Glencairn Museum offered a a concert recently. The musicians are world class, and the venue is as well. As I walked up the path I remembered the formal dance John escorted me to in the same great hall back in college. By chance I had come into ownership of a vintage floor length black velvet coat with creamy satin lining. John had given me a white rose as a corsage. I have no recollection of my dress, but I know that I felt sublime. The air was much warmer on that May evening in 1979 than it was this winter, and as the memory faded I tugged my puffy purple jacket around my throat. 

 

"Good evening!" A woman who held the door for me offered her signature smile. I asked if she was cold and she assured me that she had many layers on.

 

The program included a playful song in which the singers echoed one another, one of whom was perched in the balcony far above our heads. There was a quintet of viols, which are kinsfolk of the family of strings that I am better acquainted with. There was no need for amplification, as the La Canards Chantants's collective voices filled the vast gallery with volume to spare. I had the good fortune to be close enough to see their faces, and more to the point, their mouths. They were living their dreams. 

 

When the concert was over I pulled my arms into the purple sleeves and snapped the front. The same friendly person was at the door. 

 

"Tell me you didn't stay outside through the whole concert!" 

 

She laughed. "No, no. Watch your step! Good night!" She aimed her small flashlight on the stone stairs, so that a drowsy audience member like myself would not falter in the dark. 

 

How kind. To stand in the night chill and offer a stab of brightness into the path for patrons who might come your way. Somehow I don't think she withheld her generosity to anyone. Even those, and I am not saying there were any such people, who did not fully appreciate the music. 

 

"Did you enjoy the viols? No? Then I hope you stumble."

 

Such unabashed benevolence. Ensuring that others find safe passage. My mind wandered to the unknowns that hover in my life, and quite probably in yours. Benjamin, my son for whom routines can be overwhelming, is starting a new job. It is impossible to see his path ahead, even for me who has somewhat successfully steered six of his older siblings toward independence. 

 

But I have a sense, which I cannot prove, that there is an angel shining a shaft of illumination for both of us. Who I dare say is even more altruistic than the smiling woman at the door.