INSTRUMENTAL

by greenbamboostudios

I am so beyond pissed. Someone has nodded at me, as though we are longstanding compatriots purposefully engaged in deep philosophical discourse, and with the kind of smug all-knowing absolute grit that only Infinite Ignorance can foster, authoritatively declares: the piano sounds good!

 

No, honey. I sound good. ME. The piano is out of tune and the action on the keys SUCK ASS. So just to clarify, I make this thing sound fucking WONDERFUL. Every. Single. Night.

 

I immediately regret being insincere in this patent verbal response-reflex. Remembering that pride is one of the seven deadly sins and friendliness, which is really all this man intended to be, is not, I breathe irritation back into calm.

 

Of all the pianos I am blessed with for work, the baby grand in question here will ALWAYS be a shitty instrument because it lives in a restaurant and has been abused for years. There is absolutely no hope for its repair or reconstruction. It is not financially feasible as an investment. It will never regain its original significantly expensive value.

 

On the other hand, I have just chosen to be a shitty instrument of my own arrogance. The difference is that whatever abuse I think I may suffer, I HAVE hope. I am repaired and reconstructed daily though God’s loving forgiveness. Thus, it is completely feasible that I can likewise invest in others and be of value to their lives.

 

In penance, I play the Prayer of Saint Francis right there and then.

 

There are many versions of this text set to music but it’s the popular hymn version by Sebastian Temple that I like best. The opening lyrics have been modified to “let me be a channel of your peace” from the original “make me an instrument if your peace,” but the following remains relatively consistent:

 

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is discord, harmony;

Where there is error, truth;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is despair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

And where there is sadness, joy.

 

O Divine Master, Grant that I may not so much seek

To be consoled as to console;

To be understood as to understand;

To be loved as to love.

 

For it is in giving that we receive;

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

 

Whether erroneously attributed to the 13th Centruy saint or written by another now anonymous author, these words remain beautifully relevant and poignant. I reflect on them deeply as I attempt the instrumental.

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