Not to your mother, your father, your lover, your children, your neighbor or your best friend (and certainly not to your boss.) What makes sense to you, in all the stuff streaming by and passing through, clamoring for attention, shouting warnings, or whispering enticements.
What makes sense. Makes all the rest fall into the background. Takes hold of your attention, and changes a predictable course of events into something else. Another story; another way of looking at things or at yourself. Another interpretation of a musical standard or another way to relate to those around you; and to yourself.
The telling moment. It can be a glimpse of yourself, reflected off a storefront window. Your eye catches the movement, notes the presence of a person. “Oh, that’s me,” you realize; and you are fine with that, whatever the reflection showed of the person others see, and you rarely do.
Or in a mass of familiar thoughts, feelings, internal yammerings, there’s that tiny nugget of something else. Nobody else would pay attention to it, you say? Nobody else notices or, if you point it out, they look at you and change the subject? Let them. It’s not about what makes sense to them; unless it also happens to make sense to you.
So, characters mine: whereto now? (As regular as a metronome, I hear one of the backup vocals to a piece we did at choir practice yesterday. “Action is music,” Charlie Chaplin once said; the reverse is also true.) Ah-ha: ever notice the sound of a metallic something striking the drum in a washer or a dryer? A regular, repetitive noise that suddenly serves as the focal point to an emerging thought. One that makes more sense to you than all the wisdom of the ages combined.