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A friend stopped in for dinner the other night. He mentioned that the night before he went to our small town theater and saw Art Garfunkel perform. “Oh, my mom loved him!” I exclaim without giving it much thought. We go about dinner prep as my friend continues to talk about the concert. He talks about all the Simon and Garfunkel tunes he heard the night before. No, no! I protest. He had some beautiful stuff all his own! I reach for my phone and pull up Spotify to remind me of the album I was thinking of--a favorite of my mom’s. I draw in my breath when I see the cover of the album again. It's probably been over 40 years since I’ve seen it. I find the song I’m looking for. Did he play this? I’m thinking of asking my friend, but I never get there. I only listen to the first few opening notes before my finger must quickly find the pause button. My eyes sting with tears and my throat closes. I have to leave the room. There would be no Garfunkel for me on this night. I am not at all prepared for the ambush of memories that come so fast and so clear. All triggered by a few piano notes. I walk outside to be alone and sit in the dark. I look up at the stars. “Hi Mom,” is all I can squeak out. The next morning I’m headed to the woods. I have forgotten all about the music from the night before until I look at my phone; it was still on my search from the night before, and there was the song, beckoning me. I wait until I am deep in the woods before I find a log, sit and let my finger I press the button that now asked me to play. I weep quietly as the memories started to come: my mom opening the green cabinet my father made for our stereo, his signature hearts carved into the door. Me lying on the flowered couch wondering why I had to endure this song (again!) But, I listened and I secretly loved it. I could sense the music's power for her, even then. This was in the mid-seventies, and my mom was probably younger then than I am now. Now my 51-year-old self knows all too well what Garfunkel was singing about. By this age we all know of endings--we know that they come at last and they pass too slow. I wonder now what she felt when she heard this song. What ending was she thinking of? But I can no longer ask. I can only stand and turn to the noises of the woods. I am so sad I feel like I will crack in two, but I let the music play on and I allow the tears to come. I walk and cry. No one around to hear, no one around to console and no one to judge. By the time I reach the top of my hike, my eyes are dry. I'm a bit surprised to notice that the sadness has left me. I have moved through it and I am on the other side. Huh, I think...that’s kinda cool. Victor Hugo said, “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent.” Yeah, that. Exactly that. For the rest of my walk my mom is with me. Music has brought her back to me for the moment and together we walk and appreciate the woods. I feel light--no sadness, just contentment and something else...Grace, I think. Yes, Grace. I love that there is something we humans create that transcends all. Music has the power to touch us and shift something deep within. Did whatever created us think this through? Did he/she/it sit down and ponder the possibility before installing the hardware that makes it possible for us to create such beauty, and then the corresponding pieces that allow us to respond in such a way? It’s one of those mysteries that our mind cannot even begin to understand, but our heart knows for sure. "Without music life would be a mistake.” Strong words from German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche and there are times when I want to agree. Music connected me and moved me through. So happy am I to spend this fall morning with my mom. Thank you, Art.  my mom and her mom Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment, the long tapers of cattails are bursting and floating away over the blue shoulders of the ponds, and every pond, no matter what its name is, is nameless now. Every year everything I have ever learned in my lifetime leads back to this: the fires and the black river of loss whose other side is salvation, whose meaning none of us will ever know. To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go. “In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver Thank you, Mary.
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