If you write a song, and you go into a restaurant, and there's a

In the words of Jesse Harris, we hear the wonder of the artist who sees his creation take on a life beyond himself. He speaks of the moment when a song he has written appears unexpectedly in the world—played by a stranger at a piano in a restaurant, heard in the joy of a wedding, or echoing through the ordinary passageways of an airport. To him, this is not pride alone but delight, for it means that his art has left his hands and now belongs to others, woven into the fabric of their lives.

The ancients knew this mystery well. The poet Homer never heard his epics written down, but his verses lived in the mouths of countless bards who sang them by firelight across the Greek world. For him, as for Harris, the true triumph was not authorship, but transmission—the moment when art became so alive that it no longer needed its creator to survive. A song or a poem that is carried by strangers has transcended the self and become eternal.

Harris’s joy also reflects the bond between art and community. A song at a wedding sanctifies love, becoming forever tied to that sacred memory. A song played by a street musician or a pianist in a crowded hall binds strangers together in a shared experience, however fleeting. And even in an airport, a place of departures and longing, music becomes comfort, reminding wanderers that beauty endures even in transit. In these small encounters, the artist sees proof that art has power far beyond intention.

History mirrors this truth in the legacy of Schubert, who in his lifetime was little known, yet whose lieder were sung by ordinary people in taverns and homes across Vienna. Though he did not live to see his fame, his melodies, carried by the voices of others, gave him the immortality he never claimed for himself. In like manner, Harris finds joy not in acclaim, but in the quiet miracle of hearing his own creation live in the world without him.

Therefore, let this wisdom be remembered: to create is to give birth to something that may outlive you, something that may wander farther than you ever will. When a song escapes its author and becomes the song of strangers, it proves that art is not a possession but a gift. Harris’s words remind us that the highest joy of the artist lies not in recognition, but in the moment when their work becomes part of the lives, the loves, and the memories of others. For in that moment, the art becomes eternal.