Eventually, I'll write about the events of last week. I keep thinking, "maybe tonight", but tonight comes and goes and the words don't want to be put down. It's too soon, and although I'm much less unsettled than I was, I'm apparently not ready to write about it.
Meanwhile, though, I'm mending. My body has surprised me with its resiliancy; I'm really feeling pretty good, and although I don't think I'm going to be running any marathons (or even running upstairs) anytime soon, normalcy seems to be returning faster than I would have predicted. I am, however, laying low - saying no, and doing less, and assiduously avoiding stress. I'm eating, but not as much, very carefully, and without fat. I'm working on my book, reading Brodsky, doing dishes, cooking, meditating, taking some photographs, and indulging in two activities I've missed a great deal lately: playing the piano, and listening to music -- right now it's contemporary music, minimalism. There's a bouquet of hydrangea branches on the table, and another of yellow and orange nasturtiums, brought by a friend; some dark red chrysanthemums that J. brought home yesterday. Tonight he's having dinner with his sister and his brother, who is visiting, and I am enjoying the sound of rain on the skylight, the dimly-lit rooms with pockets of light shining on the flowers, the books.
After I write here I'm going to play the piano for a while. Last night I finished reading through all of Bach's Three-Part Inventions, which I've somehow skipped all these years. I played some of the easier Goldberg Variations, thumbed through some Beethoven, which I don't play well at all; looked at a volume of Scriabin and set it aside -- too much trouble -- and finally found myself looking over my shelf of vocal music. I pulled out a book of Richard Strauss songs and some Schubert, and played through four or five: old friends. Tonight - I don't know yet. We'll figure it out.
The notes flow, and I lose myself. Perfection isn't the goal and never has been for me, with music; I'm not good enough and not driven enough in that direction. What I love is the music itself and my interaction, my communication with it: the joy and challenge of sightreading something new; the way each time through contains more discoveries; the challenge of working at something until it really sounds like music and of feeling oneself communicate with the composer. Music resides on a cellular level in me. It's where I turn when upset or confused or distressed, or sometimes it comes to find me. I trust it -- never to desert me.