But she doesn’t hear the applause. She hears only one thing: the echo of her own instrument, still singing somewhere in the rafters, a praise that needs no words, no god, no theology.
When the piano resonates with a minor chord suspended in grief, or breaks into a major key of resurrection, we are participating in a tradition older than language. We are loving XXXX with our nerves, our skin, and our bones, not just our vocal cords. Instrumental Praise - XXXX - Love
Characterized by: Lack of a steady beat, improvisational runs, surprising chords. Expression of Love: Awe. This is Moses before the burning bush. It is the realization that XXXX is Other . This love removes shoes from feet; it is trembling and beautiful. But she doesn’t hear the applause
Because Elara hadn’t played a concert in seven years that wasn’t, in her own heart, an act of instrumental praise. Not to a god of doctrine or dogma. To something far more fragile and vast: the memory of a love she’d lost. We are loving XXXX with our nerves, our