The music bounces down the marble hallways of the school, latching onto corners that amplify the tones in just the right way. I’m not sure where the music is coming from, but … No, that’s not right. I know exactly where it’s coming from.
When I step through the doorway, the classroom has disappeared. Bits and pieces of the old room remain, but very few recognizable elements. Our student desks? Gone. The whiteboard and Teacher’s desk? Gone. His podium has become a conductor’s stand on which he taps his baton as my classmates and I crowd the back or side or front (can’t really tell) of the room.
“Take your places, my dear musicians,” he says, straightening his blue tuxedo coat and tails over a smart purple button-down shirt. Suddenly, we’re all wearing tuxedos. Mine is that shade of pink that reminds me of the sweet cotton candy that melts on my tongue. In my hands, a sleek mahogany wood violin and matching bow.
“I can’t play the violin,” the words sneak out and just as quickly fade. I feel an urge to run the bow over the strings, then suddenly the instrument has taken on a life of its own.
As I learn what I can do with this new passion of mine, my classmates seem to be discovering their own hidden talents.
Clyde, sitting a few seats away from me, is straddling a cello, rowing his body along with the bow, feeling the music in every bit of his being.
Hope, one seat behind me, a flute to her lips, is kissing the smooth, silvery metal. Her music sounds like a bird rising with the sun in the morning.
As I melt into my music, I forget everyone else around me. Teacher is directing us with music I can’t read, but what flows from my violin is coming instinctively. I don’t need years of training or sheet music. I just need to feel myself fall into what my soul wants to say.
Then Teacher directs us to stop. The spotlight, working from some magical place above and to the right of us, focuses on Irreverent Student sitting at the black beauty on the stage just below Teacher. The gentle tickling of the ivory piano keys echoes the majestic symphony the rest of the orchestra had performed. It serves as a haunting memory until Teacher brings us together for the triumphant conclusion of our symphony, complete with a resounding blast from the percussion section.
Teacher sweeps his arms around the room and an invisible audience roars its approval. He bows and steps to a microphone.
“Thank you, thank you. My most gracious thanks goes to my very talented orchestra.”
The audience whoops and hollers like fans at a rodeo.
“I will venture to guess these young musicians had no clue they could do this today,” he says.
More applause overshadows the confusion I know my classmates share with me. I’ll bet they also didn’t know they could do this.
Teacher continues basking in the glory. “I knew they had it in them; we all do. We all have unexpected treasures lying within our souls. The key is to let our instincts take control.”
The crowd I can’t see showers the orchestra pit and Teacher’s stage with long-stemmed red roses. One at a time and all at once. Then one spectacular red beauty flies into my lap.
I glance toward Teacher, who happens to be looking my way at the exact moment the rose lands. He smiles and bows his head as if he’s known this all along. Then his voice sneaks into my head:
“The secret to life is letting your instincts guide your soul. You will never be led astray. Accept that and live the wonder of possibility.”
Until our next adventure, dear friends, I remain ever-faithful
The Dragonfly’s Student
The Dragonfly's Student 