In It

For a long time—a few years—when I was a kid, I only allowed myself to walk to a beat of three: 1,2,3, 1,2,3—a kind of waltz-like rhythm to my step. I knew it was weird so I kept it secret and tried to disguise it, stretching or syncopating the steps when I could—a dangerous business. God forbid I let a four in there. I had a horror of this happening, partly because my best friend Josh said four was better because it was “even”—but mostly because three swung and four didn’t.

Sometimes I catch my own kid doing this kind of thing and before I can stop myself I say “what are you doing” and he says “nothing” and then I remember to pretend not to notice, but I do notice and I love it because I know it’s got him and he’s got it.

When he was born we would stay awake all night listening to Brahms and Vivaldi and Leadbelly and everything I could think of. I wanted to see what he would respond to and if it would stick. Now he composes songs on the piano and loves more than anything to sing and especially to dance—anywhere, everywhere, spontaneously.

The other day we were out driving in the countryside and I put Rostropovich playing Bach on the car stereo. It’s a good stereo with a big sound and the bass in the right place and everything like it should be. The combination of Rostropovich and the stereo was intense. Everyone became quiet, listening. We drove on. I snuck a look at Jesse in the back seat—he had stopped playing with his Hot Wheels and was gazing out the window like the scenery was the music itself—just totally and completely in it.

---