The other day, I was speaking with a board member of an orchesra I am working with--we were chatting about Beethoven and the effect his growing deafness must have had on him--the one thing he needed so much. I had mentioned that I sincerely remembered being deaf until the age of 3--there are 8mm black and white films to attest to my recollections--standing still near a giant 1960s stereo speaker cabinet--and gazing at the box--and I remember that, feeling the vibrations--a vague sound--everything was vague. I did not speak--I did not understand English. Fortunately, my parents took me to a series of doctors, asking why I did not speak. One doctor finally faced me to a wall and called my name. No answer. He affirmed their fears--I could not hear. At age 43, I still remember the most vivid experience from the surgery that the doctors performed to open my ear canals, which were closed off, along with the tonsillectomy. I rose above my body and floated over it, however briefly (several seconds atleast)watching over the surgery, watching my body. I know I remember it, as I had never experienced that out-of-body experience again. My world opened thanks to the miracle of hearing. I can now understand the torture of Beethoven's demise. The board member had tears--for me, this was just a mere aspect of my beginnings, but how it relates to the fact that music became my life, is probably the irony of the whole story. Perhaps it is a part of my life that I should remember as the contributing factor why music chose me, and not the other way around.