I remember the first time I heard Schubert’s 14th string quartet. It was at our summer festival, and I was feeling every emotion, every tension more than ever, as if I were part of the piece.
With the closing notes, before I knew it, I felt myself beginning to leave for my Heavenly Home. But I was at peace, because of the music.
But with those closing notes, I felt a longing to keep flooding myself with musical beauty, especially at the very festival from which I’d just left.

So now I come down to listen to the finest music wherever it may be. I may listen in on someone’s practice, or in a lonely hotel lobby, or perch myself on the Met stage. But I never skip those summer evening concerts in the church by the lake, or at the big white house with the inviting porch and the spilling lawn, streaching towards the same lake.
And now, as I grow drowsy, I rest on the bridge of a cello, lean against the velvety case, and allow myself to drift into a peaceful sleep as the cello gently rocks with a serenade.