The U.S. soldier reaches his arms toward heaven, a crucifix in a Vietnam jungle, as bullets slam into his body, his face a contortion of pain, blood streaming from his chest. Overhead, choppers lift, carrying away all hope of escape along with the wounded, abandoning the man below. Amid this violence of war, violins stir. The opening strains of Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings in B flat minor” sound slowly and quietly at first, barely audible above the tumult of gunfire.
The director of the movie, “Platoon,” I’m told, searched out the most beautiful music he could find, this adagio, to serve as a backdrop for the most horrific scene in his production.
An adagio in a musical score is a section of slow tempo. A deliberate change in movement. A gentle breath. A welcome respite. I understand adagio.
When my first husband died, I was home one day, one of many times I called in sick, unable to drag myself from my bed. But hearing voices and laughter, I looked out the window. Outside were a half dozen men. They were fixing my garage light, getting Kevin’s pickup ready to sell, watering newly planted trees, readying a basement window for winter.
My brother-in-law was one of them. I asked him for a list of who was there so I could pay them for their time and work. “LaRayne,” he said, “you need to learn to say thank you very much and shut up.”
Performance of sweet adagios, I’ve learned, is payment in itself.
In our lives we can become engaged in heart-wrenching battles. Husbands die. Wives are diagnosed with Alzheimers. Spouses are unfaithful. Children run away. Babies are born with cystic fibrosis, cerebral palsy and Zika virus. Brothers pick up assault rifles and bullets, carry them in one hateful mass into a synagogue and take aim. Friends lie—about us. We are blamed for things that aren’t our fault, and held responsible for things that are. We hear words we want to close our ears to: bankruptcy proceedings, domestic assault, non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma or permanent vegetative state.
At those times, life seems unbearable. We walk in the valley of shadow; the only way through it is through it. And then we hear it: the beginning strains of an adagio.
Perhaps it’s the voice of a friend, expressing sympathy, empathy and love. Or a hug from a stranger. The scent in the air of freshly-mown grass, the taste of an apple, the feel of a baby’s fingers holding our own. Maybe it’s the sight of an autumn tree dressed in golden-yellow leaves, with so many leaves scattered below we can’t tell where its place in the sky and the earth meet.
In whatever battle you’re engaged, the strains of an adagio may carry you. It may be the only thing that will until you find your way out. Listen for it.
LaRayne Topp
The director of the movie, “Platoon,” I’m told, searched out the most beautiful music he could find, this adagio, to serve as a backdrop for the most horrific scene in his production.
An adagio in a musical score is a section of slow tempo. A deliberate change in movement. A gentle breath. A welcome respite. I understand adagio.
When my first husband died, I was home one day, one of many times I called in sick, unable to drag myself from my bed. But hearing voices and laughter, I looked out the window. Outside were a half dozen men. They were fixing my garage light, getting Kevin’s pickup ready to sell, watering newly planted trees, readying a basement window for winter.
My brother-in-law was one of them. I asked him for a list of who was there so I could pay them for their time and work. “LaRayne,” he said, “you need to learn to say thank you very much and shut up.”
Performance of sweet adagios, I’ve learned, is payment in itself.
In our lives we can become engaged in heart-wrenching battles. Husbands die. Wives are diagnosed with Alzheimers. Spouses are unfaithful. Children run away. Babies are born with cystic fibrosis, cerebral palsy and Zika virus. Brothers pick up assault rifles and bullets, carry them in one hateful mass into a synagogue and take aim. Friends lie—about us. We are blamed for things that aren’t our fault, and held responsible for things that are. We hear words we want to close our ears to: bankruptcy proceedings, domestic assault, non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma or permanent vegetative state.
At those times, life seems unbearable. We walk in the valley of shadow; the only way through it is through it. And then we hear it: the beginning strains of an adagio.
Perhaps it’s the voice of a friend, expressing sympathy, empathy and love. Or a hug from a stranger. The scent in the air of freshly-mown grass, the taste of an apple, the feel of a baby’s fingers holding our own. Maybe it’s the sight of an autumn tree dressed in golden-yellow leaves, with so many leaves scattered below we can’t tell where its place in the sky and the earth meet.
In whatever battle you’re engaged, the strains of an adagio may carry you. It may be the only thing that will until you find your way out. Listen for it.
LaRayne Topp
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