Lost to the world, attached to a violin

           My favorite day in Italy may have been Tuscany, but my favorite night was in Venice. We had spent the day island-hopping and the city truly was beautiful in the sunlight; so colorful and peaceful. The two islands we spent most of our time on were Murano and Burano; Murano is famous for it's glass-making, and Burano for lace. Both were charming and enjoyable. Although I must admit, by the time we were eating pizza and pasta that night, I was so sick of both foods. It was delicious, but four days straight...my body was tired.
We took the water bus back to the main island to walk around and experience Venice anoche-by night. We were joking that it only took 5 days in Barcelona for us to be ruined-there is certainly nothing like the nightlife in Barcelona.
But I loved the night in Venice for a different reason. We went to the Basilica di San Marco, and it was stunning, especially since we had yet to see it. Such detailed, intricate architecture, overwhelming and all-encompassing. I could not stop taking pictures, but every picture I took made me sad-the beauty simply was not captured in my hands the way I wanted it to be.
        Eventually, we sat down to enjoy the music of a professional violinist and band playing. We were probably the youngest people there-most were older couples or life-long friends, sitting together, having a drink, bathed in yellow light and enjoying the soft, quiet evening filled with music. Normally, I lose patience listening to a song without words. I constantly want to be thinking, moving, active and impatient. Forward motion is in my nature, as is impulsiveness.
I should stop and listen more often. As I watched the violinist play, his hands moving and sweat on his forehead, I noticed how perfectly his violin fit in the crook of his neck. The song came to a crescendo and his entire body seemed to let go. He smiled, his fingers moving quick and the rest of him dancing, flowing, existing in the music. It was so sudden and honest. He looked like he didn't have an audience, but he did not look like he was alone. I realized he never was, not if he had his violin.
And then it happened to me.
I reached in my bag, so glad to feel my journal, stiff and secure, in my backpack. Of course, I had a pen. He started to play my favorite song, Beauty and the Beast. It started coming to me, the way it always does, unbidden and sudden, often at the worst times, when I can't get to a piece of paper and a pen. We are both artists; we just have different instruments. He does not play the violin. He is the violin. I do not write. I am a writer.
        So, under the stars in Venice, listening to my favorite song, surrounded by beauty, I got to write and find it within. I grew, a little bit, as an artist that night, growing with the music and with the violinist who I swear looked at me and knew I understood. What a gift for me. I don't even know if what I wrote in my journal, or the poetry I wrote, was any good.
Does it matter? No.
I got to experiment, play, express, and enjoy what I love in a place I have always dreamed of going to. There is nothing more magical than creating, regardless of if anyone else ever experiences it. I experienced it, and that is all God meant for me in Venice.
All writers feel peace with a pen. But how many can say they have felt it to their favorite song, in a city of their dreams, spontaneously?
I can say that.