Seasons

She had been there before—the majestic and yet humble chambers of Sainte Chapelle. The experience, though repeated often enough, never changed. The going through security gates, since the chapel is located behind government walls, the ascending the circular and narrow concrete stairs, and finally, the walking across the threshold of the most beautiful little church ever imagined. 

For whatever reason, each visit always happened in the late afternoon, when the sun, gone mellow and gold and full of hours, shone through the walls of the chapel. Walls made entirely of stained glass with thousands of pieces carefully colored and molded together to tell stories. The stories of peasants carrying hay, children and sheep, flowers and apostles, and Mary and Jesus. 

Nothing short from extraordinary, she thought as she walked in, holding her breath as the light filtered through the glass and painted the floors a million bits of color. And tonight she was there for a concert. Live music in Sainte Chapelle. Better yet - live music in Sainte Chapelle for fewer than a hundred people and in the middle of a pandemic. If that did not spell out a miracle, she did not know what did. And yet, she did not know what music she would listen to as attendance at the concert was a gift and a surprise. 

Her chair, and every chair, was simple and wooden. Not too comfortable as if to demand you to sit up and pay attention. Here in this chamber, miraculous things happen. Do not miss it. 

Sitting quietly and small, she waited for the musicians to find their instruments carefully set for them on the front stage. Four violins, two cellos. Five men walked in, one woman. The room that a second before was inundated with sounds from the people moving their chairs, chatting and snapping pictures, suddenly fell into a profound and reverent silence. The master violist, without saying a word -- she imagines he spoke no words of greeting as not to disturb the silence that was the promise to what was to come -- raised his instrument and struck the first cord. 

La Primavera. How to explain what she felt the very second she realized what was happening and what was to come? Elation is the only word she could think of as the other musicians, meeting their leader, also started to play. Springtime exploded into the chapel as if flowers, vines, and bubbling brooks were coming alive on the colored walls. The music combined with the beauty of the space was so powerful that it was almost too much to take it all in at once. She closed her eyes and let the music tell her a story. A story of birth and innocence, of childhood that flies by too quickly, and days that are full of promise. Transported to the Springtime of her own life, she could see herself growing, learning, unfurling. Laugher like tiny bells across a field. A kite high above the sky. Swimming deeper and deeper into the ocean, her father nearby. Running after other children. Sleeping peacefully in her grandmother's bed. She could also see the marred and scarred things, the sharp edges that snag on your clothes and cut the skin. The too-soon-too-early awakenings dragging children from the moment of not understanding to understanding it all too well. She slipped into summer. 

L'estate. There was barely a moment's pause from the musicians and then the explosion of applause brought her back into the chapel. The sunlight somehow was shining brighter now and maybe hitting the windows just right with orange and reds. As quickly as the applause had started, it ultimately died down as the instruments were worked into a summer frenzy of sounds. The sounds, so full of energy, were giving life to the stained-glass walls, which were, in turn, emanating movement onto the people sitting below. Familiar with this section of the concert, she let herself be taken by the music, knowing that of the four seasons, this one is her present time. The summer season of one's life is a time to build, give birth to children and ideas, nurture the soil of minds and gardens. Plant the seeds. Plant the dreams. And that's what she has been doing - gardener and mother, builder of businesses and relationships, planter of her dreams in the fertile soil of her day-to-day life. As the music hits a crescendo, she sees the long hot days. The labor that is toil that is heavy that feels dry. The nights were without sleep with a child at her breast. The days were without rest with responsibilities that go beyond the care of just herself. Adulting is for summer. Looking for shade and finding none. But then, sometimes, with the breeze that blows warm on her face, she finds respite and fresh water in the hearts of the people she loves. Life is still so full of doors ready for opening. There are so many paths waiting for her feet to step on. There is still time. And in summer, there is also the miracle of the child she calls son; as for now, her sun shines at noon while her son's sky is still barely warmed by the morning light. For him, the bells in the field are still chiming.

L'autunno. Another burst of applause. This time people are standing. She looks around and sees faces that are as touched by the music as she is. Some are crying. Some are applauding with such vigor it is hard to believe there are less than a hundred of them in the room. Looking past the faces, she sees the light has changed; it is no longer bright, but rather the late orange-brown of October afternoons. Fall begins with the musicians telling the story that she can only imagine since Summer is still the season of her life. The music starts slow, late summer days becoming short, but picks up speed like the wind that needs to blow all the leaves from the trees. Without wanting to, she sees an apple ripened on a branch, a hand outstretched to collect it. A basket is full of fruit. Wheat grounded into flour. Wool turned into yarn. The woodpile is high and promises fires ahead. Underground the root cellar is full; above ground, the land prepares to sleep. The chill in the air brings a hint of fear and trepidation. She hopes the assured steps through the seasons will deliver what is hoped, what was secret in the heart. Nothing points to the passage of time as the transition into Winter. 

L'inverno. As the musicians ended L’autunno, the audience is tired. The very act of listening and gathering the meaning of the music feel like a harvest on its own. Some applaud, some wipes their eyes, others looking deeper inside. It is now, in Winter, that the story ends. We all know it. There is no avoiding it. She imagines that at the late winter hour of one's life, one can try to stop time, regret the things that were done or not done. Still, she knows that some greet the last song with open arms, welcoming the great unknown. Sainte Chapelle is now dark, except for the chandelier lights. The room is almost quiet, the music sounding like horses trotting the frozen ground. Even though it is July, an imaginary cold dance between the people, blowing invisible snow upon their shoulders. She thinks of a house standing still, quietness all around. The wolf may be at the door, but there is a lock and key. The people sitting before the fire hurdled together for more warmth. More than the light from the embers, there is a glow from each of them. For they know that after the longest winter night, as the morning light is breaking through, an angel blows his trumpet announcing that Springtime is new. 

[After I left the concert with my mask soaked in tears, and my heart both heavy and light, I read about Antonio Vivaldi. 

Antonio Lucio Vivaldi, born in 1678 in Venice, was a violist, teacher, impresario, and priest. The Four Seasons is his most famous piece, and sonnets accompany each season. He moved to Vienna, seeking royal support for this art. However, the emperor he was seeking sponsorship from died soon after he arrived in Vienna. Vivaldi himself then died a year later in poverty. 

Vivaldi, a music genius, died in poverty, but his seasons live on.]