Yesterday, in the afternoon, I played my flute as never before. While this is always true, I rarely feel my song is new. But this time, I was flying faster than I could remember ever doing so. When I play well -if I am any judge- the tune tells the story of my life; I feel my existence and all the events that cluster around my being released. Thoughts, good and bad, my choices, actions, they all leave me in deftly weaving sound.
My dancing fingers do not know exactly where they are going, just like I never know exactly where I am going. No. I sense, I follow, some modicum, the fleeting taste, of sweetness. I pursue beauty, not to catch it or own it - impossible; but to appreciate it, for I am a worshipper of beauty. In this way, all the notes return to their source to be reborn. On their journey, the right notes sounded will provide strength and succour, the other notes, set free, will find their place in a better song. Claiming this beauty, I approach the truth.
My song has not been written, it is not recorded anywhere, except perhaps as the entire potential of the universe for invention. I sense perhaps it is writ upon the walls of the heart of the creator, but this is a nonsense. Where do those walls start and end? Is there anything outside the heart of creation? Will not just the beat of one wing change the entire course of a flight? Here on earth, the seasons turn and ever turn. While hope lives and breathes in a single human heart, the earth-star, our sun, will hold its place. And the moon will call the waves to cleanse the sands of existence again and again. The bleak appearing day will surprise us by admitting a rainbow.
There is no final song, no fixed course, this is the nature of the song and its glory. Just so, I can pretend to know what I am doing, but my life is not mapped out. Anything else is pretense. I will take experience as a guide for further action, but I can never be sure of playing a perfect song. But I can try. And try to remember that the gaps are as important as the notes, the silences precious. Knowing when to be quiet makes the song.
Perhaps it is not a new song, but a very long tune instead. A song that has been since time began, a song that began time. Not my song, but the song I belong to. The orchestra of existence entire.
Sometimes I feel subtle mysteries and truths slip through my fingers.