The cello, an instrument speaking sensuously, revealing what cannot otherwise be expressed; producing sound which reaches beyond itself and myself. Each concerto note, so fleeting, so subtle, carries reality provoking in me awe and wonder.

Is anything closer to the soul than music, more like it? So insubstantial, yet powerful.

But how to grasp each individual sound as it appears and then almost instantaneously disappears? My frustration: that I cannot reach all of it.

Folds within folds, almost infinitely; every simple perception could lead to endless contemplation; every thought, every experience; there’s so much reality to everything – – but there’s not enough time, it would take forever to lay hold of it.

The poet Hopkins’ line – – “There lives the dearest freshness deep down things” – – a poetic insight always remaining within me, demanding awareness.

Peak experience in my twenties, when, one day in prayer, I became overwhelmingly convinced that God is real. Having told myself that I would always remember this mystical (?) event, I am remembering it now.

The composer, in my mind’s eye, encounters a sudden irresistible decomposing force. But beyond catastrophe, he speaks to me now in language both beautiful and coherent.

All the dead: those who have already set out on the ultimate adventure, those who already know the mystery, those with whom my own fate is linked. Why haven’t they shared their sublime knowledge with us? How can every last one of them have kept silence?

Me listening and wondering about my very own ultimate crisis: curiosity as to what it will be – – above or below, inside or out, psyche- centered or not, sudden surprise or long-drawn-out?

Even greater curiosity about what’s on the other side of death. How can anyone on the brink of dying not be filled with an almost insane wonder? Is dying just part of some cosmic natural process reducing me to a minute point in the universe?

Or is it intensely personal, whereby I am recognized, known, accepted with boundless enthusiasm definitely?
What will be the spirit in my last words?: “La comedia è finita.” “Let not poor Nelly starve.” “Tout est grace” “How’re the Mets doing?”

Quiet deep conviction of one all-pervasive truth: I am loved. It operates even when no one needs me, when I am not in demand.

This is a stabilizing peace, an anchor within, against even the greatest unknowns. “Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil – – words which echo in my heart down the years from public elementary schooling, of all places.

Distractions surge up to carry me away from these realities: things entirely irrelevant threaten to seize control. But that’s alright – – it only confirms my humanness, my spirit enfleshed.

Just being present, not saying anything, not impeding the spirit – – letting the Other act in me. The sweet agony of doing nothing.

Holy sounds, holy images, holy places, holy people – – the iconography of decades past lifting me toward spirit.

Time slowing, standing still. Forgetting the clock, that enemy of soul.

Contemplation in action – – that beautifully impossible ideal for ordinary times. Or finding God in all things. Perhaps the same as wisdom: seeking the real rather than its counterfeits.

This wisdom may be the gift of age after all, a stage of life allowing scope for attending to what’s real. The famous theologian is right: age, bringing freedom of soul, is a grace.

The music approaches its end, the last movement. Soon it will be over, but it still remains in existence and can be played again and again. Like its creator who, at a minimum, will never altogether die.

Finally it does end. Outside noise impinges on my consciousness. I stir, ready to return from my soulful, esthetic inner milieu back to the ordinary world. But buoyed up, inspired for other encounters with what is real.

Reality has not been worn down to nothing, after all. The world may bear our smudge and toil but it retains the power of being. Having looked inside for an hour and having heard the sounds of world and spirit, I walk with more spirit toward both day and night.

Richard Griffin