Stop and listen to the music

Do you ever have those moments in your life when you wish you could reach out and grasp the whole thing, just to scoop it up and bottle it for later? Then, in a darker, rainier season of life, you could open the bottle and let the essence of your summer invade the gloom of autumn.

I had one of those moments the other evening. The Mister and I had been out having tapas with some friends, and we were walking home in the warm flood of the streetlights.

We were just passing by the cathedral and it was all lit up like a candle in the night. We heard him before we saw him - a street musician, sitting quietly with his head bowed over his guitar, playing notes so luxurious and rich that it was almost impossible to think there was only one set of hands playing. He opened his mouth and started singing, and we slowed to a stop, awed into stillness.

His voice rippled over the notes like water flowing over river rocks. It was deep and rich, a perfect symphony of sound. It was stunning.

The Mister and I marvelled. He tugged on my hand and pulled me toward a set of steps, and we sat there, in shadow, listening and watching. It was at this point that I wanted to bottle the memory, every part of it: the angel voice and the quiet song; the feel of The Mister's strong hand in mine; the chilly winter night with the warm pool of the streetlights; the feeling of gratefulness for it all. I never want to forget it. Any of it.

When the song was finished, the player bowed his head over his guitar again. The quiet tinkling of a nearby fountain sounded like muted applause for the player's song.

Wordlessly, The Mister and I started clapping. We were joined by several other passersby, people like us who had been going about their rather ordinary evening before the unexpected gift of beauty stopped them for a moment and made them take it all in.

The player looked at us in suprise. He had been so involved in his song that he hadn't noticed us.  He smiled at us.

It was perfect.