Slava

Some things ultimately can't be explained.

I seldom listen to music at my desk. I have an old set of headphones our office administrator gave me a few years ago, and once in a while I listen to a CD or something online, like if the cube farm is noisy and I'm having trouble concentrating. Last week I was listening to Bach's cello suites on a 1995 CD by Mstislav Rostropovich. It's by turns soothing, rousing, sensuous, turbulent, and calming. Something about the cello has a kind of visceral effect that's almost painfully beautiful, like I'm hearing it through the third chakra as well as my ears.

So last week my Wednesday night men's group tackled the topic "What is beauty?" and the six old coots generated some interesting responses. Among other things - sunsets, women, forests, the usual suspects - the Bach cello suites were mentioned in passing. Friday I was listening again while correlating a textbook, and I got so worked up I had to ask my nearest co-worker if she likes that kind of thing, and would she like to borrow the CD some time? She said her significant other might, because he enjoys "otherworldly" music, and we went back to what we were doing.

That evening on the way to Cleveland, I heard on NPR that Rostropovich had died earlier in the day in Moscow. They played short selections of his work on the radio and interviewed Yo Yo Ma, who couldn't say enough about Slava's (his friends called him 'Slava') boundless energy, love of music, critical ear for nuances in a performance, eagerness to share with younger players, and ability to keep learning new pieces well into old age.

To paraphrase the old saying, I don't know anything about music but I know what moves me. JB suggested the possibility that a last burst of Rostropovich's life-force reached central Swingstate all the way from Russia (via the CD drive on a Dell desktop PC). Works for me.