Speaking to Bones
by Jill Carattini

My experience with the oboe had magnificent beginnings. In fact, it was far more magnificent than I first realized. I was in high school and had played in concert band for years, but I had never heard of the double-reeded instrument, much less the haunting sounds it made. Yet here in front of me was a woman with an oboe, a friend of a relative, offering to play for us. The sound was rich and beautiful. It was exactly the sound I imagined Mr. Tumnus playing on his flute for Lucy--the Narnian tune that made her "want to cry and laugh and dance and go to sleep all at the same time." I came home and immediately announced to my band director my intention of switching instruments.

But I soon learned the oboe was capable of sounds in great distinction from the ones I had heard that day. I spent no more than a month struggling with the nasally, often out-of-tune notes on my borrowed oboe before I turned it back in, completely defeated.

I'm still not sure why I thought it would come so easily. Maybe it was the ease with which the instrument was initially played before me, or my imagination of magical flutes in stories I loved. I had heard the tune of a master and convinced myself that I could mimic it. But the music was a gift that required years of labored mastering. The oboist I had met that afternoon was a member of the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra.

The rest of the meditation here-Excellent!