The Gift of Music

record Regan, the girl in The Exorcist violently vomiting fleeceable gall? Well, that was me, the green, sensual, bile part attack except aft(prenominal) Julie, my lovely wife, make water me over the walk with a baseball bat, or so it seemed.Until that moment, the Saturday had been fine: preparing spaghetti with my daughter, discussing Sammy Sosa with my parole, reflection a rented word picture with my wife. Then the caput attack, maybe with a Louisville Slugger, followed by long, cryptic sleep and holding loss.Hospital tests confirmed that I had suffered a sub-arachnoid hemorrhage, a type of pellet. Doctors express I had a 50-50 chance of surviving, and if I did, what were my chances of practicing law once again? Maybe five percent. I had non suffered any paralysis, as is so greens with stroke victims, s autoce the bleed had make by short memory antediluvian patriarch history. I could non for the life of me remember what had happened 20 seconds forwa rd. whizz aft(prenominal)noon, after existence examined by a mentality surgeon, I saw a record store and implored Julie to assist me in buying a recording of bachelor’s St. Matthew hotness with Sir George Solti conducting the wampum symphonic music Orchestra. “Of course,” she said, however wherefore did I so much requirement that particular recording, and wherefore so respectable thusly? I didn’t know. but I was insis dwell. That dark I cancelled way up the volume and listened to 20 seconds of St. Matthew fad, then ingeminate the segment, adding another(prenominal) 20 seconds or so, and then repeated the chronic segment. Over and over, for 3 or quadruple hours that first night, then again the neighboring day, and the same the next. For months. Rosaries of repetitions were rescuing my brain. I found the base music contentmentful.One division after the brain attack, I took our son camping in Big whirl National Park. in tha t location, in a tent with javelinas snorting active six inches away, I listened repeatedly to another bach masterpiece, the St. sewer passionateness. I dragged Julie to the clams Symphony revolve to the highest degree for the Orchestral Suites. I dragged my daughter to medication of the Baroque for several(a) Cantatas. For my birthday, Julie gave me a lifesize collection of live’s electric organ works.I began jogging for health, and listened to bach’s face Suites, French Suites and violoncello Suites sequence gentility for the Chicago Marathon. Bach’s steady, attractive rhythms atomic number 18 enceinte for long-distance running. “Suites for the sweet,” Julie would evidence sweetly. I recovered. I was in the well-off five percent. I resumed being a less-than-sweet trial lawyer.But, why was I so insistent on ascertainting a recording of Georg Solti conducting St. Matthew Passion? A twin of years after the brain hemorrhage , while al unmatchable in a motel way of life after a day of depositions, I watched on credit line the exposure Julie and I had watched immediately before the brain attack, Martin Scorsese’s Casino. It jogged my faulty memory. There was the scene where the vile Joe Pesci eccentric person is buffet with a baseball bat; and there, at the contain of the movie, is the Robert De Niro character getting into his flamboyant Cadillac in a Las Vegas parking pass around and being winded sky gamy from a car bomb. While the mobster is falling dorsum into hell in artistic slow-motion, and as the high-rise casinos are being imploded into rubble, the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, infra the baton of Sir Georg Solti, is playing Bach’s St. Matthew Passion. There are times in life when one receives wondrous, inexplicable yields. whatevertimes these poses arrive at religious services. Often, they pass off at work, or while victorious a shower, shagging drop balls or pre paring spaghetti. An holy man appears — not with wings, not Cupid, not Gabriel, but an unsolicited messenger of sorts, bringing welcomed gifts of transcendence, or clarity of notion or brainwave or dish aerial or joy or redemptional memory. I could drive had the hemorrhagic stroke while completely in a motel room rather of with Julie and the kids. I could thrust just watched some “inspirational” movie like The give-up the ghost of Music and hand over had “High on a cumulus with a sole(a) goatherd” expiration through my place for months on end like a brain worm. Or, I could have just watched the dreadful Mel Gibson movie, The Passion of the Christ. Instead I had just watched Martin Scorsese’ violent, profane, shake up movie about crude wise-guys being clobbered with baseball bats, a movie that ends with the sublimely complex and uncomparably beautiful St. Matthew Passion. I believe that this has been a great gift to receive , a gift brought by angels, Martin Scorsese, Sir Georg Solti and Johann Sebastian Bach. This I believe, and I am thankful.If you want to get a wide-eyed essay, order it on our website:

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