noted

“A cello, you say?” asked Calliope. “Do we need to call Terpsichore? Music is her thing.”

“Nah…we’ve got this,” said Urania. “We’re only dancing on the edge of music—we’re more interested in the drive to play.”

“This is coming from The Dig, is it?” asked the muse of many question.

“Yes—two scenes from the film stuck with me—err us—in the first, a man is about to leave a job when experts come barreling in to take over his archaeological find,” said Urania.

“And his wife reminds him of why he digs…she uses a question…,” Thalia picked up the thread. “The wife asked…Why else would you be playing around in the dirt while the rest of the country prepares for war?”

And the wife goes on…, “Something that’ll last longer than whatever damn war we’re heading into,” added Calliope.

“The cello?” asked Urania.

“Ahhh—a story within the story,” said Thalia, “…another a little gem inside the film—the story of Beatrice Harrison who played her cello in the garden and enticed a nightingale to co-create with its voice.”

“And while others listened to the BBC transmitting the concert, nightingales in their gardens began to sing, too!” added Calliope.

“Remember that lovely little book…The Cellist of Sarajevo?” asked Urania.

“What did we do with that book?” asked Calliope.

“Not sure…but I do remember feeling admiration? respect? esteem? for the cellist who played Adagio in G minor in the bombed out square of downtown Sarajevo…an open target for snipers.”

“Why do you think he did it…for 22 days?” asked Calliope.

“Because it was bigger than him,” said Thalia. “And, he could.”