It was the first time, in a long time, when I queued in a line that wasn't churning and bulging with squirming, small bodies.
A friend invited me to attend a concert with her, and her charming parents. It was at the Met (museum, not opera house) in the Medieval Sculpture Hall in front of the Christmas tree. Note: the Medieval Sculpture Hall in front of the Christmas tree just happens to be one of my favorite places in the world. My experience there tonight has added another layer of trembly joy and connectivity to that space.
If ever there is a chance to hear Chanticleer, snatch it. They are based out of San Francisco and apparently travel everywhere...
They produced sound that didn't seem possible for humans to make. The way it echoed and created this deep mellow goodness almost disoriented me.
It most definitely inspired me. That's the mark for me of honest art. Did it inspire me? To do better, to think harder, to feel more, to be more tender towards others...
The area where I most want to do better, think harder, feel more, and be more tender? The children, of course. Today didn't start off brilliantly, and then had its ups and downs.
Tonight, sitting (sans children!) next to my friend's mom -- this gracious, intelligent mother of six grown, impressive people -- I chatted about my kids. I suggested that perhaps something I'm struggling with is a stage, something age-related that will be grown out of. She sagely nodded and then said something like: Maybe. Or maybe it's just the child's personality. It's hard when we realize that we can't change things about their personalities. But, different personalities make life interesting, don't they?
Maybe it's just the kid's personality. Maybe, without realizing it, I'm trying to change aspects of somebody's personality? That's not what I really want. I love their personalities... It's just those annoying little habits that interfere with efficiently teaching that I can do without...
And then the singing started, and then I started feeling inspired, and then lilting along those happy endorphins the thought came to me: I get to love my children. And I looked around at all the Madonna statues holding their babies and I thought: You've been watching us. You've seen them grow up through the years as we've passed you. And I saw my children through their eyes, from being in strollers, to walking, to wandering. And I saw how much love they, as fragile humans, need. And I felt like all those collective mamas -- as the music swelled and swaddled us -- whispered encouragement to me. Yes, our job is to love.
Teaching is secondary. Teaching is secondary.
(Tonight my lesson, my reminder, was presented in the most beautiful way possible. I was not chastised or belittled -- even though it's obviously necessary that I be "taught"/reminded this same lesson over and over. I will try to keep that spirit of love with me when I'm called upon to remind, and remind, and remind... When I need that extra bit of patience I will try to remember the ever-constant medieval mothers in that hall. Ever patient, ever placid, ever peaceful.)
How thankful I am that my friend thought to gift me that ticket. How thankful I am for the well-spoken words of her mother. Thoughtful flesh-and-blood women have the capacity to provide daily miracles for each other.
