Last weekend, Egor and I enjoyed a few hour to ourselves. I parked my butt in front of my laptop to research Pre-Raphaelite and Symbolist paintings. Egor skulked off to dig around in the basement. Ten minutes later, I heard music. Egor had unearthed the harmonica.
I love harmonicas. They are the happiest, blingiest musical instruments ever invented. When I was a kid, my Grandmother played old country tunes on her harmonica. It was magic! How could anyone coax music out of a stubborn metal bar? I spent a childhood summer trying to teach myself. I could not figure it out.
So, when I heard my husband playing a song, a fiery joy bloomed in my heart. I hopped out of bed and clattered down the stairs, singing. In the kitchen, I did a tiny dance and fussed over the harmonica. It took ten minutes for the intense nostalgia and pleasure to subside enough for me to be calm.
I realized then that I had been celebrating the harmonica concert on tip toes. In fact, I toe walked non-stop as I enjoyed his playing. Huh. I never really thought about it before. Why do I do this? Well, it feels great. The combination of pressure and balance blends with the joy I feel.
And I do feel joy. Pure, mindless ecstasy. The sensation is so intense, it automatically triggers a physical reaction. This connection between mood and body certainly underlies the human desire to dance. Such a pity that this drive was installed in such a clumsy body.
Fortunately, my husband jovially puts up with my fits of rapture. He spent the rest of the day practicing harmonica, oddly playing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” amidst blues riffs.
After the second hour, of “Twinkle,” I almost asked him to choose another song. But, he has his thing, and I have mine. For revenge, I planned to ambush him with a lecture on French Symbolist painters.