Friday night we tried to go to the movie Up as a family. Unfortunately Jesse found the theater to be thee single most terrifying place he had ever been thrust into and began sobbing hysterically (and he's not much of a cryer -- crier? The town crier or cryer? -- oh these thoughts spawning other thoughts -- how can I ever stay on track?). Anyway, I left and took him home to bed. I was sad to miss the show. Mike and the kids thought it was about the best Pixar yet. But, as I sat in my quiet home glancing through the Ensign, I didn't mind so much. One article quoted one of Oscar Wilde's characters saying, "After playing Chopin, I feel as though I had been weeping over sins that I had never committed, and mourning over tragedies that were not my own." I fell quite madly in love with that quote. It expressed in such moving wording how I already feel about reading novels and how I now believed I should most certainly feel about music (if I could ever claim to understand the world at all).
So, I immediately retired to my chambers (huh?) where I began plunking out, somewhat discordantly, Pachelbel's Canon in D and then a few hymns (initially with enough enthusiasm that I used my left hand . . . which eventually dropped out of participation). And while my own playing limitations didn't allow me, during this particular session, to weep, mourn, or soar with love or joy, I did have a few good moments of small inspiration concerning the raising of my children. So. That is all I really have to say. Hmm. Odd to end so abruptly -- not just here, in the typed word, but in my own head. That was that. All there was. Well, good day to you all then.