about 10 rambunctious friends that i know from a bible study come over friday night. we talk & each cheese, wine, & pears. one of them is an mk (missionary kid) from indonesia & new zealand. we compare notes. my photographs are complimented, and my keyboard is discovered, dragged out, and played by several people. warmth.
i drive to princeton to meet a new friend. after a long lunch in a wood-panelled pub, we walk across the campus, find a church with an open door and enter. dischordant, dramatic organ chords fill the dark soaring space. high up, very blue stained glass windows let in dim winter light. the tortured music rolls over me as i sit in a pew. gazing upward, i wonder what the organist's soul is feeling if what i hear is its expression. the ancient church seems filled with story.
a jazz improv session at the local coffee shop. i lug in a heavy bag, spread out my books on a table and bask in the rhythms that has everyone's fingers tapping, heads nodding with appreciation. there is a sense of community as we clap after each piece, but during the song i feel that each person is lost in a private reverie, far away, yet comforted by the saxophone and the taps of the drum.