Dvořák's 7th & 8th

Playing right now on my public radio station. Why in the world do those works make my eyes well up, whenever I hear them???? Could it be that they are just so beautiful, and that beauty is in such short supply in my life? Hmmmm. I've got to do some thinking about that one!

How do I put more beauty into my life? I'm not quite sure about that one. I listen to lots of lovely music, and it seems that no matter how much I listen to it, my senses are still stirred, and my eyes still well up. Perhaps it's something innate. A certain sensitivity to beauty?

I'm not saying that just because I'm trans, I have an abnormal sensitivity to beauty. Considering that many non trans folk have a similar sensitivity, that claim would be absurd. So what is it?

I have a clue. My dad, who has been deceased since 10/2000, when he was nearly 81, gave me an appreciation for good music. We never had great verbal communication, but Dad loved beautiful music, and made attempts to have me share it with him. He introduced me to Leonard Bernstein's Young People's concerts, and some very good 1950's Broadway Musicals. He also would take me for weekend rides in the car, with beautiful music playing on the radio. I think that was his way of bonding with me, and it worked! I secretly adored him! Oh, he was a stuffed shirt to be sure, and could be very stern at times, but there was an unspoken word between us, that gave me confidence in him. Unlike my more fickle and neurotic mother, I always knew he had my best interest at heart, even if he was completely wrong in a situation, which he and my mother more than often were.

Unfortunately, Dad's devotion didn't make a man out of me, not even when he was teaching me how to pitch a baseball. Oh, I learned how to throw the ball, and even became quite proficient at it. I earned a spot on my little league all star team, for striking out the side, three innings in a row! For those of you who aren't familiar with the game of baseball, that means that I stuck out all tree batters, for three inning in a row. That's nine batters that walked up to the plate, only to be retired by my pitches. It doesn't happen very often in the game of baseball, and I never came close to doing it again. Yet here as I sit, and listen to these wonderful strains, I can't help but think that Dad would love to be sitting quietly next to me, and listening to them too. Not conversing, mind you......just being next to me, and listening. What a sweet notion.

Melissa XX