Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Like Pancakes from an Aerosol Can

It seems as if I start off every post with an apology for not writing more often. My intention really is to write at least three times a week, but that falls by the wayside with regularity. I am finding it difficult to balance the things in my life: work alongside relationships and the other sundry things I must do. Life gets even more complex during those weeks when I have a symphony concert (such as last week). I barely have time to breathe, much less write.

The hectic nature of my life right now gives me pause to stop and think about why we rush around so much. Why are we angry that speed limits exist; why is punctuality a most treasured virtue?

Last week I heard on the radio probably the worst performance of Rhapsody in Blue I have ever had the displeasure of experiencing. No, the notes were not wrong and the tone was perfectly acceptable, but the piece was ruined for the simple reason that the performer took it much, much too fast. He rushed through every little cadence, goading the orchestra on with him. The piece lost the wonderful, relaxed feel of improvisation which lends it so much of its charm. I wanted to shake the pianist by his shoulders and say "SLOW DOWN! Everyone knows you can play the notes. Take time to enjoy yourself!"

Two confessions from my past. The first relates to the above paragraph. After I learned the Gigue from the 3rd Bach Suite, one of my favorite things to do was to challenge other cellists to race me by seeing who could play this tricky movement the fastest. I can only pray that Bach finds it in his heart to forgive me the travesty I inflicted on him. The Suites are first and foremost dances, and the joyful rhythm gets lost at high speeds.

Confession number two: as a child I hated the slow movements of pieces (especially concertos) and would always skip them when given the choice. My sister and I would battle about this, and I would always give the explanation that I found the slow movements boring. Truly, when I was a child I thought like a child and spake like one.

Thankfully my tastes have matured a little. Now I find few things as pleasurable to listen to as a beautiful slow movement. Whether it be the delicate unfolding of the second movement of the Dvorak Cello Concerto, or the hearrending slow build of the third from Shostakovich's 5th Symphony, I find that slow movements give me the breathing room I need to fully digest what is happening.

Life is like this, of course. We buzz from flower to flower, our eyes set to narrow focus, looking only at the task in front of us. Brute efficiency rules the day. We cannot stand the dead moments of life; we require constant stimulation to shield us from inactivity. In this way slowness relates to silence. We hate them both because they push us toward reflection. Our whole lives are an effort to crowd out the things which make us stop. Video on demand. E-mail. Instant messaging. Instead of all things in their own season, harvest time goes year round (this is true in a literal sense of the foods we eat. No longer do we have to wait for the spring to eat fruit -- it is always at our fingertips).

We call it convenience, praise it for making life "easier". What we really mean is that it makes life faster. We think that, the more we cram into our pitiful existence, the happier we will be. We just need that one extra experience, that one film or album or whatever: then life will satisfy.

Who fully understands what is lost in this Faustian bargain? Certainly we harden our hearts, dull ourselves to the little moments, the slow build of truly beautiful things. If we cannot acquire something instantly, we gripe and complain -- even question the point of having such an inconsiderate thing.

I think this way about grace. One of the unforunate side effects of the modern view of conversion is that it defines the experience as a one time, chosen event. It misses the thousand-thousand little moments of grace built up over time in our hearts as God calls and nudges. The song of spring's first robin. Beethoven's 3rd Symphony. The smile of a stranger and the arms of a friend. The brokenness of losing someone you love, or having a friendship fall apart. The ineffable experience of real forgiveness. All these are minor miracles, cataclysms that shift the tide of our lives like twigs in a flooding riverbed.

Prayer is a bit like walking up to an ATM, at least in my mind. I swipe my card, press the PIN, specify the amount, and voila! Cash, ex nihilo. When I pray for my friends or even for myself, my general expecation is that I will begin to see results almost immediately. The problem with this expectation is not that God is slow to answer, but that my eyes have been dulled and reined in to the point that I cannot see that slow build up of grace that is metered out to me daily. I want things to be the way I want them as soon as I want them. Just add water.

Next time you are in a rush to accomplish some oh so important task, take the time to slow down and think of all the things you might miss. Turn off the t.v. for one night. Put down even your book of the moment. Just sit and think on the delicate slow build of grace that has led you to where you are.

2 comments:

Grant Good said...

You have no idea how this post relates to where I am at the moment. I've been up in Scotland for the past few days and, once I got past the beautiful, yet unfortunately touristy--there was a shop called "Thistle Do Nicely"; I kid you not--city of Edinburgh, I found myself in a setting that is so unlike what I'm used to in the U.S. I can't explain it in a comment, but everything is slow up here, quiet. Part of me loves the peacefulness, but part of me is uncomfortable, needs something to do, NOW. It's a weird feeling. I think you pretty much summed it up for me.

Karl Johnson said...

Oh, gosh, all of that is so true. The slow movement from the New World Symphony.