Coughs and Nearly Missed Notes

The lights go off. The stage is visible only because of the little lamps illuminating the sheets. The arches are raised. Breaths are held and muscles are tense. The first chord resounds. Involuntary sighs are hidden by the crescendo of the first act.

I’m sitting on the front row, right in the middle. I hear the amazed silence behind me changing colors every new theme. A violinist looks at me. I look back. He smiles and turns to the sheets again. I’m struck by a wave of empathy.

All these lives, behind and in front of me, – all of them – led to this one moment. Sighing and daydreaming to the same music. Making the same music. This one moment is changing all of us. Even the smallest detail makes a difference: a wrong note or maybe someone coughing in the audience. I feel connected, and I know they feel it too. They know that we are also creating the music they are playing, for a sound unheard is no different than silence.

I smile. These tiny moments of understanding always make me cry. A cellist sees me crying and smiling, wondering if I’m the only one feeling that. He smiles and almost misses a note. Quickly, he focuses again and regains the tempo. Did anyone notice that? Is anyone thinking about it? Back there, yes, you. Did you see him smile? I think he understands it too. He knows it. He knows that you saw him, even though you may not have realized. I think he knows that more of us smiled when he did. And we both know that it changed it all.

Someone coughs. Disapproval? Well, some people don’t like to be changed. Some people don’t think about what they experience and feel. I like to change. I don’t know about you; but I find that nearly missed note much more beautiful than a technical perfection. I find it beautiful when we smile.