Music in Every Breath

I run toward the moon. I am a fairy, a goddess of the Greeks, a hero

bound to her duty and bowed by her fate. The only way I can tell Im not
flying is by the splash of silvered water that dances away from me with
every step, falling eagerly back to the earth. There it fights the pull of the
tide for a moment then molds back into its expanse.
To my right is the silent beach, a thousand footsteps marking its
lonely stretch. It is a man, eyes heavy with pain, a solitary soldier, a guard
against the ocean that would swallow it whole. As I run he calls to me
warnings of the sea, warnings against the sirens call of its deep. I know in
part hes right in his warnings, but who is he to caution me? The land has
its dangers too.
To my left is the ocean, a beautiful beast, a lonely outcast, a vengeful
lover. It is at once a crusted old man made bitter with age and a rebellious
boy, pulling at the chains of command. It tugs at my feet with every wave,

calling for me to join it. The thought of it is as exciting as it is terrifying. I

cannot let my guard down for I know if I do it will take me.
And above, is the breathtaking moon. She is a woman dressed all in
black, with diamonds woven into her hair. She is a lady, back held straight
and hiding her tears. Her rays of softest silver, like lithe fingers, reach
down, surrounding and comforting me. I can feel this tug also, the urge to
leave the ground, but I do not fear being taken. I am too heavy, too
weighed down by earthly troubles to be lifted.
I heard music everywhere that night. It was in the very air, vibrating. It hummed against
my skin, sliding between my fingertips. It seemed almost tangible as If I could, by looking down,
see threads of lights whispering around my arms. It was there, I heard the music, but I didnt
know how to translate.
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My mother wanted me to take piano because she thought everyone should have a basic
grasp of music. She said I would be grateful later. To me, taking piano lessons was like taking a
language course. It was the path to translating the basic beauty of life into music.
I started taking piano lessons when I was eleven, following in the footsteps of my two
older sisters. Both of my sisters, though, gave up the piano not long after having started playing
it. Clare left for the flute and Rose for the violin. I wish I could say I was a prodigy, that when I

was three I fumbled down the stairs at midnight and my mother found me on the piano bench
plucking out the notes to a symphony. Alas, I was a completely normal child as far as musical
talent went, and I found myself having to go the usual route of practice makes perfect.
Unfortunately, motivation never came that easy to me. Over and over again I found myself
sitting by my teacher during lessons pounding out the notes to the song, as if by playing louder I
would make it sound like I had actually practiced more than twice. My teacher would look at
me and say, You were hammering again. I would blush and mutter that it was just something I
did when I was concentrating. She would smile and stand up out of her chair saying, Why dont
I play it for you so you can hear what its supposed to sound like. I would nod and gladly get up
standing to the side as she played. Always when she was done shed turn to me saying; Do you
get it now? I would smile and say, Yeah I get it now that I know what it should sound like.
After lessons I would pack up my books and wait in the other room as my sister did her
violin lesson. My eyes would often wander out the window facing the front yard. Sometimes I
would see the browns and light greens of spring, or the dark greens of summer. Sometimes I
would see the reds, golds, and oranges of fall, or the grays and whites of winter. I would be
reminded that I still didnt know how to put these things to music; I would be reminded that I
had to try harder.

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How could a musician, a composer, lack what must have been his most essential sense?
It was on a December night in 1770 that a boy by the name of Ludwig van Beethoven was born
to Johann van Beethoven and Maria Magdalena Keverich. Beethovens musical talent was

obvious at a young age; his first public performance was at the age of seven. He composed his
first six string quartets between 1798 and 1800 and the premieres of his First and Second
Symphonies happened in 1800 and 1803. It was in 1801 that he wrote the Sonata quasi una
fantasia otherwise known as the Moonlight Sonata.
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The liquid sun surrounds me, setting the grass around into a blaze of
flame. To my right is a world of gold and shadow. It is as silent and
otherworldly as it is full with life. It is as much alien in its beauty as it is
earthy in its faults. I look up and squint at the red of the sun above for a
moment, feeling as if I could grab the rays of light and weave them into
cloth. As if I could let it all flow into me, all the light in the world.
To my left is a world of gently waving grass as perfectly calm as it is
wild. It is as placated by its normalcy as it is energized by its uniqueness.
Tangles of flowers mix in with coarse greens and browns, all shaded with
gold and red by the dying grip of the sun. Proud, ugly scars of thistle mark
the side of the road in patches that shrink back to hide in the field. With
flashes of startling purple flowers, the thistles seem as beautiful as roses.

That time the music I heard was less eerie and more warm. It felt like a blanket
wrapping around you, or a smile lighting up your world. Slow note fast noteor should it be
another slow? Thoughts flew through my mind as I tried to capture the song, but I was still
missing something.
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I got a phone for Christmas when I was sixteen. It was my first phone and it did
something amazing. It played music. Hundreds of songs, countless influences, all pouring into
my ears on a daily basis. Still, I couldnt find the melodies I needed.
As I grew I started to transform. It was slow and gradual, but I started to fall more and
more in love with music. I would spend hours laying in bed reading while listening to music. I
started to appreciate the music by great composers like Mozart and Beethoven, which
previously I thought tedious. I grew closer and closer to it until it was inevitable that I try my
hand at creating it. Ive always loved making music, but before I was sixteen it was always
simple and short, sweet but forgettable pieces. Then on a cold winter day, with snow piling
against the house, I made a song that was different than its predecessors. It was no
masterpiece; it wasnt even that long, but something about it made it more than the others. It
was slow in some parts, fast in others. Dramatic and soft at the same time, it seemed to capture
the way the snow was coming down. That was the major turning point I think, the moment
when I realized that it was really possible for me to make music. It was a transformation; I was
becoming something more. It was like being able to make music had given new depth to the
world around me.

I wonder what motivated the great composers of the past. How did Bach create his
masterpieces or Mozart his? What about Beethoven? How could he possibly motivate himself
to create after he lost his hearing? I wonder if maybe it was the loss of hearing itself that lent a
sort of motivation.
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It was around 1796 and Beethoven was at the top of his game. He was twenty-six, young
and creating music the world would love and remember for years. It was also when he started
to lose his hearing. What would it be like for a singer to lose her voice or a runner to lose his
legs? What would it be like to lose the one thing that defined you? For Beethoven, losing his
hearing must have been an incredible blow. As early as 1801 Beethoven wrote to friends about
his symptoms and the difficulties they caused in professional and social settings. He declined in
hearing until, at the age of forty, he was almost totally deaf. He did not stop composing, though
his deafness made it nearly impossible to play at concerts. After a failed attempt in 1811 to
perform his Piano Concerto No. 5, which was premiered by his student Carl Czerny, the public
did not see him perform again until his Ninth Symphony. In 1824 at the end of the premier of
his Ninth Symphony he had to be turned around to see the tremendous applause of the
audience because he could not hear it.
On March 26, 1827 Beethoven died. It was during a thunderstorm. Doesnt it seem
fitting that he, the composer of so many grand pieces, died during a storm full of thunder and
excitement. His friend Anselm Huttenbrenner said that at the moment of his death there was a
peal of thunder. It was like one last thundering applause.

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There is a little yellow book in my house my mother made me read when I was young
called A Story of Beethoven. I remember being amazed and feeling skeptical at how Beethoven
could create music even though he was deaf. It seemed impossible. For many years Ive
wondered, but lately Ive come to realize how it might be possible. Music isnt something you
just hear. Its something you feel. I hear in my head the music that the swishing grass made, the
music of the last few moments of the suns life. I hear the eerie fairy music of the moon, the
lonely sigh of the beach. I hear them in my head and I feel them deep down someplace that has
nothing to do with hearing. Like a mocking bird I try over and over to recreate what I hear, what
I feel. Sometimes what I make is happy, sometimes sad, sometimes it is serious and sometimes
it doesnt make any sense at all. Never, though, does it quite capture the essence of what
surrounded me. Maybe that is how it will always be; maybe that is how its supposed to be.
Maybe if we ever truly knew how to translate the stars onto paper or a sunset into notes then
wed stop creating new things, content with perfection. I understand now that even If I were to
go deaf I would still feel music. For me, music is everywhere. It is in every moment, every
breath.