I have long said that I credit the 5th grade band teacher at my elementary school with turning me into a singer, but that’s not an entirely fair assessment. It’s true that when it came time to choose instruments to join the beginning band program, I desperately wanted to play the flute more than anything in the world, and no other instrument would do. The band teacher told me I would not be able to play the flute because of the scarring on my lips. Ages later I learned that she was wrong, and I now know that most likely she had way too many girls who wanted to play flute that year and was trying to steer me toward a different instrument. I was offended and hurt, and refused to play anything else. And so, I joined the choir. The choir thing “took,” so to speak – and here I am at 40 with a 30 year history of singing and learning.
(Side note: An entirely different tangent of thought takes me to band instruments and body image. I have formulated a theory as an adult that my desire to play to flute at 10 years old was rooted somewhat in body image issues. I wanted to play something delicate and pretty and feminine, so that I might be more delicate and pretty and feminine. I suspect that’s why so many little girls want to play the flute, but that’s another bit of thinking and writing for another day…)
In reality, I have been singing for as long as I can remember, having had the good fortune to be born to parents who sang. I will forever recall Autumn to May (Peter, Paul, and Mary) and For Baby, For Bobbie (John Denver) as some of the first songs I knew because they were sung to me when I was little. I also sang along and played a mean kazoo solo with my dad on the San Francisco Bay Blues. As a teenager in middle school and high school choirs, I started to find my voice and place in the choral world. After my mom’s initial (and still-chuckled-about) reaction to my high school choir director’s (Thank you, Lyle Miller!) suggestion that she consider getting me some voice lessons, I began to develop my real voice and my identity as a singer. I started to find that I had a voice and a presence that made people listen to me. It is no small feat for an extremely introverted and shy high school student who is painfully aware of her awkwardness and inability to fit in (at least she thinks so) to begin to get on stage and sing. But it is astonishingly simple when she realizes that people are listening in a surprised and appreciative way – and without a single scoff or any element of mocking! For a kid who hasn’t felt listened to, especially by peers, this can be a life saver.
“And let all who toil, let them come to the water.
And let all who are weary, let the come to the Lord:
All who labor, without rest.
How can your soul find rest, except for the Lord?”
~John Foley, SJ
Later, as a college student studying in a fantastic music program I learned a deeper appreciation for simply studying music. (I struggled with the decision about what to study in college – music, or chemistry? But that’s also another day’s conversation.) I learned how much I love just studying a piece. Learning why a composer wrote something, what he/she meant, and how it’s supposed to sound. And there is nothing quite like working a piece over and over and over to get it into a voice. I also acquired a deep and ever lasting love of choral music. I do believe that there is no other experience in the world like working on music together with other voices, striving for communal understanding of the work, and reaching for perfection in sound. Simply raising my voice along with others who love singing is a spiritual and amazing experience, and one that I am proud to still participate in on a regular basis.
Singing choral music from centuries of composition does mean singing from an incredibly huge and beautiful assortment of sacred texts. One reality of choral music is that a large portion of the choral music repertoire grew out of church traditions. Historically, much of the funding to support composition (both choral and instrumental) has come from church worlds. I do say worlds, because of course centuries of religions and churches have created many different worlds of both. Theologically, I happen to be a Unitarian Universalist. This means that I have been dialoging with myself for upwards of 20 years now about sacred texts. The stanza above is from “Come to the Water” by John Foley, SJ – and it is one of my most favorite texts, even though the language and the reference to the Lord is not exactly my own. The imagery of coming to the water for relief is mine. I love many texts and settings of words that do not speak to me in the same way they may speak to my fellow singers of different faiths and backgrounds, but they do speak to me. I enjoy dissecting a set of words and finding the meaning that works to bring the notes into focus. Like all singers (and all people I believe, not just singers) I do find surprising pieces of texts, sets of words, sentences, and poems that are surprising solely for the emotional and visceral response they elicit in me. This is especially lovely to experience while singing. For me, this response can simply be related to the feeling of singing certain words, or to a well-written image that inspires an instant visual association, and especially to a phrase or sentence that surprises me by creating a very personal and specific mental association. The last of these experiences is perhaps my favorite.
“There will be rest, and sure stars shining
Over the roof-tops crowned with snow,
A reign of rest, serene forgetting,
The music of stillness holy and low.
I will make this world of my devising,
Out of a dream in my lonely mind,
I shall find the crystal of peace, - above me
Stars I shall find.”
~Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)
“There Will Be Rest” is the piece of this moment that has very recently reminded me of an instant personal and specific mental association. The association with this piece for me first happened about five and a half years ago – and it came flooding back in a rehearsal with Masterworks Chorale this past Monday evening. My aunt, Judith Lynne Cass passed away in early December, 2004 after a lengthy illness, and a very slow and painful (for her, and especially for those of us who loved her and were still living) dying process. Masterworks Chorale, who I have been singing with for about 11 years at this point, first performed this piece not long after my aunt Judy died. As soon as we began working on the piece, I was profoundly affected and found it difficult to even rehearse without weeping. “I shall find the crystal of peace.” With the loss of Judy – an incredibly beautiful woman and a somewhat tortured soul – our family has never known if she was ever ready to go. My deepest wish for Judy as she neared the end of her life was that she be able to find peace, to make the decision that she was ready to go, and to be at peace. I will never know if Judy was ready to go, but I still wish for her with deep love that she found Rest and the Crystal of Peace. Masterworks will record this song on a new CD being recorded this fall in celebration of the 40th Anniversary of the chorale. I will do my best not to weep through the recording, but I will feel every bit of the weeping.
This conversation with me remains the simplest explanation for Why I Sing.
“Soli Deo Gloria.” This has long been the motto (either official or unofficial, I’m not sure) of the Capital University Chapel Choir, where I sang during my undergraduate years. It means “For the Glory of God Alone.” These words speak to me, and so do the words “Blessed Be” which is perhaps more in keeping with my personal theology and practices.
Blessed Be, And Soli Deo Gloria. Be Well and Sing Some, Friends!
