My little library in my room here in DC has grown larger than my bookshelves.  I was reorganizing recently and found myself thumbing through my copy of Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist.  I have read it three times already, and will likely reread it again this year.  Though modest in length, it is a powerful tale of destiny and willpower, and the journey that must be taken to achieve one’s dreams.  I remembered that around the last time I was reading the book, I experienced one of my favorite nights in life, and I remembered journaling about it.  After some searching through my myriad of sporadically used journals, I found the entry.  There was a lot I didn’t remember, and rereading my words from over a year ago served as another motivator to keep up with this blog. 

The journal was a Christmas gift from my cousin Jennifer.  Jennifer’s inscription is a quote from Flannery O’Connor—“I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”  The following is my first entry in the journal, dated 17 January 2016.  I’ve omitted a few sections for lack of context, and made a few small edits for clarity, but otherwise it is a window into my brain on that day.

I love the quote Jennifer wrote in the front of this journal because it is true.  And it explains why I am always so hesitant to begin a journal.  I own many journals and notebooks that are short on entries and long on blank pages, and I think it’s because I worry that someday someone besides me will read it and be able to see inside my head—to know my secrets.  I’m always surprised and sometimes embarrassed to read my own voice in entries I’ve long forgotten.  But thinking back, my emotions and thoughts reveal much more than I thought they did when I wrote them.  I’m determined again (as I always am) to keep up with this and not let too much time pass between entries.  Years from now, my brain and photos on my phone aren’t going to be enough.  I want a hard copy of my memories.

Sitting in the cubby behind the desk at work, writing all this, my mind keeps dwelling on a quote from Paulo Coelho’s introduction to The Alchemist:

 “Whenever we do something that fills us with enthusiasm, we are following our legend.”-- vi, The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho

I want to be able to reread my thoughts about moments and experiences where I feel that enthusiasm and fulfillment.  And maybe writing will help me to search out and embrace those moments more often.  I want to feel that present and that alive every day.

Just this past Tuesday, I found myself in the same room as Amit Peled, the renowned Isreali-American cellist, and Noreen Polera, a Julliard-educated pianist.  [My professor] both before and after the concert, told our class that Amit Peled is easily the most talented person we may ever encounter, and I truly believe him.  The cello he plays was crafted in 1733 and used to belong to the Maestro, Pablo Casals.  The final piece Mr. Peled played that night was the final piece ever performed by Pablo Casals when he was in his nineties, and had to have the cello brought to him on stage.  “Song of the Birds” is homage to Casals’ homeland of Catalonia, and Mr. Peled shared a story of his own from an encounter in a train station in Spain.  He was carrying his cello case, and was approached by a man.  The man asked him if he knew “Song of the Birds.”  Mr. Peled told the man that he did, and the cello in the case was also the cello of Pablo Casals.  The man was visibly moved and then sang the song to Mr. Peled, who was in turn struck by hearing, for the first time, the way the song was meant to be sung. 

Shortly after hearing that story and the beauty of Mr. Peled playing “Song of the Birds,” our class congregated and then joined the performers in the backstage green room.  Amit Peled’s presence was just as commanding in person as it was in his playing, but he was so warm and friendly, too.  Everyone seemed equally intimidated by him and drawn to him.

When I asked about his favorite place to perform, he first talked about how important it is to be an actor and to believe in every moment of every performance that that moment and that piece in that place in front of that audience is your favorite, because otherwise you and your audience will see through it.  Then, he spoke about aesthetics outside of the performance, and described the concert hall in St. Petersburg, Russia, where the green room was once the King’s sitting room, and still contained the original gold-embossed couches.  I was so flustered by the entire experience that I left my jacket on the plain ole leather couch I sat on in the green room.

Now I’m struck by the realization that I shared an evening with a man that is so graciously and beautifully following his legend.  The beauty of his playing something I could never encompass in words or even recall in my mind with any level of clarity close to what it was in action.  I think experiencing immense beauty or immense physical pain are the two types of experiences that can only be fully comprehended in the power of the moment.  You can be highly aware of the magnitude without being able to recreate it in your mind’s eye.  For the people who were there, a recording of live music or a photograph of a beautiful scene could never measure up.  That evening in the Brooks Center [Clemson University’s Performing Arts Center] is one I will always cherish.  Just remembering the utter silence of the audience in the seconds at the end of each movement and the image of the lone lightning bug dancing among the beams of the ceiling gives me a chill.

I had forgotten so many of the details I wrote about.  I did not expect that tidying my bookshelves would lead to some major self-reflection and bring back such sweet memories, but I am thankful that it did.