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The fragment will not let me go:
I need to hear the rest, and so
On busy fingers I will go
Through silent pages, sounding oh
So not-what-I-imagined.

Now started, I must move ahead,
Although my face is turning red,
As fumbles fill my heart with dread,
I concentrate on joy instead
Of what I had imagined.

The notes run on ahead of me,
Compelling sweet satiety
While training virtuosity,
Creating blends of harmony
Much better than imagined.

Again to this peace I return,
While fears and sorrows here I burn;
On altars of live notes I spurn
Low feelings that arose—and learn
Joy greater than imagined.

by Gwennon
July 12, 2008

This is a poem about the joy of music. I wish I had known years ago that music is about joy and that the best audience is “an audience of One.” If the music that I play brings joy and gladness to the loving Creator Who made me, then that is enough. And I can relax and enjoy the music, too. Whether or not I execute it perfectly.

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