Return to The Moldau

 "Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it." ~ Norman Maclean

Today I listened to The Moldau, again.  It came about spontaneously but with purpose.  I have written about this beautiful, graceful classical piece before.  When I spoke of Music Nights a couple days ago, it was not to neglect the Classical.  It's just that the Classical fills a different kind of niche in my life, and typically not late at night.  (Late at night, particularly on the weekend, when I feel so inclined, tends to be occupied by music of the 60's and 70's.)

Grace.  That does indeed describe it.  Today it felt more poignant, sublimely reflecting life.

I've revisited, again, what I wrote about The Moldau several years ago.  Some is worth repeating here, in more than a link:

At the beginning, the awakening flow is virtually imperceptible, distinct elements joining together in a dance of potential.  You can literally hear how the quietly growing stream flows easily over the discrete rocks in its way, finding its playful path.  It's wonderful to listen to the gentle voice of streams at this stage - I could literally do so for hours.

Then the stream begins to grow.  As it gains in maturity, there is more sophisticated interaction with its surroundings, including the people who begin to appreciate its beauty and the gifts it brings.  There is mystery too as night falls, yet it flows undeterred by the darkness, the moonlight lending even greater beauty.

Then the channel narrows.  I know many rivers at this stage.  This is perhaps the most challenging part of the flow, yet also its most powerful.  If the flow truly desires to be free, the more discrete limitations placed upon it, the more the existing landscape attempts to channel its energy, the stronger it becomes.  There can even be a sense of peril perceived by those with whom it interacts, yet the flow of its creative purpose yearns to break free.

The rapids pass.  Liberation.  Stillness.  Hidden depths take form.  At this point, I must admit I become wistful following the river, as in Smetena's world it enters into a city, and I find myself rather sadly pondering its playful beginnings.  Yet one wonders if the multiple dimensions of this flow can actually exist in parallel.

In the end, Smetana's now majestic river lends the power of its full creative contribution to the Greater Unity of another, and one can imagine the Ocean that awaits.  One could say our beautiful little stream disappears, but does it really?

I could say more, but I'll say less.  My ponderings today as I listened weren't quite as intricately poetic, spiritual or deep.  Today I was thinking about innocence, poignancy and life.  And that was enough.

Waters in the Woods photo by Susan Larison Danz.

The Quiet Voices of a Clamoring Year

 "We have cut the whales off from themselves.  Creatures that communicated for tens of millions of years have now effectively been silenced." ~ Carl Sagan 

 

Some years effectively clamor into our awareness.  2020 was a year like that.  It was not a quiet year.  

When a year like 2020 comes our way, some of us go inwards.  If we choose to continue to nurture our awareness, our voices may appear as if they have silenced themselves.  And perhaps they have.  But not in every way.

I made a conscious decision to be here tonight, even as my dinner is in the oven.  I made a conscious decision to turn off the television that was on while I was cooking.  I turned on Classical Music, instead.  I just missed The Blue Danube, it seems, though they played a more modern rendition afterwards.  

I was reminded even before I turned the radio on that I have often enjoyed the New Year's concert from Vienna.  It is shared live, and so if it was on, it was on in the morning.  I forgot about it completely.  Now it's night.  And yet I wondered.  Was it live this year?  Was it presented at all during the age of Covid?  Would I have wanted to hear it, diminished?  Did they play another year perhaps?  Did they perform it on Zoom?  (I seriously doubt it.)  I could look it up, I suppose.  I don't really need to.

And so it goes with 2020.  

And now it's 2021.

The last time I wrote here, I wrote a rather poignant story.  It was an important story, actually, one that is about trade-offs.  As the year progressed, it became less accepted to talk about such things.  And our awareness of them became more nuanced.  There will be Catch 22's, so-to-speak, that will be examined for years, I sense, if we get that far.

Voices matter.  Some of us went inwards.  It doesn't mean we were "depressed", though some might have felt that way.  We just needed to speak for a time with ourselves, and perhaps with the future.  We didn't necessarily stop writing.   And through that quiet expression of awareness (what some might call "journaling"), we discerned in the moment and found solace.  Even when it felt like we didn't, we did.

That's what 2020 was like for me, after April.

I look at just about every description on my "profiles", the ones I have consciously chosen to share.  In almost every case, I have put "writer" first.  I did not stop being a writer in 2020.  Far from it, actually.  

But now it's 2021, and I am here.

A piece I do not recognize is playing on Classical radio.  It has aspects of discordance.  But still, it carries melody.  My dinner is almost ready.  It took a while to cook.  I will either be back to continue, or I will finish here for now . . . 

(I wonder, before I go to check on it, how many others went inwards last year? And what will the future reveal their voices to say?  Dinner time.)

About 40 minutes later.....Also Sprach Zarahustra (I was thinking Thus, but I looked up the exact title) was playing as I wiped down the kitchen counters.  I thought to myself "That's rather perfect."  It is still playing now.  I need to listen to more Classical music and less "news".  (There isn't really much "news" anymore - it's essentially opinion.)  I wasn't listening to "news" earlier.  A movie was somewhat randomly on (the beginning of The Devil Wore Prada - it's a rather light and interesting movie, in its way, but I turned it off, knowing it).  

Were they truthfully Catch-22's, or trade-offs?  I thought about that at dinner, thinking I was "softening" the idea.  I sense that History will consider them trade-offs, which is what I would have said in April.  

(And in case you are wondering, the previous post I am referring to is this one:  Every Day.)

That was written on April 7 - the last time I wrote here in 2020.  A lot has surely happened in 2020 after that!  And yet plenty of what I wrote about there happened as well.  Some day, we will have the courage to examine all of this more closely, perhaps some of us even today (The music comes to a dramatic crescendo, and then it descends.)

2020 was a year when Spirituality has been vital for many of us, and I hope to speak a lot more about this in 2021.  It is also the year when Spirituality was far too often dismissed.  Perhaps I will write again tomorrow.  Perhaps I will finally read Thus Spoke Zarathrustra on my Kindle one day soon - it's been there for quite a while, unread.

What people seem to think is dead is very much alive - and needs to be.  

Spirituality is vitally important.  

(And now the piece has finished, in precisely perfect timing.  "A chance to shine", the commentator says - I didn't quite catch who was shining, how or when, as I was only partially listening.  Yes, I'd love to believe that is indeed true.  And true of 2021.)

Winter photo by Susan Larison Danz.

Every Day

A Spontaneous Short Story by Susan Larison Danz

In the Time of the Pandemic

It was a bright and sunny morning.  Every day, he visited.  She needed him.  He needed her.  He always carried a rose.

Henry usually showed up early before Geraldine awakened.  He couldn’t care for her anymore at home, and the other options were few, but how this worked was working.  And they could live with it.

It was all so very logical, of course.  And it was working.

Gently, he suggested what she might wear for the day.  The attendants were relieved to have his help.  There was always so much to do, so much to do, and the best of them did their best.  Miriam had greeted Henry with a smile at the desk.  How incredibly beautiful, really, she thought, every day he visited.

He paid for his breakfast, and for his lunch and for his dinner.  He didn’t mind.  The food wasn’t all that bad, and he and Geraldine sat together.  Geraldine was starting to have trouble eating without assistance.  Henry loved to help.  It made him happy to have this purpose.  Sometimes they would go outside in the little courtyard, or enjoy the music in the common room.  They were always together.  It was everything he wanted to do and didn’t mind.  It made it all work.

Next to them at every meal and activity, was a daughter with her mother.  Henry had an awful time remembering names, but it was so sweet to watch the two of them.  Like Henry, she stayed all day, helping her loved one with simple tasks, taking her out in her wheelchair into the sunshine, ensuring her clothes were clean, double checking the soap and the toothpaste and the toilet paper, keeping an eye on the attendants bringing in medicine, and all the rest.  

Every day, it was this way.  Day after day after day after day.  It didn’t matter if it was a weekend.  Every day, this was the way of things.  And it was working.  It wasn't always easy on the more difficult days, but even so, it worked.

Henry happily greeted the other spouses, sons and daughters.  Some came almost every day as well, perhaps for an hour after work or 15 minutes before lunch.  Others arrived on Saturday or Sunday and stayed much longer.  The great-grandchildren laughed in the hallways.

And even when there were challenges, there was a knowing, person to person to person, and there was a feeling of sharing the heavy lifting.

It was particularly sad that some people at the center seemed to have no visitors at all.  But as time passed by, the wives and the husbands and the sons and the daughters reached out to some of them as well.  Over time, there was unspoken friendship - a feeling of family.  And the smiles that used to be so very elusive would appear unexpectedly.


Until.

One day.

Everything changed.


Some people saw it on the news or in their email.  Henry didn’t have a computer.  He had never really needed one.  

He arrived at the center, and outside a giant sign was on display:  NO VISITORS ALLOWED DUE TO COVID-19.  Henry hardly read it, not believing it applied and asked at the desk, a bit confused.  Miriam had expected and dreaded this, and tried her best to hold back her tears. She tried her best.  Not knowing really what to say, she directed him into an office so it could be explained by a “superior”.  The door slammed shut.  She couldn’t hear and really didn’t want to.  Henry wouldn’t understand.  Eventually, he emerged and didn’t stop again at the desk.  He shuffled away, dazed,  too astonished to be angry.  

It was all so very logical, they said.

He thought about her every minute.  What was she doing?  Was she OK?  They had been married 67 years and had rarely been apart. In the days that followed, he tried to call, but Geraldine’s faltering voice grew more distant.  He couldn’t be there to help her, to smile with her, to be with her in the way they’d always been.  It was almost too much for Henry to endure, as the days went on.  Fellow caregivers would try to offer help and empathy one to one another, when they could find a way to talk, but it didn't really ease the pain.

Geraldine had an interior room that had a window looking into the beautiful little courtyard.  How it had cheered them, to watch the birds and the flowers.  They had selected that room specifically, so much better than having a room facing cars and headlights.  The attendants were SO busy.  The best of them tried their best, but there was only so much they could do.  One day, they brought Geraldine to a window where Henry could see.  She stared at him through the faded glass, uncomprehending, aloof and bewildered.  Why wouldn't he come in?

And then a day eventually arrived when something they didn’t want to happen happened anyway.  The virus had somehow appeared inside the center.  It was in other centers as well.  They tried to clean and to clean and to clean and to test and to test.  The residents hated being poked and prodded.  The test was extremely uncomfortable.  Smiles were now invisible.  All the attendants were wearing masks.

It was the logical thing to do, of course.

The phone rang in the morning with the news.  Geraldine was sick.  She was already in the hospital, it had happened so very fast.  Henry wanted to see her at the hospital.  It was incredibly confusing!  What was happening these days???  But he wasn’t allowed in.  He tried to call Miriam at the desk in hopes that she could help him, not knowing where to ask, but he was told she was away, home sick.

Henry didn't really sleep at all that night, but dozed a bit into the morning, and then was startled by the phone.  It was an unfamiliar voice.  Geraldine was dead.  There was no funeral that could happen yet.  Henry didn’t really understand, but his son arrived from San Francisco and attempted to explain.  There would be, but not yet.  Someone called and asked if there was any way the family could accept the idea of cremation.  No.  They couldn’t.  

It had been so very logical, they said.

It was a bright and sunny morning.  Row upon row upon row upon row of rectangular waves of white lined the road, as Henry navigated his aging car.  A veteran, he’d be here too some day.  But Geraldine had arrived here first.

Every day, he visited.  He needed her.  He spoke to her.  He always carried a rose.

Note: This story is a fictional account based on what happens regularly in long term care environments, where dedicated family members are actively engaged in the care of their vulnerable loved ones every day (until the time of the pandemic).  It is a story that repeats itself regularly throughout the United States.  This particular story is based in a relatively functional care environment - not all care centers are like that - it is horrifying to contemplate what might occur in an abusive environment, for example, without visits from family, though such facilities should not technically exist in a more functional world.  

We cannot productively or compassionately address anything health-related in our society without considering seriously the difficult questions related to how psychological well-being has a very real impact on life & death. Just because an idea is "logical" or on the surface "safer" doesn't make it viable, compassionate or wise.  One would hope future societies will plan for a better approach, as difficult as that may be to envision. It may also lead to innovation and change the resources we provide so that seniors in vulnerable situations can more safely and productively remain at home, with enhanced, affordable or subsidized support.  ~ SLD

Beauty, today...

"This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven." 

~ Genesis 28:17

Music and Dancing and Beauty today....(the ticket for a modest yet perfectly wonderful seat a little gift I gave myself at Christmas)...

A young girl was sitting next to me, playing with string, an aspiring ballerina.  Just before the lights began to dim, she created Jacob's Ladder...and in that precious moment, I remembered how, too...