Music and Cats

If I remember correctly, the last time I saw a performance of the Nutcracker, my sister was still studying ballet. Though Melanie hung up her toe shoes some 30 years ago, she’s still the person who comes to mind when I think of ballet. (OK, sometimes Mikhail Baryshnikov comes to mind, but that’s a different thing entirely.)

Occasionally, as I head home from work, I see groups of girls from the Pacific Northwest Ballet School waiting to catch a bus. Their hair is slicked into perfect, tight buns. In thin sweaters and rolled-down sweatpants over flesh-pink tights and leotards, they stand, toes unconsciously pointing, fingers curving gracefully. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I think I see my sister among them.

I saw some of those young ballerinas tonight, but not at the bus stop. Rather, they were dancing on the main stage at McCaw Hall, in PNB’s production of the Nutcracker. Each December, students from the ballet school join PNB’s professional dancers to put on a uniquely beautiful version of the holiday classic.

Beautiful because, well, it’s ballet, and Tchaikovsky; unique because the PNB’s Nutcracker features magnificent sets and costumes designed by illustrator Maurice Sendak. Sendak’s lavish, cartoony sets and lush, elegant costumes for the PNB were later adapted into the illustrations for Sendak’s book version of the Nutcracker.

During intermission, Paul and I took a look at the Nutcracker shop in the lobby. I almost bought my sister a Christmas tree ornament: a pair of 4-inch-long toe shoes tied together with lengths of satin ribbon. As I held the little shoes up by their ribbon bow, I wondered whether her old toe shoes might still be hanging in her closet. And I wondered whether she still unconsciously points her toes while waiting in lines.

To open the Advent calendar window for Day 13, click here: (more…)

Now I’ve been crying lately, thinking about the world as it is
Why must we go on hating, why can’t we live in bliss

Cause out on the edge of darkness, there rides a peace train
Oh peace train take this country, come take me home again

–Cat Stevens / Yusuf Islam

As a teenager in the 1970’s, I loved Cat Stevens’ music. I hadn’t listened to his songs in quite a long time, but a couple of posts from today’s Blogblast for Peace sent me to YouTube, where I listened to both vintage and recent performances of several songs. I love the music still, and I find Yusuf Islam’s rare performances now even more moving than those from his musical heyday.

Dona nobis pacem. Grant us peace.

A couple of weeks ago, I received an email from a fellow dance musician — a talented pianist — with whom I occasionally have the pleasure of making music. Her brief message read, “Sometimes, when we’re lucky, we get to feel this way while playing,” after which she attached the following passage:

…somewhere toward the middle of the last movement, I began to feel the words that Messiaen marks in the part, I began to hear them, feel them as a “mantra”: extatique, paradisiaque. And maybe more importantly, I began to have visions while I was playing, snapshots of my own life (such that I had to remind myself to look at the notes, play the notes!): people’s eyes, mostly, expressions of love, moments of total and absolute tenderness. (This is sentimental, too personal: I know. How can you write about this piece without becoming over-emotional?) I felt that same sense of outpouring (”pouring over”) that comes when you just have to touch someone, when what you feel makes you pour out of your own body, when you are briefly no longer yourself — and at that moment I was still playing the chords, still somehow playing the damn piano. And each chord is even more beautiful than the last; they are pulsing, hypnotic, reverberant… each chord seemed to pile on something that was already ready to collapse, something too beautiful to be stable… and when your own playing boomerangs on you and begins to “move yourself,” to touch you emotionally, you have entered a very dangerous place. Luckily, the piece was almost over… When I got offstage I had to breathe, hold myself in, talk myself down.

This is from Think Denk, the engaging, beautifully-written blog of classical pianist Jeremy Denk. As I read, I remembered times when I’ve felt something like this while playing my violin. For me, these moments often come when I’ve been feeling sad, or anxious, or fearful, and the sense of outpouring that Denk describes feels to me like a lament, a wish, a prayer — all the more powerful for coming, wordlessly, through my violin.

A sunny, breezy April Sunday would have been reason enough for joy.

A gorgeous, glowing shade of orange would have been reason enough for joy.

Beautiful, edible wild spring greens (wood sorrel and miners lettuce) would have been reason enough for joy.

But what brought me so much joy today that I couldn’t keep from grinning were the musicians who, lured by the lovely weather, came out to play for the crowd at the Ballard Farmers Market. The Tallboys‘ Charlie and Charmaine, my nephews’ favorite clogger, were just setting up Paul and I arrived, but a little ways down the block, a young fiddler was playing old-timey tunes on her tiny violin. Rhythm, intonation, poise; this young lady had them all… as well as parents hovering nearby, cheering her on. I added a dollar bill to those already littering her fiddle case; she smiled back at me as she continued to play.

Farther down the block, three more seasoned musicians entertained the young fiddler’s peers and their parents.

Do you want to see what joy looks like? Look at the little boy in the brightly-colored cap — the way his small body leans in toward the music, the delight on his face. Look at the small girl in the green-striped dress — airborne as she dances, her hair flying.

And see the face of the fiddler, watching the pleasure that the music he’s making brings to these little ones. There is joy in the making of music, but seeing such a response to it ups the joy quotient immeasurably.

Joy in the sunlight, and in the music. Joy on faces, and on the breeze.

* ‘Upping the joy quotient’ is a phrase I’ve borrowed from Terrilynn, who used it in a comment on a post I wrote a couple of years ago about some other tiny dancers.

Paul wants jelly beans and chocolate eggs for Easter. My favorite Easter eggs come from the farmers’ market, in shades of pale green, rosy tan and deep caramel.

This morning, my favorite market musicians drew a small but enthusiastic following. Our nephews love these two, particularly when she clogs while she plays guitar. One adorable tiny dancer (in pink hat and skirt) was enjoying the show with her father; she has already learned that when you dance to their music, you should remember to tip the musicians.

The farmer planted this heirloom purple broccoli last July. Having overwintered, the plants are now putting up small, tender shoots, which are harvested individually so that the plant can continue to produce. I’ve been told that this purple plant will keep its color when cooked. I’ll let you know…

The market was full of tulips — bucket upon bucket of tulips, in more colors than I knew tulips came in. The tight clusters of pink, yellow, and orange were gorgeous, but this one full-blown red beauty caught the sunlight, and my eye.