Category: blog

Originally published in Style Weekly on May 5, 2015.

There’s something about the last few seconds that rattles me.

Up to that point,  Sergei Prokofiev’s Symphony No. 5 has been chugging along like some sort of sinister factory. But in the final bars of the piece, the whole operation is reduced to a few musicians. They continue playing as if unaware that you’ve suddenly zoomed in on them, until finally, they’re swallowed up by the rest of the orchestra in one triumphant gulp.

Every time I hear it, my chest rattles, tears fill my eyes, and I’m lucky if I manage to suppress a yelp. The first time I heard it, however, I suppressed nothing.

It was the summer of 2006, and I was a student at the Brevard Music Center in North Carolina. Keith Lockhart was coming to conduct Prokofiev’s Fifth Symphony, and everyone wanted to make a good impression. The faculty was so concerned that the students might come unprepared to the first rehearsal that they scheduled an extra one just for us before the maestro arrived.

They were right to be concerned. Summer music festivals tend to pack in more rehearsals, coachings, lessons, classes and performances than is humanly possible, leaving students little choice but to fly by the seat of their pants and make huge artistic strides.

At lunchtime on the day before the student rehearsal, it occurred to my group of friends that we would have to step up and lead our respective sections in the absence of the faculty. Furthermore, we realized that we didn’t have time to learn the music, the afternoon was filled with chamber-music coaching, and there was a not-to-be-missed recital after dinner. Recognizing the seriousness of the situation, we agreed to meet at 10 p.m. to listen to the entire 45-minute symphony.

But where could all four of us listen to this blaring music after curfew?

We ended up in the middle of a dark parking lot underneath a lone street lamp, sitting in and on top of a BMW Z3 convertible, a fourth-generation iPod blasting Prokofiev Five through the car’s sound system, following along in our music.

Hearing the soaring melodies with those athletic leaps and the unexpected, yet heartbreakingly gorgeous harmonic shifts, all underscored by militant rhythms, made my body rumble while panic and dread gave way to excitement and joy. How lucky was I to get to play this incredible music? Having familiarized ourselves, we retired to our bunk beds and eagerly awaited the new day.

So what is it about that ending that still resonates so deeply? Perhaps it’s the insignificance of our lives in the grand scheme of things, or maybe it’s the futility of all our scurrying about, or just our obliviousness to said futility.

Or perhaps it’s the integrity of people who are meticulous in their work even though no one is watching. Whatever it is, it’s human.

The first time I swung my wit around indiscriminately and ended up hurting someone was Christmas day of 1991.  We were all at my grandpa’s house—me, my parents, and my brother.  Grandpa had recently remarried into a large family, and the tree was amply stocked with presents.  I had already gleefully unwrapped a Barbie and a Cabbage Patch doll when I was handed a gift from my brother, Andrew.  A gift from across the family tree was something I had not thought possible.  Yes, he was older than me, but not by that much…

I tore off the shiny paper to find a purple plastic hairbrush with unicorns or something equally delightful printed on it.  Immediately and without missing a beat, I connected two of 34 possible dots in my little brain and, before even saying thank you, said, “You probably just picked purple because it’s your favorite color.”  Yep.  I was a 5-year-old Mean Girl.

My audience—a group of adults who had no doubt been holding both hands over their hearts and cooing—fell silent.  I’ll never forget the look on Andrew’s face.  I don’t remember what happened next.  He may have denied that purple was his favorite color, and my mom may have told me to say I was sorry.  All I remember is the shock I felt when my clever comment fell flat.

This is when I learned the first important lesson about clever comments: when you think of something clever to say, first ask yourself, will this hurt somebody’s feelings?  I think the second lesson is to then ask yourself, will anyone actually think this is funny?  But my dad saw to it that we skipped over that one.

Ten years later, we were at another family Christmas gathering, this time at my aunt and uncle’s house on the other side of the family.  For six months prior, I had been continuously falling head over heels in love with my first boyfriend.  We hadn’t even kissed yet, but I had never felt so strongly about another person in my life.  He was spending Christmas with his family, and I found it difficult to think about anything else while a group of us strolled around the neighborhood that chilly night.

Since my feelings were the ones to get hurt on this occasion, I don’t remember exactly what was said.  I just know that I somehow proclaimed my love for Michael, and Andrew scoffed, in the form of a clever comment, at two high school sophomores being “in love”.  I felt stupid.  Young and stupid.

Hours later, as I was lying on the couch in the living room, nursing my wounds, Andrew appeared in the doorway.  I’ll never forget the look on his face. “At my school,” he said, “my group of friends has gotten into the habit of making witty remarks that are sometimes mean, and I just forgot where I was and that those comments can really hurt.  I didn’t mean what I said.  I’m really happy for you and Michael.”

My respect for my big brother tripled.  I hadn’t considered that one could apologize for making an ill-advised joke.  I thought what’s done is done! This was the third lesson of clever comments, and the hardest to implement.  But every time I have to do it, I think of my inspiring role model.

Merry Christmas, Andrew!  Thanks for leading the charge on growing up.

I realized the danger of habits early on when I had two mental lapses (later known as “brain farts”) in quick succession.  Around the age of 7, I was riding in the back seat of the family station wagon.  As we pulled out of our driveway and began moving slowly through the neighborhood, I reached to put on my seatbelt and instead opened the car door.  I remember looking down at the sliver of pavement flying by and thinking, “I should really pay more attention.”

The second mental lapse occurred when I was wandering around in our backyard, blowing bubbles through a bubble wand.  The act of dipping the wand in the soapy concoction and blowing a string of bubbles became increasingly hypnotic, and at some point in my deep day-slumber, I confused it with the act of eating yogurt with a spoon.  I remember scrunching my face and thinking, “Did I not just learn this lesson?”

Before the advent of auto-pilot and zombies, I think this kind of behavior was labeled “absent-mindedness.”  I try not to succumb while doing things like driving a car, playing the violin, or getting dressed in the morning.  Of course, habits are what make it possible for humans to do all three of these activities in one day, so it’s not our habitual nature that is so dangerous.  The problem is the proximity of the “reply” and “reply all” buttons, so to speak, in our brains.

Originally published in Style Weekly on Feb. 24, 2014.

One of the less glamorous parts of my job as principal second violin of the Richmond Symphony is that I must ensure that the bows of the second violins always slice through the air in the same direction as those of the firsts — for safety as much as anything else. In the business, we refer to this task as “doing bowings,” and it is only slightly more artistically satisfying than filling out a standard achievement test.

So imagine my surprise when, while doing bowings at my kitchen table a few weeks ago in preparation for the Richmond Symphony Orchestra’s upcoming performance of Dmitri Shostakovich’s monumental Tenth Symphony, my throat tightened and tears came to my eyes. As I scanned through my part, no. 2 pencil in hand, I could hear the whole orchestra swelling underneath the violins. Although I hadn’t played the piece in nearly 15 years, the entire emotional journey of the symphony hit me all at once — the pain, the fear, the loneliness, the triumph. I realized that, like a first love, Shostakovich 10 still shaped me.

I was in eighth grade and starting my second year in the Portland Youth Philharmonic, an orchestra with a reputation for performing pieces that are widely considered best left to professionals. The announcement that our 1999-2000 season would open with Shostakovich’s Tenth symphony was met with a chorus of naysaying; not only is it one of the Soviet composer’s more technically difficult works, it is also quite emotionally intense. We thrived on the challenge. At 13, my brain still melted when confronted with double-flats or dotted 32nd notes, but I was determined to get the Shostakovich in my fingers, if only to prove those people wrong.

Our conductor, Huw Edwards, was a sturdy Welshman with an endless reserve of wit and sweat. He took the time to explain to us the historical significance of the piece: after composing his Ninth Symphony in 1945, Shostakovich didn’t write another until 1953, after the death of Stalin. Shostakovich’s musical signature, D.S.C.H., appears throughout the Tenth, as if declaring victory over the tyrant. Mr. Edwards’ passion and intensity inspired us all to root for a composer who had died decades earlier.

When the Richmond Symphony performs Shostakovich 10 next week, we will have four rehearsals in total, all of them within days of the concert. Portland Youth Philharmonic rehearsed it twice a week for three months. When you play a piece of music for that long, it seeps into your bones in a way that isn’t possible in one week. The more you play it, the more you learn to love every heart-breaking moment, and the anticipation makes the pain that much sweeter. By the night of the concert, we felt we had bonded with the piece, and each other, for life.

Enthusiasm can yield many undesirable results in an orchestral performance. It makes you want to rush. It makes you blow too hard or press too much. If you get really excited, you might even out-blast the other instruments temporarily. Youth orchestras are the best at enthusiasm. The hormones, the boundless energy, the overcompensation for technical discomfort, the fact that they only get to perform a few times a year — it all amounts to some seriously charged performances. This energy provokes chuckling among professional musicians everywhere, but the joke is clearly on us.

Recently, I listened to the recording of my childhood performance, and I was moved by how we seem to be playing like our lives depended on it. Our hands might not have been hitting all the right notes, but our hearts were on point. The swells in the brass are distastefully loud, causing them to sound dangerous and menacing, like a tank that might run you over. The strings have teeth, the winds scream, and the percussion section sounds too loud, like heavy artillery. The galloping second movement seems like it’s about to run off the rails — but it never does. Our performance is far from refined, but there is an element of defiance that a professional ensemble would never have.

I still remember the pounding in my chest as I turned the last page. The trumpets were winding up for the climax, and I had to turn in time to play the flurry of notes that underline the final intonement of the composer’s initials (D.S.C.H. translates to D-Eb-C-B in German notation). But by that time, I already knew that victory was ours.

Now, after years of specialized training, I can get around my instrument just fine. I eat double-flats and dotted 32nd notes for breakfast. I learn hundreds of notes every week. But these upcoming performances are going to be different. As my bow slices through the air in all the right directions, an old flame will be burning deep inside.

A few weeks ago, while re-watching Sigur Ros’s Heima, I developed an intense longing for the outdoors.  I attempted to fill the void by taking a walk on Belle Isle early the next morning.  It was a bit like treating a concussion with a Band-aid: it helped greatly if you used your imagination.

Then, yesterday, I tried again.  Thanks to a lesson cancellation, I found myself with the whole day free.  Since I was already planning to drive out to Charlottesville in the evening for a concert, I decided to immerse myself in the beauty of the nearby Shenandoah National Park.

I couldn’t afford to take the entire day, however.  I needed to practice a good amount for a wedding which was to include unusually challenging (i.e. rewarding) music.  My fingers never really felt warmed up during the two solid hours I put in, but I did make a break-though.   Nothing huge, but big enough to dislodge a loathed familiarity somewhere in my brain.  We should see some results in the next few weeks.

Feeling reasonably wholesome, I decided it was time to take the rest of the day off.  First stop: the new Lamplighter on Summit, where I picked up a Mockumentary (the sandwich that transformed my relationship with tempeh from cordial if not warm to warm if not lustful), two grapefruit sugar cookies, and a housemade ginger ale.  I’ll just tell you, so you’re not kept in suspense, that the cookies did not make it to the top of Loft Mountain.

I chose Loft Mountain after a brief googling of hikes near Charlottesville.  I don’t remember my criteria.  I think one important thing was that it be in the outdoors.

Now, some might say that the amount of time driving was disproportionate to the amount of time spent hiking.  And to them, I would offer a ride in Little Red.  Sunshine glistening on the hood and sparkling in the windshield, the little wheels hugging the curves of Skyline Drive (which offers alternating views east and west), the rumble of the engine as it bravely ascends the switchbacks…the driving was at least half the fun.

It’s a good thing I felt that way, too, since I inadvertently drove to the top of the mountain I had come to climb.  No matter!  I blithely “hiked” back down until I reached the trailhead, then hiked without quotation marks (and with gusto!) to the top again, ate my Mockumentary triumphantly, tried to ignore the fact that I had 3G up there, and came back down, with unusually challenging wedding music playing in my head all the while.  There was certainly enough time to do all of this without hurrying, but there was not more than enough time.  Turns out, that’s what I was after.  In the end, it was kind of like treating a concussion with a nap.  (Do not do!!!)

But I didn’t want to miss the concert.  It was Three Notch’d Road, the baroque ensemble founded last year by my friend, Fiona, and other C’ville musicians.  I swear, even if Fiona were not my super-duper-good-friend-people-think-we’re-sisters, I would still drive an hour and pay money to hear these guys play.  They are truly excellent.

I scooted in next to Fiona’s parents just a few minutes before it started.  Her mom looked particularly radiant, but when I asked how she was doing, she surprised me by complaining about how exhausted she was.  At the risk of sounding disingenuous, I complimented her on her radiance, trying to pinpoint what was different.  ”That’s what happens when you put on red lipstick,” she ventured.  No.  No, I’ve tried that.

Then she patted me on the knee and said that we must exchange notes on being vegan (I am not vegan).  That’s when I remembered that she had gone from steak-lovin Texan to plant-based diet Texan with the occasional steak just a couple of months ago.  As the concert started, I began giving serious thought to being vegan with the occasional steak.

If you’ve been to a baroque concert before, you know that it’s all about sonority.  The music seems to be taking place somewhere above the musicians themselves as their sounds mingle and rub against each other in the air.  Utmost attention is paid to perfect intonation, resonance, tone and shape.  You know the music is alive because it is breathing.

Other than seeing my incredibly talented friend shred some baroque fiddle and hearing a Grammy Award-winning, former Chanticleer countertenor, the highlight of the evening was hearing Sian Ricketts sing.  Sian went to CIM with me (and before that, Brevard) as an oboist.  Looking back, I guess I had heard that she was also a singer, but nothing could have prepared me for the mastery of tone and inflection that I heard out of her last night.  Within the ensemble, her voice was like that creamy part on top of the full-fat yogurt that you know you should probably stir in to the rest of the tub but instead you take a non-chalant, mostly runny bite with some of the creamy part still in tact, secretly savoring only the creamy part.

I wondered if they’ve figured out how to do that with soy yogurt yet.

Epilogue: I went over to the violist’s house after the concert and was fed pizza and brownies with ice cream.  Yes, “was fed”.

Dickersons don’t sing; they belt.  And usually in at least 3-part harmony.  I remember sitting around the campfire at Mt. Rainier as a kid, wishing I knew just one complete phrase of Sweet By and By so that I could begin carving out an alto line to call my own.  My mom and her three older siblings formed the foundation of the Dickerson family belt-fests: David, with his cheerful, crackling tenor, Becky, a gutsy alto, my mom, with her clear, crisp soprano, and Cyndy, always carefully harnessing, to various degrees, her powerhouse super-soprano.  My cousins and I used to nudge each other in the church pew when Cyndy really let ‘er rip at the end of some choral piece at Christmastime.  There was no prouder moment to be a Dickerson.

The whole Dickerson clan used to gather at least three times each year: once at Ohanapecosh, a magical campground at Mt. Rainier, once at a rented beach house in Lincoln City on the Oregon Coast, and for Christmas, rotating between the siblings’ homes.  These get-togethers were easily the highlight of my childhood, and I’m pretty sure many of my cousins would say the same.  The chemistry between the four siblings (our parents) was glorious.  It was endlessly entertaining to watch them banter back and forth.  Aunt Cyndy, with her quick wit and a tendency to yammer, was at the center of it all.

It is hard to say how much I adore my Aunt Cyndy.  Really hard.  I think I surpassed her in height when I was ten.  She is a tiny bundle of wit, charm, warmth and fun.  I have loved being around her since I was a little girl.  When our family got our first desktop (circa 1993?), Cyndy, who has been an IT specialist since forever, came over and taught us how to boot up using the C prompt.  Then she gave us a tutorial in Minesweeper and Solitaire.  Her son, Erik, was the first baby I ever held, and she the first pregnant lady I ever knew.

Last Wednesday, I spent the afternoon with her up in Northern Idaho, where she lives with her husband, Dave.  Just the day before, her doctor had advised her to quit her job at Washington State University; the cancer she has been battling for the last six years was finally catching up with her.  She told me that, ten years before she was diagnosed, she and her doctor suspected that she might be showing early signs of colon cancer, but she was told by her insurance company that she was “too young” and “the wrong gender” for that type of cancer.  In fact, colon cancer is the number one cancer killer of women.  Breast cancer is second on the list, thanks in large part to advances in early detection methods.  By the time Cyndy’s cancer was diagnosed, it was already in Stage IV.

Cyndy is not shy to talk about her condition.  Whenever possible, she and her husband spread this message: if and when you have a problem, stand up and fight.  No one else is going to do it for you.

As we talked, I marveled at my aunt.  Although she recognizes with painful clarity that her insurance company is to blame for her situation, she doesn’t seem to harbor a trace of bitterness.  Over the last six years, she has demonstrated that her good humor is not just skin-deep.  Her update emails to sixty-some friends and family members have always been peppered with hope, smiles, and triple exclamation points.  She knew her days were numbered, but she didn’t care to spend those days crying.  The most amazing thing to me, though, is how she has seemed to redouble her interest and investment in the lives of others.  She is often the first person to comment on my blog or facebook posts, and her words are always clever and thoughtful.  I would totally understand if she wanted to spend her days checking off a long bucket list and making every moment count, but instead, she chooses to maintain and even strengthen her ties to all of us.  It seems she has discovered a deeper way to live life to the fullest.

Our visit on Wednesday was abundantly cheerful, reminiscent of those trips to the coast and Mt. Rainier.  Cyndy treated us to many signature eye-rolls, stories, and those laughs where she sort of rubs her nose.  Her spirit is so vibrant, her courage so inspiring, her personality so unique (yet so clearly rooted in Dickerson culture), her laugh so infectious, and her heart so warm and caring, I know that she will always be an integral part of my sense of family, my sense of me.

All you nerds will appreciate this.  Well, all you music nerds.  This is a story about what a nerd I am, and what a nerd you are, if you like it.

Nearly five years ago, my 20-year old mind was blown.  I was lucky enough to hear the Beaux Arts Trio when they came through Cleveland, and those men changed my life forever so far.  Some of my longtime followers might remember this Myspace post:

There really aren’t words to describe what I am experiencing. This is one of those concerts where you sit here the whole time, thinking to yourself, “I cannot believe I was actually considering skipping this.”

Three distinguished-looking men walk confidently onto the stage. They bow, flip their coat tails behind them and take their seats. In one fluid motion, Daniel Hope and Antonio Meneses bring their bows to the string and effortlessly produce a taut string of sound, pulling me into their world. The legendary Menahem Pressler sneaks in with a sparkling carpet of harmony for his string-playing colleagues. He leans back, away from the keyboard, and looks Daniel in the eye as they cadence together. I realize that I’ve stopped breathing.

Their collective sound is an organ, not a piano trio. They use vibrato sparingly, and when they start to wiggle their fingers ever so slightly, it is the most heavenly thing. Daniel has the sweetest, most honest tone I think I’ve ever heard. I never knew one could create a dark, warm color on the E-string. My heart is aching.

Every note is a word, every slide a plea, every accent a moan. Every pizzicato is important, every hairpin is a gesture, every pianissimo is a secret trembling with excitement. Their Shostakovich is wild. I didn’t know it was possible to be so flamboyant and yet hit all the notes. Daniel is wailing now. It’s almost grotesque, how much he is vibrating way up there on the E-string. We all know he could make a prettier sound, but would that be Stalin’s Russia?

I don’t want this to end. They are bowing at the end of the first half, and there are tears in my eyes because I am starting to understand what I have just breathlessly witnessed.

The Schubert is out of this world. I think these must be the most versatile musicians I have ever encountered. They have an impressively wide spectrum of color and texture. I have been on the edge of my seat for the entire concert, wondering, “What happens next?” Everything they say with their instruments is sincere.

Now the crowd is going wild, clapping in unison as if we’re at a ballgame. The Beaux Arts trio finally returns to the stage for the encore: a movement from Dvorak’s “Dumky”. My eyes again become blurry when, in the silence before Daniel’s final pizzicato, I can hear rain pattering on the roof. He has the audience wrapped around his strong, adroit finger.

See?  Mind: blown.  But the thing that has made a lasting impact on my day-to-day life comes from the phrase, “Every note is a word.”  I was enthralled by the way their playing sounded like human language; there were edges, there was inflection, there was laughter.  Not only were there consonants and vowels, there was a variety of each.  I really felt like I could almost make out what they were saying to each other, and it was the most delicious kind of eavesdropping.

What followed was the natural “I wanna do that” phase.  I made a list of syllables that I could practice imitating while playing scales, one syllable per pitch. What was once limited to legato/marcato/spiccatobecame Endless Possibility.  After going down the list, I felt like I could do anything.  Here’s the list (and I still do this from time to time):

(quarter note=70 or so)

half notes:

PAHHH

PUGGH

MWA

FWHUM (famously used by the Marrakesh quartet in the third movement of Haydn op. 76 no. 5)

YUM

HHAAHHH

dotted quarter-eighth:

TAHH-dee DAHH-dee

TAHH-uhm DAHH-uhm

neee-YUH

eighth-dotted quarter:

Daht-deee

sixteenth notes:

dak

yah

HO

nee

FAH

How does PAHHH differ from PUGGH, you might ask?  How, exactly, do you make your instrument speak the words FWHUM or nee?  Fortunately, you don’t have to know how to do it–your hands already do.  Your body is smarter than you give it credit for.

My former teacher, Bill Preucil, often spoke of this direct communication between the brain and the fingers, a command line that sort of bypasses the frontal lobe.  ”You just tell yourself to do it, and your hands somehow know what to do.”  Of course, this works best if you have some previous experience playing the violin, but it does work.

I remember coming in for one of my lessons and complaining about my technique.  My bow hadn’t been going straight for weeks, and I didn’t know what was happening to me!  I used to be able to do this!!  He listened politely as I expressed my concerns.  When I was finished, he said, “Well, just make your bow go straight.”  And I did.

Direct yourselves, nerds.

A lot of people were up in arms recently over an article which stated that musicians had it pretty good.  The article listed “orchestra musician” as one of three relatively low-stress, high-paying jobs, along with yoga instructors and massage therapists.  Many rotten tomatoes were thrown at the writer for claiming that an orchestra musician did not have to deal with urgent deadlines and that they found their music to be spiritually fulfilling.  Now, as someone who once tried to apply eye make-up while crying right before a rehearsal, I am not here to tell you that the job is all fun and spiritual fulfillment.  I would, however, say this to the rotten tomato throwers: stress is not something to be proud of.

As my favorite yoga instructor likes to say, sometimes we think that our stress defines us.  We are reluctant to let it go; we’re better at hanging on.  But then there’s a wake-up call that kindly informs us that our beloved stress is actually killing us.  That’s when we get serious about taking deep breaths, exercising, bubble baths and other stress-reducing activities.  Unfortunately, stress management can easily sneak into the category of “to-do”, which can sometimes become a list of things that never get done.

When I find myself in this particular boat, I am glad when the occasional lifesaver-thought floats across my mind.  These thoughts are mysterious creatures; I don’t know where they hide or what instigates their emergence.  They are things I once knew, maybe even mantras I used to repeat, but they have slipped into my uncatalogued archives.  Then they drop by, unannounced, and my shoulders relax and I start breathing again.  So I thought, maybe if I wrote them down, I could keep them all there in my mental living room.

• The magic words were spoken during a yoga class my mom and I attended a few years ago.  I didn’t even notice that I was worrying about a hundred things until the teacher said, “Realize that, in this moment, everything is perfect.”  I remember looking out the window, feeling that all my problems were somewhere out there, in the future, maybe even imaginary, and that inside the room was this perfect moment of stillness, safety and warmth.  Since that day, I have found it so powerful to recognize the perfection in each moment.  My favorite is when I’m taking a shower in the morning and getting all worked up over all the bad things that might possibly befall me sometime in the future.  The words cross my mind like an airplane banner and I say, “Ellen, you’re in the shower.”
• When practicing the violin, I find that it is best to treat it like a matter of life and death.  You have to practice runs and shifts and string crossings as though, if you miss them in the performance, you will soar into the crowd like a stray acrobat.  When you are trying to fall asleep at night, however, you need to get real.  You must realize that IT’S JUST MUSIC.  It has to be capitalized because you need to say it slowly and forcefully, so as to drown out all the unhelpful chatter that’s keeping you awake.
• If you think about stress from a scientific standpoint, you realize that we modern humans are doing it wrong.  Stress hormones, such as cortisol and norepinephrine, are supposed to be for truly dangerous situations.  It’s kind of embarrassing, when you think about it, that these hormones are coursing through our bodies when all we’re doing is sitting at a desk and clicking buttons on TurboTax.  That’s why I like to remind myself from time to time that I’m not being chased by a lion.  That usually sends those hormones back to their caves, tails between their legs.
• I’ve been reading Masanobu Fukuoka’s The One-Straw Revolution. The book describes Masanobu’s unique farming method in which the farmer basically stands back and lets Mother Nature do her thang.  Masanobu began developing this “do-nothing” method after a particularly lucid moment when he was a young man.  One morning, after a restless night of wandering, he saw a heron squawk and fly over the harbor.  Instantly, his doubts and worries vanished and he mumbled the words, “In this world there is nothing.”  Maybe these words sound depressing to you, but when I say them out loud to myself, it’s as if there were a hundred angry men gripping the throats of a hundred other men in my brain, and suddenly everybody lets go.
• This one has the power to turn my limbs to jelly every single time.  Although it is useful in many situations, I usually employ it when I need to reply to 15 emails and return 10 phonecalls.  Each time I receive an email or voicemail, I attach a heavy ball and chain to my ankle, which makes daily chores (digging ditches, chipping stone) very lugubrious indeed.  Then it hits me, usually quite suddenly: You are free.  That’s when I realize that the chains were never really there, and that I am an independent individual, free to move about the house as I please.  I can’t account for it, but that is also the time that I finally get back to all those nice people.

Before I wrap up, I want to say one last thing to all the rotten-tomato throwers:  Always somebody gonna be wrong on the internet.  Just remember that.

The forest seemed to be smiling, its hands folded on its chest. Nature always seems to smile, not with pleasure, but with a sort of ancient wisdom. Through night, through rain, through cold, even through death it smiles. It knows about seasons, about cycles. I was clearly the only living thing in 700 acres that was wondering what to do next. 

I got this idea that I was walking through my mind. Since I saw no other hikers for an hour and a half, it was easy to slip into this metaphor. I imagined that I was tip-toeing through my thoughts, my memories, my ideas about the way things are and the way things ought to be. And the air was crisp and cool.

The only woodland creatures I encountered were mosquitos, but I felt strangely honored to be considered acceptable feasting material in this great and complex, living and breathing entity we call Nature. It’s the least one can do when sitting atop the food chain.

I was astounded by the beautiful serenity of trees displaced by puny streams, their roots sticking comically up in the air, underbrush still clinging to the base, hoping to start a new ground at an 80 degree angle.

Not so long ago, I read somewhere that Nature holds endless metaphors for life, which seems a bit inside out, since we ARE Nature and can’t really be separated from it. Nevertheless, when you are out on a hike by yourself, you cannot help but end up with at least 5 metaphors for your life. I know I came up with about 7, none of which are particularly useful to mankind and do not, therefore, need to be repeated on the interwebs.

It is enough to say that, with every step on the carpet of needles, I could feel the Smile sinking deeper and deeper into my bones.