I picked up my old violin today. I had't played in over a year, and I was very nearly surprised to find I'd missed it. Beginning with book one, I played through my Suzuki repertoire, applying the same passion to "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star" as to Dvorak's "Humouresque". I caught myself swaying. Though I played the strings like a child - sloppily, notes spilling onto one another like a haphazard fountain - I was happy to do so; to behold the old, damaged-but-beautiful instrument (chipped varnish and all), to pull forth music from paper, to surprise myself by still remembering nearly every piece by heart.
I'd forgotten how potent this joy was, the joy of being the source of music.
[The majority of my paragraphs are going to be coming from blog posts on this bloggetty blog thing. Is that laziness, or just resourcefulness?]