It was a cloudy morning. It had been raining on the day before, and the forest was all humid and wet, slippery to the touch and the feet. As I gazed through the woods, I did not felt safe, and yet something whispered inside me, I was at home.
My guitar is made of wood, maybe cedar, maybe mahogany, I dont know. I was raised in the city. But as I looked at those old, nameless, giant trees around... a feeling of strange familiarity with them surprised me. As I, being able to play the guitar, somehow could play the trees as well.
It seemed preposterous to me (and, I must say, I'm inclined to visions of grandiosity myself). But as I got home, in the same day, by the afternoon, I received an email of a friend. He was writing about philosophy and poetry and found a quote by the great romantic poet, Novalis (1772-1801). He told me that it struck him as something I would like to know. As the quote follows:
All tones that nature brings forth
are raw and spiritless;
Often only to the musical soul does the sound of the forest—
the piping of the wind,
the song of the nightingale,
the plashing of the brooks
seem melodious
and meaningful.