This is for Lucinda (myrrhluz). She's not here much these days, but those of you who know her know what a treasure-chest her work is. And what a precious person she is. In this case (a rarity), I'll let my tale speak 'for' me, but she brought such a precious joy and to this place, and I wanted to celebrate her and her dear friendship, and her special place in this site. It's for her birthday, which was June 2d... I hope my little tale 'works'. My wishes are with everything you do, dear friend. A deep and joyous happy birthday to you, always... Thanks for reading. I'll return to comments in the day... * * * For Lucinda "What are you doing?" "Planting." Silence. "What are you planting?" "Notes." "Notes?" Silence. She knelt over each hole as if the secrets of the universe were in each one, planting with the same devotion one would bestow on a child. "What kind of notes?" I said. Silence. "Ok," I said: "I'll let you be." I walked on... As I wandered through the garden, it struck me: This place was vast. Every kind of plant was here, every flower, every fruit---it was encyclopedic: I'd never seen so many varieties in one place. Then she pointed---still not looking at me---and said: "Listen." "What to?" "Just listen..." Music: It 'appeared'. Gregorian chant, African chant, Hebraic chant, Middle Eastern chant. Then lute music, flute music, bagpipes, zithers...then Bach, Beethoven, Jazz, Rock. Down a ways, two trees---one playing guitar solos by Jerry Garcia, the other, by Eric Clapton: Their branches interlocked in a grand duet, moving the way the music moved, as if the music were put-into-branches-and-stems. Where did it come from? Was the music 'inside' the stems? I looked for speakers: There were none. CD players? None. iPods, iPhones? None. There certainly weren't any musicians here. This was just a garden, I thought: Where did this music come from? "It's not just a garden," she whispered. "Look around." I walked further. Chants from Indonesia, Indian sitar music, tablas---those exquisite hand-drums you see in Indian ensembles---then Chinese, Celtic, Romanian, Russian, and so on. "Where's the music coming from?" I said, turning back to that woman: "Can you tell me? It seems to be inside the branches!" She continued planting. She was a symphony of concentration, immersion. And the thing was: There was nothing in her hands---I mean she was planting 'nothing'. Air...emptiness. Maybe she really was planting notes: I didn't know. I just knew it was very, very mysterious. "Did you plant all this? Please tell me," I said. "Mmm," she said. And she went on planting. "Was that a 'yes'?" Silence. Ok... "If you walk around that bend," she interrupted, "you'll see a forest. Go there. It has answers. Go." "A forest?" She kept planting. So I walked. "Stop," she said: "You're there." I turned: Suddenly, a vast valley of rainbow-colored trees, luminous leaves, glowing branches with fruits so plump, you'd have thought they were about to give birth. "This is a fairy tale!" I said. "Keep walking," she said. I entered. The grass was the richest green I'd ever seen, as if someone had put it in Photoshop and saturated it to near-bursting. The fruits glowed. The branches wove in and out of each other in an entangled dance, a living paisley, a tapestry of exquisite lines and deep, sweeping bows. And, at the end of many branches: A dance. Curtsies and bows, as if, at the end of each line, they were thanking each other, embracing each other. It was mesmerizing. "Are these what you planted?" I said, hoping she could hear me. Silence. No matter---I knew. She planted these for sure. But she didn't just plant 'any' music: She planted all music. Music expressed-through-plants, what music would look like if it turned into trees, bushes, shrubs...It was as if someone said: "Ok, show me music---but only use plant-life to do it!" The branches rushed across the sky---melodies---while fruits and trunks were their chords. The roots were the rhythms and the bass. It was a huge musical playground, a carnival, as if all the stems and branches in the world were finally let loose and allowed to play with each other and make all the patterns that'd been pent up in them for eons. They leapt, dived, curled and caressed, hugged and pulled apart...a vast concert of the soul. But then, sound came back: "Mozart!" I cried. "Yes," she said. She smiled. And she was right: If some of you don't know Mozart, I'll try to explain: Those branches danced with the same sensuality that Mozart put into his music, with everything in balance yet so opulent. The lines caressed each other: Mozart. The curtsies-and-bows of his melodies: Mozart. His lilt and dance in the midst of deep struggle: Mozart. And the little 'graces' at the ends so many of his melodies---as if someone gave an unexpected kiss after hugging you goodbye: It was the unexpected blessing of Mozart, his exquisite ending-grace: That's what this forest was about... "If only Lucinda were here!" I shouted: 'Lucinda loves Mozart!" I ransacked my bag for a camera: Nothing. My pockets, my shirt: Nothing. "If only I'd bought an iPhone, a camera, anything. She'd love this place! What a birthday gift! And I don't even have a note pad!" The woman was now standing. (Whoa.) She faced me. "Who are you?" I said. I ran to her, unwilling to accept her silence anymore. She was made of light, with a glow so intense, I could barely see her face. But I saw something...something. "You're familiar," I said: "I know you---yes?" Silence. "Ok. Then show me a note. One note! It can't be that hard, can it? Just one---" She undulated in the wind. "Ma'am: You're not explaining a thing," I shrugged: "But I'm a musician---you knew that, right? I mean, you knew that, right? And I'm, like, ultra-positive you know me. So just show me one note, just one. Please!" She pointed to a valley beyond the forest. "Another forest?" I said. She nodded. "You want me to go there?" She nodded. "Yeah. A 'yes' would be nice," I muttered. "I know, you can't talk. You're a 'spirit'. You don't speak...but really..." It was another teeming jungle of glowing trees and branches; dancing, caressing, interweaving...and I admit: It was breathtaking. "It's gorgeous," I shouted: "But who are you???" "Le Nozze di Figaro," she said. "What???" "Le Nozze di Figaro. That forest is Le Nozze di Figaro." (An exquisite opera by Mozart.) I stared: "Where???" "Touch it," she said. "Pardon???" "Touch it! Touch the branches. Stroke them." I stroked them. Poof! All the arias, interludes, duets, recitativos---they were all there, burgeoning like a huge blossoming kaleidoscope, dancing and reveling in the breeze. This whole forest was putting on The Marriage of Figaro---for real---and it was the most exquisite rendition I'd ever seen. "Turn left," she said. "More???" "Left. Cosi fan tutti," she said. (Another great Mozart opera.) "I'm not through with Le Nozze yet!" "Just listen---" I listened: It was all there. I cried: "These are favorites of a dear friend of mine! She'd go crazy here!" "I know," she answered. "I know." "You know her?" I said. I ran back to her. Catching my breath, I said: "You've got to tell me who you are. I'm serious now! I'm not waiting: Who are you! And how do you know Lucinda?" "Open your hand," she said. What???" She grabbed my hand and dropped something in it. Then she closed it, and walked away. "Wait!" I said. "Where're you going???" But my hand got so suddenly searing, I screamed: "Arghhhhhh!" I threw the thing to the ground. Then, realizing what I'd done, I dived to the ground and crawled frantically to find it. "What'm I looking for!" I shouted. "Help, for god's sake!" "It's in your hand," she said. "Where!" I looked down: It was there, with light pouring through my fingers, a light so bright, filled with pastel hues, I thought it was a mini star. "Mozart," she said. "Do you see?" (I grew up on this music: The very thought that I was looking at the 'seeds' of it, the very kernels that gave birth to it, was stunning.) "Now plant it," she said, "go ahead." "Oh---I can't---" "Go ahead. It's easy." So I planted it. I'm sorry to say, I was embarrassed as all hell planting 'air' in the ground and then patting it, watering it, stomping on it. I felt like a kid playing charades. "There," I said. "It's done." "Now step back," she said. Then suddenly: The earth shook, the soil cracked open and a huge gorge opened. "We're having an earthquake," I shouted---but it wasn't that: It was another forest. I'd have been exasperated, but it brought more music, more dance, this time with Mozart that had never been written, pieces he would have written had he lived long enough, but never got to! God, if only Lucinda could hear this! I so wished I'd brought a recorder... The woman walked to me, dropped a pile of words in my hands, and walked away. "Wait," I cried, "what the---and you still haven't told me your name!" She disappeared. "Damn," I muttered. I sat down, cursing, with a pile of words in my lap. They pounced around like little kittens. 'Great', I thought. 'What'm I supposed to do with these now? And who was that woman? Where am I? God......' * * * Sundown. The garden was closed. I went to the gate and asked about that woman. "Oh, she never talks to us," said the guard: "But she left you a note." "Really?" I read it: "Those words and music are for Lucinda. Please give them to her. They're my gift, my blessing. Tell her of the forest, the dancing, all of it..." "What does it say?" asked the guard. "Wait: Here's her name---" It said: "L". Just "L". "God," I whispered. "What?" asked the guard. I couldn't talk. In the distance you could hear heavenly voices linking their fates to eternity while dancing in the face of insurmountable struggles: Mozart...Loss, recovery, blooming, unspeakable light: Mozart...Lace-works in the sky, silk and gold: Mozart. Then I thought, it was Lucinda too; her inner music, her exquisitely sensitive nature, her wonderful and enduring sweetness. Others knew it---ask any of them, they'll tell you she has those qualities. Maybe this vision was a way of saying that Lucinda carried the spirit and purity of Mozart, with the flowering, beautiful line that sang inside one eternally. That's what this was for, I thought. That's why I was here. And, that woman? It had to be her sister. That's how it felt...passed and precious, dancing in her loved ones hearts like magic, working miracles from 'the other side', from beyond this life. It was the miraculous thought that every time Lucinda heard Mozart, she was being graced by her beloved sister, as if her sister---from the other side---could gather up all the exquisiteness in the universe and present it to Lucinda as a gift---with that extra grace, that extra 'I love you' when you thought everything had already been said; that priceless kiss on the cheek when you thought a hug was enough. Maybe, in the realm of pure magic, Lucinda's sister was working in the background and planting magical seeds for Lucinda. That's what I really felt as the music swayed and whispered through the nighttime breezes, as the music never stopped---it played eternally in the now-night sky, its branches and fruits soaring in the moonlight just as it would in the day...something rare for someone rare, jewels for a jewel...this is what I'd give her for her birthday... Happy birthday, Lucinda Those who love you know you're as dear as that music, and as precious may you have many more birthdays in health and great joy with love and deep gratitude, Mark ---------