Classical Music

A Gift from God...

When we came to the United States in 1963, I was three years old. We were alone in a new country. Shortly after arriving, U.S. President John F. Kennedy would be assassinated. I can barely remember the t.v. but I can see the images over and over. The pain and grief of the Kennedy family would follow and haunt them for years to come.

How do we survive unspeakable grief, mixed in with the joys of life?

Other than meditation and prayer., what soothes people or gives them feelings of comfort and great joy?

I grew up in a home where my parents would play their record albums, savored and carried on the airplane ride to America, over and over on the stereo console. Most days, as their collection grew, I would run the several blocks home from school, swing the door wide open, and hear the sound of music on the console, perfectly placed in the hallway, to the right. I’d throw my things down, head into the kitchen and see my mom moving to the music, preparing dinner. Her sense of style, the smell of her cooking and the sounds were my comfort.

We listened to the Beatles, Tom Jones, Carol King, Sergio Mendez and Brasil ‘66, Dave Brubeck, Cat Stevens, Blood, Sweat and Tears, Buddy Rich., and on and on. My dad’s taste in music, particularly jazz, was growing everyday and I clung to it. I miss the c.d.’s that he’d send in the mail for us to listen to and emails about musicians. I miss how much music made him happy. I can still see dad driving me through the San Fernando Valley, in his camper truck, windows down, wind blowing in my hair, the eight-track playing loudly as he sang along. He’d often catch a look my way mouthing a line like “Oh I’m on my way I know I am,” or some other catchy phrase from a song, as he played dashboard drums. I was in elementary school and I thought “Catch Bull At Four” was genius.

I began to dance at the age of eight, and started Russian Ballet by the age of 13. My mom had tried to get me out of my shell by enrolling me in dance classes at five years old, but I was so scared I got up off the floor and ran for her crying. After years of dance, I’ve often said that “eight” is a good age for a child to decide what they’d like to commit to. I danced up until giving birth to my third child at 34 years old. I regret not keeping up with dance classes, yet arthritis and raising a family made it too difficult. Years later, photography would enter my life, as a career unexpectedly, and would give me the feeling of movement I so craved, as well as challenging my arthritis.

The reason I write about dance is because through dance I discovered Classical Music. Out of all the music played in our home I had never heard the Classical pieces that I danced to. In reflection, the music I did hear, opened up my entire world to all types of music and I was able to receive Classical into my heart. It was my very own and I find that I cannot live without it. When I was packing down our family home I discovered a little primary-colored cube radio in a memory box. As each baby came, I played the Classical station on it to soothe them to sleep. This was my old-fashioned “noise machine.” Our home was always filled with a variety of music, as my husband has been a musician since he was young, ironically discovering music for himself as a way of coping. Our youngest would play the piano and my only sibling would begin playing drums at the age of eight…

As I type the words to this piece I am playing Classical Music. I reflect how in high school, a poor student, I did better studying to Classical in my room. In my recent endeavor to write I have found that silence leaves me lost in disorganized thought and Classical Music fuels my memories and stories in a fluid fashion. Centering my entire world., from joy to grief and everything in-between., encompassing all that I have experienced thus far. Although I hear lyrics and music equally, Classical speaks all the words of my life directly to me. Even as I pray I often play Classical as faces of people I love, friends and world events come at me.

Art and music were truly God’s gift to mankind. At the beginning of time, I imagine with all the early artists, He planned for the deaf to see Him and the blind to hear Him.

Antonio Lucia Vivaldi was born in Venice in 1678 and died in Vienna, impoverished, in the summer of 1741. He was 63 yrs old. A violin virtuoso, composer and priest. His father, Giovanni Battista, who was a barber before becoming a professional violinist, taught Antonio to play the violin and then toured Venice playing the violin with his young son. Antonio had 8 siblings.

My wedding was in a small cabin, in Mt. Baldy, Ca, in 1985. There were 30 witnesses and the only music we played on our tape recorder was Vivaldi.

When I listen to "Summer" from The Four Seasons it's like listening to a gradual, explosive violin rock concerto. A musical masterpiece that slowly sees the sun rise, pouring light into the soul. The sea twinkles, fish glide and glisten, dancers spin, runners run, a mother kisses her children. The rush of traffic. Feet hit the pavement. Turn it up. Exhilaration. Slow it down. Sip your coffee. Take in the day. Read the paper. Sigh. Back to work. Daydreams of summer. Life going by. Steam and water, heat and laughter, play and rest. The longest days. Holidays and home. Quiet contemplation. Life and hardship. Love and gratitude. Seasons coming and going.

Breathe.

Reflect.

Create.

Gather.

Mourn.

Celebrate.

Summer.

Dizzying.

Magical.

Grand.

Summer.

The hallway entry in my home today., much like the one from my childhood…

If you have a child or grandchild and you need an idea… play this and ask them how they feel, what they feel. Get up, move, play, become the music. You won’t regret it. Start them young… This is 11 minutes of running, swirling, resting and creativity. It is life in a hard and beautiful world.

“Sitting on my own not by myself
Everybody's here with me
I don't need to touch your face to know
And I don't need to use my eyes to see” -

Sitting, Cat Stevens

Next up: Blues Pt. 2