I wish there was a way I could convey to someone else just what Vivaldi’s music means to me. When I sit in a quiet room and listen–to his lute, bassoon, harpsichord, or any other instrument–I realize the feelings rising out of me are for me and me alone. Were I to feel them in the presence of someone else, I know a curtain would rise between us as Vivaldi’s precious notes rolled from the speakers like pearls. I would see and feel my youth, my longing, the loves of my life, played out in those picaresque passages; my eyes would glaze over, my breaths would become deep as though in sleep, and I would want to describe the feeling. And the tragedy of the depth of my perception is that I cannot. Those pictures from my life are beyond description, for they live in their purest form as feelings. The motions of my heart can be beheld by no one else. I have only Vivaldi, my teacher, my guide, to reassure me that life is a magic which courses through all of us and plants a seed of longing in our hearts, and throughout our youth that seed takes root and the rest of our lives is spent trying to regain that feeling, of absolute, pure aliveness, the feeling that brought me towards this love or that one, towards this feeling or that feeling, towards the sun and the moon for guidance, towards the rain and snow for compassion, towards the air and light for awareness. Antonio Vivaldi fills me with a blind passion, and yet I have only myself to inspire, for I see only myself–my youth, loves, misfortunes, mistakes, and all–in a humble mirror of awe and gratitude for having lived in the same world as he.

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