The doors were wide open at the chapel on campus. That’s weird, I thought, they almost never are. I walked by, shifting the weight of my backpack on my shoulders as I walked home from the library. The sky painted the top of College Green a light golden hue. It was a perfect evening, one of my last in Athens for the semester. I looked at the world as it glistened in its golden glory. It was a bittersweet sight, signifying the end of another day, the end of a semester, an end of a chapter in my own life. The sound of an organ drifted out of the open doors. I’ve always wondered what lay in the inside of the chapel, but never too much. Often I let the wonder pass over me, never giving it much thought past that.

The haunting sound of the organ intrigued me, so I walked in. The chapel was small, with only about five rows of pews, the inside painted a light blue hugh. The organ sat in the front of the church, its expansive pipes appearing comically large in contrast to the tiny church.

The person behind the music revealed themselves as I tip-toed in. He continued to play, so immersed in his music he didn’t realize I had stepped inside. I quietly slipped to the corner of the back pugh, careful not to disrupt him in fear that my presence would hinder his ability to fully express himself. Walking in was overwhelming. His body moved with the music, showing discipline in his fingertips and freedom in the range of emotions he conveyed. The musician continued to play, and each note started to expand, filling in the empty spaces in both the church, and within me. I noticed as emotions started rising and falling within my chest, a feeling I only experience when I feel truly moved.

I love words deeply. That’s why I write. The ability to express my thoughts in a more eloquent way than I am able to in my speech is a gift I will forever cherish. That being said, words also deeply frustrate me and fail me from time to time. I can always come close to describing my feelings, but I am only able to scratch the surface of a much deeper emotions that lie within my experiences. Music is a much more accurate way of understanding my feelings and place in the world. The organist didn’t say a single word, and he didn’t have to. The notes spoke for themselves. I could have sat there for hours, taking in the beauty around me, wrapping me tightly light a warm blanket. I didn’t. I sat there for around thirty minutes, letting the waves of the music wash over me, as they rose, broke, evened out, and rose again. Then I left as quietly as I came in.

Do you ever have those moments where you just know they are important and formative in some way, but you can never quite figure out why? It can be one of the most deeply frustrating feelings, but I always try to view these unlabeled emotions as uncharted territory, an adventure I can embark on within the depths of my subconsciousness. For a few days, I pondered why it was this organ music moved me in the way that I did. Life sometimes has a funny way of teaching you the lessons you are meant to learn. 

For me, that happened earlier this morning.

I sat in the stiff, wooden chair across from my therapist, expressing the things that bring people to therapy; the nature of being a human and the ups and downs we encounter because of it.

I told him how I was uncertain with what the future holds.

Let it go, he told me.

I told him how I was feeling shame over mistakes I’ve made in my past.

Let it go, he told me.

I told him I feared what others thought of me.

Let it go he echoed, once again.

I have a hard time doing that, I told him, I’d prefer to hold on.

I’m going to challenge you he said, in the way therapists do, firm but caring.

Notice these thoughts and then

We said it together this time: let it go.

After this morning, I recalled the moments spent in the chapel that Sunday peering through slightly adjusted lenses : The chords lingered for a while echoing for a moment in time,

Then they were gone.

The organist lifted his fingers from the instrument, letting go of all that was the music he so beautifully produced.

I wonder what things he’s trying to let go of. 

I could have sat there for hours, taking in the beauty around me, wrapping me tightly light a warm blanket.

 I didn’t.

 I sat there for around thirty minutes, letting the waves of the music wash over me, as they rose, broke, evened out, and rose again. 

Then I left as quietly as I came in.

The organist didn’t know I was there, witnessing the joy and pain he went through as he worked out the chord progressions, interweaving melodies and harmonies in a way only an artist could. To him, I was nothing. In that moment, I did not exist. I didn’t need to.

In that moment, I was not my accomplishments

I was not the clothes that I wore.

I was not the grades I earned

Or the mistakes I’ve made

I wasn’t the color of my hair

I wasn’t what I could offer other people

Or the world

I was no longer the weight of my feelings; I could lay them down.

I wasn’t my future

I wasn’t my past either.

I didn’t have to be anything to anyone.

I could just be me

What a beautiful thing to be.

In those brief moments, I was simply a traveler, observing the emotions that bubbled within me, holding on briefly and letting them go to the beat of the music. Then I left, moving onto the next beautiful thing this life has to offer.