And so I write.

Music moves the soul. The written word conjurs up a picture more vivid and powerful then a thousand spoken. These two fantastic arts offer themselves to the masses, daring anyone to try and master them. Countless have attempted and all have failed, though a very few learn to speak through them. These select have learned to communicate in the language of angels. Through lines on a page or notes on a staff, they speak straight to the soul of man, moving him beyond anything else on this earth. One of my greatest hopes is to one day simply have studied the ways of music and the written word enough to offer just some little contribution.

When I sit to tinker on a piano, I always hope that an ear is better for catching the sound of my playing. Music frustrates me as I am never satisfied with the skill level I am at, and since it does not come naturally to me, my efforts to improve often end frustratingly quickly. My family is musical, my sister has always played piano well and my brother is skilled at both piano and guitar. It has always seemed to me that music comes naturally to them-they don't have to work as much at it to play well while I have been pounding out Chariots of Fire for the last three years. Likely, I am wrong and where they are is a result of countless hours of diligent work and practice over many years. Nevertheless, the fact remains that I am the least musically talented of the three children in my family, and also the most musical when it comes to listening. I love it all. Classical, alternative, skaw, swing, techno, pop, rock, christian, even the occasional clean hip hop or rap is welcome to these ears. Music is an incredible gift, blessing both those with the talent to make it and those fortunate enough to hear it.

Most often, I resort to writing. For people to read my words and shed tears, laugh, be challenged to think, and most of all catch a glimpse of the life and love of Christ-this is my dream. One of the cool things about writing is that, unless you lock everything away in a box and stuff it under your bed, you never know who might read it and be touched by it. Over the past few months, my greatest struggle in writing has been to find my own voice. It seems a simple problem, perhaps even ridiculous to those writers more accomplished or entirely devoid of any voice of their own. My personality naturally 'mirrors' what is around me-whether so I feel more secure or as a defensive measure, I don't know. For example, two weeks ago I was talking with an Englishman. Within 3 minutes I was butchering his accent as I unintentionally began speaking like him. So what do I sound like? What is me? Is this me? More then likely, I spend entirely too much time thinking about it and entirely not enough time discovering it. Life is a chaotic journey which seems intent on confusing me at every turn-writing helps me both understand and escape it. When I write, I feel more connected and more appreciative of the events in my life and the people around me. Yet even now I worry about this blog and whether it has any actual relevance. Does anybody really care about the musical talent in my family? Or that I think writing is important? Who wants to hear about my ten minute encounter with an Englishman? Probably noone. But that's alright, because I have learned just in writing this blog. Nothing is a waste as long as I learn from it. No job too boring, no day too long, no people too annoying. No waste. Just learning. And so I press on. Though my pen is often motionless either from lack of time or effort, it is forgiving enough. I write for me. I write for God. And so I write.