Morning Symphony
I walked down the moss-covered stone steps, not taking my eyes off my feet as a single misstep could prove fatal not only to my arms and knees, but also to the violin on my back.
I was here the day before, but the place still made me stare in wonder.
Where I walked I only chanced upon patches of sunlight here and there. The surrounding trees rose and spread into a dark green ceiling above, allowing only razors of sunlight to cut through. The only place where the sunlight spilled over was the pond ahead, which looked green flecked with gold.
The pond was thick with lotus pads that held the promise of colorful blooms. Wild purple flowers dotting the pond’s stony edge and a water plant with dark blue heart-shaped leaves stood out among the greenery. Above the pond was a bamboo platform that led to a small nipa and bamboo hut with a white curtain for an entrance. At the edge of the bamboo platform was more than a ten-foot drop. I looked down and found trees beneath my feet, which stretched out and undulated into a landscape as far as I could see.
The place looked perfect for deep meditation, but I was here today for another purpose.
I brought my black case down, unzipped it and took my violin out. I stood at the center of the bamboo platform, which looked so much like a stage. I placed my violin on my shoulder, my bow poised above a string, then stopped. I did not want to wake the sleeping forest nor court the anger of its sentinels.
In a whisper, I asked them for permission to play and apologized for the simple, elementary music I could only offer.
I breathed deeply then brushed my bow lightly across the first note which then progressed into a scale. The notes rang clear through the trees, but somehow did not sound right.
I started playing a short piece I knew quite well, only to be cut off abruptly when my finger pressed a wrong note. The sound seemed to reverberate through the place, mocking me.
I tried again – and again. But each time I missed more and more notes, and each time my discomfort grew. I murmured an apology to the forest and its guardians, ashamed that I could not get such simple music right.
What was I doing wrong? Why was I so tense?
I had thought that coming here would set my music free, but now it was even more tightly lidded than within the concrete walls of our house.
I sank on the bamboo platform and ended up in a cross-legged sitting position, my violin resting on my lap, my chest heaving a deep sigh.
Perhaps I just needed to rest first. I closed my eyes and filled my lungs with crisp, dewy air. I breathed in and out, trying to free my body of tension. It was then that I became conscious of sounds apart from my own breathing.
The forest was not at all asleep, as I initially thought it was. I strained my ears to listen.
Behind me, some meters away, was the melody of falling water beating and bouncing off weathered rocks. The bamboos had their own sonata as well, whispered by their dancing leaves and accompanied by the percussion of their trunks slapping and clapping against one another. All around me were the faint hums and whistles of forest creatures. Even the ground seemed to vibrate to an inner rhythm.
The music almost lulled me to sleep. I snapped my eyes open and got up, determined to join in their symphony. I was no longer playing for them, but with them. I got off the bamboo stage, planting my feet instead on grey rocks.
Just play. Play anything that comes to mind. I could not tell if these words came from me, from the forest guardians or the wind’s whisper, but I planned to do exactly that. I placed my violin on my shoulder and began to play.
My notes echoed clear and pure, in perfect harmony with the forest song. I bowed one note after the other, guided only by instinct.
The forest seemed to approve of my music. The bamboos nodded their heads at me, and the wind caressed my face and teased stray strands of my hair. A lone leaf from above glided down lazily in time to my bowing and rested on my feet.
I felt my sight and hearing heighten, taking notice of things I overlooked before. Bright orange fish barely the size of my fingers swam in lazy circles in the pond, but stayed long in areas bathed with the most sunlight. Sticklike insects smaller than the orange fish skipped across the water, creating the tiniest of ripples. Other insects I could not identify found their homes among fallen leaves.
I could have sworn I heard the fish swish in the water, the slightest rustle in the foliage – even the smallest ripple in the pond.
Everything was clearer, sharper. A sense of rightness flooded my entire being.
Strangely, it felt like coming home.
I did not know how long my music lasted with theirs, but later I suddenly snapped out of my trance. I knew then I had to go. I reached for my bag and checked my cell phone. My friends were looking for me.
I packed my violin, then thanked and bade the forest goodbye, knowing I would return.
-Claire Madarang-
