The Island

I came across "The Island" the other day, written by Dr. Peter Selwyn of Montefiore Medical Center. It touched me profoundly, as I was struck by the similarities in our constant interactions with strangers whose paths we cross. The following sums it up perfectly:

"Each time I sit with a patient, it is as if everything in both of our lives has brought us to this exact moment, which can be an opportunity for the mundane or, at times, the almost sacred. Sometimes we connect only briefly, or perhaps miss each other’s meaning, and continue superficially through our daily routine. But sometimes, when a certain question, phrase, or gesture opens a door, we may have a glimpse into a whole new room that is suddenly open to light and understanding. Like a glance in a crowd between strangers, sometimes everything aligns, the extraneous is stripped away, and we can look deeply into someone’s soul. Random yet precise, a series of interactions, of fleeting moments that occasionally verge on timelessness. These moments can’t be forced or created; the best we can do is to learn to witness, patiently, with humility, and not let ourselves or our judgments get in the way of the process—to learn to be present, attentive, and open to the story that is waiting to be told."

Revisiting

It has been a while since I visited hospitals and played for patients. In fact, I spent the past two months being a patient myself--having had a few adventures "unit-hopping". It was an educational experience; one often learns double portion when taking a refresher course. I am now back on my feet, eyes forward, heart filled with thanksgiving for each new day given to make more music.

I visited a rehabilitation unit last night at a hospital that looked more like an airport than a health care facility. As my guide and I roamed through the lobby that resembled a long terminal, surrounded by glass panes and stepping on soft carpet with endless repetition of the same patterns, I tried to recall the feelings when I last found myself in a rehab hospital, recovering from complete paralysis. Surprisingly, the effort was not very fruitful. Time may not heal completely, as it is often said, but it does have a way of softening the edges of those memories that were once imprinted on every fiber of one's being.

As I left at the end of the night, I found a strange sense of dissatisfaction in my heart. It wasn't anything I did, but something I didn't or couldn't do--something I could not quite put my finger on. I pray that the comfort these strangers found in the music would last longer than one night, but more than that, I pray that they would be back on their feet soon, and that their dreams would still be waiting for them outside of the hospital doors.

I.V.

Occasionally when we visit a patient, something is going on in the room. We usually try to come back to the rooms where a procedure is being done, or where the doctors are speaking with the patients. But sometimes it doesn't feel like we are interrupting, so the concert becomes part of all the other small "happenings" in the room.

A lady in her 60's had arrived on the floor and was settling in. She was cheerful--almost a little too cheerful to be in an oncology unit. Her neighbor in the next bed had agreed earlier to let me serenade her, and the lady was glad for the company. She was definitely the "the more the merrier" type. A nurse was kneeling in front of her when I entered the room, trying to find a good vein in her pale arm to put in an IV. The lady looked like she was receiving a manicure in her own living room: welcoming me to her presence, nodding to her neighbor approvingly, while explaining to the nurse--who looked like he had been trying for a while to find that vein--what I had come to do.

I started improvising, and the lady immediately started to hum--an act that always amused me somewhat because the melody only began to take form in my head as I played. She tried to stay with it as long as she could, but whenever the melody took a turn, she waved her other hand to distract the nurse, whose would raise his head slightly to acknowledge her excitement. "Oh, listen, the music!" she would say. "Yeah..." he would answer politely, turning his head towards me--more to show her that he got the message than any genuine interest.

This went on for another minute and a half. By the middle of the piece, I had shifted my attention from what I was playing to what the nurse was doing on the patient's arm. I wanted to get closer and see if he found what he was looking for. The lady was the complete opposite; she was getting more and more excited about the music. Suddenly, the nurse got up, went out to the hall and got the IV, the dressing, etc. He knelt in front of the lady again.

The piece slowly approached the end.

"Now, don't move," he said.

Last note lingered. I slowly lifted the bow from the string.

"Yay! Brava!" the patient clapped ecstatically. The pillow on which her arm was resting fell on the floor.

Sorry, man. Keep trying.

Miriam

The last time I went to the children's hospital, I met 18-year-old Miriam from Egypt. Charlotte, the music therapist who usually guided me through the floors, showed me a violin that she got for the Miriam. I helped her tuned the violin, set up the bridge, and together we went to surprise Miriam with the gift. We arrived just in time, right before she was transferred to another floor. Miriam was ecstatic, to say the least. Her soft brown eyes lit up as she stretched out her hands to receive the instrument, holding it as if holding a baby. She told us that the violin was her favorite instrument and that she has had a couple of lessons in Egypt.

Under the encouragement of the music therapist, we had a little "jam session." She played the G open string rhythmically while I made up a melody in G major. Our audience--Miriam's mother and the nurses--clapped and whistled to show their appreciation. I gave her some tips on playing scales and on how make the violin stay on her shoulder. As we left her, we could still hear her playing and her mother's cheerful voice in the background.

When I returned the other day, two weeks later, I asked Charlotte how Miriam was. "Oh, you just missed her. She left yesterday," she replied.

"Did she enjoy playing the violin while on the other floor?"
"Well," Charlotte looked up from the piece of paper she was writing on and hesitated. "You know she started chemotherapy...so she wasn't feeling too well."

I didn't ask more, somewhat able to imagine, at the back of my mind, all that Charlotte did not say. I could still see Miriam's beautiful smile when she held the violin and bow in her hands, her painted fingernails slowly moving up and down the fingerboard. Wherever she is, I hope she did not lose her smile.

In sickness and in health

A typical night of serenading a hospital floor is like flipping through a picture book of life -- LIFE with its warmth and coldness, sweetness and bitterness; life with its infinite facets, manifested in each face, each spoken and unspoken word, each gesture, each breath.

There is nothing like sickness that reveals the hard reality of life, the absolute, naked truth. It strikes everything in its path with a vengeance--promises, relationships--stripping away layers and layers of niceties until the core is shown in its true state: ugly and repulsive, or beautiful and fragrant.

I once met a woman in the corridor of an oncology unit, fatigue written all over her sleep-deprived face. My guide John, a regular volunteer in the hospital, asked her how her mother was doing. "She's okay," the woman said, then let out a long sigh. "You know, she's really not that bad. With some real rest and without my dad aggravating her, she really can recover quite nicely."

I met another couple this week, also in an oncology unit, though in a different hospital. The husband invited me to go in and play for his wife, but after she makes a stop in the bathroom. My guide and I waited in the hallway, chatting about his vacation to Italy. From the corner of my eyes, I saw the wife making her way laboriously towards the bathroom, her husband standing by her, one arm around her waist, and the other wheeling the IV pole.

The trip took awhile. When they came back, I had made up my mind to play one of my favorites, "All I Ask Of You" from "Phantom of the Opera." A few seconds into the song, the wife suddenly turned to her husband and started crying softly. The husband gently smoothed the wrinkles on the bed sheet and held her hand. "That was our wedding song," she told us through tears and sniffles. "Eighteen years ago," he said.

Love me--that's all I ask of you...so the song goes. I guess they never thought, of all things, that it would be sickness that comes to prove how strong those vows are.

Bach Partita in E

Little Brian was not a shy child, having more energy than my guide's and mine combined. "Ooh, a violin, a violin!" He jumped up and down by the door, his hands stretching out with the intention of not only touching the instrument, but also grabbing it.

"You are not going to play today," the guide Charlotte, a music therapist in the hospital, said. "We are all going to sit down to listen." Brian did not protest. His widely-opened eyes showed that he was already mesmerized by the instrument he has never seen before.

"Let's see...what do you want to listen?" Charlotte asked. "Something fast or something slow?" "Fast!" the little guy responded excitedly, his eyes still glued to the violin. "Okay...something loud or something soft?" "LOUD!!"

I groaned a little inside. Somewhat exhausted from a full work day, I was not prepared to play something "fast" and "loud", especially in a hospital setting. The ambiance simply did not help inspire what was necessary. But there was no time for excuses--the active little boy giggled and squirmed around on his mother's lap, his hands clasped together in expectation. "How about something fast and loud, then something slow?" My little music patron demanded.

I began playing the first movement of Bach's partita in E major. The continual stream of sixteenth notes delighted my young audience tremendously. "Okay, now something slow!" he cried. I put on the brake and the tempo dropped by half. His mouth dropped open as he turned around to look at his mother. She was as excited as he was. "Slow enough for ya? Ready to pick it up?" Charlotte asked him. "Okay, fast!" I stepped on the accelerator and the arms are back on speed.

We laughed so much during our brief five-minute visit. I only played about 20 measures, not even finishing on the tonic (the "home" chord on a scale). At some point I thought about what a professional classical musician would think if he or she heard my performance. I also wondered what Bach would say if he were there (I could already see his expression as I remembered from his portrait hanging in my childhood home: meticulous and stern). But none of that mattered in that gloomy hospital room. Little Brian saw the violin for the first time in his life, and he was incredibly proud of his "conducting." Most importantly, he laughed. So I guess if I did not do what a professional musician was supposed to do, I at least did what I set out to do in the first place when I decided to volunteer with Musicians On Call: to bring the healing power of music to patients, in one form or the other.

A good night

A lovely lady visited the patients with us today. She is interested in starting a chapter of Musicians on Call in her hospital down at Miami. It is wonderful to see a good idea spread. An idea that is simple, yet good.

Many enthusiastic listeners tonight, several requests, and a couple of encores. Someone also recorded me on their cell phone -- not generally welcome by a professional with perfectionist quirks, but I let it go. There were quite a few youths, so my Disney repertoire came in handy several times.

All in all, a good night -- not in the sense that I've made everyone feel better (no one can say that because then the patients would not be in the hospital) but we've done what we could, given the circumstances, given what we have.

And tomorrow is another day to do what we can, given the circumstances, giving what we have.

Kid Entertainment

Due to schedule conflicts, I have not been able to play at a children's hospital that I used to visit. I miss playing for children, though. I miss how their eyes light up when they see an instrument they don't usually encounter. I miss how they gasp and puff up their cheeks out of excitement when they hear a Disney song they recognize. I miss the expression on the parents' faces when they see their children forget the tubes on their little bodies and the pain (physical or emotional) they were crying about just a while ago--even if just for a few minutes.


As we roamed about yesterday on a general floor, we came upon a room at the end of the corridor. I stood outside as my guide went in to ask the patient if she would like to hear some music. "I already heard her next door," she said. "So it's okay." That meant no, and we respected that. As we turned around to go, a little boy came out of the room, a popsicle in his mouth. "I've never seen that before," he told me, pointing to my violin. "That's cool." His elder sister came out of the room, too, and the two of them just stood there, wide-eyed.

"Can I go with you when you play for somebody else?" he asked, a silent "pleeeeaase" in his eyes. "Me, too!" the sister chimed in. "I don't think that's such a good idea," my guide replied. "You see, we are going to another floor now." "Oh, man..."

I looked around the corridor. It was dinnertime, and there was a lot going on: nurses going from one room to another, visitors coming in in packs, and some patients taking a stroll with their I.V. poles. Nobody would mind or even notice a little concert at the end of the corridor for two little kids, who were both fascinated by a beautiful instrument, and at the same time, terribly bored.

"Okay, one song, right here. How about a Disney song? Guess which movie this comes from."

"Yay!"

Untitled

An elderly lady in robe stood by the doorway; a huge smile, as well as a thin oxygen tube hung across her face. "Oh, how lovely," she pointed to my violin. "Would you like to hear something?" I asked, forgetting that my guide was the one who was supposed to ask.

The lady was a little hard of hearing, at least it seemed that way because we had to repeat our intention a few times. She finally agreed to return to her side of the room and sit down. We squished by the bed next to the door, which was completely curtained off. "Nobody is in this room, just me," she informed us. "Your neighbor isn't here?" my guide asked. "That's what I said," she replied. "Oh, how lovely, a violin!"

Standing behind her, I saw my guide catching a glimpse through the curtains. Her expression immediately changed -- "stony" is the only word that came to mind. Not wanting to startle the old lady or making her feel that something was wrong, I simply looked at the girl. I got nothing. I only knew that something disturbed her, but the nature and gravity of which were beyond guesses. I started playing, limiting my improvisation to less than a minute. The old lady interrupted me every few second with "How wonderful!" and "I feel like I am in Carnegie Hall!"

After wishing the patient a good night, we hurried out of the room. "What's wrong?" I whispered. She did not reply. We came to the nurse's station, which was just three steps from the room. "Was there someone in there?" I asked again. She nodded. "Sleeping?" No. "Awake?" Again, no. "Then what?"

"Dead," she whispered.

Mr. Schultz

Mr. Schultz, a gentleman in his 60's, was intimidating at first sight. He wore a fur hat, ear flaps draped along both sides of his thin face; below the hat brink, one bulging eyelid was shut close, making the remaining window of the soul shining extra piercingly. He was standing next to the nurse station, leaning against the counter, as we approached.

"I visited that gentleman last month," my guide Liz whispered to me. "The musician was a guitarist. As soon as the patient saw him, he said, 'No rock and roll!'" she chuckled. "But I think he enjoyed the music." She kept going for a minute, describing to me the brief exchange they shared that night. I was not listening. I looked at the man through the corner of my eyes, who, for no particular reason, nearly gave me chills.

"Are you looking for me?" A gruff voice thundered. Up close, the fierce eye was even more luminous than from afar. The man has two faces: the left side of his face (drawing an imaginary line from his forehead to his chin) is peaceful and smiling, as if asleep; but the right side is bordering on hostile. "Yes, sir," Liz said, her voice was extra gentle. "I don't know if you remember me, I visited you last month with another musician--a guitarist. We are wondering if you would like to hear some violin music tonight."

"Ah, yes. I remember," he said pensively. He gave me a quick once-over. "Well, come on in!" The two of us quickly followed.

He lived in an isolation room, with a heavy outer door, a "prep" area--equipped with a sink and soap dispenser for medical staff before entering the room--and an inner door, also quite heavy. The room was especially lonely as a droning noise from the air-conditioning filled the tiny space. "Look at that, I'm living in an isolation room even though I don't need to with my condition. Just fabulous," he said sarcastically. "At least I got a view," he pointed to the huge window next to the bed, which faced the Hudson River. I waited one more minute as he settled himself on bed. "What would you like to play for me?" The intimidating side of his face softened a little.

I started playing "Le Cigne" ("The Swan") by Camille Saint-Saen. A few measures into the piece I opened my eyes and peeked. His eyes were closed and a serene smile appeared on his whole face. I felt relieved. "Can you please play another one?" he asked as the last note lingered and finally vanished. I looked over at Liz, my timekeeper. She was enjoying it as much as he was. I gladly obliged and played "Meditation from Thais" by Massenet.

By the end of the second piece, all fierceness left his face and was replaced by an indescribable tranquility. Mr. Schultz thanked us and we bade him good night. Before Liz closed the first door, I turned around and saw that the sun was starting to set, coloring the Hudson with brilliant gold. Mr. Schultz was still smiling -- the sunset reflecting off the eye that shone so brightly.

Brief escape

A co-worker of mine is struggling with cancer and has been hospitalized intermittently. She spent the entire last week living in the oncology section of the hospital where I work. I visited her one day during my lunch break. Sitting with her, listening to the mixture of coughing, various machines beeping and an occasional squealing wheel on carts passing by, it reminded me how lonely it was to be in a hospital room, despite all the actions around us. My boss (an interventional neuroradiologist) once told me when we were discussing my volunteer work with Musicians On Call: "Music is one of those things that you don't realize how much you miss until you hear it. 4 o'clock in the afternoon, on the oncology floor, everybody's depressed--including the staff--but there is no powerful and quick solution...until something like music comes along."

Why I Play

I did a bit of self-reflection lately vis-a-vis music...and let's just say I went a little too far. Too far in the sense that I became unsure of what "good" I'm really doing with my music. As always, I kept my heart's turbulence inside.

In the meantime, a dear friend and fellow musician wrote the following. It did not "boost my ego"--if you read it closely and understand why he wrote it, you would not read it as common flattery either. This reminded me again of why I play.
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"A Musical Inspiration" - Jordan L. Rivera

There's an old saying that goes "a wise man hears one word, and understands two."

When I first read that, it caught me by surprise. I tried to think of how in the world it could be true. I hear one word, I get one word. Now I thought, maybe they the old proverb is talking about similes. You hear the word "beautiful" and think "beautiful" and "gorgeous".

I learned Sunday that’s not what it means. However, there is a twist. It wasn't words I heard, it was notes. The occasional Bb or, F #, maybe even an E. However, it wasn't just notes I heard. There was something more. Something attached to those notes. I heard words. With each note played, there was a word attached to it.

With each sweet melody there was a phrase, a statement that my soul needed to hear. It pierced through my heart into my most inner being. It was then that it became clear to me. You can hear 1 thing, but get 2.

I owe a great deal of thanks to someone for being the tool that God has called her to be. I don’t know much about her life, but I do know that, while the world told her one thing, God made another thing happen. When doctors told her she’d be weak, God still used her for his glory. She is a living testimony and verses like Psalm 118:14 (“The LORD is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation.”) live through her.

I know the Lord is her song. I heard it on Sunday. She is the one who played those notes that had those words attached. Her story of strength was played into my ears in a way that I have never experience before. I learned so much about music in what seemed to me, a short 8 measures.

Yi-Ting Chiang, the strongest warrior I know, a person who exudes God’s grace. I know it’s Jesus’ who plays through her, and I hope one day, he’ll play through me.

Assorted Fruits In A Basket

I have been writing mostly about the beautiful moments of volunteering with MOC. There are many of those moments, enough for us volunteers to keep doing what we do, and enough for the organization to keep growing with increasing support. These moments make us say, again and again, to each smiling face, "We're glad you enjoyed that; have a wonderful night."

But the hospital is the one place where all kinds of people come together. As my mother (a veteran nurse) likes to say, it is the last place in this world to be out of business. Though most people welcome our visits, there are bound to be some who do not. We respect the wish of those who aren't "up for it", and they generally tell us so nicely. Generally.

Last night we visited a "mixed" floor: geriatrics, orthopedic surgeries, etc. It was one of the most interesting nights I have had with MOC. A middle-aged man said curtly as he headed out of the door, pushing an IV pole, "I don't want to hear it." Another waved his hand at my guide, as if shooing him from the room, "I'm watching TV." And my personal favorite: an elderly man reacted to our introduction vehemently with "God, no! I don't like violins!!" And then there was one my guide did not even want to tell me what happened as he came out of the room, shaking his head in disbelief.

I found these reactions half amusing and half educational. Why they were amusing does not need much explanation here. On the other hand, the experience was educational because these reactions reminded me of the incredible diversity within which we live. I sincerely wish that these people have found other things that bring them joy and comfort.

Ilya and I

Ilya and I spent Valentine's night serenading patients in a hospital we have not visited in more than four months. It was beautiful--the two of us made many people's night a little more bearable, reminding them of another kind of love: one from a stranger to another; one not found in mere chocolates and flowers.

Ilya and I met eight years ago at a violin shop in midtown Manhattan. Although I don't believe in chance encounters, I certainly never expected to meet him then and there. My father, a violin instructor in Taiwan, had asked me to look for a couple of instruments for his students. "Nothing too fancy," he said. The shop I went to was known for just that: nothing too fancy. After picking out a couple of instruments and accomplishing my mission, the friendly shop owner asked me if I would like to try out some of her newly arrived violins, many of which she has not yet heard played. Having a couple hours on my hands to spend, I gladly agreed.

She started bringing them out, one by one. She pointed out the paint work on this one, the wood on that one...none of which impressed my impatient ears, which were searching for the sound they knew they wanted, but have not yet heard. Surrounded by a room full of instruments that were each created with much attention and care, I was starting to feel a little embarassed for being so picky. "Anything else?" I asked, deciding to leave soon.

"This just came in the other day, very new, made last year. It was in a violin-making competition, but didn't make it to the finals." The woman pulled out a case from the bottom of the shelf. "I like the color though," she added.

I don't remember now what I played then--I was preparing several pieces for upcoming concerts--but I will never forget how I felt as the notes resonate not only through the violin, but through me. He sang, like no violin I have heard before; but more than that, he expressed everything I have ever wanted to express but could never find the voice to. My entire body was excited--an electric current ran through my fingers as they danced ecstatically on the fingerboard, while my bowing arm drew in the air colors that came from heaven's own palette. I closed my eyes. For a moment I did not know where I was--no, but I did. I was exactly where I have always wanted to be. I belonged. We belonged.

When I finally opened my eyes, the small shop was silent. Customers stopped their chatters to listen, and an unusual smile hung on their faces. "I want to take him home with me," I said to the shop owner. "Of course," she replied. "I didn't know...I shouldn't have set the price that low."

Five months later, I had a hemorrhage and became completely paralyzed. Ilya sat in the closet for months, waiting for me patiently. When it was time for rehab, together we endured countless moments of despair, frustration, and heart-wrenching notes (if those strange sounds could actually be called notes). So many times I sat, just looking at him. Tears rolled down uncontrollably as I thought not only of the spotlight we shared together, but the sense of belonging he gave me, the feeling of being whole.

As I walked through the hospital tonight, feeling Ilya next to my body, I knew deep in my heart that what we do is nothing short of a miracle. More than my love for music, more than the joy Ilya gives me, is the gratitude I feel for the Love I have been given through these long years of suffering. That Love gave me a reason to endure, a reason to hope, and a reason to reach out. Together, the songs we sing are so much sweeter because of it.

Meeting MOCers

Left work a little early today to take a field trip downtown to visit MOC headquarters. It is quite exciting to finally put a face next to the names of the people who give their all to MOC (well, at least 9 to 5, or 10 to 6) after knowing them for eight months now. Kudos to you guys for all you do! You make the experience that much more special and enjoyable.

And Johnny, I can now tell one of the guides (whose name shall remain unknown) that you are not like Charlie of Charlie's Angels (you know, because you always get calls from him but never actually see him). Not that I have seen him, but you are totally cooler :)

Just A Visitor

A young mother was playing with her baby boy in the epilepsy unit. The baby has the biggest eyes I have ever seen, looking at me with an adorable hint of surprise. My guide explained to the mother why we were there. "Hey, that's nice!" she said. "Last week a musician also came, and I asked if he could come and play for my baby, but he was too busy...He's some sort of celebrity or something."

I asked her if the baby has a favorite song. "Well, he likes Yankee Doodle..."

"Yankee Doodle it is." I put the violin on my shoulder.

"You can play that on a violin?!"

Yankee Doodle came into that dark little room, warmly welcomed by the mother and son. The young mother laughed, both at the fact that the familiar tune was generated by an instrument as foreign as a violin, and from the sight of her little boy, rocking slightly on her lap. The surprised expression never left his chubby face.

It didn't take a celebrity and a top-chart song to bring a little joy to the lonely room. It only took a couple of unknown visitors and a tune that the baby could rock to.

Coincidence?

"So what are you going to play for us?" A lady asked me as I stood between her and her neighbor's bed.

I thought for a second. "How about a love song?" I said. The suggestion was received with warmly received by a room of women.

"All I Ask Of You" from Phantom of the Opera entered my head, and a sweet conversation between two lovers flowed from the violin. As soon as the song started, I noticed the lady who had spoken to me exchanging looks with her visitor.

"What was that song?" She asked eagerly, hardly waiting for the bow to take off from the strings. I told her the name of the song.

"I knew it! I knew it!" Her eyes shone brightly as she tapped her visitor. "That's the song my granddaughter is singing tonight at her school play! Oh boy..." she held her hand on her chest. "I was a little depressed that I would miss her play, and now, to hear it here..." she stopped for a second, looking for words but couldn't find any other than a soft "Thank you."

Of all the songs, of the rooms to play them in--how does one explain something like that? I love moments like this.

New Year, New Challenges

Towards the end of 2007, volunteering with MOC started to become routine. There was still joy in playing for patients, especially during Christmas season with the familiar carols. I still looked forward to playing each week and meeting each new face. But a part of me was starting to yawn, and more so with each coming week. I wanted to shake myself, step out of the comfort zone and reawaken the excitement I felt when I first started volunteering half a year ago. I wanted to breathe in all the tiny little things that were happening around me and learn something new each time.

God knows what I needed--after nearly a month of holiday festivities and inner yawning, He took me to new territory tonight.

I played for the first time at a children's residential home in downtown Manhattan. Unlike the teaching hospitals where I usually played, all the patients I met tonight have lived there for an extensive period of time, and for some, their whole lives. All night I did everything I've always done in a pediatric program, playing age-appropriate songs, tailoring volume and style to suit each room--but inside I was more frustrated than ever. All of the children I played for suffered from cerebral palsy, and none of them had normal speech capacity. Standing in the big rooms with two or three children propped up in heavy-duty wheelchairs who seemed to stare at more than one direction at a time, I felt like I have entered another world. An invisible wall existed between us, so thick and impenetrable that the melodies crowded about me, unable to spread their wings and fly to their intended recipients.

One particular boy was whimpering when we entered the room. His young roommates all sat in their wheelchairs, some sound asleep, others staring at a flickering TV screen that illuminated the spacious room they shared. He calmed down at some point when I played, fixing his eyes on the moving bow. But just as I gave myself a pat in the back for "comforting" him, he suddenly started wailing. The music stopped and the anguished crying filled the room. Tear drops rolled down his cheeks, some into his wide open mouth. Something in his crying grabbed me. The child cried not because he was denied what he wanted. No, the pain he suffered was much more profound than that. It was a mixture of loneliness and hopelessness, like a blind man who knows to expect the vastness of the world, but cannot see any of it.

At that moment I wanted to break down and cry with him. I wanted to hug him, squeeze him as hard as I possibly can. I wanted to strip away all the pain that is so evident but so intangible, weighing down on such a small body. I wanted to ask why, but I know I will not understand the answer, even if it was given to me.

I also wanted to throw away my violin and bow, which hung on either side of my body, powerless.

This is a new year, and with it comes new challenges. I pray for courage and strength to face them; but above all, I pray for love. Only love reaches the deepest pain and comforts it.