The church bells are missing. Every evening for the past 18 years that we have lived here, I've heard them, with varying degrees of awareness. Often as background to cleaning up from dinner, sometimes as accompaniment with dinner or the visits that go along with mealtime. Frequently the songs are ones I know, and I sing along in my heart. Occasionally, an unknown song plays, and I wonder what it's about. The week of July 4th, patriotic songs were in the mix, making me think of Dad and his funeral (the not-so-painful parts).
There was a time, quite a while ago, when I wondered if being agnostic would be better than the limbo I felt I was in. The church bells were part of the reason I stuck with my faith, lukewarm as it was. They were too beautifully reminding me of songs and messages I had always loved. [I realize now that I was likely suffering from mild depression, rather than a lack of faith, per se. But I imagine the feeling is similar.]
Lately, the bells have served their traditionally intended purpose: a call to prayer. At 6:00 each evening, I have been beautifully and gently reminded that if I haven't yet said my prayers, I should make the time before the evening gets away from me. I often sit on our balcony and pray the rosary or another devotion, or do some spiritual reading, with the sound of bells in the air.
Monday night, I had somewhere to be from 6-7, and as I got in the car, I realized the new weekly appointment would mean that I wouldn't hear the bells. But I reassured myself that it was for a very good reason, so it was okay. Tuesday night, I wondered around 6:30 just what I had been so busy doing that I didn't even hear them. I'm pretty sure whatever I'd been doing, I should have been able to hear them, but perhaps I was just preoccupied or distracted. Wednesday was one of those days when I just felt like my life was crumbling; like I'd made the wrong decisions, and there was no way to reset. A dear friend and I "chatted" for a while in between weeding, and something he said resonated with me: "Your faith exploration has been wonderful and it seems to have been feeding you." He had been asking about coping mechanisms, and how most of my usual ones were on summer hiatus. [and it's been far too hot, although that hasn't stopped me from doing more yard work than is usual for me! And I've been enjoying it, too!] This morning another friend said, after I told her that I find myself wondering where I'd gone wrong, that she figures that God must find himself asking the same question about His children.
Tonight, when I made myself very aware of the 6:00 hour approaching, and no music started, I realized that I may have come to depend on the bells in a way. I sat on the the balcony and missed the church bells. There was thunder, so I was well aware of not being alone in any way. But the bells are missing. I'm not one of those who is against change, or new things, but I do miss things. I hope the bells are on vacation. I'm off Tuesday, so if they haven't been found by then, I think I will walk over and enquire. They truly are one of the perks of living here.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Saturday, July 28, 2012
when I grow up
Last night, as I watched a portion of the London Olympic Opening Ceremonies, I cried. I missed the beginning, and only came in at the dream sequence. At work, we had been talking about the Beijing ceremonies, and we agreed that nothing could top them. (I remember I cried then, too.) London's, in my humble opinion, were pretty darn cool. They were not China, but I don't think they were trying to be--they were trying to be London.
What impressed me, what moved me to tears--as always--was the heart, soul and skill displayed. Each of the children played their role, nurses were recruited to show their pride in who they are through dance and pantomime. The villains came! And Mary Poppins saved the day. Through it all, there were dance steps, formations, facial expressions, costume and set changes coordinated with hundreds of thousands of individuals, all working toward a common goal. And a goal that not everyone understands the importance of--a performance.
Performance art is misunderstood. Some of it is really weird. But sometimes it can carry you away as much as a painting, a sculpture, a book. I'm a little biased, I know. I was a performer; I am still a performer at heart, although these days my performances tend to be a bit more personal and on a different scale. (And no one pays to see them, or I'd be rich!) A part of me wonders if some of the comments I've seen about the Ceremonies being "weird" were related to the earlier parts I didn't see, or to something else. The commentary was too much for me, but I didn't have program notes to read first, so I know it was necessary, and there were times when I would have been completely lost without those voices, but Bob Costas, with all due respect, is a sports guy. A dance or performance commentator may have sounded less, well, like Bob Costas. (I love his voice, don't get me wrong, but he really does remind me of The Wide World of Sports for reasons I cannot explain.) On the other hand, performance people can get a little more wrapped up in what they are seeing......
Which brings me back to my own tears, and the tugging at my heartstrings. I miss that atmosphere. I miss that anticipation of a cue, and the proximity of other bodies dancing the same dance. Once or twice I picked up a flubbed step, a missed turn (also amazing, considering how many people were performing!) and was so impressed that the person who made the mistake, as well as those around them, were smiling away. Clearly they acknowledged the mistake, but the show must go on, and it was FUN!! I miss being at performances, and watching them live, watching them come to life. I go to our school plays and concerts, but I miss the dream of seeing a performance every week, every month, of being part of the energy.
The goal, as I understand it, was for the London Ceremonies to reflect the personality of London, and of Great Britain. All I know of either is what I've heard in history class, so of course parts of it struck me as odd; just as a performance trying to depict my own personality and history would seem odd to anyone who doesn't know me. The key is acceptance with an open mind. Once you meet me and get to know me a little bit, you can make the choice whether I am 'weird' or not, but don't skip the 'get to know me' part. Anyone who has the guts to be completely themselves when first being introduced will probably seem pretty darn weird.
I admire that.
What impressed me, what moved me to tears--as always--was the heart, soul and skill displayed. Each of the children played their role, nurses were recruited to show their pride in who they are through dance and pantomime. The villains came! And Mary Poppins saved the day. Through it all, there were dance steps, formations, facial expressions, costume and set changes coordinated with hundreds of thousands of individuals, all working toward a common goal. And a goal that not everyone understands the importance of--a performance.
Performance art is misunderstood. Some of it is really weird. But sometimes it can carry you away as much as a painting, a sculpture, a book. I'm a little biased, I know. I was a performer; I am still a performer at heart, although these days my performances tend to be a bit more personal and on a different scale. (And no one pays to see them, or I'd be rich!) A part of me wonders if some of the comments I've seen about the Ceremonies being "weird" were related to the earlier parts I didn't see, or to something else. The commentary was too much for me, but I didn't have program notes to read first, so I know it was necessary, and there were times when I would have been completely lost without those voices, but Bob Costas, with all due respect, is a sports guy. A dance or performance commentator may have sounded less, well, like Bob Costas. (I love his voice, don't get me wrong, but he really does remind me of The Wide World of Sports for reasons I cannot explain.) On the other hand, performance people can get a little more wrapped up in what they are seeing......
Which brings me back to my own tears, and the tugging at my heartstrings. I miss that atmosphere. I miss that anticipation of a cue, and the proximity of other bodies dancing the same dance. Once or twice I picked up a flubbed step, a missed turn (also amazing, considering how many people were performing!) and was so impressed that the person who made the mistake, as well as those around them, were smiling away. Clearly they acknowledged the mistake, but the show must go on, and it was FUN!! I miss being at performances, and watching them live, watching them come to life. I go to our school plays and concerts, but I miss the dream of seeing a performance every week, every month, of being part of the energy.
The goal, as I understand it, was for the London Ceremonies to reflect the personality of London, and of Great Britain. All I know of either is what I've heard in history class, so of course parts of it struck me as odd; just as a performance trying to depict my own personality and history would seem odd to anyone who doesn't know me. The key is acceptance with an open mind. Once you meet me and get to know me a little bit, you can make the choice whether I am 'weird' or not, but don't skip the 'get to know me' part. Anyone who has the guts to be completely themselves when first being introduced will probably seem pretty darn weird.
I admire that.
Monday, April 2, 2012
jazz lover
This past weekend, one of our sons performed in the band's annual Jazz Festival. Of course I went to see him, and I enjoyed every minute of the performance, as well as the time I put in volunteering for the event. Something happened, though, that made this particular performance all the more special.
I saw my dad.
Oftentimes, my friends or family members will tell me of the dreams they have had about those they have lost, but in all these years, I've only had two dreams (one that was particularly reassuring, and one that still has me perplexed), and I've felt his warm, one-armed hugs on many occasions, but this was the first time that I saw him, with me, where I was.
When my sister and I were kids, my parents had a subscription to the local Little Theater, and we would go to see all kinds of plays, musicals, and concerts. The Clemens Center Theater was--and still is--a beautiful place, and always seemed so huge to me; with velvet covered seats, long aisles, a balcony, and a nifty orchestra pit. We learned theater etiquette there, which carried on to lecture hall and classroom etiquette later on. We learned to read the program, cover to cover, because each person listed is listed for a reason (that's why we watch credits after movies--as Kermit said in The Rainbow Connection, "Those people have families, too."), which has recently led me to designing programs for the Jazz Festival. During intermission, Dad would encourage us to go for a walk with him, up and down the aisles, exploring the details of the theater. We might take a look at the reliefs on the walls, or wonder about the instruments in the pit, or even sit in a vacant seat for a moment to see how different the perspective was. The result of all of this is that when I go to any theater, I drink in the details, comparing and contrasting them with the performance, other theaters, even the cost of my ticket. I love it! And it reminds me of all those intermissions with Dad.
In that way, I've been reminded of him many, many times, but only in my heart. And a smile comes to my lips as I say a silent "thanks" to him for teaching me to appreciate what others might take for granted. And, like him, whenever I leave a performance, I tend to be humming or singing one of the songs, or repeating favorite lines.
Following a few of the boys' concerts, I have been moved to tell them that I think Grampa would have liked some piece in particular, and I do believe it when I say it--it's not just to bring up his name. There have even been a few times that I have cried, wishing he could have been there to see and hear them.
Saturday was different.
I knew our son had a solo, but I didn't know which song. Sitting in the balcony's opera seats with Mom and our youngest, I sat excitedly chatting and sharing stories with a dear friend. Our band started to play, and they sounded great. The all looked so enthusiastic, and the band director beamed at them. (I like the opera seats because I can see his expression, too.) Just before the solo, I saw Dad. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, his smiling eyes half closed with joy. His lips, also smiling, were slightly parted in his "da--da--da" position as he oh-so-softly sang along. Elbows raised, fingertips touching as though ready to snap out the rhythm, he chair-danced along.
As my heart leaped, two tears ran down my cheeks and I watched Dad tune out everything except his grandson: never a more beautiful sight.
I saw my dad.
Oftentimes, my friends or family members will tell me of the dreams they have had about those they have lost, but in all these years, I've only had two dreams (one that was particularly reassuring, and one that still has me perplexed), and I've felt his warm, one-armed hugs on many occasions, but this was the first time that I saw him, with me, where I was.
When my sister and I were kids, my parents had a subscription to the local Little Theater, and we would go to see all kinds of plays, musicals, and concerts. The Clemens Center Theater was--and still is--a beautiful place, and always seemed so huge to me; with velvet covered seats, long aisles, a balcony, and a nifty orchestra pit. We learned theater etiquette there, which carried on to lecture hall and classroom etiquette later on. We learned to read the program, cover to cover, because each person listed is listed for a reason (that's why we watch credits after movies--as Kermit said in The Rainbow Connection, "Those people have families, too."), which has recently led me to designing programs for the Jazz Festival. During intermission, Dad would encourage us to go for a walk with him, up and down the aisles, exploring the details of the theater. We might take a look at the reliefs on the walls, or wonder about the instruments in the pit, or even sit in a vacant seat for a moment to see how different the perspective was. The result of all of this is that when I go to any theater, I drink in the details, comparing and contrasting them with the performance, other theaters, even the cost of my ticket. I love it! And it reminds me of all those intermissions with Dad.
In that way, I've been reminded of him many, many times, but only in my heart. And a smile comes to my lips as I say a silent "thanks" to him for teaching me to appreciate what others might take for granted. And, like him, whenever I leave a performance, I tend to be humming or singing one of the songs, or repeating favorite lines.
Following a few of the boys' concerts, I have been moved to tell them that I think Grampa would have liked some piece in particular, and I do believe it when I say it--it's not just to bring up his name. There have even been a few times that I have cried, wishing he could have been there to see and hear them.
Saturday was different.
I knew our son had a solo, but I didn't know which song. Sitting in the balcony's opera seats with Mom and our youngest, I sat excitedly chatting and sharing stories with a dear friend. Our band started to play, and they sounded great. The all looked so enthusiastic, and the band director beamed at them. (I like the opera seats because I can see his expression, too.) Just before the solo, I saw Dad. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, his smiling eyes half closed with joy. His lips, also smiling, were slightly parted in his "da--da--da" position as he oh-so-softly sang along. Elbows raised, fingertips touching as though ready to snap out the rhythm, he chair-danced along.
As my heart leaped, two tears ran down my cheeks and I watched Dad tune out everything except his grandson: never a more beautiful sight.
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