The Music Behind Intention
Last weekend I took a small trip with a friend to a local thrift store. It was the kind of place filled with narrow aisles and quiet clutter—rows of old kitchen appliances that I had last seen in my grandmother’s kitchen, shelves of mismatched mugs, boxes of faded board games, and the occasional relic from decades past.
We slowly wandered through aisles of old knick-knacks and vintage blenders. There were dusty wedding candles, stacks of old cookbooks, and even a small pile of old Jazzercise workout VHS tapes from the 1980s. It was the kind of place where time seems to collect itself on shelves.
As we walked deeper into the store, something unexpected began to cut through the quiet hum of shoppers.
Music.
At first it was faint—just a few familiar notes floating through the air.
Then I realized what I was hearing.
Bohemian Rhapsody.
A few steps later, another recognizable melody drifted across the store—Moonlight Sonata.
The closer we walked toward the section where the used pianos were kept, the clearer the music became. At first I assumed it must be one of those electronic keyboards that plays automatically when someone presses a button. Many thrift stores keep them around for decoration, occasionally letting them run through demo songs.
But as we moved closer, something slowly dawned on me.
This wasn’t a recording.
Someone was actually playing.
Right there, in the middle of a thrift store on a Saturday afternoon.
I instantly lost interest in sorting through the pile of Jazzercise VHS tapes and started following the sound of the music toward the piano section.
Sitting there was an older man. He had a slightly balding head, thin glasses, and the kind of quiet presence that blends easily into a room. He wasn’t performing for anyone in particular. There was no crowd gathered around him.
He was simply playing.
Playing to his heart’s content.
From the other side of the store I could hear the passion in the notes. But when I finally reached the piano, curiosity took over. I wanted to know if he was reading sheet music or if those songs were coming entirely from memory.
There were no pages in front of him.
Just his hands moving confidently across the keys.
He wasn’t looking around to see if anyone was watching. He wasn’t playing for applause.
He was playing because he loved it.
I couldn’t help myself. I stopped beside the piano and told him that I appreciated the music. I wanted to acknowledge the person behind the sound—the passion behind the notes.
In that moment, he became the most interesting thing in the entire store.
I would have walked right past the piano section if it weren’t for his melodic talent.
Standing there listening reminded me of something written in Letters to a Young Poet.
In those letters, Rainer Maria Rilke encourages the young poet to ask himself a very simple but powerful question: Must you write? And if the answer is yes—if you feel that your life would feel incomplete without it—then that is your answer. That is the reason.
You do it because you must.
Not because someone told you to.
Not because society expects it.
But because something inside of you demands expression.
Watching that man play the piano felt like witnessing that same idea in motion.
He wasn’t playing because anyone asked him to.
He wasn’t playing because someone scheduled a performance.
He was playing because he must.
And passion changes the atmosphere of a space.
A thrift store filled with forgotten objects suddenly felt alive because one person had decided to sit down and create something beautiful.
Intentional effort transforms ordinary places.
And the same thing is true when it comes to raising children.
When passion, intention, and care are placed into the work of child rearing, the results ripple outward into the world. A child who grows up surrounded by attention, guidance, and stability often carries that harmony forward into adulthood.
Just like music played with care resonates beyond the piano bench, thoughtful parenting resonates beyond the home.
But passion cannot be forced.
It cannot be assigned.
And it certainly cannot be legislated.
Real passion—the kind that fills a thrift store with music on a quiet Saturday afternoon—comes from choice.
From willingness.
From a person deciding that they want to sit down and give their time, energy, and attention to something meaningful.
Parenthood works the same way.
When someone chooses it intentionally, they are far more likely to bring the patience, creativity, and dedication that raising a child deserves.
But when someone is pushed into parenthood without readiness or desire, the melody changes.
Because raising a child is not something that can be done well on autopilot.
It requires presence.
It requires commitment.
It requires the kind of passion I saw in that man sitting quietly at a thrift store piano.
The world becomes more melodic when the people responsible for shaping the next generation are doing so intentionally—when the work of raising a child is approached with care rather than obligation.
Not everyone is meant to sit at the piano.
Not everyone is meant to perform the same song.
But when the people who do sit down choose to play with their whole heart, the music has the power to travel far beyond the room where it began.
If choosing motherhood, my best advice is to do so passionately. And if choosing not to—where abortion may be considered at a crossroads (perfectly fine) — choose instead (with your time not spent in new motherhood) to become passionate about yourself and your womanhood on a radical level. Because a passionate woman is powerful.
And sometimes, all it takes is a quiet thrift store on a Saturday afternoon to remind us of that.
Remember that this life is your song, and your melody is your own.
-Talitha
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