The Broken Mind of a Harp

I have been waiting for this night for months now, my entire life really. I have been practicing and rehearsing relentlessly. My fingers are callused and tired. Nothing will stop me from giving my best. Giving my all. Not even the traces of blood that peak through the band-aid on my right middle finger. I will be known as one of the best harpists to have ever played, no matter the sacrifices.

Playing the harp is a dying art and the thought saddens me. Us harpists are unique. I am idiosyncratic.

I have been mastering the harp since I was 7 years young. I am now 31 years old. My harp is my companion. Strange to think of an object that way, but the way some people speak about love, that is how I often feel when I am plucking.

The noises of the world, are silenced. The frustrations of the mundane daily life, melt away. The loneliness of no longer having a significant other, dissipates. My harp has always been my go-to. Some people write. Some people sing. Some people serial date. I play!

I am dressed in a long, elegant, dark purple, silk dress that glides with me as I walk. My hair is pulled back into a bun with a large crystal barrette. My make-up is heavy so my face won't appear to be washed out by the lighting of the stage.

Lyre has been polished and tuned to perfection. I named her Lyre years ago. She was my first harp and has been my only harp. My original love. My first love. Her strings are strong and reliable.

She suffered from a chip in her wood once, from being set down harshly and unevenly. I was so upset that I began to cry. When my teacher was setting up for a school concert, he must not have had a good grip on her. His apologies were not enough. He took her away and within a week, Lyre was repaired and back home with me where she belonged.

I can hear the roar of too many conversations being held in the theater. The sound of clicking heels and the heavy steps of men clash with the hallway walls. The echoes of canes and clutch purses battle one another for the need of gratified importance.

I practice in the air with my fingers in front of me. Preparing me for my moment to shine. My moment to be heard. My moment to be understood. I will receive the recognition I have always striven for. I will finally be seen. No one will walk past me unnoticed again.

I close my eyes and inhale a deep breathe filling my lungs as much as they will allow. My chest rises and I hold the air there for a few seconds to calm my mind. To ease my nerves. I exhale slowly until I have released all the air from my lungs. My chest relaxes and my breath returns to normal.

I am startled by a clash of cymbals, but there is no one back here with me. I blink my eyes a few times, then close them tightly. When I open them, I am no longer backstage. I am sitting behind my harp, in front of a mirror. I stand up to look at myself. I am in a pair of loose-fitting slacks and a shirt that reads, Eastman School of Music. My hair is in a loose ponytail and my face is free of any make-up. I am panicked and disorientated.

I rub my right hand over my face just to make sure I am awake and no longer caught in a fantasy. I am no longer 31 years old, but only 23 years young. Lyre is old and is splitting in a few spots. She is also missing a cord. She will be looked at in a few weeks. I am extremely careful with her so she won't suffer any more damage.

I have recently graduated from Eastman and am in the process of auditioning for multiple orchestras around the United States. I would love to play abroad. That would be my ultimate goal. Perhaps be the star of my own solo. To be revered as such, would be beyond an honor. Excitement fills me and happiness grows from within.

My boyfriend and I just split up because he was moving across the country and automatically assumed that I was going to go with him. He also thought that now that I have graduated, that I was going to give up playing and become the "housewife I was born to be." His words not mine. I lost my temper, which is something I hardly do. I could not believe the audacity in his confident remark. "That harp will never make you as happy as I can," he scolded me as I began to laugh at the look on his face when I told him to move on with his life without me. As he stomped out of my apartment, he tried to get one more dig at me, "That's why no one listens to the damn harp anyway." It will be years before I decide to date again.

I am turning a new leaf. I will do what makes me happy, no matter what. I will be putting me first from now on. Anyone who has an issue with it, can either suck it up or move on without me. It is now time for me to be selfish. I will focus solely on my dreams and my aspirations.

I sit back down behind my harp, sliding my legs on both sides of Lyre. I feel good here. I feel at home and comfortable here. This is where I was born to be. I close my eyes and inhale as my finger being to pluck...

There are no strings. Where are her stings? I open my eyes to Lyre being gone. I rapidly look from left to right and into the mirror to receive some answers. I live alone and Lyre was just here. A loud bang gains my attention and I grasp for air and start to blink rapidly. By my next breathe, I am in my childhood home, laying on my bed.

My eyes wide and my mind confused, I hop up so fast I feel dizzy. I am panting and cannot seem to gain mental stability. I take in my surroundings. My room is yellow. Light blue curtains with multi-colored hearts sewn into them, cover the windows. My bed is a twin and I am beginning to grow out of it. My desk is piled high with college pamphlets and practice SAT's. I am 17 years young again.

The anxiety of my uncertain future is gnawing away at my nerves. I have a 4.0 GPA and I am an accomplished harpist. There are not many of us around. I am known in my home town because of playing. I am the only one who plays the harp in the three surrounding counties.

At first kids thought I was weird because I wanted to play such an unpopular instrument. After my first year of playing, I was really good at it. Families would ask me to play for them at parties, weddings, fairs, contests. I even had a local band ask me to play on one of their songs, which was pretty cool.

I can smell my mom baking lasagna. The sound of my brothers outside playing makes me smile. Yelling at each other and instigating by insulting. My dad's car is coming down the street with its loud roar from the muffler. I will miss this place once I leave.

The problem I am facing is, I can either get an academic scholarship or musical scholarship. I am torn. I know I will thrive in either field. Do I want to be in the medical field or the musical field? I love both. My harp is my safe haven though. Whenever I feel overwhelmed or lonely or sad or anything really, I play my harp and she centers me.

Lyre is not the best-looking harp, but she is sturdy and her old bones have history and love in them. She was given to me the third year I played. My music teacher said they would not be offering harp lessons any longer and she did not want to just give it away to anyone. After some convincing, my parents made room for Lyre in the living room.

I named her Lyre because I seen a picture of a Greek playing one. Lyres are much smaller, but I liked the way the name Lyre sounded. I kind of felt like a lyre and my harp as the Greek person playing me because of how small I was when I first began to play.

When my dad makes it into the house, he yells up the stairs to me asking me if I want to join them to go to the store. I yell down, no, and I hear them round up my brothers in the car and leave. Silence takes over the house.

This would be the perfect time to get a session in. I love to play for my family, but it is nice to drown myself with nothing but the music notes that cover me when I play alone. It is truly a transcendent thing to play for myself. To myself. With no others there to worry about the judgement of making sure I play perfectly.

I make my way downstairs and double check to make sure I am home alone. I close the windows in the living room and dining room to make sure there are no distractions. My house is empty. I take my seat behind Lyre and rub my fingers lightly across her strings. I close my eyes and begin to play effortlessly.

Plucking and strumming my fingers through the notes. I need no sheet music. I am playing my favorite song. All you need is love by, The Beatles. She becomes part of me when I play. Lyre is an appendage.

My mind slows. My worries vanish. The unreliability of my future is waded in the sea of notes. Nothing is forgotten, simply postponed. When the songs nears its end, I take in a deep breathe, releasing it quietly. My hands fall to my sides as I become sated.

I am received by a round of applause. My eyes jerk open and I look around. I jump up and begin to search for the source. There is no one home except for me. I look out of the windows and there is not a person in sight. I close my eyes tightly trying to figure out what is going on. The clapping begins again. When I open my eyes, it is to a dark room. I am laying in bed. I scream as loud as possible. I am young; 6 years old. I grab my teddy bear and pull the covers over my head, "Mommy!"

There are rushed footsteps coming towards me and I begin to panic. When the covers are yanked from my head, she is there to protect me. She is here to save me. She is my mommy. I leap into her arms for safety.

"I hear'd clapping again. It scared me." I say into her chest while I cry. She rubs my hair and holds me close. She is sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce on the floor and my legs are wrapped around her.

"The hell with exploding head syndrome," mommy says really scared.

"I don't want my head to explode mommy," I tell her.

"Oh baby. It won't. That is just the silly name they gave what you have," mommy tells me. I believe her.

"Okay mommy." My breathing slows and so does hers. "Mommy?"

"Yes baby?" She answers me curious of what I am going to say next.

"I want to play the harp."