Nostalgia

As I was cleaning my room tonight, I rediscovered some random CDs when I peeked under my bed to scout out a cozy spot for a wandering backpack. Spotting a plastic tub, I pulled it out and perused its contents. The first item, a dull white CD with "Mozart" written in a plain maroon font across one side, almost escaped any special notice. However, after I had flipped through an odd assortment of discs, my eyes grazed the plain CD once again and gave me pause.

The deceivingly simple facade of the CD triggered the archives of my brain and the remote though pristine strains of beloved piano concertos cried out for recognition. Jumping from the floor, I hurried to silence the blaring tunes on my laptop in order to feed my new-found treasure into my roommate's Bose stereo.

Immediately, the delicate classical music began to waft into the condo, profoundly transforming my surroundings. Suddenly, sifting through piece after piece of piled-up mail and tending to dirty dishes was enjoyable with the genius of Mozart fueling my imagination and captivating my mind. The crisp tones of the piano flitting above the flowing orchestra could not be more angelic.

There is more to this little story of mine. For me, music holds a powerful nostalgic key rivaled only by the sense of smell. When I hear a certain song, I will instantly recall the time and place where strong mental attachments to that tune were forged.

For this particular piano concerto (I unfortunately do not know the concerto number at this moment), my mind is taken to my freshmen year at John Brown University. I can envision sitting in my friend Dorothy's room, typing feverishly on her computer to craft my fifteen-page ethnography for Honors English. This was no small feat for me at that time. The ONLY thing that encouraged me to plow on was listening to the third movement of this particular Mozart piano concerto over and over and over...the same concerto I am indulging in now. Its perplexing and driving melody still transfixes my mind.

Tonight, I taste the bittersweetness of those hours long ago. My anxiety about that paper was somehow soothed by Mozart. Though weaving my ethnographic tale of a couple's life on a horse farm taxed my energy, the kisses of the beautiful piano and orchestra on my ears spurred me on. Like a strange juxtaposition, I reveled in both the challenge and joy of writing that was so deeply reflected in the angst and peace heard in the music. Can words even describe the rapturous nature of it all?

And so it is, that cleaning and rummaging have this evening afforded me a rendezvous with my past. Here's to you, ethnographies, JBU, freshmen woes, and Mozart. A rare but fabulous combination.