digging without Al Tsahir to help

I just finished reading The Neverending Story again.  Probably for the third time in my life.  Maybe fourth.

It is almost a hobby of mine right now to read old favourite childhood books in the light of my new state as an Orthodox Christian.  Truth is truth and it is everywhere.  I keep smiling and laughing as I recognize the Orthodoxy-ness of the things I liked as a child.

I was struck by Bastian’s forgetting of self as he laboured in Yor’s mines, painstakingly separating the dreams and bringing them back to the surface to lay them carefully on the snow.

I remember a conversation with Vox during my last year at university.  Vox, a professor, is the epitome of charm, and well-loved by everyone I knew (except one person – a grad student who dismissed him, saying, "He’s a snake," and changed the subject).  I was talking to Vox about a teacher of mine at my college who was not particularly liked, but by God, she got us to sight-read difficult things well.  I remarked, "But she didn’t care about being popular – I mean, she wasn’t there to be liked," and Vox stopped short.  He repeated, "Not there to be liked.  Yes," but his eyes were wider and looking somewhere other than me.  It was like I had slapped him.  I felt bad.  I hadn’t meant to make a point about him.

Today was one of those complex days.  I wrote out exactly what I needed to do, in what order, last night.  So this morning I just ambled down the list.  Certificates for students graduating from a theory course were made in a snap.  Phonecalls to various people were made.  Quick shopping trips for recital goodies happened in between other lessons.  Rehearsals happened.  Lessons were taught.  Students preparing for exams were kicked in the butt for not having prepared.

I know that my work is saving me because of the contrast it offers with my personal, alone life.  I am simply out of my own way as I work.  There just isn’t any ego about it.  Well, I guess there must be some.  I did feel "proud" as I handed out the certificates and listened to my theory students perform their own melodies (they composed them) for their parents.  I did enjoy the sensation of deftly sight-reading my way through a tricky passage in a rehearsal with a violinist.  But the inner chatter is largely not there the way it used to be, when I am actually in a lesson, or rehearsal, or whatnot.

Then, … there’s the personal, alone life.  I am "replete with very me."  Today, on the walk home, the rainclouds were being pushed away by strong winds.  The almost-sunset light was making the tall grasses on the path into a glorious cathedral of green, against the dark blue clouds.   I am a fast walker, but today I had to be slow.  Each step around that beautiful curve in the path was like a little bite out of something dark, bitter, but somehow very rich and complex.  I was full of the pain of disappointment and humiliation, even while hope like the sky was crowning everything, saying "You just don’t know what’s waiting around that curve."  It is arrogance to despair.  But is it folly to hope?

The other thing that struck me about Bastian was the simple sentence, "He never complained."  During the climactic final stretch of his journey through Fantastica, he became a silent worker, faithfully serving his mission to find the dream that would take him to the Water of Life.

Now that I have returned to OD, I want very much not to give in to my kvetching streak.  I want to faithfully record things that give life.