cello.
At the Lily Pad in Cambridge last Saturday, I was confronted with the power of music. Three groups played; all three featured the deep, haunting voice of the cello.
I arrived at the show in good spirits - I hadn't been to the venue since it re-opened (Boston-based readers may remember the Zeitgeist, which previously occupied the space), my boyfriend was playing for the first time with a new band, and it had reached fifty degrees that day. All was well in my world.
And then the first cello played.
The cellist played with her eyes closed, moved by every note; I was on the verge of tears.
My heart tensed up, taut as the strings on the cello as the bow was pulled across. I felt my body relax when the bow was lifted; the cellist closed her eyes again and I could barely breathe. What was happening? I kept reminding myself, Nothing is wrong! You have no reason to cry! And I believed it, and I kept my composure, and I decided not to be so dramatic. It was just a cello, after all. There are long, slow notes that quiver, conjuring the stark and horrifying images of the Holocaust. There are quick, bright notes, the cellist's fingers crawling up and down the strings like a spider, playing the excitement of surprise, or of love. And there are deep, steady notes, when everything is at peace, but only for a moment.
On Sunday, I knew why my heart was tense, and I let the tears fall. The pastor of my church led a sermon in response to Haiti. He disagreed with religious leaders who said God was punishing Haiti. He sympathized with families who wanted to know why. He admired the faith of so many people in Haiti who have been photographed on their knees or with their hands in the air, continually praying, praising, and crying out to the heavens. And he answered the most popular question, Where is God?
"God is fighting for Haiti - that's where God is."
Somewhere deep in my soul, the cello played. The bow slid across my heart, back and forth, breaking it into so many slivers of reverberating metal strings. I cried. I don't know a single person who lives in Haiti, but I cried as if my whole family had been crushed under the ruins of a building. I cried for the Haitian student I taught in English Composition last semester, I cried for my ever-smiling Haitian friend at church, for the Haitian community within the church that made a strong presence on Sunday, for the woman several rows in front who said that she still hadn't heard from her daughter, for the women in back of me who sobbed through every song but still managed to sing the words and repeat Amen.
The news of Haiti was no longer news on Saturday and Sunday; by Saturday the strings were wound as tightly as they could be, and on Sunday they were played, releasing the anguish and the helplessness and the raw sorrow for others. And joy.
Yes. Glimmers of joy. Joy that my pastor was right - God was in fact fighting for Haiti, moving doctors to fly to Port-au-Prince, volunteers to organize relief efforts all over the world, and regular cellos like me to cry and sing and pray. I realized that morning that if I'd never heard of God before, I would have known in that moment that he is real. If he isn't real, if we are simply highly evolved organisms, then none of this matters - not Haiti, not death, not the mysterious clenching of a heart when it knows - just knows - that right has to win over wrong. If none of it matters, then I don't care about Haiti - it can sink under the weight of the dead and fall to the bottom of the ocean, and I'll wake up tomorrow as usual.
But I won't. I'll wake up tomorrow, warm, fed, and clothed, knowing full well that the world is a mess and life matters, that life has to matter. It matters for the beauty, for the miracles, for the effect of one life on another, of one life on millions. It matters for the vibrato, harmonics, and glissando. It matters for the high notes, the low notes, and the steady notes. It matters because of the Cellist who makes them all sing.
I arrived at the show in good spirits - I hadn't been to the venue since it re-opened (Boston-based readers may remember the Zeitgeist, which previously occupied the space), my boyfriend was playing for the first time with a new band, and it had reached fifty degrees that day. All was well in my world.
And then the first cello played.
The cellist played with her eyes closed, moved by every note; I was on the verge of tears.
My heart tensed up, taut as the strings on the cello as the bow was pulled across. I felt my body relax when the bow was lifted; the cellist closed her eyes again and I could barely breathe. What was happening? I kept reminding myself, Nothing is wrong! You have no reason to cry! And I believed it, and I kept my composure, and I decided not to be so dramatic. It was just a cello, after all. There are long, slow notes that quiver, conjuring the stark and horrifying images of the Holocaust. There are quick, bright notes, the cellist's fingers crawling up and down the strings like a spider, playing the excitement of surprise, or of love. And there are deep, steady notes, when everything is at peace, but only for a moment.
On Sunday, I knew why my heart was tense, and I let the tears fall. The pastor of my church led a sermon in response to Haiti. He disagreed with religious leaders who said God was punishing Haiti. He sympathized with families who wanted to know why. He admired the faith of so many people in Haiti who have been photographed on their knees or with their hands in the air, continually praying, praising, and crying out to the heavens. And he answered the most popular question, Where is God?
"God is fighting for Haiti - that's where God is."
Somewhere deep in my soul, the cello played. The bow slid across my heart, back and forth, breaking it into so many slivers of reverberating metal strings. I cried. I don't know a single person who lives in Haiti, but I cried as if my whole family had been crushed under the ruins of a building. I cried for the Haitian student I taught in English Composition last semester, I cried for my ever-smiling Haitian friend at church, for the Haitian community within the church that made a strong presence on Sunday, for the woman several rows in front who said that she still hadn't heard from her daughter, for the women in back of me who sobbed through every song but still managed to sing the words and repeat Amen.
The news of Haiti was no longer news on Saturday and Sunday; by Saturday the strings were wound as tightly as they could be, and on Sunday they were played, releasing the anguish and the helplessness and the raw sorrow for others. And joy.
Yes. Glimmers of joy. Joy that my pastor was right - God was in fact fighting for Haiti, moving doctors to fly to Port-au-Prince, volunteers to organize relief efforts all over the world, and regular cellos like me to cry and sing and pray. I realized that morning that if I'd never heard of God before, I would have known in that moment that he is real. If he isn't real, if we are simply highly evolved organisms, then none of this matters - not Haiti, not death, not the mysterious clenching of a heart when it knows - just knows - that right has to win over wrong. If none of it matters, then I don't care about Haiti - it can sink under the weight of the dead and fall to the bottom of the ocean, and I'll wake up tomorrow as usual.
But I won't. I'll wake up tomorrow, warm, fed, and clothed, knowing full well that the world is a mess and life matters, that life has to matter. It matters for the beauty, for the miracles, for the effect of one life on another, of one life on millions. It matters for the vibrato, harmonics, and glissando. It matters for the high notes, the low notes, and the steady notes. It matters because of the Cellist who makes them all sing.