I was at a concert put on by the National Symphony Orchestra of Lebanon the other night. Every once in a awhile my schedule clears up and I attend. As soon as I walk into the hall where orchestra performs, I am met with a flood of notes as the musicians warm up and rehearse last minute. My heart jumps in delight to hear those sounds, and I float across the floor to find a seat on the side where the cellists sit. Although I play the flute (very badly, I admit), I love the cello, and there is one particular cellist I enjoy watching. 'My cellist', I call him. He is Russian, in his 60s it appears, with a frock of hair down his neck and large bug-eyed glasses. He is all the propriety of a musician from Eastern Europe. He comes out to his seat and bows to the audience from his own humble place, then sits down, and plays with such intensity that one would think he was alone in the hall. He shows great respect for his fellow musicians, especially the concert meister and the conductor himself. I love to watch him play.

The other night the orchestra performed Brahms' Symphony No. 1. As I sat there, words formed in my mind and found their way to my journal. Here they are:

Liquid notes roll over my thoughts
like dreams rushing back
to their home.
Drop after drop of music,
light and heavy,
gliding along my skin
till I am immersed.
One step more
and I am taken.
Gone.
I am on the brink of something great;
I know not how I'll get there
But the flow of notes,
brimming with anticipation,
moves me to the point of no return.