Glissando

In music, a glissando is defined as a glide from one pitch to another. Other words used are: sweep, bend and smear. Due to its inexactness, the notation cannot be a specific note, but is rather a symbol to indicate a stringing together of the in-between from a beginning note, to a landing note.

I have always believed people and experiences come into our lives for a reason. Usually the reason is to learn something. These interludes can be brief sparkling delights that we tuck away to lovingly peer at from time to time, like a rare jewel that will never be worn, but can’t bear to give away. Sometimes, they are long stretches of time that evolve in unexpected ways, growing intricate tentacles that take root and become impossible to separate out.

And then there are times when we don’t know why things happen. The understanding eludes us because the pain is simply too great to see through. So maybe we put our faith in God, or time, or work, and hope these things will help us limp along until we can see with clear eyes the shape of tragedy.

When I started playing music with my trio eight years ago, it was a second chance to have a dream I had lost to life choices and responsibilities and youthful cowardice. Returning to music for me, was an attempt to regain a part of myself I wasn’t sure I could get back, but wanted to try.

We were three strangers lumped together by happenstance, an audition process in a particular moment in time. Our individual reasons to pursue music were our own, but we all thought of music as both redemption and identity. The cello is my favorite instrument. There is a longing and clarity in its voice that speaks to me more than any other. I was pleased to learn I would be paired with a cellist and pianist. When we first met, my two counterparts were painfully shy. I was self-conscious about not seeming too brash to a group of silent and serious musicians.

My cellist, Cindy, was beautiful. Soft, dark hair waved in perfect unison to the middle of her back. A delicate café au lait complexion held deep brown eyes as vulnerable and large as a doe’s, her hands were large and strong. She was ethereal. Ah, but when she played her cello, the calm was shattered, revealing a fierceness you never knew she possessed—except when you heard her play. She took her mistakes hard. She was impatient with herself and had terrible stage fright.

Her laugh sounded like the tinkling of bells on a cold winter day.

Cindy observed every musical instruction: allegro moderato, vivace, andante espressivo rolled off her tongue in soft lilts and gentle reprimands. She was always the one to consider the composer’s intentions and insist we show our fidelity. She kept us true.

As our rehearsals stretched into one another, the rests in between the music exposed the spaces of our lives; children who started kindergarten, graduated from high school, then college. Parents who aged, who became ill, who died. Jobs that came and went. Life as it came and went. But the music was always there. Our constant in an inconsistent world.

Cindy and I became good friends outside of music. We discovered a shared love for dance and Thai food, history and politics. She was working on writing and illustrating a children’s book, though she was too shy to say the details. She had a quiet and sweet demeanor, but often surprised me. She had the ability to listen and give intelligent commentary on the most complex and difficult topics.

The years passed by, our playing matured. We huddled together like nervous mice in the Green Room before every performance, then went out and faced the stage with varying degrees of success and failure. We laughed a lot at our mistakes and celebrated our accomplishments, safe in the company of friends, inspired by one another as musicians.

In the summer of 2014, Cindy would be diagnosed with breast cancer. Caught early by a routine mammogram with a history of cancer in her family, she chose to treat it aggressively. As a trio, we decided to take time off, allow Cindy to concentrate on her health. I shifted to seeing her as our regular selves. Instead of over instruments, our visits were over steaming cups of fragrant tea; chamomile and licorice, rosehip and peppermint. Instead of playing music, we listened to it. There were long stretches when there was complete silence altogether as she went through the most difficult parts of her treatment.

The music was quiet, but it had not left us entirely. We all waited to start again.

And after about a year, we did! Cindy’s strength was intermittent, but her ordeal was behind her. She had a clean bill of health and awarded an optimistic future from her doctors. She just wanted to play music as soon as possible. So we did.

Our reunion was deeply felt, the gift and power of music burned in us all, our appreciation for it and for one another was the key signature for everything we played, and it was beautiful.

We started slowly; in hospital cancer wards, in my living room where the Mississippi River cut through the snow banks in a swath of silver outside the window. We didn’t care where we played. We just wanted to play. So we did.

As we prepared for a more formal performance on-stage, Cindy’s destiny called upon her, insisting she comply.

The return of her cancer spread quickly. She resigned herself to treatments, fully aware of the kind of thief it was, the currency it demanded. But she would not give up. Her life became a rhythm of ups and downs, her definition of a good day changing from going for a run to going for a walk, from driving herself to appointments to getting rides, from making a meal to eating anything at all, from getting out of bed to sitting up comfortably. Her positive nature continued to bring her good days, but they were always descending.

The time came when her good days ran out. She checked into hospice, understanding this would be the last stage she would ever be on.

I went to visit her there. I had never been this close to death before, it had always been a tidy announcement, something to grieve among the white pillars and black leather books of polished funeral homes and churches. To stand next to death was scary and hard and precious.

Her illness had changed her greatly. Her mouth was a tight line of suffering, her large strong hands looked enormous on the ends of impossibly thin arms, her face was a cruel parody of sharp angles and hard edges against cheerful floral sheets. I sat on the end of her bed and stroked her leg. She flickered in and out, looking at me and speaking as best she could. With great effort, she sat up. Gently, gently, we hugged—her dry hollow cheek against my fleshy one—then she lay back down in exhaustion. I read her a letter I wrote. I cried and I smiled. I said nothing and watched her sleep. All the while, cello music sang to her from the magic box of my phone.

I will forever be grateful I could be with her. It was painful to see her physicality seared away—to look upon the translucent shell that shackled her to the bed. And it was also an incredible gift. To be able to tell her goodbye, that I loved her. To thank her for the music.

In that quiet afternoon, my heart ached from mourning and from grace. I knew she was leaving, I could feel her drifting away. She was both here and there, like a human glissando. Ascending to an unknown destination. And I was there to hear it, her final notes.

I closed my eyes and imagined it sounded like the tinkling of bells on a cold winter day.

_____________________________

This blog is dedicated to my beautiful friend, Cynthia Ellis, who died on January 4th, 2017. It was an immense privilege to play with her and to be her friend. I’ve included some videos to share her music.

We had just started recording our rehearsals and critiquing them to prepare us for our “comeback” before Cindy became terminally ill. I cherish these and wish I had more. THIS REHEARSAL is a great one that really showcases Cindy’s talent.

Although we didn’t know it at the time, this would be our last formal PERFORMANCE AT MacPHAIL. Special Thanks to our beloved coach, Dan McIntosh. He always told us how lucky we were to perform together, that the nerves were worth it. He was right.