Out of the Quiet

Reverb 10, December 3 – Moment.
Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). (Author: Ali Edwards)


Between the ages of 10 and 21, I sat under many conductors in various bands. Since I played the flute, I became accustomed to life in the Front Row. Front Row meant that I sometimes helped by picking up the conductor's baton, which was accidentally flung in a dramatic moment. Front Row meant that I felt the sweat drops and spit flung in other dramatic moments. Front Row meant that I made eye contact and paid attention to everything the dramatic conductor said. I learned the right answers to all the questions.


"What is staccato?" the conductor would put his arms down and innocently ask.
"Short!" someone from Back Row would shout.
"Wrong!" came the gleeful answer.
I volunteered my FR wisdom, "Dry and separated."
We had some brief eye contact conveying approval, and then the conductor would say (spray?), "You're playing the staccato notes too short - give them some more lift." And he'd pick up his baton and on we would go.


Something else I learned was how to make a crescendo get louder. By blowing harder? Nope. By leaning forward? No, but creative idea. The Front Row answer is: by starting softer. Only by creating that contrast, by expanding the decibel spectrum, can the loud sound be heard for what it is.


At first, when I saw this prompt, I wished that I had gardened in the past year. Or given birth, that would have been a good one. However, I'd like to consider the idea that the moments that I've felt most alive have actually corresponded with revelations about the frailty of life. Call me morbid, but I feel most alive when I consider life's end. It sounds loudest when it comes out of the quiet.


My daughter is almost three and I recently - two days ago, in fact - needed to take her to a Children's Cancer Clinic at the University hospital. Her pediatrician was concerned about some large, resistant lymph nodes and just wanted a specialist to look her over. It was an emotionally draining visit; I am not even going to go into the sounds and smells and voices in that clinic because I would never stop bawling. I'm unspeakably relieved that she has since been declared healthy, but during the hours of unknowing I forged an empathy for parents who only dream of hearing that happy news. Perhaps the worst thing on this earth is suffering children.


During this whirlwind of an experience, I rediscovered the simplicity of parenting. Like I was in a centrifuge, I felt the superficial, life-sucking worries and dilemmas of parenthood float away. A noble sediment was revealed: My desire is [still] to take care of my darling child. I don't need her to be any different from the way she is. I will help her find joy in life. That's the same graceful, loving responsibility that I've admired so much in other caregivers I've seen. Beyond this simple realization, I've been jolted into activism. The questions of "What am I passing on to my daughter?" and "How can goodness and beauty and truth and justice and health be spread?" as well as "How can I support cancer research?" are the spurs that have been kicking me into "alive" mode these past couple of days. It's nice to have all of these questions in the Front Row again.