The muse weeps atop the grave of Chopin while holding a broken lyre.
Frederic Chopin died in 1849 yet his grave is still visited every day. A crowd gathers bringing flowers and waiting in turn for the chance to snap a photo or two of the gravesite. One hundred sixty-four years have passed and still he is honored with remembrances.
As I stood in a cold drizzle, shoulder to shoulder with about a dozen other people looking at the grave and the flowers strewn around it, I began to consider my own life’s work. What a humbling experience to estimate the impact of my work in light of such greatness.
We can’t all be Chopin, but that is okay. As much as the world needs great musical talent, it needs other things as well. My impact will not be felt the world over, but I pray that it will be profound in the lives of the people I love. To be remembered well by the ones I love, that would be music to my ears.