Peanut without the Jelly

I attended a lovely concert last evening with family members.  It featured real Advent music (not canned and overproduced Christmas music that really should wait its turn) that was beautifully done with a clear sense of expectation and hope.  I think the performers were especially appreciative of the folks who braved the weather and the roads to be part of the experience.  That appreciation shone through their performances and their comments.

The music moved me--especially a haunting performance of "Breath of Heaven."  But for me it was like dry cereal without any milk: something (that is, someone) was missing.  The form and content were there.  It was ven good for me.  But the substance was thin and less satisfying than I would have hoped.  I am used to sharing something like this with Anne, used to turning to her in the middle of a beautiful song and seeing her smile.  The performers and the performance were wonderful.  But they couldn't fill in the gap.

This is peanut butter with the jelly, ham without the swiss, Abbott without Costello (it should be clear to all which one was the buffoon in our pair).  It would be one thing not to have had such a diet or partnership in the past.  We can't really miss fully what we don't know or haven't experienced.  But it is quite another thing now to feel the absence, the deprivation, the vacuum.  This isn't the sharp grief pain like a cramp for me.  This was a dull ache that slowly drew the joy back out of the occassion.  This is one of those things that, I imagine, one gets used to somewhat over time.

But I must say I don't like it.

I know that similar things--going to movies and ball games, for example--will present the same challenge.  And I love to do both.  It became clear during the concert that I had a couple of choices.  I could avoid such things and deny the pain.  But then I would go to no concerts or movies or games for a very long time.  Or I can embrace the pain and enjoy the people I am with in Anne's absence--and begin to grow some new capacities.  That's the option for life, hard as it is for now.

So I'll give it another go.