The Understory: Stories of Spiritual Landscape

It is impossible to be angry while listening to the music of Ástor Piazzolla

Cloudy with a Chance of Blues

This week the weather has been very unforgiving. Wind, cold, and snow have been the theme.

Tuesday morning I studied the clouds, huge and bulbous as the wind gathered up at a fierce speed. Its cold for April and the gingko outside the window is holding tightly wrapped, perfectly formed little leaves that are mini versions of what they will be when they spread out and grow to their adult size in a month or so. The wind has seemingly no affect on them.

Wind and gingko seem to be tussling to hold their own.

Opposition, anyone?

How is it that the cold and wind has very little affect on the hardy growing bits of spring? Even snow seems to do little damage to most things that pop up through the cold earth in early spring. Tulips crowned by icy rain or snow still rise to the occasion once the warmth of the sun strikes against their face to cheer them on.

Last week F and I went to a piano concert of music by the composer (and inspired by) Ástor Piazzolla.

Heading in to the concert I had—due to the previous eight hours of random contemplation and lack of focus—my knickers in a knot.  The day felt like a miserable failure on many fronts. The metaphorical clouds had whooshed me into a dark corner and seemed to have left me there to brood.

Can’t even blame the weather on this one. It was a place of my own misery making.

Grace

However, something happened that evening. As the musicians played on their two pianos tucked together like two spoons in a drawer, the notes blew around and through me and I discovered something: It is impossible to be angry while listening to the music of Ástor Piazzolla.   I tried and I can tell you that it cannot be done.

Anne Sexton writes:

Music pours over the sense

and in a funny way

music sees more than I.

and another poet   

Grace catches you out like a hook,

you’re pulled out of yourself, a moment,  

and that’s the ache: peculiar blow,

reminded you aren’t who you think you are.  

(Mark Doty, excerpted from “The Pink Poppy”)

As the joy that is Piazzolla played  into my subconscious I found a way to let the wall of resistance inch down tango by whimsical tango. My spiritual peckishness was starved for something to replenish the wind of resistance.  

It is grace.