Fin, da capo.

Silence.

The house has returned to its previous state - quiet, still, empty.

Before the sound of Aaron’s violin scales first thing in the morning, the sizzle of bacon and eggs, the sleepy coffee crew admiring Troy’s epic breakfast, the hustling up and down the stairs to find stands and chairs, the tuning, the quartet’s Debussy rehearsal from the master bedroom fusing with Annie and Chris’ tender Schubert, Tong and Maitreyi hacking away at the computer making posts and putting out logistical fires. The rushing in and out of the two vehicles as everyone simultaneously tries to logic their way around how to shuttle a group of 8 along with instruments and sound equipment and poster boards. The laughter and banter. All the laughter and banter.

And now, silence.

The house has returned to its previous state - quiet, still, empty.

But has it really? Does anything, can anything ever return to a time that was ‘before’? Before we knew how it could feel … to be so in love, to be so happy, fulfilled, alive, even with the exasperation at the chaos and challenges and unexpected hurdles thrown our way every other second… To be so genuinely connected, be it with people, music, earth, or just some general mystical spirit of the self and of the universe?

Every detail is precious. So damn precious. I want to feel every sense. I want to remember every moment. The cold, the warmth, the sun right in our faces burning our skin and instruments, the freezing lake wind numbing our fingers, the smell of homemade pizza welcoming us as we tumble back into the house, the taste of cheese and wine and farmers market fruits and cake and mead as we sightread dark Mahler and Brahms quartets, the truth or dare games and stories, the derpy errands, the ice-cream and late night cookies, the music, all the damn incredible music, the expression on each human being’s face, or each puppy’s face… the children’s giggles and art-making, the parent’s gleaming smiles, that one lady sitting on the grass sobbing behind sunglasses throughout Mozart’s E minor violin sonata.

So many moments. Countless moments. And I can’t remember them all. It’s only been a week since we first gathered here in this house, and everything already feels way too close and way too far all at the same time.

It’s heartbreaking. We existed in those moments. Some captured on film, on camera, some in writing, in momentos. But mostly, only in some lingering vague fragrance of a feeling, an ungraspable memory that may or may not be real.

Sad is not the right word. Happy is not the right word.

They say you only feel the significance of someone’s presence after they have left, after they have filled your heart with such sincere warmth and care and joy that the void in their absence is completely numbing.

My heart has not been like this in a very long time. It’s not the attachment. It’s not just the exhaustion and rollercoaster of emotions. I am weeping alone, uncontrollably inside the Mazda parked on the curb of the Calgary airport departures zone after dropping off the final (and first) member of this festival because … because I am genuinely so, so grateful. I am so blessed. I feel the most raw, infinite tenderness.

It’s really about the people. For me, it’s all about the relationships, the connections. The sense of belonging. For each individual, each plant, for mom, for the composers, for my own wandering, yearning, romantic heart.

The people make it happen.

There is such kindness, such hope in our world. Such awe, such amazement in finding moments of connection, however brief, however unbelievable.

Real connection, sincere feeling, is possible.

Understanding is possible.

Some dreams we wake up from feeling empty and depleted. Some dreams we live and we honour, we remember, as best as we could.

So what else is there to say? How much of our love is conjured, imagined, agonized out of proportion? How silly is our sentimentality?

But so what. That is who we are, and we are alive and magicking because of it. Because of our dreams, our daringness, or recklessness in taking countless leaps of faith.

I love the silence.

The silence makes us pay attention.

Listen.

Fin?

Fin, da capo.