Do You Hear What I Hear?

Joan and the kids met me at the door this evening with this declaration: "We are clean, we are dressed, and we want to go somewhere."

I had an appointment with my chair and a good book to pass the time until my muse arrived for a writing project I have due in less than two weeks. We're in a pretty good cold snap for December in Birmingham, and there are all those Christmas shoppers "out there," but everyone had their hearts set on a night out, and, well, who am I to break anyone's heart?

We had a nice supper at [trendy, hip, chain bakery] and a quick visit to [chain music store] and [trendy, hip, chain home furnisher] before drifting, as always, to [trendy, hip, chain bookstore].

I heard, while perusing through a stack of dead trees, a slightly off-key violin concerto, and just as I was about to remark to Evan that it didn't sound like it was coming through the p.a. system, I noticed a violin bow peeking above the New Fiction shelf. I wandered over to the [trendy, hip, chain, in-house coffee shop] to find six violinists and a violist sawing away before their music stands and a black-turtleneck-clad conductor in the corner of the cafe.

The septet was not ready for Carnegie Hall, or the BJCC Concert Hall for that matter. It was as if we had stumbled into a rehearsal session, or a group music lesson, but it was obvious that they all had some experience. They would pluck through a song, say Jingle Bells, finish to a smattering of applause (I'm being generous here), and quickly critique their performance before maestro announced the next selection. Joan and Evan lasted through half a song, but Lora was mesmerized and wouldn't budge. Being four, she is still fascinated by most everything, and seven fiddling fiddlers inflamed her fancy.

So we watched. And listened. And an appreciation for the musicians and their art grew on me with each stroke of the bow. They were participating, before my very eyes and ears, in a creative process that began, in some instances, centuries ago as composers drew notes on blank staves. And they were doing so in public, surrounded by apathy. Five feet in one direction stood a man with his back to them, skimming the travel books. Five feet in another direction sat a woman engrossed by a detective novel, and two girls sat at a table next to her, giggling over a makeover magazine, oblivious to the Mozart wafting over their heads.

They inspired me, though. Even though I didn't applaud. (Cut me some slack. I'm still withdrawing from TV, remember? Spectatorship dies a slow, agonizing death.) I was inspired by their courage and their persistence. I was inspired by their certain private realization that they will probably never take the place of Izthak Perlman or Jascha Haifitz in the hearts of the world's music lovers. I was inspired by their refusal to let a missed note here or a botched tempo there rob them of the thrill of the moment when, by their skill, notes leapt from the page and into the air. I was inspired by the consideration they gave to each other's skill level. I was inspired by they way they seemed to enjoy themselves.

I was inspired, for I was able to siphon from my perception of their experience the same conclusions about my experience as a writer (and now a blogger): courage, persistence, a keen awareness that Proust and Wouk and Orwell needn't look over their shoulder for me, the apathy of the internet and all that is being posted around me, reveling in the accomplishments of others, that if I must speak (write), then I must also listen (read).

Even though the closest I ever come to playing Mozart is when I stick a CD in my CD player, I felt a kinship with those musicians tonight. I'm glad I stumbled into their midst.