On Nov. 18, 1995, ItzakPerlman, the violinist, came on stage to give a concert at Avery Fisher Hall, at Lincoln Center in New York City.
If you have ever been to a Perlman concert, you know that getting on stage is no small achievement for him. He was stricken with polio as a child, and so he has braces on both legs and walks with the aid of two crutches. To see him walk across the stage one step at a time, painfully and slowly, is an awesome sight. He walks painfully, yet majestically, until he reaches his chair. Then he sits down, slowly, puts his crutches on the floor, undoes the clasps on his legs, tucks one foot back and extends the other foot forward. Then he bends down and picks up the violin, puts it under his chin, nods to the conductor and proceeds to play.
By now, the audience is used to this ritual. They sit quietly while he makes his way across the stage to his chair. They remain reverently silent while he undoes the clasps on his legs. They wait until he is ready to play.
But this time, something went wrong. Just as he finished the first few bars, one of the strings on his violin broke. You could hear it snap -- it went off like gunfire across the room. There was no mistaking what that sound meant. There was no mistaking what he had to do.
People who were there that night thought to themselves: "We figured that he would have to get up, put on the clasps again, pick up the crutches and limp his way off stage -- to either find another violin or else find another string for this one."
But he didn't. Instead, he waited a moment, closed his eyes and then signaled the conductor to begin again. The orchestra began, and he played from where he had left off. And he played with such passion and such power and such purity as they had never heard before.
Of course, anyone knows that it is impossible to play a symphonic work with just three strings. I know that, and you know that, but that night, Itzhak Perlman refused to know that. You could see him modulating, changing, recomposing the piece in his head . At one point, it sounded like he was de-tuning the strings to get new sounds from them that they had never made before.
When he finished, there was an awesome silence in the room. And then people rose and cheered. There was an extraordinary outburst of applause from every corner of the auditorium. We were all on our feet, screaming and cheering, doing everything we could to show how much we appreciated what he had done.
He smiled, wiped the sweat from his brow, raised his bow to quiet us, and then he said -- not boastfully, but in a quiet, pensive, reverent tone -- "You know, sometimes it is the artist's task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left."
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This teaching has struck me each time I've heard it. I've 'gotten' the concept of "what you have left". Lately though the "what you have left" has not seemed as a less than idea as it had previously rather it is a very full sometimes overflowing sense. On these days it is not a sense of loss that I feel but this huge sense of what I have. The MUSIC in me.
I am a huge fan of music. I love to dance. Well, make that I love to twirl...
I've often used the reference of a 'story' in describing my life's course. I've spoken of chapters and pages. I've made mention of my belief that I've had wonderful relationships written into short stories and I've shared that I had longed for a novel. Lately these terms have changed.
My life is a CONCERT....
It has been filled and continues to fill with notes and melodies. Yes, there have been slow, sad songs to which I have rocked and cried. There have been times where I have not been in harmony and certainly played a bit off key. Oh, but there is also such JOYful noise.
On Sunday I attended the Remembrance Service at the Children's hospital where Tyra spent her final days. This was my fourth and perhaps final service. The first year was a blur. The second year still very raw. Last year I had the honor of sharing about my path to healing and this year I had wonderful friends sharing as part of the service. I had some odd guilt in the thoughts of going more as a friend and supporter than as the bereaved mom. Please don't take this to mean I do not grieve for my sweet girl. It's just gotten different. She continues to play her beautiful song in my heart and in my life. She in fact has turned up the volume.
For the past two years I struggled with presenting what has been my favorite photo of Tyra with the knowledge that it will always be my favorite photo. That there will not be another. This year in preparing for the service I sent what I believed would have been Tyra's favorite photo.
It was the perfect choice... for her and me. After the service no less than 4 people came up and complimented on this selection. I have many favorites now. What a blessing. During the service a wonderful choral selection of 'Candle on the Water' was performed. Tyra and I were fans on Pete's Dragon - magic in pairs. There was a particular song that we twirled around the living room to, that I sang along to in the van, that I remembered on this Sunday and that holds some new meaning today.
Treasure them from day to day. Climb the highest tree with.
It's so easy.
I have so much more to share on this concert of mine. I have wonderful accompaniment in friends and family. It is not mine to conduct outright but to embrace and appreciate each note as they are played.
I'll end with this final song as I head out to enjoy some new selections. My thanks and love to all who have supported the music in me.