Got up early this morning to enjoy a cappuccino and get a good seat for the concert, just now our neighborhood choir is warming up. Starting about four in the morning they clear their throats or craws or whatever crowing equipment they have, and by six AM, the first shift has opened the act and gone back to roost. The sunrise philharmonic takes it from there and at first light they all seem to join in for one immense Hosanna and then quieten for the day. I really like them. Depend on them. They range from tenors to rich baritones, none of them are shy and they all plan to live forever. Our bedroom is situated facing one of the biggest, boldest and earliest and if it isn’t raining he really lets loose. Apparently his contract does not require him to crow in dampness and if it is howling and blowing rain, he stays tucked in with the string section.
Styx
This ritual makes me conscious every morning of the rich and fortunate circumstances of our lives, living in a snug village just one hundred meters from a chapel, a tavern and a good pastelaria, five kilometers from a storied and meandering river and only twice that distance from the magnificent North Atlantic. So maybe I’ll never learn enough Portuguese to discuss string theory or Wittgenstein, or perhaps even to ask which apples are sweeter, but these morning concerts are stirring and reaffirming and the light, filtered as it is through the volatilized oils of the Eucalyptus forest, is like no other. It seems as pure as the light of memory and I appreciate it in the face of being mortal.
As I count my present good fortune, tentatively and with the understanding that it may only be for today, two of my dearest friends are contemplating the end of life. One of them has stepped back from the Styx, almost miraculously, defying the medicos who, only two weeks ago, had told him they could do no more for him. He frightened us badly, but he’s given us a respite and is thriving. The other one will gather with his friends and family this afternoon to celebrate the glory of his wife’s life, to remember the years she shared her light and brought such brightness to others. Later in the day I will stand on a headland overlooking the ocean and throw my arms out to both friends in joy and sorrow, and to you as well.