On the Importance of Music

Yesterday I was invited to perform at a small recital at the home of my piano teacher. She is a woman of my age (76'ish) who has reduced her teaching load from lots of kids to three or four adults. Twice a year we gather in her living room and play for one another. She plays, too. This ritual is called "group" so as not to frighten us with the word "recital." No guests are allowed with the exception of her husband, but he is banished upstairs. If he listens, at least he listens unobtrusively. Afterwards tea and coffee along with scrumptious tidbits are served and husbands allowed on the premises. This year we played Bach, Beethoven, Debussy, Chopin, Clementi, and others. Our musical talents are all over the place. Mistakes are made, but no one cares. What is important is that we are trying our best, arthritic fingers and all, to honor the music and to share it with one another. "Going to a concert at the Kennedy Center is one kind of musical experience," observed one guest, "but this is something special."

What's in the Air?

There is definitely something in the air this fall, as the cold air is finally making its entrance. And it's not only about the unusual weather. For lack of a better word, I'll call it "Trump-itis." I'll admit that I'm not a fan of his, but whether you are or not, you have to admit his actions are very unsettling. Not a day goes by without a tweet or an announcement of some kind that is demeaning to someone or that is intent on systematically destroying every idea put forth by the previous administration. I didn't expect a Republican president to agree with a Democrat, but this destruction seems perverse to me. Destruction for destruction's sake. And it's all so mean-spirited. Is this what our country has become? Have we lost the ability to discuss and compromise with respect for all? I truly fear for our future.

A Sad Goodby to Zach

I didn't even know Zach. All I knew is that he was the son of members of a church family to which we once belonged. Nonetheless when we learned of his death by suicide we were shocked and saddened. Our hearts ached for the parents and for Zach's brother and sister. Zach was 20 years old. So, along with a couple of hundred others, we went to the viewing. I've been to many of these visitations over the course of my 76 years, but nothing like this one. People were stunned, red eyed or bleary eyed, and silent. They made small conversation, but mostly spoke in hugs. About half of the visitors were kids looking awkward, bewildered, sad. There was no denying the grim reality of his death. There lay Zach, grey of tone, wrinkle-less, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and red bow tie. His thick black hair spilled over his collar, his hands were crossed. What demons within convinced him to create this sad scene?

Erie Girl Meets Famous Pianist

A couple of weeks ago Bruce and I attended a concert given by our (especially MY) favorite pianist, Sir Andras Schiff. I have attended every concert he has given in the Washington area over the last few years. I think that may number six. I was attracted to Schiff's playing when I resumed piano lessons after a hiatus of, say, 60 years. In particular, I was drawn to his interpretations of the preludes and fugues in Bach's Well Tempered Clavier, or as the real musicians call it, the WTC. On this night he played Schubert. For three hours, minus a 20 minute intermission. And, of course, after all this, he gave an encore, generous spirit that he is. After the concert was over, we ran into the person who had introduced him. Later I discovered this was Jenny Bilfield, the president of the Washington Performing Arts Society. I asked her if I could meet him "sometime," and she indicated it was possible, but not tonight. "He's exhausted," she explained. "Well, I would DIE to meet him," I rejoined, and with this, she eyed me contemplatively, and then spoke. "Would you like to go backstage now?" OMG, would I?! So there we were, down a couple of flights of stairs, and there he was. I took his precious right hand in two of mine (Jenny must have been thinking, I hope she doesn't break it), telling him he was my inspiration. He was gracious even though I could see that he was, actually exhausted. Then he kindly greeted Bruce and we were out of there. But what a moment. I was floating for days. If only my piano teachers of the past and my mother could have seen this!

A Holy Moment

I've been doing hospice work for a couple of years by now. By "work" I mean I'm a volunteer who mostly visits the dying in their homes whether it be a nursing home, assisted living facility, apartment, or single family dwelling. The purpose of my visit is to . . . visit and sometimes to provide respite for the caregiver. Often I give a lavender oil hand massage or read to a patient or listen to music together. Sometimes I spend a couple of hours at Casey House, the in-treatment facility of Montgomery Hospice. It was there that an amazing experience unfolded last week. I was playing the reverie harp for a patient who was very "close" as they say in hospice. A few family members were present. Soon they were joined by another six or seven family members and by the hospice rabbi. Clearly they were gathered for prayer and goodbyes. I asked the rabbi if I should leave but he assured me that I should stay and continue play the harp. The rabbi then proceeded to talk with the family, to encourage them to reminisce about the patient. There were tears all around, but also laughter. It was evident that this was a close-knit family and that the patient had been well-loved. Finally, the rabbi asked for his Hebrew name and offered a blessing. The family was so appreciative of him, but also of me. I felt blessed to have been part of this truly holy moment.