Much of life being spent preparing to record my pieces for my music therapy auditions. Is such a feat achievable in this timeframe? Is Beethoven’s grumpiness exaggerated by history? I hope to find the answer to at least one of these questions.
A few days ago, I had an unexpected moment of clarity, when time seems to stop still – a kairos for any Greek fanatics. I was in the throes of panic trying to engineer a way to get a medical evaluation form filled out for the application, when my old GP had apparently deleted any memory of me, and my subconscious hadn’t quite got round to registering with a more local one in the past two years.
I came home briefly, before running uphill to end the medical calamity. In the kitchen were two things that had arrived for me: a grade four violin book, and a refund for a train ticket. The book was from the period when I first learned, but I’d borrowed my teacher’s at the time, and now I needed it to practice my second instrument.
When I opened the envelopes, they released an almost ethereal sense of balance over me. The refund brought a minor sense of justice, but it was predominantly the music. The mere sight of the cover design almost transported me outside my senses, and gave me pause for thought. Unfortunately I had to charge out of the door thirty seconds later, to avert all my future dreams from being scuppered.
Upon reflection, in that moment, Jesus revealed his presence to me, not just in how I was preparing in my present, but as to how he’d been teaching me in the past, even as I was unaware. The music book was almost acting as a gateway to three places; my past and present, which I had and was experiencing. And now also my future. Not to say the notes were a seal of success, but a reminder that I could continue going forward, to make what is currently unknown, known.