a secret story
a self portrait, one of a series in my own exploration of intimacy.
Once upon a time (a lifetime ago), I used to be a musician. Orchestra was always my favorite — I loved the tapestry of sound, the varying shades of color from strings, winds, brass. Over more than twenty years, I played instruments that came from each section, conducted a few different orchestras, and fell in love with the textural subtleties across soundscapes.
One year, I had the chance to write program notes for our concerts — tell the story of the symphony, the composer’s history, the terroir of the instrumentation, my own interpretation of the sound. I loved the deeply sensory nature of it — using words to paint the color of the sounds I heard, played, conducted. Sound became tactile — a river here, a bellows there, several triumphant blares, and (of course) the occasional bereft pit of despair.
The last set of program notes I ever wrote was for one of the last concerts I played, nearly a decade ago. Over the months of concert preparation, scribbling drafts in between rehearsals, I found myself writing two documents: the set of program notes for publication, and a second set, just for someone I loved. It remains one of the more indulgently romantic gestures I’ve ever offered — a secret story, a little whisper of intimacy to share across a packed concert hall.
Intimacy means closeness, but also so much more. I’m exploring an intimacy of self, lately — opening to the secrecy, the gentle vulnerability of what longing and abundance feel like.
I’m curious: what does intimacy mean to you? A little experiment: comments are open for paid subscribers, and I’d love to hear what you think.
a few medicines, or many forms of intimacy:
this Saturday: bounties of wisdom from NYC’s community gardens.
on swimming and oceans, via Monday Monday.
“vulnerability, safety, love, risk, nakedness, and tenderness” — from Feminist Midwife.
coming soon: intimate portraits.
until next time.