Strange days that feel like something should happen
Do you ever do it? Have a fuck-it-why-not moment, buy tickets to something and then promptly forget? I did, and I nearly missed a moment both beautiful and important.
How it happened is not really the point — just the usual oversubscribed human brain-body versus calendar — but for this telling: it was Friday night when I realised the concert was on Saturday afternoon and I had in fact purchased a second ticket, intended for my aunt. She's in her 80s, so her diary is (in her words) either wall-to-wall medical appointments or trying to maintain a garden and a puppy — neither of which are particularly suitable endeavours for her age. Cue the Friday evening text, apologising for the late notice… Would she like to come? In truth I was kind of okay if she said no, I had a massive deadline looming and figured a donation was something even if we didn't go. But she said fuck-it-why-not, and so the gig was on.
It should be said that it was also the seventh anniversary of my father's death. These anniversaries — his and my mother's deaths and birthdays — are always strange days that feel like something should happen, but also: what?
It was the first day that felt like the seasons had changed. Wintery, wet, windy. Just the weather for a drive into Peramangk country and an afternoon at Ukaria to hear Anthony Albrecht play Bach on a 18th century Wamsley cello named Francesca in one of the world's great concert spaces, tucked into the Adelaide Hills.
Maybe it was all the talk of divine ratios and symbiosis, or the gentle persistent rain. But I often find that in these moments, inspiration doesn't wait for an invitation. She simply arrives and stands in front of you.
🌸 𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 🌸
𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧 – in gentle curtains, weaving its way. Lyrical, soft even. Gentle enough to still permit the birds flight and formation.
𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐰 – so subtle and enormous, it stretched across half the sky;
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 – to country, to self, of the parts we don’t let the light touch and wish to forget, to the joy and the laughter, and indescribable feeling that is noticing you are alive;
𝐓𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 – that this life of ours is precious and perfect. That its duration and terms may not be ours to mould, but its every last drop is ours to drink.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 – that this is all but a fleeting series of privileged moments, never to be repeated. To perform Bach 500 times. To be invited to stillness and connection. To be ushered toward god/the divine by the key of G major. To share with loved ones and strangers.
𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐣𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠
Of being.
Of belonging.
Of joy. Of grief.
Of road trips. And odysseys.
And everything in between.
𝘖𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭. 𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘧𝘢𝘳𝘮, 𝘬𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥, 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘴𝘬𝘺 𝘴𝘰 𝘷𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.
𝘙𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘓𝘢𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘑. 𝘏𝘦𝘯𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 7𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩.
