The ride to that all-important steaming cup of coffee is demoralizingly cold and wet today. It’s that ‘inbetweeny’ time of year where the cosy warmth of Summer has been sucked away, yet the compensatory riot of colours has not quite yet arrived.
People noises are conspicuous by their absence, although some families are determined to enjoy precious time with their children. Youngsters appear to have been dragged to the park rather unwillingly, bless them. Despite their padded wrappings, there they sit, semi-shut down and shivering on a quirky (but admittedly rather pretty) motorised train that circles the park relentlessly. Parents enthusiastically point out, well, I’m not quite sure, even as I follow their gaze towards the damp trees. We’re made of stern stuff us Brits!
There’s a sense of something verging on grief, an extravagance which I hope you’ll allow me. It’s an emptiness that needs redressing, where the colours and the spirit of this place were dampened down even before the rain started to fall. And in the strange nature of things, with the trunks of oak and birch, maple and ash standing proud and emanating a sense of silent anticipation, birdsong cuts through. It overrides everything else; a sound that is clear, strong and determined. And memory pulls me back to something that happened some 15 years ago.
I’ve quickly learned that writing just doesn’t work with effort. Nothing can be forced or contrived. It has to be real. There are frequently times though when that ‘inner voice’ seems to say “Let’s leave this one alone for now” and I am more than happy to let that memory or train of thought go. It doesn’t take long for another inspiration to hit, paintball style. Such is the power inherent within ‘healing spaces’.
Outside the house of a talented artist friend sits an unfamiliar noticeboard proclaiming “Studio open day. Do pop in!”. Not needing an excuse for a little pre-blogging fun, I make my way up the side alleyway and through a side door that I’ve never noticed before. Arranged over the entire 4 white walls of a brightly lit studio are dozens of wonderfully original drawings and paintings documenting journeys mostly within the British Isles. Sitting beside my clever friend is another familiar face from the past which I last saw atop an accordion. I wonder if she recalls our eyes twinkling at each other at my feeble attempts to keep up on another keyed instrument that I was barely familiar with. And we hug and squeal with delight, not sure why it’s taken so long to get back in touch.
Whilst admiring a group of painted hens, heads ever bent in search of sustenance as is their way, another friendly voice enquires about how the 3 of us are linked. And I have to explain my absence from another world that we used to share. Her open face somehow draws the words out of me, almost as a string, without resistance or regret. And notably, for the first time in far too long.
In a past ‘reincarnation’, my whole existence revolved around a gorgeous stringed instrument. Knowing that it may sound rather cheesy, I literally had a love affair with playing music, whether classical, swing jazz, traditional Irish or Klezmer. It took me to different and exotic worlds. I was incredibly fortunate.
It was also a ‘sanity saver’, whether acting as a salve for failed love affairs, tragedies and exhaustion or eventually as a distraction from severe pain after the accident. Whilst cycling was still a distinct impossibility and conversation very difficult indeed, playing the violin with others was a means to an enjoyable social life of sorts. There are some splendid musicians in this world and getting to play with some of them has been a God-given privilege.
What wouldn’t have been obvious was the struggle I was having, trying to cope not only with pain but with differently tuned ears that for a while also heard human speech as robotic, lyrical Mozart as a soundtrack to horror movies and silence as if standing next to an aeroplane engine. All an unfortunate indirect consequence of the original bike accident. Eventually, after having my violin stolen and damaged and a horrendous sequence of events that followed that I must spare you, I lost that connection. It effectively died for me and I thought my life was over.
Strangely, the only sound that never became corrupted was birdsong. Today’s experience is a salient reminder of that precious moment outside a hospital ward where that discovery served as a lifeline. The memory is a timely wake-up call if you will where I get to realise that ‘nature’ is playing that sense of loving connection back to me as if an echo of bow gliding on string. And I’m smitten. Only now, it’s purely as a witness. No effort, no rosining of the bow, or tuning up or practising of scales. That love affair has not died; it has simply returned in a different form.
This is the tale told today to the lovely trio of listening women. And like them, I ask that you receive it with the afterglow that was intended. Put aside anything else which smacks of sadness or sympathy. That is not wanted here.
“Autumn has a way of teaching us that letting go can be beautiful”
