Music has that ability to be a magical thing, and I was like

The words of Zack Snyder, “Music has that ability to be a magical thing, and I was like, maybe music is the vehicle that transports us to that other world,” shine like a flame carried from the hearth of the ancients. In them, he reminds us that music is no mere arrangement of sounds, but a bridge between the world we see and the world we feel. It is a path not laid in stone, but woven from rhythm, harmony, and the mysterious pulse that beats within all living things. To listen with the heart is to step upon that path, and to be carried, willingly or not, toward realms unseen.

The ancients knew this truth well. In the temples of Greece, the lyre was lifted not only to please the ears but to heal the soul. They believed that music could temper the fury of warriors and soothe the grief of widows. The philosopher Plato himself spoke of its power to shape the very character of men, to bend their spirits toward order or chaos. And so Snyder’s words echo the wisdom of ages past: the magical thing that stirs within us when notes swell and voices rise is nothing less than a glimpse of eternity.

Consider the tale of Orpheus, the poet and musician of Greek legend, whose lyre was said to charm beasts, trees, and even the stones of the earth. When his beloved Eurydice was taken into the underworld, Orpheus dared descend to Hades armed with nothing but his music. Before its beauty, even the stern hearts of the Furies softened, and the great king of shadows himself allowed the dead to stir with longing. Though Orpheus faltered in his quest, his story endures as testimony: music has the power to open doors that no key of iron can turn, to transport both the living and the dead toward another realm.

Yet these are not merely tales of myth. History too bears witness to the transporting power of music. In the dark days of World War II, soldiers huddled in trenches, weary of mud and blood, found courage in songs hummed low or played on battered accordions. For a fleeting moment, those songs lifted them above despair, carrying their spirits to memories of home, to dreams of peace, to a world gentler than the one before their eyes. Thus we see how music becomes a vessel, a chariot of fire carrying fragile human hearts toward hope.

What then is this other world to which Snyder points? It is not always the realm of gods or shades. Sometimes it is the deep chamber within ourselves, where sorrow hides and longing waits. At other times, it is the shared space between people, when a melody draws strangers together, binding them as though they were kin. Music makes the unseen visible and the intangible tangible; it carries us into the sacred mystery of being alive.

The lesson is plain, though profound: we must not treat music as mere entertainment, as background noise to the rush of days. Instead, we should open ourselves to it as we would to prayer or poetry. For when Snyder calls it a vehicle, he tells us that we are meant to ride upon it—not simply to hear it, but to let it carry us where we cannot go alone. To dismiss it is to refuse a gift that humanity has treasured since the first drum was struck and the first song was sung around a fire.

And so, beloved reader, take this wisdom to heart. Do not let your days pass in silence of the spirit. Each week, allow yourself to be lifted: sit with a song that moves you, let your heart rise with its swell, let your mind wander with its echo. When despair seizes you, turn to the gentle strings of the lyre or the hum of voices, and let them ferry you beyond the storm. When joy fills you, let it be magnified by song, so that it may echo in the hearts of others. In this way, you shall discover, as Snyder and the ancients before him discovered, that music is the timeless vehicle to other worlds—a magical bridge between what is and what may yet be.