The Road Ahead

New Picture

I'm indebted to Aaron and Alissa for the new picture that adorns this page. It is from the site with some of their wedding pictures. I shared a couple of those pictures with a friend, so she could know something of the occasion that took me away from her for a few days, and she said "You should send that to everyone who cares about you. Playing music is where you are the most serene, and that picture captures it so beautifully."

What that one picture can't convey, though, is the spirit and delight of the occasion. Of the bride, revealed in a beauty and poise far removed from the rushing push and tug of daily life. Of the groom, serious before the step he is about to take, yet radiating tenderness for the object of his love and confidence in the fuller life that's about to open before the two of them. It was a privilege to see them thus and to share their day, even for a fleeting moment or two.

How Long Does This Last?

I learned something about grief two nights ago: it's never really over.

I was watching a movie with a friend at her house, a not-so-memorable thing entitled "The Family Stone," with Diane Keaton as the mom who is waiting until after the family Christmas festivities to tell them her breast cancer has returned and spread. There are lots of fun and histrionics, not such great acting except Keaton's, and then it happened.

The scene takes place in the couple's bedroom. The mom has gone there after a long, trying day, during which her oldest son's fiance has precipitated a huge fight that brought out all the mom's misdirected anger. Her husband comes into the room and lies on the bed where the mom is resting. They have one of those conversations that two people, together for years, can have if their relationship has matured: honest to the bone yet tender, laced with understanding and compassion and intimate familiarity. She finally drops her defenses and all her posturing and admits to him, one naked soul to another, that she's scared, that she's afraid her son is going to make a mistake and she won't be there to help him fix it. They reach for each other...

And then it took me. Out of nowhere, all the pain and loss, the desperate sadness over the shattered life I had never anticipated, swooped down and hit, so hard my breath was driven from me. I couldn't even speak. For a long time, the untutored, unconditioned self was in control and all I could do was rock back and forth, moaning and trying to breathe.

After all the progress, the moving on, the new relationships; the relentless, if sometimes effortless focusing on the excitement of new possibilities rather than on the life that might have been--all of it mattered not at all. From some deep inner cavern I barely knew was there, it all came out again, suddenly. Part of the shock was just the surprise of it: it has been four years and more, after all, and so much has happened since Amelia left. But this was as real and as powerful and as devastating as those first terrible months, alone in that gloomy house where everything changed.

The storm has passed now, and the responsibilities of living, all the multitude of daily tasks, have taken over again. Like a sudden squall that roars in over the waves, shaking everything to its core before moving on as quickly as it came, the grief has passed and calm has returned. For the moment, I guess.

Amazing

This is the violin I just got to play on Thursday: a Guerneri del Gesu from 1734 that was owned, among others, by a pretty famous modern violinist for about 10 years.

It was an amazing experience, but obviously hard to describe. The instrument is beautiful as a work of art, but it is when it sings out that one becomes entranced. Even under my unsophisticted fingers, it had a power and sweetness that makes one understand why this master maker's work is sought after by almost every great violinist since the early 1800's. The more sound you try to produce, the more reserves the instrument taps, filling the room. With all its power, though, the sound is also sweet and golden and pure--impossible to convey!

Here's a picture of the back of the same instrument. It's just possible to see, on the left, some of the original varnish, and the lines in the wood (the "curl") that show it was an expensive piece of maple for Guarneri to use. Did he use it because he was selling it to a wealthier patron?

The other picture is of a violin made by one of Antonio Stradivari's sons, whose name was Omobono. It's actually quite touching, this project the aging master gave to his younger son to complete. Compare the plain wood of the back to that of the Guarneri: vertical grain, not very pronounced or picturesque, not much character--a cheaper plank for a student's use.

It is still a beautiful violin and sounds quite good, with some of the father's sweet sound coming through. Omobono also seems to have used varnish like that of his father: the same recipe, or a pot the old teacher had made himself? The label inside the violin carefully documents, for this relatively unknown luthier, that the violin was made "under the discipline of Antonio Stradivari."

All right, so this is geeky, but it is still thrilling to hold these beautiful sojourners through history in one's hands, to reflect on the times of turmoil they have survived since being sent off into the world. If they can pass through the maelstrom, why then perhaps we can, too.

Of course, interacting with something that has such monetary value is, we might say, the guilty pleasure part of this, but there is more: across all the years, these bits of carved and varnished wood testify to the enduring powers of human genius, to the creativity our finer angels can summon from us, to the fact that the transmutation of passion and rigorous discipline into tangible beauty is a part of our common heritage.

Released

After eighteen years at the Bahá'í National Center, I'm leaving, released, as they say, for other service.

It was a surprise, but it wasn't; a matter of time, really, as time and culture were changing everything. It was a surprise to discover that the strongest feeling, that afternoon following the meeting in which the news was delivered, was relief. A burden had been lifted.

Sure, there is uncertainty and a little trepidation--not fear, of course not that!--but there is also excitement: what will come next? The field is open and I'm sure there are opportunities out there for happy and fulfilling work. Just a matter of finding it!