The large chorale I sing with was giving a major concert. We had invited two other ensembles to perform with us, had a full symphony orchestra, and were being televised. This was the big time.
The house lights dimmed and the concertmaster came on stage and bowed to the appreciative audience. Everyone hushed and he nodded to the oboe player who took the cue. Clearly she played her 'A' and the orchestra tuned. The concert was brilliant and right on key.
It's the oboe who sets the key because it can't be tuned like violins and timpani. Every group has its 'oboe.' In my family we have two, my niece's eighteen-month old son and my 87-year old mother.
(Another)
I have a veritable garden of friends who need watering and definitely lots of sunshine. I'm not going to take this any further for I'm not sure what to do about pruning, fertilizing, or weeds.
(And yet another)
I needed a quick centerpiece for my table one day so I cut some English ivy from my garden and stuck it in a pretty bowl of water. Added a lovely touch to my table setting.
Several days later I went to throw it out and noticed it had roots, tiny delicate white threads already drawing nurturance from the water. I immediately planted it and put it in a sunny window. I've kept it as an object lesson, a daily reminder to keep putting out roots to draw sustenance from my surroundings whatever they are; to keep living and flourishing like the garden ivy.
(Gift pieces from others)
My daughter in her quiet wisdom sent me a card: "Bloom where you are planted." Good advice for someone like me who has been transplanted over and over and over again. I'm blooming as best I know how. And I get comfort from some words of a Leonard Cohen song: "Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in eveything. It's how the light gets in."
