I was in a local library recently and heard the faint sounds of piano coming through a wall. I followed it to a room where a group of mostly Asian children were giving recitals. There were about fifty parents in the room, and their children, who sat waiting their turn to play. The children in the room were between the ages of six and ten years old. Their teacher, a tall thirty-something Chinese woman with a strong Asian accent, introduced each of them, her hands gently placed on the children’s shoulders.
If demeanor belies talent, then it was not altogether true that day. A shy, demure little girl played like Mozart. An extroverted, beaming boy played as if his fingers were coated with epoxy. There were moments where I felt as if I was experiencing something so rare and fine that I could not imagine that the universe itself wasn't listening in awe. Two little girls not only played wonderfully, then immediately stood to sing patriotic songs with angelic overtones. "Of Thee I Sing" was never sung with more virtue. It is a strange and wondrous thing to be moved to tears by the sheer innocence of youth. I felt honored and blessed.
After a half hour I left the room, satiated by my experience. I sat by a bank of windows that overlooked the back of the library. The recent rain had subsided, and many people were walking paths in a park. I had yet to explore this area, so I went outside and began walking a broad asphalt path that wound through the large and orderly grounds.
Soon I left the library behind and crossed small teak and metal bridges. The sun had warmed the wood and it smelled sweet. I came to sections where the designers had let nature take its course, and grasses grew tall and abundant. I paused by the thigh-high grass and gently ran my hand over its blue-green velvety stalks. At a distance the grass had seemed uniform, but upon closer inspection there was variety in its forms, and many smaller flowering plants growing closer to the ground. Blue dragonflies hung amongst the stalks, bees flitted from flower to flower. The impression was one of activity and serenity at the same time.
Further on, I stopped on another bridge that skirted a large lily pad covered pond. I peered into the water expecting to see fish, but saw nothing but water striders. As with the grass, the first impression was of inactivity, and calmness, but then I saw the bird. In the midst of the lily pads came a song from a red-winged blackbird. It paused to listen to the response of another blackbird, and then continued lifting pads with its beak to find insects. A pair of Mallards stopped by the blackbird; one plugged its head into the water, its tail feathers in the air. The blackbird hopped on, using the pads to walk on water.
A child, no older than four-years-old suddenly came next to me and said something in what sounded like Hindi. Her mother, swathed in traditional dress, came alongside her. We stood for a few moments on the arched bridge, curved like the surface of the Earth, our attention held by the red-winged blackbird.
The mother and her daughter continued on and I stayed to watch a bit longer. I thought of the bird and its life, and of my life. I thought of my children in their last piano recitals. The moments had passed from seconds to years and only memories remained. I had the thought that this was the essence of life, these little moments of wonder and tenderness.
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