From 2023 through 2025, I had the opportunity to perform with the Claremont Senior Choir, a small local senior village not far from home. It wasn’t exactly a big performance, more like a cozy little concert. Because it was during the Christmas season, I chose the songs carefully. Instead of fast, lively pieces, I went with slower ones — music people could quietly sink into.

When I stepped onto the stage, I looked out at the audience. Their shoulders, their postures, even the way they sat — everything felt a little tired, a little slow. But their eyes were different. Their eyes were bright, almost glowing, as if they were holding onto something invisible but alive.

Then the music began.

And something shifted in the room.

People closed their eyes, and I could almost see them wandering off — each into their own world, built from their own memories and feelings. It felt like, for a moment, we were all connected through that sound.

I remember wishing, as I played, that the music wouldn’t end. Not because I wanted to keep performing, but because in that moment, it felt like my music was doing something more than just filling the room — it was healing it, softly.

This performance has become something of a tradition for me. I first played for the Claremont seniors in 2023, returned again in 2024, and I plan to continue in 2025 as well. Each year feels a little different, but the warmth in the room — and the quiet way music brings everyone together — stays the same.