by Amy Weiss
Praise for Crescendo
“Crescendo is a very special book. Written with the poetry and magic of an adult fairytale,
this novel has all the elements that touch my heart: a love story that transcends lifetimes, the
deep connection between animals and humans, reincarnation and the true nature of the soul,
and the eternal value of kindness. Please give yourself the gift of this beautiful book.”
— Cheryl Richardson, New York Times best-selling author of Take Time for Your Life
and The Unmistakable Touch of Grace
“Crescendo is a lyrical travel tale, a myth, a map, a parable—all of these and more. Amy
Weiss has the skill of a poet, the dramatic flair of a storyteller, and the heart of a mystic.
This little book is lit from within—lit with intelligence, spirit, hope, and mystery. Weiss
weaves a spell that caught me in its luminous threads from the first word to the last. I feel
expanded having gone on the journey of Crescendo.”
— Elizabeth Lesser, co-founder of Omega Institute and New York Times
best-selling author of Broken Open and Marrow: A Love Story
“Amy Weiss’s novel Crescendo answers many real-life questions about eternal love,
life and the afterlife, and our soul’s journey in this wonderful once-upon-a-time story.
A must read.”
— Char Margolis, intuitive psychic medium and author of Questions from Earth,
Answers from Heaven
“Deep, reaching and poetic, Crescendo will invite you to reexamine your life, causing you
to find new beauty and meaning in it. Weiss delves into the fundamental questions that are
inherent to all our journeys: Why are we here? What is the meaning of life? Can what
we love ever be truly lost to us? How are we connected? The answers, you’ll find, are a
gift that you’ll take with you long after the pages of the novel are shut. Weiss is a powerful
storyteller—and anyone who has ever loved or suffered loss will find comfort and meaning
in her writing. Reminiscent of The Alchemist, Crescendo is a story of self-discovery
and connection. The story Weiss writes is an important story for us all.”
— Laura Lynne Jackson, New York Times best-selling author of The Light Between Us
“What an unusual novel! Both bold and delicate, Crescendo takes its shape from music, fables,
and dreams, and is suffused with a kind of spiritual lyricism all its own. It follows its own
rhythms, tells its truths from a perspective that is startlingly vast. The book is woven through
with meditations on loss and time, love and compassion, and delivered with gentle confidence, as
if from a wise and spiritually advanced friend. If you surrender to its radiant spell, you may
well find yourself thinking differently about life, death, and, well, everything.”
— Sharon Guskin, author of The Forgetting Time
“Crescendo is a powerful tribute to the soul’s evolution, sure to help many who are
grappling to reclaim their hearts after the loss of great love.”
— Danielle MacKinnon, author of Soul Contracts and Animal Lessons
“With the precision and elegance of a poet, Amy Weiss delivers us into a timeless world of
limitless love. Crescendo is an exquisite journey of inquiry through life, afterlife, birth,
death, and beyond, beckoning the soul to subscribe and surrender to the music and mystery
that surrounds us.”
— Nancy Levin, author of Worthy
Hay House Titles of Related Interest
YOU CAN HEAL YOUR LIFE, the movie
starring Louise Hay & Friends
(available as a 1-DVD program and an expanded 2-DVD set)
Watch the trailer at: www.LouiseHayMovie.com
THE SHIFT, the movie starring Dr. Wayne W. Dyer
(available as a 1-DVD program and an expanded 2-DVD set)
Watch the trailer at: www.DyerMovie.com
THE DALAI LAMA’S CAT, by David Michie
THE LAST LAUGH, by Arjuna Ardagh
THE MAN WHO WANTED TO BE HAPPY, by Laurent Gounelle
MIRRORS OF TIME: Using Regression for Physical, Emotional,
and Spiritual Healing, by Brian L. Weiss, M.D.
All of the above are available at your local bookstore, or may be ordered by visiting:
Hay House USA: www.hayhouse.com®
Hay House Australia: www.hayhouse.com.au
Hay House UK: www.hayhouse.co.uk
Hay House South Africa: www.hayhouse.co.za
Hay House India: www.hayhouse.co.in
Copyright © 2017 by Amy Weiss
Published and distributed in the United States by: Hay House, Inc.: www.hayhouse.com Published and distributed in Australia by: Hay House Australia Pty. Ltd.: www.hayhouse.com.au • Published and distributed in the United Kingdom by: Hay House UK, Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.uk • Published and distributed in the Republic of South Africa by: Hay House SA (Pty), Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.za • Distributed in Canada by: Raincoast Books: www.raincoast.com • Published in India by: Hay House Publishers India: www.hayhouse.co.in
Cover design: Neil Swaab
Interior design: Dave Bricker
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use—other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews—without prior written permission of the publisher.
The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional, physical, and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or deceased, is strictly coincidental.
An excerpt from “The Little Red Bird” in Japanese Nursery Rhymes by Danielle Wright and Helen Arcman is used with permission by Tuttle Publishing.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Weiss, Amy E., author.
Title: Crescendo / Amy Weiss.
Description: Carlsbad, California : Hay House, Inc., 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016046664 | ISBN 9781401952969 (paperback)
Subjects: LCSH: Widows--Fiction. | Grief in women--Fiction. | Spirits--Fiction. | Immortality--Fiction. | Psychological fiction. |
BISAC: FICTION / General. | FICTION / Visionary & Metaphysical. | FICTION / Literary. | GSAFD: Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3623.E4548 C74 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016046664
Tradepaper ISBN: 978-1-4019-5296-9
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
1st edition, May 2017
Printed in the United States of America
“Death is only an experience through which
you are meant to learn a great lesson:
you cannot die.”
(Paramahansa Yogananda)
CONTENTS
LESSON 1: Prelude
LESSON 2: Dirge
LESSON 3: Lament
LESSON 4: Time Signature
/> LESSON 5: Da Capo al Coda
LESSON 6: Duet
LESSON 7: Theme and Variation
LESSON 8: Dotted Note
LESSON 9: Overtones
LESSON 10: Lullaby
LESSON 11: 8va
LESSON 12: Interlude
LESSON 13: Crescendo
LESSON 14: Composition
LESSON 15: Coda
LESSON 16: Reprise
Acknowledgments
Reader’s Guide
About the Author
Once upon a time—
once outside a time—
two silvery souls stand on the banks of a mystical lake, deciding who to be.
The first one says, “How shall we love each other next? As brothers, lovers, neighbors? Let us be old friends or old flames. Or you could be a wolf, and I the moonlight who sends you into song.”
“I’d like to be your husband once more,” the second says, for it is here where marriages are made, proposed by the souls long before the bodies ever meet.
“Then I will be a woman, and I will be your wife,” says the first. “Or I will be an oak tree. Or a little bird. Or the aria that it sings.”
The husband soul laughs. “Why not be them all?”
“I will light a candle for you so that you can see through the darkness,” the woman soul says.
“I will do the same,” replies the husband.
“I could have a child,” the woman suggests.
“You’d learn much that way.”
“I could lose a child.”
“That way, too.”
A third soul hears this and swoops in. It wraps its wings adoringly around the one that will be its mother, never to leave her side.
A quicksilver soul dashes by, fluid and swift. It will be a horse, because its spirit wants to move. And it will cripple itself, because its spirit wants to move fast.
The four find themselves in perfect harmony.
The husband asks the woman, “How does this sound to you?”
She beholds her devoted spouse, the baby that will be born unto them, the mare that will spark them all into motion. “Like a beautiful quartet,” she says, knowing that, at any time, any one of them can change the arrangement or compose something new.
The woman looks deep into the waters of the lake and listens to the melody of her body being formed. Her life will be filled with tension, for that is how the oak grows. Her life will be filled with lessons, for that is how the soul grows. Her life will be filled with love, for that is how we all grow. And her life, like all of our lives, will be filled with magic, for truly, what could be more magical than life?
In time, we will lose these memories, as the water will wash them away. If only there were something to remind us of the music we’ve come here to play . . .
LESSON 1
Prelude
MAKING MUSIC IS AN ART. THIS BOOK WILL GUIDE YOU THROUGH THE PROCESS.
SIXTEEN BASIC CONCEPTS OF THEORY, TECHNIQUE, AND FORM WILL BE DEMONSTRATED, USING A VARIETY OF EXERCISES AND ORIGINAL COMPOSITIONS. MASTER ONE, AND YOU MAY PROCEED TO THE NEXT. OR YOU MAY CHOOSE TO STAY WHERE YOU ARE.
REVIEW EACH SECTION AND PRACTICE EACH PIECE AS OFTEN AS NECESSARY UNTIL PROFICIENT. SOME SKILLS CAN BE LEARNED IN MOMENTS; OTHERS MAY TAKE LONGER. PROCEED AT A COMFORTABLE PACE. THERE IS NO SET SCHEDULE FOR COMPLETION OF THIS COURSE.
TRANSPOSE THE PIECES AS NEEDED FOR YOUR PARTICULAR INSTRUMENT, AND DISREGARD ANY THAT SOUND DISSONANT.
LET US BEGIN.
The woman brushes the dust from the notation that waits to be played. The staffs are spidery, drawn by hand, as are the notes strewn across them. She hums these into a tentative existence, her fingers plucking the air. Although she will need her harp to turn them into music, already she can hear the richness of their sound.
The mare stands beside her, mulling a sugar cube in its mouth and regarding the woman with curiosity. The woman is curious too. What is this little textbook hidden in the hay? How many times had she knelt to tend to the animal’s injured leg without noticing it? She asks these questions of the mare, who certainly would have witnessed someone reading inside its stall, yet its eyes give nothing away.
A melody makes its way toward her. It comes not from her book but from her husband. It seems made of light; then again, so does he, perched on a hay bale in the sun, strumming his guitar, spinning its strings into songs of gold.
She walks over to him and sits at his feet. His guitar rests on one knee, her head on the other. “Is this yours?” she asks, handing him the book. “I just found it in the stall.”
He glances at the cover—Music Lessons, by Anonymous—opens the book, fingerpicks the piece that appears before him. “No, my little bird, never seen it before,” he says, and neither has she, yet as she closes her eyes and listens to him play, there is the strange sense that perhaps this is not true. Then the tune twists into something gloomy and unfamiliar, the key changing to minor—as if such sorrow could ever be considered minor—and the feeling vanishes, along with the song. The husband has placed the book on the ground. His arms, once full of guitar, are now full only of her.
“That’s much too sad,” he says. “Sing me a love song instead.”
As if every word she speaks is not a love song. As if there is not a love song in the way she looks at him, in his hands creating curls in her hair, in the touch of her cheek against his. A love song that has begun to form in her belly and that will, in due time, swell inside it. As if, each time he gazes at her, he is not sight-reading the music of her face. It is how they communicate, in that language of silence and sound. In the evenings they play together in the barn, where her harp tells of the quiet, naked things that hide within her heart, and his guitar shares secrets he did not know he had. They talk late into the night, their conversations becoming lullabies that send the mare, sleeping nearby, into dreams filled with desire and stallions and God.
The intensity of her husband’s voice, of his eyes, of his child inside her is strong enough to push her soul slightly outside her body, where his is too, waiting for her. Love can be forceful that way, nearly too much for the body to bear, but what pleasure there is in its pressure.
“Sing me a love song,” he says again, leaning down to nuzzle her, his head near that of his child’s, and the woman has to laugh, because love songs are all that she knows.
She thinks she can hold no more joy, and then the husband places lilacs in her hands and a violet behind her ear. The wildflowers grow in the grasses alongside the house. For her wedding, she had braided their ancestors into her hair. On that day, they two had been pronounced as one: he was now she, she now he, a plural somehow also a single. An exhilarating riddle.
She enters the kitchen of the house, heading toward the sink for some water to quench the lilacs’ thirst. He comes up behind her. Arms around her waist, breath against her neck. As she turns to kiss him there is a sudden surge, a spark flaring into full fire, and then nothing, nothing at all. Everything is black and still. The woman wonders if she has just died, cause of death an explosion of bliss, of kiss. But no, she is full of life; it is her house that is dead, the lights extinguished, the hum of electricity hushed. The heat of the summer is no longer willed into movement, and so it hangs, solid and stale, in the space between where the child’s body begins and the husband’s body ends.
With no lamps to keep it at bay, the night closes in on them. It takes over their home, their sight. It is everywhere.
And so is the husband. The woman cannot see in front of her face, but she can feel his. Her hands search the darkness and find him all around her. Proximity—it is love’s promise, its power.
The violet falls from her ear. No one sees it happen except the child, who is watching from some equally dark dimension of its own, listening to the music made by the shadows as they sneak in through the windows and slink across the room.
The mare’s whinny drifts across the unmoving air.
“Its leg,” the woman says.
/>
“Go,” the husband tells her. “I’ll meet you out there in a few minutes. I’m going to have a look at the fuse box first.”
There is urgency, for she must tend to the mare, he to the house. Yet neither of them moves, choosing to remain, for one more moment, suspended in the silence. The woman lays her head on her husband’s chest, hearing, without wanting to, his heartbeat. The sound is supposed to be a comfort, with its perfectly precise rhythm, its reassurance that all is alive. Isn’t that what her child is said to be thinking of her own? But that would be mistaking a metronome for music. To the woman it is not solace; it is a slow, steady ticking toward death, an inescapable reminder that everything wound up must one day wind down. She places her hands on her belly to offset the thought, to assure herself that her family is beginning, not coming to an end.
Turning from him, she reaches for the counter and then the drawer beneath it, feeling for the candles and matches kept inside. Although difficult to do in her blindness, she finally manages to find flame. Her husband’s features materialize. How ethereal, how beautiful he looks, wreathed in fire. It takes her aback: that small, soft glow in his eyes, in her chest.
With a last kiss he heads to the attic, the candle illuminating his path. She stays behind, lighting the rest of the tapers and placing them around the room. She takes none for herself. She can follow the fireflies, the stars, the beacon of the mare’s cry.
And there it is again, more distressed than before. The noise quickens her steps through the kitchen, and as she hurries toward the barn the double door slams behind her. In the corner of her eye, she sees a flash of light. She tells herself that it is nothing, that it is a firefly.
It is not a firefly. It is fire flying.
Shorted wires. An overloaded circuit, a faulty switch. She will later come to hold any of them, all of them, responsible. The fault does not lie in them, though. It lies in her.