PTSD Spirituality: Every Note Counts (Fiction)

Every Note Counts

The notes on a musical page are like tiny astronauts, little bubbles of life, in the vacuum of darkest space.  Every time a note is played from the page the muted musinaut sounds its own unique voice.  This voice expands life.  The voice is light and it separates the vacuum and darkness that encourage us to be bitter, to stand alone, defiant, angry.  As the notes are played time ceases, it is only now.  The moment of now becomes our moment: appreciation, rejection, learning, dispelling, appreciation, helping, being.  Whatever moment the notes have presented to us, it always allows us an opportunity, a moment of healing, of residing in the rest that is the Composer.

How did the note get to the page?  Why are these musinauts found on the page, notes strung upon a staff?  Why are they placed between bars and measured against measures?  How did these little bubbles of life come to voice themselves beyond the solitary moment and go on to arrange single notes into chords, harmonies, and resonances? 

They arrived there from love.  They glide on the love of harmonies and splendor.  They float within the Composer, almost unbidden, unseen.  But once conceived they are rarely shy and they may cry out, “Pick me, pick me!  I am the note you want to complete this family, to complete this tune.”  For all the notes are members of the extended family of that tune, living within the octave.  And, spanning the distance from the Composer’s mind to the pen they are conceived to the page.  In the beginning was the note and the note became music.  And, raising its voice, the note proclaims new life to all who will to abide within it.  Raising its voice, the True Note illuminates the Composer for us. 

The notes conceived through the Composer’s pen, and hung upon the staff of life await the opportunity to be played, to live.  Whether the notes subsequently are lived boldly, hesitantly, wrongly, or joyously correct and filled with their own dynamism, is not always a great matter.  What matters is that they are played to the mind of the Composer. 

For while all the notes desire to be played in symphony, in the harmony of perfection, to be perfect as their Composer is perfect, they still accept the broken note, the strained chord, the clipped note.  They embrace each of the notes, even if they will never be played to fullest potential.  In carrying the broken note they become like the True Note.  For part of the perfection of a True Note, is its willingness to diminish its own voice and help scratchy notes to sing their songs.  These songs, even if only minor movements need to be rehearsed, played, and performed.  The stories need to be told, no matter how broken or bitter they may feel.  The True Note experiences the need to play the song, so that these notes will each find their necessary moment of rest, their moment to heal in the light of the Composer.

The notes which strive to the Truth never discard the broken notes.  For they know that all notes, even the mangled and unpleasant ones, are written by the Composer.  Deep within any of the lost notes, even if lost to normal sight and sound, lays the dormant beauty by which the Composer created them.  Within the broken note, for those who care to look, to see, the Composer is still reflected.  The lost note may deny the Composer, but the Composer will not deny the note or the song for which it was written. 

Played either perfectly from the score or bobbled by the novice, each note knows and abides within the flow of life, within the measure of the music, within the composition of the Composer.  As the Composer has accepted a broken note, so then the score knows to accept it as well.  A note that thinks it knows better than the Composer is a foolish note indeed.  Such a note is lost in itself and plays only strained dits and dashes.  It has become broken in its delusion that its own perfection exceeds that of every other note and, silently mumbled to itself, the Composer itself.  Even if such a note rejects the other notes, or even the Composer, the lost note is never abandoned by the Composer.  The Composer loves the angry note.  The Composer loves.  The Composer is love.

The Composer knows the notes as individual notes and knows them as the composition.  Light shines through each note’s own unique, special beauty.  The rays of illumination take on the silent hue of eternality. 

No matter how poorly played, no matter how broken or miscued, the note remains always beautiful to the Composer.  For the Composer knows both instances of each note: Multiple instances of time-bounded distractions and also the single continuous instance of eternal boundlessness, the time of freedom, rest, grace.  The notes are known both as they exist now in their misplayed moments and they are known in their sought for perfection, that is, how they ought to resonate in the eternal harmonies of the life that is the Composer.  The Composer inspires the notes to grow away from their limited myopic actions of the moment and mature into the note’s authentic role as part of the eternal playing of the music. 

Conducting with an invisible hand, the Composer teaches the notes to appreciate themselves beyond the single tick of a clock, not to be trapped in the soon to be past downbeat.  Rather, they are shown their part of the eternal performance of musical play and vibration, of the constantly composed universe.  The Composer sees the notes in both their scattered jiggling present moment and also in their recollected, eternal Rest.  And, thus, every note is needed and appreciated for the celestial symphonies as the conductor never ceases to compose.  The Composer appreciates each note regardless of how it is played.  The Composer loves the notes, creates the music for them to play in.  Thus, unpleasant or crippled notes receive the Composer’s special attention and all notes are composed to help these broken notes to become music, to fully be.  At some point in the symphony, each note is carried by another note.  At some point, each note carries another note.  For the Composer love the notes whether the notes play in joy or sorrow or despair.  The Composer loves the notes, all of them.

The Composer continually composes and continually is in deep love with the notes singly and the composition as a whole. Whole Notes, True Notes, Lost Notes, Crippled Notes, they are all embraced and loved by the Composer, for the Composer created them and takes joy in their play.

The notes awaken as they are set to the page and quickened by the tempos and breathe in the life-giving breath of the Composer’s harmonies.  In the very act of composition they are both sanctified in the light of the Composer and begin a journey to be sanctified with all other notes.  As the notes become what they ought to be, they reflect light for other notes to follow and discover for themselves the harmony the Composer desires for them.  As they gain rays of the Composer’s light, they cannot help but turn back and help other notes to strive for the same illumination, to swim in the same blinding love.  Each note has been carried by others, each note will carry others, and all the notes will come to illuminate the love of the Composer’s symphony.  By apprehending and appreciating the Composer’s love, they become ever more the manifestation of that self same love.

The bobbled note, even if corrupted or lost, can recover, play again, perceive and reach for the light. 

The lost note makes the most vital of discoveries:

The Lost Note Discovers the Composer’s Love. 

No longer lost, the note now knows it is never alone; it is possible to experience the Composer’s Love.  In that experience of love is the sure knowledge that a single note is never truly forever lost in isolation, never to be heard nor appreciated.  As the Composer’s Love is discovered and imbibed by the note, it realizes that the Composer did not create us for the purpose of destroying us.  As the lost note moves from ignorance to knowledge and from knowledge to experience, it feels the cool warmth of the Composer’s love.  Tasting the Composer’s authentic love, the note knows, the note experiences, the note acquires a certainty of the visible and invisible communities of other notes who have been present all along, but neither seen nor heard, to assist it in its own sanctification.  The Lost Note discovers it has been carried by silent voices to this healing moment.  The Lost Note was ministered to by notes of compassion and voices of prayer, formerly invisible and disregarded, but now seen and understood as life affirming.

The lost note begins to experience the love all true notes feel for one another, the love that reflects the love of the Composer and the never ending score.  Every note, no matter how alone it feels, or how solo it was compelled to be played in sterile isolation, every note is meant to discover its own part of the symphony, illuminating for all an as yet undiscovered aspect of the Composer’s mind.  And, in that illumination, the note finds itself, it finds the Composer and its own reason to be.  The note matures outwards, away from the hostile inner isolation of paying court solely to its own wants, to the light filled welcome of the assembled notes.  Together they praise the Composer who continuously conceives and plays their music beyond what any single note’s effort could have dreamed. 

The lost note leaves behind itself the barely conscious self-absorbed chanting of its S-O-S to partake in the wonderful vibrations and resonances emanating from the dynamic stillness of the Composer’s eternal symphony.  The lost note’s former solo stale staccato never changing pattern of its inward facing brokenness is transformed into the beauty of the Composer’s mind.  The note has traversed from its isolated insanity chamber of a single-shot revolver to the compassion filled sanctity of Heaven.  

Simply stated, the note has traveled from Death to Life.   

The lost note begins to heal.  The lost note sings, “Egerei!” and chooses life. 

Ever grateful that the Composer waited on a mere single note so that its music might resonate forever, the note now looks behind itself.  It seeks out the hidden cells and ditches, and reaches out for those other lost notes who live in the chambers of single shot revolvers.  Knowing the taste of Death’s appetites, the healing note knows where to find those who Death seeks to ripen for a later meal.  Even though redeemed from mechanically obeying the stifling dit-dit-dit of despair, the restored note remembers the sound.  The restored note sets an ear for the tone deaf staccato inward beating of another buried lost note.  Tracking the lost note to Death’s lair, the healed note seeks to carry it out of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, away from the ditch, out of the cell’s darkness, far away from revolvers and the cult of death.  Holding each other up, the two notes together bathe in the love of the Composer’s light and are renewed.  They are healed, restored, sanctified, and begin to search anew for those abandoned to the famine sleep of single shot chambers.

Some strive to be taught by the notes.  They may hear all of the notes together or singly.  They hear them through the vision of the Composer who arranged them.  For them, the notes ring perfectly true, each to their measure and each to their harmony.  Each note’s resonance supports the other while all of their voices point to the Composer. 

Hence, all of the musinauts, one at a time, are precious for the life and voice which abides within them.  They articulate the Composer’s symphonies.  Where other notes are lacking they fill in.  Where they stumble, other notes pick them up and they harmonize.  Each true note implores us, thee and thine, me and mine, to rest our souls upon the mind and voice of the Composer.  In releasing the living note from the page, the musinaut in turn releases a vision of the Composer to us.  It is a vision we may choose to deny or embrace.

The Composer’s notes call each of us to life,

They call us to forgive and to be forgiven.

They call us to be carried and then to carry.

They call us to reflect upon the source of each note,

They call upon us to reflect upon the music and the score.

They call us to rise from embittered brokenness to sing the song.

We discover that there is a part for us, the Composer desires our voice.

The songs teach us of our worth.

Our rejections are frittered away by the music’s beauty,

And, we realize not only our worth, but that of others.

We go from knowing to being.

We go from knowing we are notes to being notes.

Every note reflects the Composer. 

Every note counts.

Copyright, 2011. PTSD Spirituality

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