Humans connecting (Telling stories Part III)

In difficult times, it can be the ordinary things that make the difference between surviving the chaos or drowning in the fear and grief. Food delivered. Music played. Compassion given. These are, equally, ordinary gestures of human connection and extraordinary demonstrations of service to those in our circle who are in need.

I think of this as the war in Ukraine rages on, and people do unspeakable things to other people, and all I can do is watch the nightly news as a way of witnessing the unfolding violence.

Through the nightly news, I stay on top of the day’s worst horrors, while through my social media feed I keep hope alive by reading and watching stories of ordinary people helping others survive those horrors — or do their best to get through the next few hours by providing a hot meal or singing together or playing an instrument and making music.

The third instalment in my 4-part flash-fiction story focuses on human connection through music; it was sparked by a Humans of New York story that featured a piano player. You can read Telling stories Part I here and Telling Stories Part II here. Part III is below. 

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COMPOSING

It had been a warm day when I moved in next door to Maxine. It didn’t take me long to hump my few boxes up the stairs and dump them into the small house. Any corner would do. Time for sorting later. In the moment, I wanted to be outside, so I could watch the old lady next door in her garden and listen to the music that wafted out her windows.

I had come to this god forsaken neighbourhood to lose myself in the anonymity of it, to live in the shadow of the big trees and not keep up appearances. Nobody would care about me or ask questions I didn’t want to have to contemplate. Or, I thought nobody would care about a middle-aged woman just living her childless life here. But, there, I was wrong. I hadn’t counted on Maxine and her charm.

It had been a long time since I’d encountered charm of any kind and, at first, I wasn’t sure how to respond. Turns out it actually wasn’t charm so much as just ordinary kindness. Ordinary for Maxine, anyway. For me, it was rough, at first, to be so close to something so soft and seductive as kindness, but Maxine won me over, day by day. Didn’t change me, not the me deep inside that had forgotten what peace had ever felt like. But she did tickle my surface enough for me to chat with her, to comment on the weather, to remark on the boldness of the squirrels in her garden, and, eventually, to talk about music.

For my country & western raised ears, Maxine’s classical music was all new to me, and it blew my mind. That first day, sitting out on the front step it was so strange — all that music without any lyrics to give it meaning. Maxine taught me that the meaning came from the notes themselves and how the composer put them together.

She favoured Chopin, while, over time, I gravitated towards Beethoven. The guy was deaf, for god sake, and still produced amazing music that, on a good day, I can stand to listen to, even downright enjoy. Especially his Ode to Joy. Now, that’s a piece of work, alright — music and words, too. I listen to it in spite of the title, or maybe because of the title. Whatever. I can't help but lose myself in its beautiful sound — and losing myself dampens the rage that fuels most of my days. Doesn’t extinguish it, but the music is like a bridge that takes me over the rage and, on a good day, leads me to the other side.

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Land acknowledgement: I respectfully recognize that I live on the original lands of Anishinaabe, Cree, Oji-Cree, Dakota and Dene peoples, and on the homeland of the Métis Nation.

Photo of sandwiches by Anastasia Kalinkina on Unsplash  

Photo of sheet music by weston m on Unsplash