The drive to Wayland from the Berkshires early Wednesday morning and then returning in the middle of the day today is done. The two cats and the dog are sleeping in different parts of the house and from my window the sun and the clouds are vying for prominence over the meadow. As I'm writing, WMHT is playing Summer from Vivaldi's Seasons (an overplayed piece, unfortunately, but lovely, nevertheless).Over the past few days, I have experienced an embarrasment of riches, first by beautiful violin and piano sonatas performed at Ozawa Hall on Tuesday evening and then by an explosion of color and passion at the Tintoretto, Titian and Veronese exhibit at the MFA. I feel so incredibly fortunate to be able to move back and forth between Wayland and the Berkshires -- partaking of the cultural feast in both places. (Oh, and let's not forget New York City, also just two hours away.)
But it's the quiet moments at our home in the Berkshires that I retreat with relish because the quiet in between the cultural activities is like exhaling after inhaling deeply. The lush green of the vegetation around me punctuated by dashes of color from the flowers in the garden and the meadows settles the mind and slows the pulse. Allowing myself to be drawn into the slower rhythms of a day here or there with nothing more to claim my attention than wondering from which window to gaze clears my mind and prepares it to receive whatever next is offered at the rich table of cultural fare in the Berkshires.
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