Allow me to propose a three-picture scene:
In the first picture, imagine a number of musical instruments, banged-up, tarnished, strings frayed and going in every direction, keys to the horned instruments bent, dents in the brass, etc. A picture of dullness, of muted tones, instruments that perhaps have been rejected, definitely neglected, perhaps overused, or just merely cast aside, left to the elements, treated harshly; broken.
In the second picture, enter a pair of gloved hands. The hands tenderly sand down the chipped varnish; carefully mend the broken necks of the stringed instruments; pull off the old, frayed, bent strings and replace them with new ones, apply a new coat of varnish. The hands gently pound out the dents in the horned instruments, take a special mallet to the bent keys, and buffer and polish the brass.
In the third, imagine those same instruments shiny, polished, re-strung and re-tuned, prepared for their original purpose… And now, in our minds, let’s allow the instruments to warm up, to begin to play notes. Hear the discordant cacophony of the instruments all playing again, each its own unique set of notes—hear some practicing their scales, others checking their tuning, others merely playing one long, sustained note.
And now, enter the gloved hands, once again. One of the hands picks up the conductor’s baton, gently raps it on the podium. Silence. The hands rise in the air, baton up high, and then…down, in a sudden but graceful striking motion. With the motion comes the opening note, one so beautiful, so harmonious, that even the instruments themselves seem to get chills. A beginning, a feeling of renewal, of purpose, of restoration.
The symphony has begun…
