I guess this is a big month for musician birthdays.  The 27th was Mozart's, and the 31st is Schubert's.  Not as well known as Mozart and writing in a different era of European idea and thought, Franz Schubert was nonetheless one of the most remarkable musicians in Western history.  Immensely productive and profoundly creative despite passing away, perhaps from typhoid fever, though no one is totally certain, at the age of 31, Schubert is known for writing some of the most ethereal and moving melodies of all time.  Listening to his music, one feels carried away, transported to another realm, lifted above what is earthly and material.  It's an intimation of transcendence.

     But that's what music does.  If music only told us what we already know, we probably wouldn't get as much out of it as we do.  We do not need to be reminded of what is normal.  We want to think about what is beyond normal, what breaks the normal down, what splits the obvious apart.  We want to know what we, at the moment, cannot.
     Music offers windows, music opens doors.  Happily, we often do not see these windows and doors until we have stepped out of what we know.  But isn't this how we ought to live?  Descending into the darkest recesses of his soul, Schubert talks to us about the deepest mysteries of existence, how we walk in a wisp, a gossamer veil stretched out between us and the other side of time.  He romanced eternity.
     As do we all.  Every day is a balance, an edge perched on the borders of presence and absence, a thin line of reality and ultimate destiny.
     Thanks, Franz Schubert, even if you didn't intend to do so, for showing us that life is more than life itself.