Music Sings the Colors of Life

Music plays a big part in my world.

I was listening to music practice one afternoon and feeling the keyboard notes run along my arms and it occurred to me that music, like writing, is intrinsic to my identity.

I could describe people to you by the kinds of music they like. John is a little edgy, a little country. Melissa is sometimes romantic, but with a strong streak. Tina is rock ‘n roll laced with a healthy respect for blues. Bob? Full of mystery and depth behind blue eyes. Thi might come across as traditional, but once he opens the door you find a wide assortment of sound and intellect.

I’m an eclectic mix that begins with a colorful clash of poetry and sound and ends with fun mixes.

I’ll let you guess which bands apply.

I like Christian music, mostly, but I get bored with the repetitious redundancy of much of it. I find it interesting that people criticize my wide taste in music. Really? You think my musical taste is questionable, don’t even ask me about what I read.

I also find it interesting that they don’t want to take up the discussion about why I like what I like and how I think God sees it. They only want to tell me how they think God sees it. Hmm. In the words of my oh-so-wise Grandma, “who died and made you boss?” I wonder if they would object to a classical composer if they knew of his personal choices and misadventures. I don’t meant to be critical, but it sure sticks in my craw sometimes.

Back to music.

Music speaks to me. Not only the lyrics, the very sound of certain melodies will stick with me for days. I can hear their strains calling me to move for days, sometimes years. There seems to be a song for every event. I am forever singing something random because music is forever filling my mind.

I find myself drawn to music, like all art forms, which has a deeper meaning, something that goes well beyond the surface. I have to like the surface, too, though. A wild cacophony of sound has no purpose. Distorted, unintelligible lyrics are foolishness to me. Shallow, common rhythms bore me. Loud, I like. Soft, I enjoy.

I’m not a musician, but I sure do dig music.

Of Reading and Writing

Of course you know that writer's read. I'm not sure which comes first: the love for reading or the love for writing. I told a teacher once that I was sure that I write well because I read so much. She assured me that was not the case as she read voraciously, but couldn't write much. I'm not convinced.

I love to talk about books and authors and plots and distint writing styles and playful words.

Recently I had the distinct pleasure of meeting a young reader. She hasn't read much, but enjoys words.

"Do you have a book I could read?" There's a question one should never ask an avid reader.

Hm, yeah, well, could I make a couple of recommendations? Wow! Talk about opening Pandora's Box! I rambled for a bit and then realized I was overwhelming her with my library-in-the-brain and a series of "Have you reads?"

"Come over to my bookshelf and let's take a look."

The Outsiders was first. That's a must-read. If you have never picked it up and you work with kids, especially kids in poverty, you must read this classic. Well written, expressive, passionate. I have read it to every class I have taught. It creates a new view of troubled kids, honestly. Kids love it. There is nothing to fear in its pages. I promise you. It's just very real.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn kind of does the same thing, too. But it makes the reader realize that there are worse things than being poor, worse things than having a dysfunctional family, worse things than struggling. Ceasing to live would be much worse. Enjoying the moment and living life can make you rich regardless of what you have or don't have, or think you should have. Determination can take you to places you didn't expect.

The list goes on and on of the worlds I've traveled through literature. See? I'm not sure which came first. Before I started kindergarten, I remember learning to read sitting on my Grandpa's lap and carefully putting letters together at my Grandma's table.

I love words and the horizons they present.

So, what do you think? Which came first, the reader or the writer?