āWhen you bear what you think
you cannot bear, who you think you areĀ
through the early winter darkness,Ā
through my open patio doors,Ā
night after night. I sitĀ
alone trying to quiet my mind,
while a nearby stranger practicesĀ
Tchaikovskyās āChanson Triste.ā
Most nights the pianist stumblesĀ
on the composerās grief with long pauses,Ā
skipped chords, and abrupt restarts.Ā
Once I even heard the fallĀ
crash over keys. Yet, I canāt helpĀ
but think isnāt that the song of loss?Ā
Unremitting, frustrating, fractured,Ā
hidden in distance, unmasterableĀ
even after years of rehearsal?
Yet sometimes on a night like tonight,
an evening no more special thanĀ
the last, practice pursues perfection.Ā
Hands dance in simplicity and sadness,Ā
aligning past with present, coordinating
Tchaikovskyās suffering- choosingĀ
separation from his wife, dying to his old life-Ā
with skill. I close the doors somewhatĀ
relieved, believing sometime soonĀ
with fortitude and practice, I too may becomeĀ
an instrument of compassion: beyondĀ
bearing the unbearable, not thinking
of the interminable future, not replayingĀ
the immutable past, letting go of losing
you and what we could have had.Ā
Clearwater Beach, circa 1990- when I danced to Tchaikovsky.