In classical music all things must pass
'It happens to everything eventually, it all must be trampled underfoot. Whether it is Tibetan culture being destroyed by the red cadres of the Cultural Revolution, British institutions being demolished by Margaret Thatcher’s handbag, or Buddhism being wiped from India by the Turkish invasions of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, Kali in her many manifestations will take them all. The good things just seem to last longer, but they have to go, their goodness corrupted from within; sometimes they can be like old trees – still outwardly impressive but with rotting centres, waiting to fall with the next storm. The Buddha said that although his teachings would last for five thousand years, they too would eventually disappear.'
That is Nick Scott writing in Rude Awakenings, the chronicle of his pilgrimage with Ajahn Succito to sacred Buddhist sites in India. My photographs taken at a butterfly farm on L’Isle de Noumourtier graphically remind us of how impermanent good things are: in the wild a butterfly’s lifespan is between one and nine months. Nick Scott’s reference to Margaret Thatcher’s handbag locates the writing in the 1980s, but the sentiments apply equally today. In classical music we see an outwardly impressive art form hiding a rotting centre corrupted from within, with the rot currently particularly virulent in certain music blogs and Minneapolis. The Buddhist viewpoint that all things must pass is not nihilistic. Impermanence, a concept which classical music adopted from Buddhism via John Cage, teaches that, although the good things are eventually trampled underfoot and disappear, they are in turn replaced by other good things. The message is quite clear: we should accept the inevitability of impermanence, disassociate ourselves from the rotting centre of classical music and channel our energy into making the next storm the perfect one. That way all the old trees will fall, clearing the ground for a new generation of good things.
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