In the past two weeks, I've attended two classical concerts: the first at the gorgeous Art Deco Alex Theatre in Glendale, which featured pianist super star Andre Watts, and the second at Segerstrom Hall across from South Coast Plaza. As an extra treat, I went with ladies who "know people" and so were able to secure free tickets. Alexi, via her opera singer grandmother, is friends with Andre Watts, and Diana's brother is a bass player for the Pacific Symphony.
I often listen to classical music on the radio and I have a few choice CDs. I was a member of the Southern California Early Music Society for many years and so attended medieval-music concerts in candlelit cathedrals in Los Angeles and Pasadena. But besides these two recent adventures, I have not been to a symphony performance since I was in high school.
Classical music is one of the pinnacles of Western civilization. Two Saturdays ago, I met with Andre Watts during intermission. He was a gracious man, remembering my name and introducing me to other admirers as they poured into his dressing room. After last Saturday's performance at Segerstrom Hall, Diana and I went backstage to meet with several of the musicians, all old friends and/or lovers of Diana's. To be around such accomplished professionals makes me feel as if I am at the very nexus of human aspiration over the past four or five centuries.
As Diana is a cellist, her brother plays for the Pacific Symphony and her sister plays for the LA Opera Company, I will probably be going to many more classical venues.
And Diana, in her own way, is thrilled to know a writer. She said, "I'm always around musicians. It's nice to know someone who expresses creativity through another medium."
It's interesting how life unfolds. I met Diana in January on the Blue Line. I had attended a peace demonstration in Los Angeles, and she was returning from an architectural tour. I'm not sure if I asked her about the tour first, or if she, seeing my sign, asked me about the march. Either way, we struck up a conversation and exchanged phone numbers and email addresses. Diana invited me to attend a number of events with her--the "lefties" potluck at El Dorado Park, a Shakespearean play, a lecture by an environmentalist--but I was always busy. Two weeks ago, I contacted her about a Russian choral group that is performing tonight in Costa Mesa. She said $35 was too much for her to spend, but would I like to see the Pacific Symphony for free? So last Saturday was the first time we've seen each other since that January train ride.
Tonight I'm attending the performance by the Russian choral group with another friend, Beverly, who had the $35 for a ticket.
It's so important to surround yourself with people of a creative spirit, whatever form that creativity takes. It gives me a zing down in my soul. It's as if through their music or their words or through dance or cooking or simply living a life of adventure and courage, they are touching the divine and sharing their take on the divine with the world.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Loving Emails, Solo Hugs, Lots of Crying--Strategies for Overcoming Hopelessness
After several good cries and a few messages of love from far-flung friends, I am feeling better.
And a big thank you to Tom; his new boyfriend, Ed; and Tom's parents, Tom and Gloria. Ed, who lives in a huge house that is filled with inventory from a shop he once owned, always says that if I need anything, let him know, he probably has some to spare. I told him I could use a few pots and a blender. Instead of taking from what he already has, Ed joined forces with Tom, Tom, and Gloria to purchase a nine-piece pot set and a blender. What's more, my friend Tom told me, his parents love me and have "adopted" me. This kindness and generosity out of left field overwhelmed me. I wept with gratitude when Tom carried the two big boxes containing my gifts into my apartment. As I continued to weep for joy, Tom washed the dishes that were already in the sink and the new pots set and blender too.
During these last few days of internal and externalized drama, I even showed up, unannounced and without an appointment, at the door of a social worker who counsels transplant patients and began weeping. Although she eventually steered the conversation around to anti-depressants, in the main, Karen was wonderful. I really could tell she was listening, and her eyes were filled with compassion. I said no to the drugs, that this was a temporary thing, a big hump I was going over and that I wanted to understand the pain, not medicate it away. She asked what she could do for me, and I told her I needed a hug, that no one ever hugs me and that I need physical contact. So Karen with her ample breasts wrapped her arms around me and held me for a minute or so.
I am not discounting the importance of email contact, especially with those who are not living nearby. But nothing beats old-fashioned human contact--a hug, a back rub, a hand-holding, a kiss.
So often during my decades of being alone, I have embraced myself and said aloud with a big smile, rubbing my chin against my shoulder, "Oh, Heidi, I love you. I love you so much." Or at night, lying on my back in bed, I hug my pillow and say sweet things to it, as if it were my lover or as if the words were those my lover was speaking to me. Of course, if I am really down, this just makes things worse, as I fully realize no one is there but me. But if I have not yet sunk that low, I somehow feel love filling me, as if a friend or lover really is with me, hugging me, infusing me with lovely talk. Or perhaps a passing angel stops for a moment and zings me with love.
I realize that people besides my son care about me. I know that if I died today, at least a dozen people would show up for my funeral. But those who live nearby are busy with other things in their lives, and the others live too far away to drop by for a hug. So, I just need to give myself more hugs. Just like a massage or a pedicure, it always feels better if someone else does it to you. But no matter, I accept the love that comes through emails--and that which I will supply on a more regular basis in solo hugs.
And a big thank you to Tom; his new boyfriend, Ed; and Tom's parents, Tom and Gloria. Ed, who lives in a huge house that is filled with inventory from a shop he once owned, always says that if I need anything, let him know, he probably has some to spare. I told him I could use a few pots and a blender. Instead of taking from what he already has, Ed joined forces with Tom, Tom, and Gloria to purchase a nine-piece pot set and a blender. What's more, my friend Tom told me, his parents love me and have "adopted" me. This kindness and generosity out of left field overwhelmed me. I wept with gratitude when Tom carried the two big boxes containing my gifts into my apartment. As I continued to weep for joy, Tom washed the dishes that were already in the sink and the new pots set and blender too.
During these last few days of internal and externalized drama, I even showed up, unannounced and without an appointment, at the door of a social worker who counsels transplant patients and began weeping. Although she eventually steered the conversation around to anti-depressants, in the main, Karen was wonderful. I really could tell she was listening, and her eyes were filled with compassion. I said no to the drugs, that this was a temporary thing, a big hump I was going over and that I wanted to understand the pain, not medicate it away. She asked what she could do for me, and I told her I needed a hug, that no one ever hugs me and that I need physical contact. So Karen with her ample breasts wrapped her arms around me and held me for a minute or so.
I am not discounting the importance of email contact, especially with those who are not living nearby. But nothing beats old-fashioned human contact--a hug, a back rub, a hand-holding, a kiss.
So often during my decades of being alone, I have embraced myself and said aloud with a big smile, rubbing my chin against my shoulder, "Oh, Heidi, I love you. I love you so much." Or at night, lying on my back in bed, I hug my pillow and say sweet things to it, as if it were my lover or as if the words were those my lover was speaking to me. Of course, if I am really down, this just makes things worse, as I fully realize no one is there but me. But if I have not yet sunk that low, I somehow feel love filling me, as if a friend or lover really is with me, hugging me, infusing me with lovely talk. Or perhaps a passing angel stops for a moment and zings me with love.
I realize that people besides my son care about me. I know that if I died today, at least a dozen people would show up for my funeral. But those who live nearby are busy with other things in their lives, and the others live too far away to drop by for a hug. So, I just need to give myself more hugs. Just like a massage or a pedicure, it always feels better if someone else does it to you. But no matter, I accept the love that comes through emails--and that which I will supply on a more regular basis in solo hugs.
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