What is music?

               What is music? This simple question has dumbfounded the greatest of philosophers and musicians for thousands of years. Despite this fact, my fellow music therapy students and I have been attempting to solve this mystery of human behavior in the past two weeks of class. Is music composed of sounds or does silence play a role as well? Does music have to be heard or can it just be felt? Does music require an emotional response or is it simply a series of mechanics put together to create an organization of sound experiences? Does melody, harmony, rhythm, and/or form have to be involved for it to qualify as music? Is music more than just something we create, but a force that guides the workings of the universe? While we are no closer to answering any of these questions, it has forced me to try to understand both the behavior and emotions connected to music in both myself and my fellow man.

                I never thought that music could exist only in silence. But when a moment, an experience is powerful enough, music is present. As I stepped into an abandoned Nazi arena earlier this week, my ears heard nothing but silence. But yet, the perfect symmetry of this place appeared like sound vibrations, ringing silently through the air. I stepped into the perfect center of the arena and could hear the sounds of the surrounding forest. The rustle of leaves chattering in the wind, the sound of water, somewhere, hurrying towards a life that just might be better; all together with me in perfect harmony. As I walked through the places where the Nazis’ sat, I could hear their rallies, rising high above the trees, and the fears and pain of every person on this Earth who was affected by the hate in this place. All these layers folded on top of each other, swirling in brilliance around the arena. For the first time in my life, I experienced the music of only emotion. Consisting not of melodies or rhythms, but of life and the beauty and pain that goes along with the human experience we live every day.

                In experiencing a Handel passion at a grand cathedral in Leipzig this past weekend, I was moved but music I usually don’t appreciate. The music of the passion rose high above the cathedral ceiling. The melodies and harmonies created by the performers was all swirling in emotions and bright shining lights that reflected the passion of listeners through all spans of time. In every nook and cranny of the ornate artistry, the music was absorbed by the cathedral and given back to me. For that moment, everyone and anyone who had every been connected with that music, Handel, the performers, my fellow listeners from all spans of time, the grand cathedral, and myself, were one in that moment. The music invited me into a history and a moment where I was transported to a life that I had never experienced before. And that same weekend, in a different moment, I sat at Clara Schumann’s piano. In her house, where she and her husband spent their days in love and joy, I played her piano. You could feel that they lived simply and with music ringing in every wall and floorboard of each and every room. I sat down at their piano, and as the first note struck, I was one of them. Making music and living a life that I didn’t yet know. They were here with me, as I was with them. And I felt their joy.

                So what is music? I still don’t know. It’s not something you can just put into words. It’s what you, as the individual, make of it. It has the ability to move us to a place and feel an emotion that we’re afraid to let ourselves feel. But in the comfort of music, it feels okay. We experience life together on this earth even though we often feel alone. But when music is present, we are not alone. Anyone who has every felt something when music has touched them, is one with you. And you are experiencing music together, even though you might be alone. And that is why music is special. It is what you make of it. And I choose to love every moment.