I was up with the dog at 5:30 AM. Even then I knew there were not enough hours in the day to accommodate my schedule. The morning had barely begun; already I was feeling pressed for time and out of sorts. Perhaps it was the heat, that persistent rush of summer that moves too quickly, the season gone before you know it.
Whatever had gotten under my skin, certain tasks couldn’t be ignored. I turned up the road to the tower, one of the dog’s favorite spots for his morning constitutional and mine for the view of the lake and the bay beyond. The emptiness of the parking lot surprised me on such a brilliant summer morning. The dog roamed the circumference of the lot and wandered the edges of the woods. “Get busy,” I urged him, impatient with the day slipping by and all I had to do. The chug of an engine broke the solitude. A van pulled slowly up the hill. The grey-headed driver pulled carefully into a corner of the lot. The dog made one final circle and trotted to the back of the car. I lifted his aged hulk up and in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the van driver emerge and place a tan box on the hood of the vehicle. Breakfast, I wondered? Then I thought no more about it and jumped into my car, headed for the heart of my busy day.
The engine purred. With the windows up and the AC fan on full blast, I was well insulated from the outside world. But just as I put the car in gear, I heard something. Something special. I glanced at my radio. It was off. I lowered one window and cocked my head. The noise was still unidentifiable. A neighbor’s radio? I pulled slightly forward and glanced back at the stone tower that stands guard on the hill above the lake. Through one of the deep-set, open windows of the stone edifice I spied a silhouette, arms bent and raised. A flutist. If the notes had a color, they would have been sterling, a cascade of music from a silver-haired Rapunzel in the tower.
For a brief moment, though not nearly long enough, I paused my harried schedule. The notes shimmered, softer than the air itself. I might have stayed longer. I might have listened then applauded or hiked up the spiral staircase to meet the musician. But there was something intensely personal about the music. The flutist performed deep within the thick, stone walls; he did not ascend to the viewing platform above. Unable to bring myself to interrupt, I offered silent thanks for this unexpected pleasure. I gathered the notes as they fell then took them away with me.
I carry them, still, for those days when life grows foggy, for when the view from the tower is dull with haze. Then I can climb the hill again, peer up to the tower window, and let the warm and silvery notes float skyward toward where they came.