfect execution of notes, we created some drama—and we are left with the residual. It accompanies many of us to bed. It greets just as many first thing in the morning. This symphony. This melodrama.

And in the end, who the heck cares what any of it means so much as how you behaved?! Were you giving props to the guy on the tuba? Did you work with the first-seat violinist? Did you see your role within all of it? Try to expand it? Max out your power to add value? Or did you fight and yearn to break out of it? Did you play your part, let others play theirs? Did you feel the applause deeply and take it on as yours? Did you let the glory live in your heart and the modesty sit in your mind—the knowledge always that you were just practicing, like any other day … that you are always just practicing?

Did you see the times you want to repeat again, make just a bit better, just a bit sweeter, just a bit more true to the moment, and eventually more … heavenly?

Because without your decisions, it’s only sheet music.

Standard

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