CHAPTER 3
DISSAPEARING INTO NATURE (JUNE-SPRING)
music: claude debussy
It’s June already. Where does the time go? The weather has shifted and I’ve felt myself shifting with it, though I’m not exactly sure why or how. It feels like school had been holding me in place, grounding me in the greyness of routine. Then June came rushing in with its endless hours of sunlight, broken up only by Colorado afternoon thunderstorms that seemed to match my mood.
Despite all the sunshine, I’m having a heck of a time peeling myself out of bed. I feel tired and unmotivated, but I get up and drag myself into the kitchen. Mom gives me the “mom eye,” so I make a show of toasting a bagel, taking my time to spread butter around in circles until it melts. I imagine myself as butter, seeping in through the spongy bread until I’ve completely disappeared. I snap out of it when her mom eye intensifies, so I start eating. Stroking my hair, she stands behind me, her silver bracelets jangling in my ears. I try to smile back, until she finally gives up and walks away, leaving me to my thoughts. Then I finish the dreary ritual of breakfast and head outside to be alone.
Since spring break, all this anger has been raging inside me like a forest fire. But now weeks have pasted, and my anger is burning itself out. I’m like a mountain, black and scarred and empty and waiting for new life. I can’t feel much of anything—not even sorry for myself. I lie under my backyard oak tree, staring up into his branches, letting my eyes lose focus in a vain attempt to relive the magic I once felt. But the only magic I manage are brief periods of my mind being emptied of its endless chatter—not long enough to be called moments of peace. I stare into the sky’s endless blue, watching clouds form into shapes and dissolve into wisps. I think about old friends, Dad, and what could have happened or might still happen.
But after weeks have passed I just get tired of it all, and my thoughts and stories dissolve like the clouds above me. I breathe deep and slow, doing nothing, thinking nothing—listening to everything. And somehow in these moments, Alice disappears. Slowing down, taking in the sights and sounds, I find myself becoming the sounds themselves. It’s strange- like I’m hearing cicadas and songbirds for the first time. Suddenly the tall grass cradling my body looks so very green and golden, sunny and beautiful. Feeling the soft breeze, I sense everything breathing, sharing space with me—enjoying my companionship. And out of nowhere, I am the trees, the grass, the birds. We’re all one. It’s like we’re family, like they’re a part of me.
Most mornings now, I go outside and start my day by sitting in the garden. And when I feel this total connection, sometimes I swear I’m surrounded by a kind of invisible light—the sort you can’t see, but can absolutely feel. It’s like the warm sunlight is pulsing with breath, in rhythm with the trees and the wind and the flowers, brightening all their colors, bringing them to life. Bringing me to life. I feel the roots of my being push through the blackened and scarred ground that has been me these last few months. I am the new growth, brought to life by the fertile soil of allowing myself to merge with the oneness of nature.
I bring Luna, my concert flute outside and play melodies that imitate the birds and crickets. Then going inside, I try to bring that feeling of being filled with music and light with me while playing piano. I sit with Ebony, Mom’s grand piano, and pull out the score for Girl with the Flaxen Hair. This was my favorite piece growing up. I don’t even remember how many times I begged Mom to play it for me before bedtime. For some reason, I was absolutely sure back then that Debussy wrote the song for me specifically—like he looked into the future and saw me, the girl with the blonde, flaxen hair, and sat down at his piano to play me into existence. I carefully place my fingers on the piano, take a final deep breath, and begin.
The song starts slowly, its melodies gently flowing up and down, like being rocked in the crib. It doesn’t take long before the harmonies start swirling around me, expanding into a weave of melodies and rhythms.
Now the same invisible living light that surrounds the trees and flowers comes alive in me. Or something does, I’m not sure of anything. But when I’m playing Debussy, my thinking stops and I dissolve into the sound the way I dissolve into the wind and trees. And now I live for these moments- when the music breathes and sparkles inside me, and I sparkle along with it. Amazing.
A few days later, I bug Lili to go shopping, and I buy this lovely cloth-bound journal and a fine point rollerball pen. I have to compose my experiences, even if it’s only for my invisible friends. I write on the first page: Dreams & Ponderings. And under it I add a quote from Debussy:
Music is the space between the notes.
–Claude Debussy
I seriously love that quote, even though I’m clueless about what it means. Where is the space between the notes? And how do we hear the space? I look up “between” in French- entre, meaning between or among, which totally makes more sense. I write that down too: Music is the Space Among the Notes, then go outside to the garden to sit, walk and listen, re-imagining Debussy’s words, listening to songbirds while softly dancing among the flowers and veggies. Imagining I hear the mountains sing and the trees applaud. Imagining a world where classical piano music is an enchanted garden, and among all the melodies are flowers singing in harmony. Or maybe it’s something more than our imagination—a sign perhaps, that says:
