I am a musician.
Of course I am.
When did I start to believe I wasn’t?
I allowed fear and standards to plant doubt in my gardens of expression.
The fear of not having a music degree and not wanting to send in audition tapes kept me from pursuing a music therapy degree, the fear of having to audition for choir or theatre kept me at home, dazed, binge eating and glued to the TV.
But I am a musician, dammit.
I crave begrudged rehearsals and tedious practice that builds to flow and pinnacle moments of expression out into the world.
Taking it in segments, separating each hand, repeating demanding phrases, taking ghastly tempos until muscle memory begins to kick in. The grind of fitting yourself into a work of art, until you feel a euphoric sense of flow, until you feel yourself channeling something deeper, something bigger.
The state of simultaneously expressing yourself and God. After all, aren’t we one in the same?
Music is my tool to express my version of God, my fractal of light on the prismatic spectrum, a way to channel universal messages to the collective. Listening to music activates our higher resonance, allows the soul to explore the tinges of emotion that have no words, and the yearning to make meaning from it. I am a channel for others to access their higher resonance.
I am a musician.
