I'm enveloped in a green canopy this morning. Heavy rains have weighed down the leaves of the tree just off my deck and I feel cozily surrounded by nature. The rain is especially welcome due to the surprisingly dry spring we've had. But temperatures will climb into the 80s this week and a four-day family camping trip is planned for the weekend. It will be my first trip to the woods since Covid and I'm looking forward to it. I realized last night that I don't have a book to take so I guess a trip to Powell's or the library is in order.
Last week I pulled The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway off the shelf. I first read it shortly after it was published in 2008 and I kept it to read again because it's so good. Most likely it was recommended by a friend, but I might also have been drawn to the title because I love cello music and because Sarajevo is connected to happy memories.
The book takes place during the awful war that ended and divided Yugoslavia, and it follows just four characters (two based on real people) as they try to stay alive in a city where bombs explode unexpectedly and snipers hidden in the surrounding hills arbitrarily pick off pedestrians. The short book portrays the meaningless and ridiculousness of war, depicted not by news reports from afar, but in the daily, very personal struggles of individuals forced to keep going through insanity and chaos. Still, the novel offers hope.
We visited Sarajevo in 1977 and I remember it as a friendly and welcoming place, where people of different cultures and religions had a long history of living together in peace. That peace disintegrated when, between 1992 and 1996, much of Sarajevo was destroyed. After reading The Cellist I went back through our Yugoslav photographs and was stopped by one showing a young man I had bargained with in the market. He looked about 25, and I wondered what happened to him. He would probably have been around 40 when the war began. Did he take up arms against the snipers in the hills? Did he daily risk his life to retrieve fresh water and food to keep his family safe? Or did he run away, escaping the madness?
I hope he survived and is living a good life now. Our brief encounter undoubtedly meant nothing to him; I was one of many customers. But his photograph reminds me that such casual meetings in life are subject to the whims of history and the turnings of fate. And what seemed like a fun and colorful encounter now attaches to tragedy and loss. I will no longer think of it as "casual."
Can any meeting, no matter how accidental, be tossed aside as unimportant or meaningless? Or does every encounter hold meaning that we may never recognize? If the beating wings of a butterfly can cause a hurricane, what influence does a brief meeting involving the purchase of a small red rug have? How many invisible threads attach us to the world? Such things keep me wondering.
And now the sun is out and the drying leaves have lifted the branches to their normal resting place. Stasis has temporarily returned and life moves on.
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In other news, I am working on a project that will undoubtedly take time. That may mean fewer blog entries for awhile. On the other hand, it might inspire even more. Meanwhile, Google has announced that beginning in July (or maybe end of July—the announcement is typically vague) the system used to automatically send my entries to subscribers will be ending. Until I find another method you'll be receiving them through my email account.
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