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At 3 A.M., I woke with this consoling dream:

It’s early spring, moist, fresh greening everywhere. I’m healthy, tanned, and stand tall, soft winds teasing my short white hair. I decide to shop for a new outfit to honor the season and step inside a Women’s Boutique. Inside, most of the clothing is made of the same wide striped light green and white fabric, billowy in texture. I’m thrilled. The barrette on the matching hat also draws customers’ interest. I’m delighted by my selection of the dress and hat.

Another glimpse into my psyche shows more healing of my femininity, one that is pure gift from Higher Power, despite periodic episodes of grief.

Such a delight!

Next to my front porch, four-petelled forsythia blossoms, trumpet-like, hang suspended from arching branches, tossed by trickster winds.

 

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Like the sun, their yellow encodes itself upon our cells and shakes us free from winter’s bondage of graying-browns shivering our worlds.

It laughs in the face of winter’s illusory enslavement of our spirits.

This is real comedy.

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We never know when the next quickening will occur—that moment of communion with Beauty that ravishes the senses, that tingles our humanness and enlarges our world.

Such occurred last evening with the flick of the switch on my radio; it was Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 3 in D Minor, Op. 30, composed in1909 on his family’s country estate in Ivanovka, Russia. When asked about the haunting lei-motif opening the first movement played by the pianist, the composer replied: “It had written itself.” Indeed, the lei-motif succeeds in piercing through the quotidian of life and transporting the listener into wordless realms of brilliant color, gossamer texture, and a passion tinged with Russian mysticism. Alternating woodwinds, brass, strings, and tympani from the Munich Philharmonic intermesh with the melodic line of the piano and heighten the drama. We are in the presence of something awesome and shimmering. We dare not leave.

However, the recurrence of the lei-motif in the third movement signals closure.

Before the resonance from the concluding notes fades, the audience roars; its thunderous clapping storms the domed ceiling of the Royal Albert Hall. I join them.

 

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