(Jack Riemer, Houston Chronicle)

On Nov. 18, 1995, Itzhak Perlman, the violinist, came on stage to give a concert at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center in New York City. If you have ever been to a Perlman concert, you know that getting on stage is no small achievement for him. He was stricken with polio as a child, and so he has braces on both legs and walks with the aid of two crutches.

To see him walk across the stage one step at a time, painfully and slowly, is an unforgettable sight. He walks painfully, yet majestically, until he reaches his chair. Then he sits down, slowly, puts his crutches on the floor, undoes the clasps on his legs, tucks one foot back and extends the other foot forward. Then he bends down and picks up the violin, puts it under his chin, nods to the conductor and proceeds to play.

By now, the audience is used to this ritual. They sit quietly while he makes his way across the stage to his chair. They remain reverently silent while he undoes the clasps on his legs. They wait until he is ready to play.

But this time, something went wrong. Just as he finished the first few bars, one of the strings on his violin broke. You could hear it snap -- it went off like gunfire across the room. There was no mistaking what that sound meant. There was no mistaking what he had to do.

People who were there that night thought to themselves: "We figured that he would have to get up, put on the clasps again, pick up the crutches and limp his way off stage -- to either find another violin or else find another string for this one."

But he didn't. Instead, he waited a moment, closed his eyes then signaled the conductor to begin again. The orchestra began, and he played from where he had left off. He played with overwhelming passion and power and purity.

Of course, anyone knows that it is impossible to play a symphonic work with just three strings. I know that, and you know that, but that night Itzhak Perlman refused to know that. You could see him modulating, changing, recomposing the piece in his head. At one point, it sounded like he was de-tuning the strings to get new sounds from them that they had never made before.

When he finished, there was an awesome silence in the room. And then people rose and cheered. There was an extraordinary outburst of applause from every corner of the auditorium. We were all on our feet, screaming and cheering, doing everything we could to show how much we appreciated what he had done.

He smiled, wiped the sweat from this brow, raised his bow to quiet us, and then he said, not boastfully, but in a quiet, pensive, reverent tone, "You know, sometimes it is the artist's task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left."

What a powerful line that is. It has stayed in my mind ever since I heard it. And who knows? Perhaps that is the [way] of life -- not just for artists but for all of us. Here is a man who has prepared all his life to make music on a violin of four strings, who, all of a sudden, in the middle of a concert, finds himself with only three strings. So he makes music with three strings, and the music he made that night with just three strings was more beautiful, more sacred, more memorable, than any that he had ever made before, when he had four strings.

So, perhaps our task in this shaky, fast-changing, bewildering world in which we live is to make music, at first with all that we have, and then, when that is no longer possible, to make music with what we have left.

-- Eve (eve_rebekah@yahoo.com), April 17, 2001

Answers

THANK YOU, Eve! That was such a beautiful story. I play fiddle, and since a car accident injured my spine it has been a fight to play longer than a few minutes without pain. I needed this story. Thank you for posting it.

-- Marg (okay@cutaway.com), April 17, 2001.

Make music with what we have left ... more beautiful, more sacred, more memorable, than any made before.

Thank you Eve. Thank you for a wonderful story which helped to shift my perspective a little more. (Soon to round a corner completely)

-- Debra (Thisis@it.com), April 17, 2001.

This story is very inspiring. Thanks for posting it.

-- Tony Baloney (Most Liberals are@cool.com), April 17, 2001.

"Problems" are truly gifts. They are opportunities for growth. As I have learned this I live in less fear, and greater faith that whatever is presenting itself as a problem today contains within it the seed of positive change. It takes courage to face problems, to not run away. This story is a great reminder of what can happen when a problem is embraced.

-- Enlightenment (gone@away.now), April 17, 2001.

You're very welcome, y'all. It was just a sheer joy to share it with ya -- I knew what I had to do right after I'd first read it.

I don't think I need to say how much this affected me, other than that I can't go back to the story without assuming my "at the ready" position -- you know -- the one where my almost-shaking hand is locked in a death grip on the Kleenex.

-- Eve (eve_rebekah@yahoo.com), April 17, 2001.

Thank you Eve, for such a beautiful reminder that problems are only so bad as your mind decides they are.

Thank you again, for brightening my day with this gem.

-- Uncle Deedah (unkeed@yahoo.com), April 17, 2001.

NO PAIN----NO GAIN. the more we die too our [selfish] Adamic-nature,the greater out spirit becomes!! life's too short for -me-me ism,Tribulations-work=patience.

-- al-d (dogs@zianet.com), April 17, 2001.

Thanks Eve.

-- helen (d@d.d), April 17, 2001.

Intense

-- (you@made me. cry), April 17, 2001.

Thanks for responding. I'm so glad you guys took to this the way I did. And I'm goin' back in here trying not to look at the story again -- I don't want red eyes all over again! Really, though -- I'm gonna savor this -- to be taken out and read during those difficult times.

Marg, I want to say that you're another inspiration to me -- to us all, if I may speak for the group. And I wish you well in hopes of a recovery. Thank you for sharing your story with us.

-- Eve (eve_rebekah@yahoo.com), April 17, 2001.

Good one, Eve!

-- kb8 (kb8um8@yahoo.com), April 17, 2001.