Yesterday afternoon, I was reading an author’s essay describing why she had written a book after losing her mother to Alzheimer’s. She said that she wanted to lead others toward happiness that one often misses because of the sadness that is also a part of the journey. She felt she had let that sadness prevent her from fully appreciating the “happy moments.”
Her words made me think of another experience Kate and I had with music a little bit earlier. We returned home from lunch. We sat down in the family room, and I put on an album of the last half of Les Miserables. Since we had seen the DVD and listened to the audio over the past few days, I intended to select one or two songs that I knew were among Kate’s favorites. Once it started, I saw that she was taken by it and just let it play through to the end. Initially, she was working jigsaw puzzles on her iPad. Then she became more engaged in the music, and put the iPad down. I could see that she was moved. She said, “It’s so beautiful.” I agreed. Before the end of the finale, tears welled up in her eyes. She got up from her chair and walked over to sit beside me on the sofa. She was crying, not out of any sadness. She was solely moved by the beauty of the music. I put my arm around her. She put her head on my shoulder. We savored the last notes.
We sat quietly for a moment. I decided to put on another album I thought she would like. One by John Rutter. We continued to sit there another fifteen minutes enjoying the music. As I have said before, we have both enjoyed music together since our first date, but I believe the pleasure she derives from music has increased substantially. I am glad that we continue to enjoy happy moments like this. They have been able to override the sadness that I sometimes feel.
