Facing the Music Read Online Free Page A

single star. The distant waning howls of the coyotes seemed to echo my own prayers. I would imagine what peace looked like when I would come home tomorrow and will it to be so. I ached for grace, for ease. I would toy with my childhood understanding of God, search the black expanse of the heavens, and write.
    Poetry became my new cipher. I could write a poem about how the tornadic spring storms would bring both terror and rebirth. I could use budding flowers as a metaphor in the constant and reliable cycles of anger and hoped-for peace in my real life. I could write about the strength of our horses as they galloped through the field as a symbol of freedom that I could only dream of.
    My poems could be beautiful and wishful, or act as the dark vessels of all my sorrow. I could at last tell someone, anyone, at least a portion of what had long been mine to suffer alone. I could share these things with the outside world and maybe I would find a connection. With others? With God? I was learning that these experiences did not have to stay locked inside my head, eroding my spirit. I was learning new ways to survive. I was learning that I did not have to be captive to the grievous acts of others. I might never be able to change my stepmother. I might not be able to change all of my circumstances. But I was becoming aware that being alive is sometimes a conscious choice. No matter what happened, I wanted to be there, living.

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    I f I wasn’t ambling in the countryside, or nestled away somewhere scribbling in my diary, I was equally enthusiastic about being in school. Beyond the relief it provided in being away from home, there were so many adventures to be had. I could spend hours fossicking around the library for a new and exciting book to read. I loved it all, be it math, social studies, or history. The thrill of rising to the top of the class and getting praise for my excellent marks made me an unabashed contender for teacher’s pet. It was a safe place, where I felt inspired to succeed. It was also the place where I fell in love with music.
    One day a week, a music teacher would visit our country school. We had no proper music room, only the gymnasium. The same gym that served as basketball court during phys ed also served as concert hall and cafeteria, depending on the time of day. When it was time for music, our teacher, a spritely little woman, would throw her shoulder into the side of an old piano and roll it out into the center of the gymnasium floor to begin our lessons.
    Heaven only knows how she managed to wrangle a class of energetic country kids into standing in place. I, for one, was more accustomed to running around outside, kicking balls, and climbing trees. The idea of standing in place for an hour at firstseemed like a cruel substitute for entertainment, best reserved for rainy days. Still, she managed to keep my attention.
    She always greeted us with her startlingly wide smile and vivid appearance. She was like Rapunzel meets Janis Joplin turned school librarian. Her long, wispy blonde hair cascaded down her back, where it seemed to join in conspiracy with her usual long, cotton print skirt.
    There was always some part of her in motion. Her petite hands often guided us with light, feminine gestures, like a ballerina cum traffic cop. No matter that her directions made no earthly sense to us as she pointed and waved in rhythm with the music. When her hands were busy on the keys of the piano, her legs would tap and dance beneath her as she sat precariously on the edge of the piano bench, her hair joining in the perfect choreography of fully embodied sound.
    So what if the songs we were singing had only one-part ­harmony? That she led us in rousing renditions of the latest Muppets movie soundtrack didn’t limit her enthusiasm or purpose. For many of us, she was the first, and perhaps, the only, human being on the planet who could usher us into a world beyond that which was visible. That one day a week