Monday, 30 August 2010

• Love Is an Action...

  He wore his sorrow as if it didn't fit and pulled in awkward places and pinched in others. He stuttered slightly and swallowed, trying to form words that wouldn't come naturally. The audience barely breathed, as if our breath was being sucked into his soul and giving him strength. Finally, after saying her name softly, he turned his back, wiped at his tears, and lifted his flute to his lips.

  From the air holes in the traditional instrument, sorrow flew, with wings of eagles, darting in the heavy summer heat before landing on us. 

  There is no word for love in our language, the man said introducing the artist, there is only doing. Love is action, not emotion. What my brother does here is an act of love for his beloved. Listen.

  We listen. Our hearts listen. Our souls listen as he says goodbye to the one he can't live without. The personal, intimate goodbye shared collectively as we feel his pain, his hurt, his confusion. We are family. We are carrying his burden with him in order that he won't falter on the rocks.

  The notes soar in the breeze, circle above the tent like white doves being released from captivity, and escape into the open air. Goodbye my beloved. You are loved. You are mine. You are... no more.

  When the last note was gone, all too soon, he took his flute from his lips, and straighten up. The sorrow belonged to him now. It no longer pulled and pinced, but fit as if it was an old friend, a well worn cowboy hat, a pair of broken in boots. Too soon he left the stage and the next performer started.

  It was an honor hearing this man, this world renown artist, who rarely plays his flute in public, share his music, the performer said. It was more than an honor, I thought. It was brotherhood in action. It was love in action. It was a miracle. It was... Goodbye, my beloved.

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