Here I am, in the garden. Surrounded by the smell of spring and jasmine, the air is filled with cherry blossoms. They are everywhere, cascading from the sky like confetti that God himself has sprinkled from his own hands. It pains me to crush the beautiful petals with my feet as I walk, to trample on something so delicate. However I hardly notice as I move under the lilac streaked sky towards the gate at the end of the garden. Adorned with lush roses and curling tendrils of ivy, the arched gate invites me to step inside and see what lies behind, and I happily comply.
First I smell the smoke. Then, it blurs my vision, burning my lungs and each breath I take is filled with smoldering ash. With my stinging arms I clear the haze in order to see what lies ahead of me. Shimmering red scales running along the spine, sharp yellowing claws, a full set of grinning fangs, and golden pupils that reflect my fear back at me, piercing my lungs and speeding my heart.
I have found the dragon in the garden...

As my senses slowly return, I start to feel the sweat that trickles down my back and forehead, and the air that fills my lungs feels heavy and tastes forced. Instantly I turn to my trusted musical teacher, Mrs.Anderson, whose gaping mouth turns my lips into pride-filled smile.
She tells me how far I have come in my playing, and praises my “technique.” I absorb every word, not only because I trust her, but also because I cannot hear the music myself.
“I can’t wait for your tryout tomorrow, you’re going to blow the judges out of the water,” she signs to me, “this time. they will love you, I know they will!”
While I love Mrs. Anderson and trust her dearly, I know she is just trying to encourage me, moving her hands in order to fill the cold air between us with some kind of reassurance. We both know that no matter how well I play tomorrow, no matter how much of myself I put into the music, no matter what amazing, glorious, majestic sound extends from that tiny little metal instrument that I have put my entire life into practicing , they will not take me.

Why? Because I’m deaf.
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I stare hopefully at my digital clock from across the room. Through the dark it glows, cutting through the empty void in front of me. 10:36 pm. G---------! It has only been three minutes since I last checked the clock, but it feels like days have passed rather than seconds.

My routine of checking the clock has been continuing through the entire night. I can’t compose my mind in order sleep at all tonight, so I just sit beneath the covers of my bed with my eyes wide open, glazed over in a trance. I keep thinking about the music, trying to visualize it in my brain, but I can’t. I can’t enter the realm of my thoughts and dreams without my flute to my lips. After all, that’s the only way I've been able to cope with the silence. When I play, I am no longer part of the physical world- a world that excludes me from the sounds that make it revolve- but of my own world where noise isn't necessary in order to live a normal life. It’s a fantasy world that only I can access through my instrument.
I need to access it now.
I turn my gaze back to the clock. 10:39 pm. It’s late- I’m usually sound asleep by now- but not late enough. I reach towards my bedside, where my flute-already assembled and ready for tomorrow’s audition- sits, just begging for me to play it. I know my parents will protest, but it’s just too tempting. Without a thought, I snatch the instrument from it’s perch and begin to slip into the world of Fantasia.
Immediately, I am surrounded by the light beating of butterfly wings and the deep orange glow of a rising sun. My tiny body is swallowed up by the endless miles of desert that hold me captive. luminous glowing lights dance in the heavens above me, and the sand beneath my feet swirl and stir, as if the Earth itself is alive. It’s a beautiful vision, but my mind is consumed by one question I can’t shake from my head; Why do humans set limits? Sure, there is only so much the human body can do. There is only so many miles we can run, mountains we can climb, and work that can be done, but why count them? Humans can do amazing things, and there’s no reason why we should stop someone from following their dreams. Without these dreams, we can’t do anything.
So why is it that people don’t want me to follow my dream?

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White ceiling, white floor, white-washed walls enclose me. I have been in this room before. Six times, to be exact. Every single time it has been for the same reason, except with each new appearance, my heart flutters just a little bit less, because I know each time, my chances drop lower, and lower, and lower.

The white door glides open, and out strides another flutist, this one tall with stringy black hair, grinning from ear to ear. I know I need to look at her as my competition, but I don’t. I’m here today to prove myself.
A women in a starched white dress-suit holding a clipboard moves her lips, motioning for us to follow her into the audition room. I stand, my legs-that still feel like jello-cause me to stumble slightly, but I recover and enter, followed by Mrs.Anderson; my mentor and translator.
When I step into the room, I am greeted by more white. Even the judges are very, very white. I’m not trying to be comedic, everything about them is like a blank canvas, white and uninspired. I guess this is a good trait for a judge to have-no distraction from the artist-but I know that it is hard to get to someone that is so... empty.
I step up to the music stand that sits in the center of the room, and I feel like a batter stepping up to the mound. A mound that I have struck out on so many times. Today, I hope to hit a home run.
I set down my music on the-you guessed it- white music stand, and sign my introduction to the judges. I look to my left, where Mrs. Anderson reads aloud the introduction. I have never heard the words myself, but I have seen them and written them before.
My name is Chrysanthemum Lane.
I am in the 12th grade.
I play the flute.
Today I will be playing an excerpt from Mozart’s “Andantino.”
I bring the flute to my lips, and just as I am about to blow the first note, I look straight ahead into the judges. There are three who sit on at the white table. One-the women who welcomed me into the door- has a slouch to her shoulders and a bored, glazed look in her eyes. She just wants this to get over with. The second judge is more awake, with a frown plastered across his white, wrinkled face. I’ve seen him before, and i doubt his impression of me will change much from last time. However, the last judge is different. I've never seen this man before, but instantly like him. Through his mannequin face, I can tell he’s holding back a smile that’s visible in his eyes.
No more distractions. I close my eyes, and let the notes float from my lips into the air, as I fall into my silent dream again.
This time, my vision is not of a garden, or a enchanted forest, or any other majesty-filled scenery that I have ever visited, but rather the room I stand in right now. The only difference is that I don’t hold my flute in this dream. I hold a paint brush in one hand and a can of paint in another. I peer into the paint can, in which I find all of the colors of the rainbow swirled into one mix.
It’s so much color, so much life and happiness in a simple mixture of paint. As I look around at the spotless walls of the audition room, and the clean, spotless judges shooting me blank, cold stares, I get an idea.
I submerge the brush into the paint can, and drag it out, color drizzling from the bristles onto the white floor. With big swooping strokes, I begin to layer the walls with the rainbow paint. Behind my shoulder, I see one of the judges move from her seat and run towards me, as if to stop me, but I whip my head around just in time, and launch a surprise attack on her white dress-suit, which is now smothered with purples and pinks, greens and blues. Her mouth opens wide, letting what I know is a scream into the air, but I don’t hear a thing.
After a few minutes, every square inch of the room is drenched in some kind of color, including the shocked faces of the judges. With each new splatter, dab, or splash of paint, the room becomes a little brighter, more beautiful. As the painting on what was once this blank canvas unfolds, my heartbeat accelerates and my spirit grows bigger and bigger. the judges just sit and stare in awe and fear. In the real world, they control my future, but in this reality, nothing-even the silence- is going to get in my way…
Heart racing, head throbbing, my mind shifts back to reality.I stumble to the floor, crumpling under the weight of my own body. Mrs.Anderson helps me to my feet, and in the process gives me a thumbs up when she thinks the judges aren’t looking. I respond with a grin, but I have to force it. This is the best I have ever played in my entire life, yet I know I should stick to my gut and trust that another rejection is coming my way.
But as I turn my glance to the judges, I see a gleam in all of their eyes, something I have never witnessed before. The middle judge-his wrinkled face now smoothed by a smile- extend his hand to me from across the table, and says something that Mrs.Anderson translates to “Welcome to the band, Chrysanthemum.”
I don’t walk from the the audition room, I float.