The Search

The album cover for Sibelius’s “Tapiola” gives you pause. In the upper right corner, in red marker, someone has drawn a small heart. “Love this!” is written below, in Grampy’s handwriting. This you’ve got to hear.

"Tapiola" enters with timpani and a flourish, inviting you back to your mountain, surrounded by forest.

You stand there just at the tree line. The forest, like in so many stories, is dark and a bit foreboding, but as you listen you pick up hints of life within. A skitter here, a scatter there and soon you find yourself stepping deeper into its folds.

Wind weaves its way through ancient, mythical limbs.

You stop, suddenly. The music of life you had heard before is gone. Is there something out there, making its way toward you? Are the squirrels and birds and forest critters scared into silence? Where are the warnings? Where are the witnesses to this unfolding tragedy?

“This is not fair,” you scream in your head. “Who will save me?”

Goose bumps soon give way to a flush of embarrassment. You realize the monster isn’t out there somewhere. The monster, the impending doom, is you.

“How did I get here?” is all you can think. What choices have you made to lead you to this silent, stony creature lurking in the forest?

“Where have I gone wrong?” you start to doubt.

“What do you do NEXT?” is the question that seeps up inside you.

Do you take a detour to the sea with Debussy’s “La Mer?”

or

Get lost in the city with Gershwin’s “An American in Paris?”