comforting thoughts
It doesn't take much doing to preserve our raspberry patch from early frost: just an effort to listen to the forecast and an armful of sheets and tarps. Arriving home last evening at dusk, I had barely enough time to attend to such a chore, and this morning I was happy I did so. Frosty fingers had touched the tops of the basil bushes, leaving blackened leaves as proof.
How I love fresh raspberries. Five years ago today, after having my fill of televised horror and loss, I stumbled out in the front field to gather some. The bowing canes hung heavy with ripe fruit, surprisingly untouched by the fresh destruction a hundred miles south of us. I picked reflectively; the soft pad of plump berries falling into my plastic bowl echoing the thump of my weepy heart. The insanity of what had transpired that morning needed balance, and somehow I sought to find it in my garden. Later that day, I gifted a friend with a sun-warmed bowl of precious fruit, and it evoked possibly the only smile of the afternoon.
Also five years ago today, I wearily traveled to Bard College for a rehearsal. I didn't have the heart to cancel it. Who knows? Perhaps something beautiful might transpire. My young cellist friend introduced me to her teacher, we arranged chairs and piano on a wooden stage drenched in warm indoor light, and we commenced. Dvorak was on the menu that afternoon, and I thank him for coaxing my sad heart into his world for a few hours. Besides the warp and woof of chamber music, another beautiful thing happened that day: I met Luis, her teacher. That day commenced a string of rich musical experiences with him and his gifted student for which I am grateful.
Candlelight vigils, wreath-layings, moments of silence, prayer, and reflection. All commendable venues for remembrance. But for me, I choose Friendship. And Music.
And Raspberries.
How I love fresh raspberries. Five years ago today, after having my fill of televised horror and loss, I stumbled out in the front field to gather some. The bowing canes hung heavy with ripe fruit, surprisingly untouched by the fresh destruction a hundred miles south of us. I picked reflectively; the soft pad of plump berries falling into my plastic bowl echoing the thump of my weepy heart. The insanity of what had transpired that morning needed balance, and somehow I sought to find it in my garden. Later that day, I gifted a friend with a sun-warmed bowl of precious fruit, and it evoked possibly the only smile of the afternoon.
Also five years ago today, I wearily traveled to Bard College for a rehearsal. I didn't have the heart to cancel it. Who knows? Perhaps something beautiful might transpire. My young cellist friend introduced me to her teacher, we arranged chairs and piano on a wooden stage drenched in warm indoor light, and we commenced. Dvorak was on the menu that afternoon, and I thank him for coaxing my sad heart into his world for a few hours. Besides the warp and woof of chamber music, another beautiful thing happened that day: I met Luis, her teacher. That day commenced a string of rich musical experiences with him and his gifted student for which I am grateful.
Candlelight vigils, wreath-layings, moments of silence, prayer, and reflection. All commendable venues for remembrance. But for me, I choose Friendship. And Music.
And Raspberries.
posted by thisrequiresthought at 9:01 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home