Wednesday, December 15, 2010


Last night I was reading poems to my son. One of them was about a bagpipe and a turtle, so I asked if he knows what a bagpipe is. He didn’t so I explained it to him the best I could and promised to google it for him when we have time.

This morning, when I got off the train on 34th Street, the first thing I heard was the sound of bagpipe playing. This subway station, always swarming with tourists, attracts a lot of performers who try to make some extra money. I’ve seen men playing drums, synthesizer, saxophone, and a whole bunch of Asian and African instruments, which names I don’t know. Not once anyone with a bagpipe.

I connected the two dots, tied in my gloomy morning mood, freezing winds outside, the memory of the warmth of my son’s room, the book with its deep wisdom behind silly lines, my hopes as ever-present extensions of my disappointment. My silent prayer – please make me feel better today, I am so tired of carrying these heavy feelings around, of drugging myself with books to silence my loud thinking.

Hearing the bagpipe playing was a magic moment, that lasted only seconds, but it was enough. Thank you, I thought, I feel good now.

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