Some of you have seen the film “Six Degrees of Separation” which spins out its plotline upon the notion that all people, everywhere, are within six people of knowing one another. But for musicians, the degrees narrow down to three, and for professionals, down to one. If I meet an orchestral musician, they are guaranteed to know someone else I know. And this might not be very interesting except that it beautifully illustrates a gem of world-view: everyone is connected.
Naturally I didn’t invent this idea. Lots of writers explore how people (not just professional musicians, naturally) are connected. Only a few seem to think it’s a good idea to separate people, to impose distance (which is not the same as boundaries, which might be the subject for another musing), and huddle only with a select few. Some time ago I had an epiphany which got me past the idea that people are not connected; this epiphany has been unfolding, in fresh chapters, for years now.
Some people don’t like this idea of basic human connectedness; usually, they’re the ones with something on their conscience. It’s a bit frightening to be connected to, or to be within one or two degrees of, someone you have harmed. Or a friend that you treated shabbily. Or an acquaintance you shunned. Or betrayed. Or avoided because you have something on your conscience. Fear is a burden, and I feel for people who carry too much of it, because I know how that feels.
Then another epiphany unfolded: everyone has something on their conscience. That’s one of the connections. And this led me to this shiniest epiphany: it’s a good idea to forgive people. If I forgive people, I don’t need to worry about being one person away from knowing them. I don’t need to worry about them reappearing in my life, as people tend to do, sooner or later, in actuality or on the internet or in heaven or in dreams. What’s in your life stays there, and you can come to terms with it, but it will not go away. Naturally, I’m not referring to behaviors or to objects, but to people.
Even behaviors and objects have staying power, I now realize. Some shoddy behavior of mine may be in the past, but it remains a memory in my mind. I can be forgiven and forgive myself, but the memory lurks, hopefully keeping arrogance at bay. And you might know the Orson Welles movie where the dying star, powerful and renowned, utters a word on his deathbed: “Rosebud.” People keep trying to figure out what it means, and only viewers know it’s his old toy sled from childhood—a relic of innocence, perhaps.
Another chapter of this epiphany granted the realization that, even if I am not joined to someone by family ties, or the selectivity of friendship, or the peculiar intensity of working together, or what have you, we are still connected. One degree or six, the connection holds. This makes me suppose that I am responsible. I cannot act like a child who huddles and sneers with a clique on the playground, refusing to talk to someone for the eternity of a day; nor can I complain eternally about someone who annoys me. At some point I have to get over it and treat them with the openness of connection. After all, the connection appears to remain, no matter how we treat one another, no matter how far we try to run, or how busy we attempt to keep ourselves. So I might as well just open up. I might as well be decent to everybody.
Despite the chapters of this epiphany, I am not perfect. But I am resolved to answer everyone’s phone calls or emails, unless you are a telemarketer. So, if you don’t hear back from me, you know the technology is broken. I’ll always answer if I can.
Naturally I didn’t invent this idea. Lots of writers explore how people (not just professional musicians, naturally) are connected. Only a few seem to think it’s a good idea to separate people, to impose distance (which is not the same as boundaries, which might be the subject for another musing), and huddle only with a select few. Some time ago I had an epiphany which got me past the idea that people are not connected; this epiphany has been unfolding, in fresh chapters, for years now.
Some people don’t like this idea of basic human connectedness; usually, they’re the ones with something on their conscience. It’s a bit frightening to be connected to, or to be within one or two degrees of, someone you have harmed. Or a friend that you treated shabbily. Or an acquaintance you shunned. Or betrayed. Or avoided because you have something on your conscience. Fear is a burden, and I feel for people who carry too much of it, because I know how that feels.
Then another epiphany unfolded: everyone has something on their conscience. That’s one of the connections. And this led me to this shiniest epiphany: it’s a good idea to forgive people. If I forgive people, I don’t need to worry about being one person away from knowing them. I don’t need to worry about them reappearing in my life, as people tend to do, sooner or later, in actuality or on the internet or in heaven or in dreams. What’s in your life stays there, and you can come to terms with it, but it will not go away. Naturally, I’m not referring to behaviors or to objects, but to people.
Even behaviors and objects have staying power, I now realize. Some shoddy behavior of mine may be in the past, but it remains a memory in my mind. I can be forgiven and forgive myself, but the memory lurks, hopefully keeping arrogance at bay. And you might know the Orson Welles movie where the dying star, powerful and renowned, utters a word on his deathbed: “Rosebud.” People keep trying to figure out what it means, and only viewers know it’s his old toy sled from childhood—a relic of innocence, perhaps.
Another chapter of this epiphany granted the realization that, even if I am not joined to someone by family ties, or the selectivity of friendship, or the peculiar intensity of working together, or what have you, we are still connected. One degree or six, the connection holds. This makes me suppose that I am responsible. I cannot act like a child who huddles and sneers with a clique on the playground, refusing to talk to someone for the eternity of a day; nor can I complain eternally about someone who annoys me. At some point I have to get over it and treat them with the openness of connection. After all, the connection appears to remain, no matter how we treat one another, no matter how far we try to run, or how busy we attempt to keep ourselves. So I might as well just open up. I might as well be decent to everybody.
Despite the chapters of this epiphany, I am not perfect. But I am resolved to answer everyone’s phone calls or emails, unless you are a telemarketer. So, if you don’t hear back from me, you know the technology is broken. I’ll always answer if I can.
posted by Vicky at 4:05 PM
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