The plans to were made and tickets distributed several weeks ago to go to last night's concert with cottage family and friends. The task was not physically challenging and I wanted to see the gang, so I tentatively made the trek.
I'd missed three days of work with the surgery and in three more will be heading to a new job, one of the best jobs in my field available in this region.
I would see the concert as a "civilian" from my seat, stand in the long public bathroom lines and have no personal contact with the guest artist on the stage. This would be how I'd be seeing concerts in "my" music hall from now on.
Charlie and I parked the car and walked together past the tiny apartment I lived for all those months without him and never missed a performance. I thought about all the nights of slogging through the snow down this same path and was warmed both by the Indian summer breeze and the arm I held.
I walked in through the front door, just minutes in front of the first note and thought about the pre-performance, precision chaos going on backstage at the moment -- as it did before I came to the organization and as it will long after.
The odd feeling in my gut was more than just the complaining stitches. It was the reality, new every time you face it, that no matter how much you pour into an institution, or another person for that matter, it isn't you. At the end of the day, it goes on. You go on. And the best you can hope is that you made a positive difference.
Depending on how you handle it -- it's a brutal and/or beautiful truth.


Copyright 2005 Judi Griggs