Compose Yourself

A composition of me, musically speaking, would include strings, brass, woodwinds, and timpani. Pluck me, blow with vibrato, touch the skin of my drum tenderly. I need an entire symphony for this composition of me which is only sometimes contained by notes. There are (will be) long silent pauses and times when only a single note is sustained by a lonely cellist. The audience (of course there would be an audience!) claps, riotously, my witnesses, inner angels and demons who stir, snore and do not turn off ringing cell phones.

Who, I wonder, conducts, writes the script, makes sure the musicians are well-fed? Is this symphony that is me burdened by fund raising, philanthropic events, high-minded charitable giving? At times, perhaps, this was the case.

But more often than not, and these days especially, there is no symphony space, no instruments or chairs for the musicians, no conductor. Where before they sat in black, my musicians now run wild on the cliffs that fall off sharply towards the sea. In this composting that is me, the music, for there is still music, is composed in wind, crashing waves, thunder storms, and laughing.