Reconciliation

I went to a concert last night that has me out of balance.

Don't get me wrong. It was a wonderful concert. The Las Vegas Philharmonic performed with the Las Vegas Master Singers and a quartet of professional singers. It was Opera Night. Some well-known arias and a few choruses from operas I studied in college.

Ah, yes.

Carmen.

The flower duet.

Traviata.

Hmmmmm. Delicious.

Today I find myself yearning...yes, that is the right word...YEARNING for gardens. For flowers. For the beauty and peace of green and pink and yellow. For the grace of an iris. For the intoxicating smell of the hyacinth. Spring bulbs and clumsy country perennials.

And the tears flow.

You see, two days ago I found myself in the yard of my soon-to-be-sold house. I don't live there any more. Yet I am still drawn to care for the yard. I had stopped by a week or so before and been appalled at the state of the yard. Overgrown, weeds...shocking. Don't laugh. I come from a long line of gardeners. My grandmother was a champion flower arranger so having a yard that looked like that was an affront to my very DNA. And so I responded.

Sometimes I think the only thing (or one of the only things) that keeps me human is to dig my hands into the dirt and connect with the very planet on a physical level. The soul connection with Mother Earth herself is like touching the face of God. Even in the desert of Nevada. Even if the weeds are surrounded with the stupid damned rocks that seem to be in every "xeriscape" yard. Where is the earth? I look out every window of my house and see rocks. Hard, cold rocks.

I need green.

I need dirt.

My CAT even needs dirt (I don't understand it but she loves to roll in the dirt and has rubbed a bare spot in every yard I've had to create what she needs).

During my time weedwacking (yes, weedwacking) the entire back yard, I found myself with pruners in hand, talking to the pear tree. I don't know why, but I said, "I'm so sorry," and started to cry. Why in the world was I sorry to the pear tree? And what in the world brought these tears? What am I processing here?

I called my daughter, Jenna, about the tree thing. You see, the tree was a birthday gift to her the first year we were in Las Vegas. She said, "If you're going to move me to Las Vegas, I want a fruit tree in the yard." She had never asked for any kind of plant or bush or anything like that so I bought it and we planted it. Maybe three years later, after she had moved out, the tree started to bear fruit and had created delicious pears ever since. We canned and canned each year. When I talked to her she (very wisely) suggested that maybe I was saying I was sorry for a promise unfulfilled. "Trees are very permanent, Mom. So maybe that's it." Of course, she added, that she has no ill feelings about the tree so as far as she is concerned we are good.

A tree. Crying about a silly tree.

An unfulfilled promise.

Back to the opera.

An unfulfilled promise.

Flash back to about 16 years ago at a high ropes course in Pennsylvania. Picture me climbing a 30 foot telephone pole. I get to the top to find a rickety disk at the top and me standing on it. I turn around to face a bell I will ring when I jump off. "What does the bell represent?" the people below me ask. It is a symbol of my future, according to the event. "CARNAGE HALL and my audition for the New York Opera." And I jumped. And I nailed it.

And then life happened.

I started teaching elementary music. "I can't take lessons or be in a performing group now. I have to concentrate on getting my feet under me as a teacher."

Then it was kids.

Then it was divorce.

Then it was moving.

Then it was...

Fear.

My whole life, music has been my unfulfilled promise. I've got something. I get music. Especially song. But even when I played viola in my prime people would comment on the passion and deep, mature understanding of the music. I was chosen for All-State. Then again. Then for a national choir that would tour Europe...but that one was just a dream. Money. Damn it!

Practicing doesn't cost anything, I would tell myself. True, but you can only teach yourself so much. Lessons cost money. Voice lessons cost more (you have to hire a teacher AND a pianist).

Argument with self ensues:

Do you really want the performer lifestyle?

(Grandmother's voice, disbelieving) You don't want to be a professional opera singer, do you?

What will you do with the kids?

You have to work. This will be fine. It's fine. It's good. Really. No, REALLY.

It was many years later that I found the carolers. Then I bought Maynard (my new viola) and started lessons. Then started to learn Garage Band. Then re-started a private music studio.

Then stopped practicing.

Again.

Filled my life with OTHER stuff. You know, the "other" stuff. The stuff of survival.

Don't get me wrong. Survival, on one level anyway, is good. You really do need a roof over your head, heat, water, food. That's all good. But that doesn't really make you "human" on more that a physical level. Being alive is good.

Being human is better.

So humanity for me is dirt. And flowers. And music. Without it, I lose myself.

Ahhhh. There you are!

Sunburn. Scratched and bruised arms.

Sitting at the piano trying a new piece.

Flipping through a guitar book reviewing where in the world all the notes are.

Singing everywhere I go (no, really) whatever song has taken over my brain today.

Human.

Much better.