Whatever the medium or craft — music, language, carpentry, working with the soil — the virtuoso is, first and foremost, a life-long learner — a child in an aging body whose heart and mind are an image in kind of the flowering cosmos. If it were only a matter of skill, the word virtuoso wouldn’t have the meaning it does. The world would be overrun with them. And yet that, at least in part, is what the virtuoso is trying to express — that the flowering, by its very nature, is accessible to everyone and always within reach. It may be found in a grandmother’s kitchen or sewing room, or witnessed in a neighbor tending his garden. It may be in your mother’s secret late-night communion with a notebook she’s slowly filling with poems. There’s no end to its color and variety, no fast corners, nothing that’s measurable in any conventional sense. As such, it goes to the heart of love, which we instinctively recognize as the difference between merely possessing a high degree of skill, and sharing one’s gift with compassion and intelligence. The virtuoso doesn’t prove or demonstrate. The virtuoso is.
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Categories: Sweet Sleep and Bare Feet