The concert

Last week, my fourth-grade daughter played cello in an all-district orchestra concert at the high school. I climbed almost up to the top of the bleachers with my husband, son, mother-in-law, father-in-law and sister-in-law. There we sat, staring down at a basketball court filled young people sitting in folding chairs and holding instruments.

We listened as each grade level performed a couple of songs. Almost all the groups had played when something unusual happened to me. It felt like a panel of white light extended from my legs to my shoulders. I could see the room through the lens of that light. When I did, I was acutely aware of the family around me, especially my son sitting by my side. These people felt solid, strong and warm, like good fertile soil. The full auditorium felt alive as a landscape, and even though the audience was quiet, many bright songs floated in rich layers beneath the melodies of the orchestra.

The brilliance of it all was almost difficult for me to bear. I switched between seeing things as I usually do and seeing them through the lens of this bright panel of light. It was like wearing a pair of sunglasses, lifting them up to peek underneath the lenses, letting them fall back, and then doing it over again. After a while, this got too intense for me, and I was able to make myself stop, although I was still aware of the panel of light.

It seemed to me that the light came from the baby I am carrying. I think it was aware on some level of everything around us, and that is why I could see the room through two separate lenses. In some limited way, I was feeling what it felt.

For the last song of the concert, all the young people played the 1812 overture together. When hundreds of instruments chimed in for the familiar melody, it was so powerful that I started to cry. Then I felt terribly embarrassed about crying. I tried to stop. As I crunched down on myself to keep the tears inside, the panel of light reflected my embarassment.

“You don’t need to crunch down on yourself like that," I told it silently. “Be passionate and brave. I will try to show you how.” I took a deep breath and let the tears fall.