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.