“When you bear what you think
you cannot bear, who you think you areÂ
through the early winter darkness,Â
through my open patio doors,Â
night after night. I sitÂ
alone trying to quiet my mind,
while a nearby stranger practicesÂ
Tchaikovsky’s “Chanson Triste.”
Most nights the pianist stumblesÂ
on the composer’s grief with long pauses,Â
skipped chords, and abrupt restarts.Â
Once I even heard the fallÂ
crash over keys. Yet, I can’t helpÂ
but think isn’t that the song of loss?Â
Unremitting, frustrating, fractured,Â
hidden in distance, unmasterableÂ
even after years of rehearsal?
Yet sometimes on a night like tonight,
an evening no more special thanÂ
the last, practice pursues perfection.Â
Hands dance in simplicity and sadness,Â
aligning past with present, coordinating
Tchaikovsky’s suffering- choosingÂ
separation from his wife, dying to his old life-Â
with skill. I close the doors somewhatÂ
relieved, believing sometime soonÂ
with fortitude and practice, I too may becomeÂ
an instrument of compassion: beyondÂ
bearing the unbearable, not thinking
of the interminable future, not replayingÂ
the immutable past, letting go of losing
you and what we could have had.Â
Clearwater Beach, circa 1990- when I danced to Tchaikovsky.