Sunday, April 7, 2013

when I see stars that's [not] all they are

No temas. Yo so el primero y el último; yo soy el que vive. Yo tengo las llaves de la muerte y del más allá.

Confession: My name is Renée and I'm a hopeless Romantic. Romantic as in Romanticism. As in: I believe in moments. I believe in signs. I believe that there is a deeper poetry revealed through the tiniest, ordinariest day-to-day coincidences and occurrences.

I very much sympathize with our pal Thomas. For, I too, would want to put my hand into His side before I could believe.
In the absence of more tangible evidence, I've latched onto a pretty mundane exhibition of Divine Providence: cello players.

Good things come in threes, and cello players are no exception.
Earlier this semester, I discovered a man playing the cello in the underpass of my favorite bridge.

That one taught me to take each moment, and receive it as a gift.
That this was the moment I was supposed to be soaking up; not longing for other moments in other countries.
Four for you, Mr. Cello Man. Four for you.

The next time I heard a cello was in my favorite piazza in Rome, under the bright Italian sun.
I heard the sweet, sweet cello music sailing over the fountain.
I watched the man's nimble fingers move back and forth with the dexterity of a virtuoso.
He taught me to calm my fears; to remember that I was not alone.
And then, I could not help but feel that I was right where I was supposed to be.
When you travel, you often become disoriented. You need signs to point yourself in the right direction.
I have never seen a mile-marker that filled me with such joy as that cello man.

Finally, this morning, I caught the eye of a small man playing the cello on Portobello Road.
Exhausted, somewhat drained, flustered, and highly inconvenienced, I adventured down Portobello Road.


And when I heard the strains of cello music, I groaned the way you groan when your dad or uncle makes an awful pun.

Exiles, I realized then, are always more dreaded than they ought to be.
They inevitably end up being more like Octobers than Novembers.

So I stopped and paid attention (sometimes I deign to pay attention to those who are trying to speak with me), and listened to the strains of the cello music.
I have never heard music more comforting.
I don't know if that's because of the merits of the music itself or of the Player.



I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” 
Anne of Green Gables


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