It’s strange to think that by the time I was eight years old, I had already read Whitman and Gibran. “The Diary of Anne Frank” had put words and purpose in my hands, and I had already started to write, cradled in the branches of my beloved tree. Sometimes I wonder if that tree was my muse, if there was something in the leaves that’d seep into my flesh, if the slight change of altitude made my mind a bit clearer, my lungs able to hold in those words until their essence intoxicated me.
Despite my young age, I understood the musicality of a poem. I could lay my hand on my heart and feel the rhythm of the lines take hold of me; the individual pace and tone of each piece wove itself into my sinew and I could recite it, note for note. I would later take up the violin, the cello, even the viola, and when I realized I could play a piece by heart after only reading its sheet once or twice, I attributed it not to any musical talent, but to that masterclass of rhythm taken long ago under an Arizona sky.