Leaving Oregon was cathartic (for me, I’m sure Varia has a different opinion); when we got on the plane to Boston, we were quite literally leaving it all behind. We took only what we could carry, and had one box sent to us after we found a place to live. I left my collection of books and recordings, my composition portfolio, and my horns; items which I spent the majority of my life never being more than a few feet from. By chance, I also happened to leave in the case of a horn the university’s copy of a the Paul Hindemith horn quartet, which caused me no small amount of grief six months later.

It’s been nearly four years. I’ve grown used to a peculiar way of antiphonal thinking over the past few years; I look to read or hear something, and then I recall it’s in Oregon. Chopin? Oregon. Mozart? Oregon. Perotin? Oregon. If only I could I reach into this box, turn to that page, then I should know what I wish to know. There is a piece of music that would match this mood exactly, if only I could get to it.

We are returning; this weekend, we are going back. David Ozab is getting married, and we will be there. Then we are going to start the process of bringing the life we left behind into the life we have cultivated since, a box at a time.