Play
A joy here at Scots is the presence of students from the Conservatorium across the road at Adelaide University. These Elder students frequently enliven our day as they practice at one of our pianos. Today we have someone who is different. He is on the grand piano in the church, which I can still hear upstairs, across the hall. He is working on the same piece he practiced last week.
I have been down in the back of the church to listen. He has no music in front of him. The lengthy piece he is playing flows likes fast rivulets between the rocks, sometimes speeding up to a torrent, then straying into slow moving pools of sound.
I feel as though I have been drinking fine wine until now, but today have been treated to something very old and remarkable. I cannot fully appreciate what I have tasted, but know I have been very privileged.
He finished the piece, sat back, wiped his hands on his sides, and began again. On the same work.
Under the high ceilings and stain glass, such music plunges me into reflection.
Back at my window, I watch the people waiting impatiently at the lights. Several are texting. They scurry across at the change. How many will pause as they hear him play?
How do we practice a life? Do we stop at the lights and listen, or simply send another text?
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