MARCH 25, 2024 – All of us have days of gray, colored that way by one thing or another in our lives; sometimes by a whole palette of troubles that cloud out light and warmth. Today was such a day for me and many others who in these parts battled seasonal sickness compounded by ugly elements.
As I peered out upon the bleakness I tried to put my attitude back on board that plane years ago between MSP and LGA. After taking off in winter gloom and into clouds so thick they obscured the ends of the wings, we bounced around for a while, lost in space. Several minutes later, however, the aircraft broke through the cloud deck. The sun burst into the cabin, filling it instantly with good cheer. In the moment I realized that back on the ground, the day was still scowling. Both realities—the sun smiling above the clouds and the earth frowning below—were happening simultaneously. I decided I had the freedom to see it either way I chose.
In true confession, I let the clouds prevail today. I have yet to break out of my cold mold, and in my impatience, I experienced just how significant my setback has been. Shoveling the heavy-as-concrete-snow off our front step and pushing a path down to the sidewalk left me exhausted—just 10 days since I’d hiked up and down the hills of “Little Switzerland” without any trouble. Unsettled by my loss of conditioning, I later leaned into the rain and walked down our slush-filled alley to the end of the block and back. The result was no more reassuring. Nor was a later walk—after the rain—just down the block and back. This can’t be! I said to myself in deep despair.
Half a dozen people bailed me out—two intentionally, the other four unwittingly.
The two who imparted the direct advice were unequivocal: Give yourself a rest, man! They cut me no slack in this regard but emphasized that my poor body was demanding more time to gather its resources.
As I pondered this advice, determined to pull myself out of my funk, I realized that not only had I ignored the sun “beaming up there somewhere,” but I hadn’t listened to a moment of music all day long. I remedied this shortcoming immediately. I found a dated performance of Beethoven’s Triple Concerto featuring Yo-Yo Ma, Itzhak Perlman, and Daniel Barenboim with the Berlin Philharmonic. It had been quite some time since I’d heard this classic gem by the Titan, and I’d forgotten what supreme pleasure it brings, especially when rendered by these three extraordinary collaborators—three of my very favorite.
Beethoven, of course, lived a million years ago, but his genius is as ageless as it is boundless. Listen to his music and you hear the depths of every knowable human emotion. No one before or since has accomplished what he did with composition. I doubt, however, that he could possibly foresee what effect his music would have on humanity.
I’ve always admired Barenboim’s work at the keyboard, and Perlman, of course, is, well Perlman—whose fiddle always exudes the warmth of his enormous personality. I’ve never met either of these musicians, but I feel as if I have, given how familiar their music making is. I’ve actually dined with Yo-Yo Ma around a table with just four others, so I can say I’ve met him—even if he himself couldn’t possibly remember the occasion. He sat next to me and told good jokes and was every bit as personable, down-to-earth and warm-hearted in that setting as he is when addressing a large audience.
Beset by cough and cold, wind and rain, impatient despair, plodding along the slow course of recovery, I must remind myself of that plane ride and Beethoven; that the sun is always shining somewhere, and that Beethoven lives forever. All you have to do is look and listen . . . and smile.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
