Grand Symphony

A young boy in orange overalls hits his spoon against the metal park bench. Bang. Bang. Bang. The rhythm has been set.

The melody chimes in, sung by what feels like every bird to ever exist, although it is most likely just a few in the tree above. They sing separately, but harmoniously, as though each had been given its place in the score, practiced for hours, days, weeks, to ensure they got it right. They sing separately, but as one. The melody continues on.

A ladybug scurries across the open pages of my journal. Too slow to be running, but too quick to be walking, I decide she must be dancing. Dance on, little wonder, I tell her in my head. She seems to understand as she reaches the edge of the page and turns back around.

A great roar of percussion from the repair being done in one of the apartments above.

A startled group of butterflies rises from the flowers. A masterpiece in and of themselves, the flowers sway for an instant, their soft and vibrant petals of reds and pinks and yellows lightly skim against one another. For an instant, all division of color blurs into one shade of perfection.

And then the world is soft. The butterflies hover in the still air, heavy with the sweetness of scent, the fullness of life breathing in and out. They float. They glide. They move with all of the subtle intent of silence. The boy has stopped his banging. The birds have quieted their melody. The world is still.

A car passes and the song begins again. Rising. Falling. Vivacissimo. Pianissimo. Back and forth, up and down, I move with the orchestra of the universe.

I think about the song of my life, how it rises and falls, how it began with a single cry and how it is still being written one verse at a time.

In silence this morning, I watched the moon. I thought of the stars, each a note on the page, reaching to the lowest and highest octaves of understanding. The moon itself, a whole note, whose roundness I climbed into for the comforting duration of four beats. One, two, three, four. Then it was time to move on.

The wind pushed through the arriving dawn. A new movement began, quietly at first, but growing louder, passionately pushing through the stillness of morning. The day began. I began with it.

And perhaps even now, in my solitude, the vibrations are resonating more deeply, more profoundly than the simple ears of humans can detect. Perhaps even now, the hum of my computer is only the shallow surface of the music being created in my presence. Perhaps even now, these words I am writing are merely a metaphor for the notes of the grand symphony that is my life.

I hit the keys of my keyboard. Bang. Bang. Bang. The rhythm has been set.