“Look at this world/spinning for us/even in the dark/ look at this world/spinning for us/ giving us hope and sun…” (Sartori and Quarantotto)
On the road to Ranfurly, I play Andrea Bocelli singing Canto della Terra – Song about the Earth. The road climbs past the fields of matagouri and hawthorn, swoops over the Ida Burn and up onto the higher tablelands. Bocelli’s voice soaring.
On my last trip to Nelson, driving up the length of the ravaged West Coat, I let my thoughts fly to his voice, imagining, oh, my essays out in the world, the exultation of the music stirring my hopes.
On the long drive home, after a health scare, I drove through the mountain passes listening to the song again, and wondered if I would even live. As if these were the only two responses to the music: adulation or grief for oneself.
On the way to Ranfurly, the song again, and my thoughts lifted and flew to the world, as if to each precious family sheltering in their own ways, to each precious worker needing to be out amongst it all, such a wave of unbidden, unselfish love.
The song the same, but the response as if walls had come down between ego and aroha, a silent tearing of the shell that makes me think I am I in a world of others, instead of I am you, am we.
Over the Rock and Pillars, white cumulus rise. The land on each side of the road stretches away, the grass golden to the hills.