Sampan Girl by Kee Fung Ng

Girl with Little Brother by Kee Fung Ng

Chinese Chess by Kee Fung Ng

Girl with Little Sister by Kee Fung Ng

This seems to be my China week.  I saw the Chinese cello maestro, Yo-Yo Ma, in concert (still glowing!).  Blog sistah Amy is over in China on a medical mission and blogging about it at Amy Loves China. On a more prosaic level, my siblings and I went out to a favorite Chinese restaurant, New Star. My sister Margo, a New Star patron for almost 30 years, is on a first name basis with Tom, the owner. 

While we were eating my eye was drawn to a large painting on a wall in another section. Four children are sprawled all over the bow of a junk, dangling their legs.  The children's faces were joyfully serene.

As I walked over to get a closer look, my sister summoned Tom, who graciously answered my questions.  According to Tom, Kee Fung Ng is little known here in the states [although he does have a gallery in San Francisco] but is very well known in Hong Kong.  He felt lucky to have an original Ng painting.  They used to have another one in the store but his father liked it so much, he took it home.  Father has passed; step-mother still has painting. Exit Tom.

Googling "Kee Fung Ng" found these plates. They don't compare to the painting in New Star, but it's the best I can do.

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I see two of my best friends from childhood soon!  Ruthie is coming over today to spend the afternoon with me.  And Michelle (Micky to me) is stealing me away Friday for a day in downtown Chicago.  There's something about the pulse of the inner city, particularly the Loop, that gets my countrified blood accelerating.  Will we hit the Art Institute or see the King Tut exhibit at the Field Museum? I'll let you know next week!  Both of us much prefer museums to shopping, but however we spend the time, we shall be talking and listening to one another. 

Dear, old friends are such a comfort.  We've been through thick and thin, hither and yon, painful moments of grief and great times of fun together.  No matter the amount of time since we've last talked -- it takes only a moment to pick  up the threads of the relationship and be knit together.  

By Saturday evening I will be back in my own home!  My guys at home are back-packing so I won't see them for another day after I return.  Sigh. Hat tip to Diane for quote:

An enormous part of my past does not exist without my husband. An enormous part of my present, too.  I still feel somehow that things do not really happen to me unless I have told them to him.   ~ Anna Quindlen

     

I finished A.A. Milne's The Red House Mystery this morning (hat tip to Diane at Circle of Quiet). If you love P.G. Wodehouse, Sherlock Holmes and Winnie the Pooh this book is tailor-made for you and I promise that you will feel jolly glad you picked it up.  Humor is infused in this mystery: the take-offs on Holmes and Watson kept me smiling.

"My dear Watson," he said, "you aren't supposed to be as clever as this."

"I love being Sherlocky," he said. "It's very unfair of you not to play up to me."

Here's another laugh - a brief jab at writers.

"Oh!" He looked round the room. "What d'you call this place, eh?"

"The office, sir."

"The office?"

"The room where the master works, sir."

"Works, eh? That's new.  Didn't know he'd ever done a stroke of work in his life."

"Where he writes, sir," said Audrey with dignity.

I nodded and almost said "Amen" aloud when I read:

Anthony could never resist another person's bookshelves. As soon as he went into the room, he found himself wandering round it to see what books the owner read, or (more likely) did not read, but kept for the air which they lent to the house.

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I've been thinking about music and memory this week.  My sister has lost much of her mobility (brain cancer and a stroke) but her memory is just fine, thank you.  We've had the leisure to amble around in the memory vault and pick out good ones to polish and shine.  Since I'm nine years younger, some of our memories don't overlap; which happily means I get to hear new stories.  Any new story about my mom is a precious gem - another opportunity to better know the mom I lost when I was ten.

Old songs are like old stories. My spiritual pilgrimage from Plymouth Brethren to Presbyterian means I now sing much less Ira Sankey and Fanny Crosby and more Hans Shulz and Vaughan Williams. This week I've been hearing, singing, and playing songs from long ago. Revisiting obscure Plymouth Brethren hymns, and attending the chapel of my childhood has transported me back to the sixties - the whole family in one pew singing parts a capella in the Breaking of Bread service. It's amazing how clearly it all comes back and how pleasant an emotion recognition is.

Madeleine L'Engle wrote about her mother in The Summer of the Great-Grandmother, 

"Music has always been part of the fabric of her life, so it is not surprising that it is the last thing to reach her."   

Music can find areas inside of us that words can't make it to. Places beyond language. The hows and whys of this fact is one of the interesting mysteries of life. 

What a gift!  I can't articulate it all...but it was Wonderful!  The Ravinia Festival is such a lovely setting.  There is an open pavilion that seats 2,000-3,000 people. Tickets for the pavilion are $$$pendy and were sold out immediately. Surrounding the pavilion is a large park with abundant trees, paths, and speakers situated so all can hear.  Every square inch of ground (another 2000 people?) was filled with picnickers in lawn chairs, blankets, and lovely feasts.  There were many wine glasses and fancy hor d'oevres as well as buckets of fried chicken and the ubiquitous bottles of water.  The cicadas joined in the noise of the throng.

We arrived at 5:00, set up our little picnic and enjoyed my 2 year old grand-niece as we waited for the 7:00 concert.  In our lawn chairs we could not see any musicians but could hear them perfectly.  My BIL walked me to the rail around the pavilion where I could stand and get a glimpse of Mr. Ma performing.  The Chicago Symphony opened with "The Three-Cornered Hat" and we sat around enjoying it.  

Then such a bonus! Yo-Yo Ma played the Haydn Cello Concerto in C Major, a piece not on the original program.  The minute I heard the cello, I jumped up and made my way to the railing.  My family knew they wouldn't see me for a while.  When I got to the rail, crowds were 5 people deep trying to see the maestro. I stood, waited, tilting my head this way and that, and as people moved on, inched closer to the front.  

Finally I could see him playing. He wore a white tuxedo coat with black slacks and a black tie.  The cello shined in the spotlights, the warm hues of the wood in great contrast to the sea of black and white surrounding it.  The music of Haydn flowed through Mr. Ma's body so naturally; so much a part of him.  At the end of some phrases he almost propelled out of his seat with the flourish.  

I loved this: when the cello solo was silent for the orchestra playing, Yo-Yo played along with the orchestral cello part.  That man loves music so much that it seemed he couldn't sit back and wait for the next solo part - he was involved with every part of the music.

Watching his bowstrokes was fabulous.  The bow sometimes very close to the instrument, very controlled.  At other times it was dramatic and anywhere within five feet of his cello. He played the difficult notes up by the bridge so skillfully and the overtones were ... perfect.  The sound that came from that cello was so full, so rich, so complete.  Tears filled my eyes as the ache of the incomparable beauty washed over me.  

Thousands of people were perfectly still and listening with an unalloyed intensity. Some heads nodded with the music, others were perfectly still.  I loved seeing so many younger people in the audience.  It was a tingling sensation to participate with a culture that appreciates beautiful music.

With the last phrase the audience thundered applause and Mr. Ma was up on his feet giving the conductor a bear hug.  No polite handshaking and chin-dipping here.  There were hugs all around.  I loved that about Yo-Yo Ma. 

During the intermission most people left their posts at the pavilion railing.  I was rooted to the rail though, not wanting to miss the opportunity to be in the front when the concert resumed.  A woman my age was the only other person still hanging at the rail and we started conversing.  Her 8th grade daughter, a cello student, was attending but on her blanket.

As people made their way back to the seats a woman approached me and said, "Excuse me...I have four tickets here for the pavilion and I'm headed home," as she thrust them into my hand. I gave two to the other woman (that 8th grader couldn't miss this opportunity), and ran 200 yards to the back where my people were.  I grabbed my brother and we ran (I know -  it's a funny thing to picture) to the pavilion before the music began and seating stopped.

The next piece, Azul, was by a modern composer, Osvaldo Golijov (b.1960).  The world premiere was on Friday night with Yo-Yo Ma in Boston. There were different instruments, different sounds.  At first it sounded Slavic, then Middle-Eastern, but the prevailing "flavor" seemed like the African plains.  

The final piece was the orchestra playing Ravel's Bolero.  The conductor conducted the piece with no score!  Most of the time he held the baton backwards with the point facing him.  Watching his hands move, not in the usual four-four pattern but expressively with flow of the music, was captivating. For much of the piece the violins were held and played like guitars!

Darkness descended and the light of citronella candles gave an twinkling ambience over the area.  It was everything and oh! so much more! than I anticipated.  What can I say? One of my life goals has been accomplished.  God has been very kind to me.  I sincerely thank my sister Margaret and her husband John for giving me this incredible gift.                   

Orchard Window by Daniel Garber (1880-1958).

Can you tell I love pictures of people reading?  I have a whole wall of these kind of pictures at home.  The light through the curtains, the leg tucked under, the page ready to turn -- I love all these things about this picture.

~ ~ ~

When my brother visited my house and we had dial-up he moaned and groaned about us being in the dark ages.  I rolled my eyes and said "oh puh-lease" in my mind, if not aloud. Oh how words come back to bite you!  We now have DSL at home, but I'm at my sister's and BIL's house and they have dial-up.  Every syllable Danny used to say to me has come through my mind.  I don't feel free to tie up the phone line reading other blogs so I've just popped on to check my email and write an occasional post.  I'll catch up with y'all later!

My carry on luggage was heavy because I couldn't determine the reading mood I'd be in as I traveled across the country, and came prepared for every eventuality.  I settled into the second Crosswicks Journal book by Madeleine L'Engle, The Summer of the Great-Grandmother.  (It's on my summer reading challenge list, btw)

This sensitive book about her mother's stay with the family the last summer of her life both captured and held me.  I gladly let people stand in the hot aisles and clammer towards the airplane exit. Time to read a few more pages. Both flights I sat in close proximity to families with young children.  I was so glad, because their chatter and occasional yelps don't bother me and I could give them space to work through stuff with the kids without dealing with nasty glares and looks. I've learned to tune out sounds and distractions when I read. 

I silently hurrahed when I read L'Engle's words: "death is the enemy and I hate it."  I underlined with my pencil, shaky lines to match the air pockets we flew through. I commiserated when she agonized about her ability to keep the promise to her mother that she would never put her in a "home". I chuckled when she ranted about funeral "homes".  I paused and looked out the window, not really seeing the checkerboard ground below, but needing time to process the words. 

Oh .... Madeleine!! You have such an ability to think and to bring those thoughts to ink and paper.  I'll gladly fly with you as my companion.

Both life and death are present for me in the house this summer.  I look at Mother, and think that if I am to reflect on the eventual death of her body, of all bodies, in a way that is not destructive, I must never lose sight of those other deaths which precede the final, physical death, the deaths over which we have some freedom; the death of self-will, self-indulgence, self-deception, all those self-devices which instead of making us more fully alive, make us less.