It’s raining and I’m sipping coffee, Classic FM on in the
background while I browse through email. Tim has headed off to a meeting and I’m
alone in London for a few hours. There’s a strain of violin in the background
that captures my attention; it’s beautiful in a way that makes me pause to
listen harder, and I want to remember it. I know the piece, but I can’t place it.
A quick look at the station’s website and I can see what’s
playing: Max Bruch’s violin
concerto No 1, movement 1, in G minor. It was somewhere in the third minute
that I had my moment. The violin is serene, soft, simple, and I am no longer
paying attention to anything else. And when it ended, I sighed at how music is
such a powerful force.
And then, somehow, my mind jumps 125 years ahead to The
Indigo Girls. If you’re a fan, well, you’re devoted. You know how beautifully
constructed the lyrics are and how their music includes wonderful interludes of
cello, piano, trumpet, acoustic guitar (or electric if it’s “an Amy song”), African
drums, mandolin (more of an “Emily” instrument).
I think the connection came from a post from America a few
days ago—the Girls are on tour in the New York area, and having read that and
expressed jealousy at seeing them perform live, their music is still swirling
in my mind days later. I haven’t seen them in concert in years—they don’t get
to England much, if at all. When the mood strikes I find myself dusting off the
CDs or finding a few tunes on You Tube when I want to hear something in
particular, or just go through whatever playlist is available. There’s a host
of recollections that different songs from different years hold for me; I quite
like pausing and thinking about those times. There’s a comfort in replaying
favourites, both melody and memory.
So that’s how I’ve spent the last hour. And yes, I am singing
at the top of my lungs (Tim’s not hear, remember.) And I will go throughout
this dreary wet day no doubt humming through some old favourites, pondering
such things as what is love then, is it
dictated or chosen . . . Mystery.
And no doubt there will be a strain of the intermezzo
from Cavalleria rusticana in my day, and I will pause and smile, grateful for
how music and life are intertwined.
