Symphonies and Grief

Tonight I went to the symphony with some friends. It began with selections from Walton's Facade which includes narration. Poems written by an English woman, Edith Sitwell, who apparently was the naughty lady of English poetry in the early 1920s. Her poems were absurd and irreverent and she spent a lifetime scandalizing English society. It was her brother's idea to set some of her poems to Walton's music. The result was Facade--a setting of twenty-one poems. (thankfully we only heard about six this evening). Not that it was terrible, but it was very interesting and I didn't quite get it. Maybe it's because I'm not quite sophisticated. ;-)

The evening continued with a local composer's fourth symphony, Living Breathing Earth. The composer was a middle-aged woman with a serious hippy vibe. She introduced her work and expressed her extreme concern for our "sick and dying planet." I know that we all should (and could) do a little more to encourage presevation of the planet, however, the way she spoke seemed almost artificial. I do believe that she is extremely passionate about this and loves nature very much, but when she spoke it didn't come out very genuinely. I don't know if that makes any sense, but when Stacey talks of pulsing with the universe and living as part of the earth, she sounds real. She sounds rational. This woman sounded weird. Anyway, her first movement was entitled Call of the Cicadas. To me, it was a little chaotic. But that's me. The final three movements were actually quite wonderful and beautiful. It's amazing how music can really transport you.

Then the main event. Marina Lomazov, faculty at USC, beautiful Ukranian-American woman, who plays the piano as if she's dancing with it. I couldn't take my eyes off of her the entire time. Her stage presence is hypnotic. Somewhere during the second movement of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-Flat Minor, Op. 23 I realized that I am going to be okay.

My last four months can be described exactly as follows: LIVING IN DENIAL. Most people reading this know that my relationship ended at the beginning of December and it threw me for a whirl. I thought my life was planned out--I was ready to make enormous steps, sacrifice everything and give of myself completely. The grief I felt when the rug was pulled out from beneath me lingered for weeks. Now, looking back, I realize that during these past four months, I have been living in serious denial. Denial (and isolation)...stage one of grieving. I have denied that I was let go. Denied that I had no significant other. Things had changed, yet not severely enough for my teeny tiny brain to realize that it was really over. Somewhere in the depths of my little brain, there was hope that it was all a nightmare, that it hadn't really happened. I told myself I was cocooning--pulling away from the world in order to emerge stronger, more beautiful, more powerful. Now I realize it was plain old isolation. I'm ready to come out of hiding now.

The past few days I have graduated to stage two of grieving: anger. I am so angry. I am so angry at him. I am angry at myself for everything. The rage I feel inside has to escape. I know that the only way through it is my yoga and my prayer. In the glorious words of my most beloved St. Paul, "Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. And be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving each other just as God in Christ also has forgiven you." Ephesians 4:31

Dear St. Paul pray for me!