Kathryn Nicolai

or the power of a string of notes to cut through thought and make us present.

There was a clarinet player somewhere in my neighborhood whom I sometimes heard when I was out for a walk.

The music coming from an open window in an upstairs room.

The playing was sometimes squeaky and halting, but it was also patient and persistent, and I was always glad to hear it.

It made me think back to my own days in school band.

I joked sometimes that I had played eighth chair flute, even though there were only five of us.

The truth was that because it hadn't come quickly to me, I'd given it up.

In my immature brain, I figured that if I couldn't be the best, I would quit.

The folly of youth.

I was glad that years had passed.

and given me their wisdom.

That now I could see that I didn't have to be the best.

That there was a whole lot of joy and meaning and learning to be had in the act of simply playing.

I helped the boy swinging his legs.

and clapping along to the music, would be a bit wiser than I had when his turn-for-school band came around.

Though I reminded myself everyone has their own journey to understanding.

Everyone has their own story to tell.

a concert in the park.

It was a sunny day in the middle of the week, near the start of the summer.

I'd gotten home from work and puttered around in the yard for a while.