Passion

It is still unseasonably cold outside. Up in the hills, last time I looked, the snow was drifting thickly, blocking roads and cutting off isolated villages. Down here, in the suburban lowlands, there have been a few short-lived flurries, but not much more. The biting cold winds of last week have faded away: no longer do they whip round the house all hours of the day and night, howling ominously. But I am still reluctant to go out more than I have to. I have managed a few brief lunchtime walks this week, but even when they start off in pleasant sunshine, grey clouds soon crowd in, and convince you that returning promptly to work and the comfort of a warm computer monitor is a more attractive option. The cat appears mildly confused by it all; which, to tell the truth, isn't saying much, as she seems to be mildly confused by most things, but perhaps even she can tell that this doesn't feel quite right: a few days before Easter and the great occasion of putting the clocks forward, it really ought to be warm and spring-like.

But at least I can look forward to an extended Easter break, having decided to try and make a dent in this year's holiday allowance. Normally at this time of year I would start tidying up the garden and try planting something to add a welcome splash of colour; and possibly decide to do a spot of decorating indoors. But I suspect I will not have much enthusiasm for anything if the weather continues like this: sometimes you need a bit of sunshine to motivate you. And it needs to be reasonably warm outside for paint to dry, I always say, though I suspect people who know about these things would argue otherwise; but even if I am not quite correct technically, you get the gist of what I mean: it is difficult to drum up enthusiasm for sanding walls and sloshing on a spot of emulsion when it is all looking decidedly bleak out. But we shall see: perhaps the weather will improve, and I will surprise myself. Or find some quick-drying paint.

I was listening, while driving to work, to Arvo Pärt's Passio, which seems appropriate at this time of year, being a setting of the Passion according to St John. It draws you in to a strange sound world: somehow sparse and austere, while at the same time mesmerising in its directness and simplicity; a blend of ancient plainchant with 20th century minimalism. The music barely changes: no great dramatic or emotional flourishes; very little happens over the course of an hour. Melodic lines, built on a limited palette of motifs and tone colours specific to each character, seem to repeat endlessly, till your ear learns to pick out subtle variations: instead of grand climaxes, you are rewarded by understated fluctuations in an otherwise unwavering sound scape.