the wall is builded of your images

I read an absolutely precious prayer written by a young boy that demonstrated absolutely charming care for God. It reminded me of this, one of my favorite poems:

You, Neighbor God, if sometimes in the night
I rouse you with loud knocking, I do so
only because I seldom hear you breathe;
and I know: you are alone.
And should you need a drink, no one is there
to reach it to you, groping in the dark.
Always I hearken. Give but a small sign.
I am quite near.

Between us there is but a narrow wall,
and by sheer chance; for it would take
merely a call from your lips or from mine
to break it down,
and that without a sound.

The wall is builded of your images.
They stand before you hiding you like names.
And when the light with me blazes high
that in my inmost soul I know you by,
the radiance is squandered on their frames.

And then my senses, which too soon grow lame,
exiled from you, must go their homeless ways.

Rainer Marie Rilke

Miserere Nobis

Today I went with a small group of BC kids to a women’s medium security prison to sing mass. I followed the security protocol to the letter, wearing no denim, no jewelry, no bobby pins. Luckily I remembered before going into the facility that my shoe was being held together with a safety pin.

People ask how it was and I’m supposed to have something to say. “Amazing” is a popular word for the BC crowd. “Good” doesn’t say enough, “interesting” sounds judgmental, “transformative” sounds pompous.

I’ll say this: It’s easier to understand the preferential option for the poor in that environment. The crux of the preferential option is not that we should prefer the poor but that God does. I suspect tonight that the message of Christ speaks in a special way to those who, for whatever reason, are not free, and to those who have faced demons and are aware of God’s mercy in their life.

The air was charged as the lector read the end of today’s first reading:
All, from least to greatest, shall know me, says the LORD,
for I will forgive their evildoing and remember their sin no more.

Let it be

Today the choir I help to direct at BC started working on a piece that I sang with BC bOp! when I was an undergrad. The same director who arranged the piece for us was teaching them the song, and for an introduction he played a recording of our ensemble singing it in 2001. I started to get all emotional as I began to recognize voices of old friends weaving in and out of the harmonies, and when one of my best friends’ voices rose up to sing one of the verses, I really let the tears loose.

The singing wasn’t nearly as refined as some of the ensemble work I do now. Pitch sags and voices don’t always move together, and our unison isn’t quite what we thought it was at the time. Still, there’s a lot of beauty in such free and guileless singing. Back then singing wasn’t work yet. I opened my mouth and accepted whatever came out. I wasn’t thinking about tone and raised palate and resonance. I was having the first of my paid gigs at that time, and discovering that my voice was more than just a gift, it was an asset.

The other voices on that recording belong to people whose stories are a part of mine. They loved me when I was an unrefined and graceless college freshmen who didn’t deserve to be treated as well as I was. We shared everything because we were always together and didn’t know any better. We were too young for secrets but old enough to know how special it was to be with each other, singing dissonances and dancing when the band was playing.

Study Break!

I'm putting the finishing touches on a paper that was due yesterday and hope to be done and out of the library by 8pm (this is an exegesis on Mark 5: 24b-34 for those of you keeping track of my scholarly pursuits). The older I get, the simpler my editorial technique becomes: my work today was to use fewer words.

I love words. I love run-on sentences and convoluted clauses. My style usually runs toward "why use one word when you can use ten". Unfortunately that often makes my writing incomprehensible, a problem that is particularly nagging in my academic writing. So today, I purge the paper.

As an aside, DORK ALERT: I can't find one of the seminal commentaries on the Gospel of Mark in English translation (it's originally German) so I'm reading it in Italian.

Double Cup

My senior year of college I had what I am convinced is one of the best jobs ever: barista at a coffee shop. (On a side note, I hate the word barista but have yet to find a good synonym). I got to give people something they liked and chat with people every morning. It was great.

There was one woman though who would always ask for her coffee in a double cup. I think it was the sound of the phrase that aggravated me rather than the waste that goes along with a double cup. I never really minded doing it for people, but hearing that phrase drove me nuts, the same way some people cringe at the word 'moist'.

Today at the Starbucks near BC I heard a woman order something in a double cup and immediately my skin started to crawl. Next she leaned over to the person making it to tell him precisely how she liked her latte. Following that I watched a woman dump half a cup of tea into the trash can to make room for milk and had to bite my tongue to keep myself from pointing out that someone was going to have to empty that trash that was now full of scalding water.

It was like all my Espresso Royale nightmares wrapped into one.

Early Morning Finery

I don't mind auditioning in the morning. In fact, I rather prefer it: my coping mechanism for audition-based nervousness has always been to view them as something to "get over with", and singing in the morning allows me to get it over with earlier in the day. In grad school I had lessons at 9:30 in the morning; since I'm naturally a morning person singing before noon is not something that bothers me the same way it irks some of my colleagues.

But getting all tricked out for auditions at 8 am just seems...inhuman. The pounds of hairspray, coats of mascara, wicked-high heels, are certainly not meant for this time of day. I'm sure my neighbors see me leaving the house like this all the time. I don't even want to imagine what it is they think I do for a living.

Traditionalism and Outrage Overload

Two recent thoughts from watching TV:

I fear that I am genetically pre-disposed to prefer "the way things used to be". I try to fight that internally (are rotary phones really superior to cell phones, or am I just being nostalgic?), but occasionally something jumps out at me that I really wish were "the way it used to be." Oddly, last night I realized that I really wish that pharmaceutical companies were still not able to advertise on TV. I find their ads manipulative and fear-mongering.

I've also been more and more overcome by watching news coverage of political blowhards huffing and puffing over bank bailouts. Putting aside the fact that by providing bailouts they were funding 'business-as-usual' and that many of these banks were forced to take government money even if they didn't want it, at a most basic level I find their grandstanding so ugly.

While I was chopping vegetables last night with the news on in the background, it hit me why this bothers me so much: this cheapens outrage. Outrage is precious and powerful and should be reserved for the things that are truly, deeply, offensive. Outrage should not be used to put on a show. The few occasions I have become profoundly outraged it has been ugly. I certainly wouldn't want to go put that on display. But the handful of things that turn me inside-out with rage have been so intense that they have caused a shift in me: a change of life or a change of heart.

So politicians, listen to me. The financial sector has been broken (and truly outrageous) for a long time. You know that, and you shouldn't have expected a magic change there. Your posturing is transparent and obnoxious. Don't cheapen such a powerful human emotion by faking it when the cameras are on.

Audition seasons and off-seasons

During the fall I get psyched up for audition season (not because I am naturally gleeful about putting myself out there, but because it's a psychological necessity). In August I try to get all of my applications ready so that they are done before school starts, and then November and December is a whirlwhind of singing. This December especially, as many of you know, auditions took over my life, and I went underground, surfacing occasionally to put on my purple dress and sing Chi il bel sogno.

This time of year is definitely the 'off-season' for auditions, but they still come up. As I posted recently I had one a few weeks ago, plus I have three this week. I think for a lot of singers though, this is not the time of year that our brain is on auditions. I put them in my calendar and on the day that I have to sing the first thought that comes to mind is "Do I still know how to sing?"

So the next few hours involve getting my head in the game to sing tonight. Wish me luck.

Holiday

Happy Evacuation Day, everyone. As far as I know, making this a municipal holiday was the Catholic city government's way of sticking it to the traditionally Protestant legislature. Since it results in a day off for me, I say good for them.

Have a great St Patrick's Day. There are few better places to be than Boston on a day like this.

New Bedford Half Marathon

I am please to report that I have completed my fifth half-marathon, running through the mean streets of New Bedford during yesterday's beautiful sunny weather. I had a great day, riding down with a good friend who ran with me and her boyfriend who drove us, and seeing a bunch of the current teachers at the school where I used to teach.

Here's the problem with the NBHM: Not enough slow people run it. Those of you who have seen me know that barring losing 50 pounds or growing 6 inches, I am never going to be a fast runner (have you ever seen a Sicilian track star? Me neither). But I train and I make progress, and I work hard within the limits of what my short little body will do. I always remind myself that if I ran with a random sampling of the population, I would not be so demoralizingly close to the end.

My first half marathon was this same race three years ago, and it was miserable. Most of you have heard my joke about finishing 10th to last (by 'joke' I mean talk about it like it's funny, because it's not a joke, it's totally true). I was looking forward to redeeming myself at least a bit this year, and I cut 21 minutes off my time from three years ago. Still, I came in 30th to last. Where are all the other slow people? They're running races that don't require training through the dead of winter and races that have 5Ks and full marathons to go with them, I suppose.

I was a little disappointed because my time yesterday was about 5 minutes slower than my time last October in Hartford, which had been my best time yet by far. I couldn't figure out why - I felt just as good yesterday as I did last October, I really pushed myself on the handful of hills near the beginning, and the weather was about the same. My best guess is because they cleaned up all the cones off the course and re-opened all the roads while I was running. I GET IT, NEW BEDFORD, I'M SLOW. Usually around mile 9 on any run I start to get angry, and that was the case more than usual yesterday as the trucks came by shouting "runners get up on the sidewalk!" At that point my hips hurt so much there was no chance I was jumping up and down off of curbs at each intersection, plus I was pretty well delirious so I knew I would have trouble remembering where the turn were on the course. I know that I'm not a world-class runner, but I was finishing well within the realm of reasonable times and I deserved to have a good end to the race just like anybody else.

That's my rant on the race. All in all, a triumphant day (my medal is green for St Patrick's Day!) Who wants to run the next one with me?

On the bandwagon

I'm on Twitter - username=my full name.

Because you all care about what I do every second of the day, right?

In other news, I am watching Suze Orman's Women and Money special for the 100th time. I'm not sure why I like this show so much. I do not have the 'women-problems' she talks about, for the most part: believe me, I value my work, I ask for what I think I deserve, and I "save myself first"!


Some of you may already know this, but one of my life goals is to have my own PBS special. Singing or talking, I don't care. Better yet, both!

When I saw the code for this "Badge" available, I couldn't resist.

Which is weirder?

A. That upon hearing the sound of old-style footage coming from my office-mates computer, I asked "Are you watching footage of the Papal Coronation of Pope John XXIII?"

OR

B. That the answer was yes?

I love Ives

Not only does Charles Ives fall under the heading of "Famous People from Connecticut" he also wrote the fabulous Symphony #4 which I just heard at Symphony Hall. The program was Sibelius and Rachmaninoff in the first half with the Ives following after intermission.

I have always enjoyed Ives because of his boldness, and the sheer joy that he took in sound. His music always sounds like he was exploring some new sound, simply trying to create something interesting and new. In an odd comparison, the other artists I feel the same way about are Radiohead. What's pleasant about Ives is that, unlike many other composers of his era, he wasn't afraid of beautiful sound. There was an unfortunate period when everything agreeable was frowned upon - too 'easy', I suppose. But Ives found the middle ground and managed to be innovative without throwing the baby out with the bathwater.

The orchestration for Ives' 4th includes theremin. The thrill of hearing such a unique instrument lives was magnified by the fact that it makes the player (who this evening was front and center) look like an absolute crazy person. There was choir, organ, your run-of-the-mill orchestral forces, and a percussionist who had to stand up on scaffolding to reach his bells.

I always meant to purchase the collection of Ives songs (and sing many of them). A few of my favorites are Memories and Down East - go forth and do your listening! And check out the 4th as well. I might go hear it again at the BSO in the next few days.

The Infinite Loveliness

There was recently a piece in the Globe about music you should like but you don’t. The author mentioned that Joni Mitchell was on that list for him. That’s not terribly surprising since she is often an acquired taste. Unfortunately the most popular of her songs (Big Yellow Taxi, The Circle Game, etc) don’t represent the best of her work. I’ve never thought it was a beautiful voice, but her music is inspired and her singing is enviably fearless. The Globe writer mentioned a particular song – Rainy Night House – that crawled through my brain like a tune virus for the rest of the day.

Some pieces of art are so beautiful to me it hurts. Participating in their beauty leaves me thrilled but also sad, because it makes me aware of a level of genius – of sanctity?, blessedness? – that is beyond human grasp. I am wrapped up in gratitude for things that are so lovely while being more aware than ever of the gap between myself and the Infinite Loveliness.

What does this to me? Michelangelo’s David. Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet. Eliot’s Choruses from the Rock (especially the last few stanzas). The Sanctus from the B Minor Mass. Palestrina’s Sicut Cervus. Hopkins’ Hurrahing in Harvest. Brahms’ Wir Wandelten. Joni Mitchell's The Last Time I Saw Richard. I try to sing these songs, to look at these works, to read these poems and letters and 80% of the time I end up in tears.

What does this to you?

O Light Invisible, we praise Thee!
Too bright for mortal vision.
O Greater Light, we praise Thee for the less;
The eastern light our spires touch at morning,
The light that slants over our western doors at evening,
The twilight over stagnant pools at batflight,
Moon light and star light, owl and moth light,
Glow-worm light on a grassblade.
O Light Invisible, we worship Thee!

We thank Thee for the lights that we have kindled,
The light of altar and of sanctuary;
Small lights of those who meditate at midnight
And lights directed through the coloured pains of windows
And light reflected from the polished stone,
The gilded carven wood, the coloured fresco.
Our gaze is submarine, our eyes look upward
And see the light that fractures through unquiet water.
We see the light but see not whence it comes.
O Light Invisible, we glorify Thee!

In our rhythm of earthly life we tire of light.
We are glad when the day ends,
when the play ends; and ecstasy is too much pain.
We are children quickly tired: children who are up in the night and fall asleep as the rocket is fired; and the day is long for work or play.
We tire of distraction or concentration, we sleep and are glad to sleep,
Controlled by the rhythm of blood and the day and the night and the seasons.
And we must extinguish the candle, put out the light and relight it;
Forever must quench, forever relight the flame.
Therefore we thank thee for our little light, that is dappled with shadow.
We thank Thee who hast moved us to building, to finding, to forming at the ends of our fingers and beams of our eyes.
And when we have built an altar to the Invisible Light, we may set thereon the little lights for which our bodily vision is made.
And we thank Thee that darkness reminds us of light.
O Light Invisible, we give Thee thanks for Thy great glory!
- T. S. Eliot

I have often walked down this street before...

Earlier this week I had my first audition in over a month. It was a little nerve-wracking since I am a bit out of practice. Every summer I kill myself to get all my applications and auditions ready before school starts, because I know I will have no energy for it in the fall. What is true for the fall is doubly true for the winter, and I showed up wondering if I still knew how to sing.

I went to the conservatory to warm-up before my audition. As I was leaving I heard someone singing "On the Street Where You Live", one of my favorite songs. As I crossed Mass Ave to the train station I engaged in one of my favorite coping techniques: fretting about something completely unrelated to the true source of my anxiety.

See, I couldn't remember the first verse to "On the Street Where you Live". I could remember the second and third, I could remember the bridge, but I could not remember the beginning. I'm standing in the T station muttering to myself trying to remember these words, making myself crazy over it. Finally I did the trick my mom taught me for when you can't think of a word in a crossword: go through the alphabet beginning with "A". By the time I got to "I" I remembered the first line.

That mystery solved, I waited (AND WAITED!) for a B train. This particular audition was at BU, which seems so much farther than some of the other audition venues. I made it to BUOI, dashed upstairs, took off my eighty layers of snow gear, and sang well.

In a celebratory mood, I stopped for some hot chocolate before I got back on the train. I'm always amazed at how differently people treat me when I am all tricked out for an audition. Sparkly barrette holding back big hair, tons of eyeliner, no glasses, too much blush, diva lipstick...that must be what the guys like because I was the most popular girl at the BU East stop.

I almost pulled a Liz Lemon when someone asked me if the next stop was Kenmore. The sign with the T map on it was right behind me, but luckily I realized before I opened my mouth that the guy probably wasn't asking just because of some gap in his knowledge. I'm sure I charmed him with my response: "Uh, I think there's one in between...uh, blandford, I think".