As an Artist in Resident of the inaugural Woodwind Music Festival, I had the chance to present a collaborative recital with the Cedarwood Station Retirement Center’s Women’s Writers’ Group. Each writer read an original work (which I heard on the spot in the concert) then my colleagues and I responded with a musical performance in real time. In this way, I was able to play a duet with the audience, collaborating to make something beautiful. The stories the writers told were of both funny and meaningful events: of hope, sadness, hilarity and wisdom — and I was greatly enriched by their insights. The joy and comfort the music brought to people who might not otherwise be able to access a concert hall or hear a live concert was deeply moving.  

Humans are readers. We read not only words on a page, but the denizens of our community. Each glance and gesture, the intonations of a beloved voice, generate a kaleidoscope of emotions. We read the whispers of nature as we leave our homes each day and step into the uncovered world. We read the stories of our lives as they unfold, coming into contact with that of others.  Because of this, from the advent of humanity there have been stories - written words and oral traditions - and there has been music. When we read books and have conversations, we hear the stories of others. When we go home, we discover our immutable instinct to write our own stories and sing our own songs.  We write in myriad ways. Conversations are chamber music, each person learning from the other and creating something beautiful together. Authors and composers write these moments down in their chosen media: a joint effort to pass along the masterpiece.

After the concert, I was on my way out when I heard someone calling my name. A lady in a wheelchair was waving at me. Her name was Barbara and she told me she had weeks to live. “I had to come hear the music,” she told me as she gripped my hand urgently. “Because I know that I will still hear it, even after I close my eyes.”