Saying that all roads lead back to Bach is a trite regurgitation. It has refluxed so many times, in so many ways, starting with Beethoven’s famous remark:

Not “brook” (in German: Bach), but “sea” he should be called, for his infinite, inexhaustible richness in tone combinations and harmonies.

But I am driving not on a regular road. I am on Route 66. And it also leads back to Bach.

It happens that, to get to my place from my office, I need to drive a short section of it, passing the “historic” Saga Motor Hotel. Historic in the way a neon sign can be historic. It is hot for February. I am thinking of tomorrow’s planned bike ride in the mountains, and of the heat-acclimation benefits I could get from it. I have a job interview in a few hours and, on the taut canvas of my caffeinated mind, I am connecting dots between the molecular physiology of heat exposure and my potential future research.

Suddenly, I realize my cheeks are wet. I am involuntarily crying to Bach’s first fugue from Das Wohltemperierte Klavier, performed by András Schiff.

I stop at a red light. Out of curiosity, I search my notes for “Bach.” I find him in diary entries, in love letters, in quick audio notes. All notes lead back to Bach. I find one from many years ago where I wrote:

András Schiff playing Bach is God (Schiff) channeling God (God) through God (Bach).

I remember another quote, from Robert Sapolsky:

An impala sprinting across the savannah can be reduced to biomechanics, and Bach can be reduced to counterpoint, yet that does not decrease one iota our ability to shiver as we experience impalas leaping or Bach thundering.

And this shared shiver makes me feel less alone in the Godless universe.