The Pure Note

Find the spot where the tiles change color, take three steps to the left, and sit on the cement floor. The acoustics are perfect. A foot or two in either direction, a foot higher or lower, and it's gone. But right there God conspired with the laborers to create a perfect chamber.

Every note you sing is so pure it can make you weep. You can hum the alto part of Pastores Quidnam Vidistis and it fills the hallway with such a sweetness that the heart swells and the soul resonates in response. You can hold a single low note...so low it's almost subvocal...and it hovers in the air like a disembodied spirit. Passers-by aren't sure if they hear music or the beating of their own heart. They look around uncertainly as they pass, expecting to see...who knows what? Some mystery, some magic, some supernatural force at work.

Instead, they see only me. And surely, they think...and I can actually see this thought pass behind their eyes...surely such a sound can't come from a human. And they're right.

God made this spot for me. God drew me here. God gave me the temper that ruined my singing career, and God hardened the hearts of my friends who eventually refused to give me money, and God filled the heart of my landlord with greed causing him to turn me out. God filled me with despair, destroyed my every hope, smashed my every dream and led me into the subway to hurl myself beneath the wheels of a train. God put me on my knees in the one spot in all the world where perfection can be found. A foot in either direction, a foot higher or lower, and there's nothing. This one spot.

I no longer have a temper. I no longer feel despair. I no longer have friends or a home. I no longer have dreams and hopes. I have God and this one spot and the pure note.

posted by greg @ 2:30 PM