In music there is magic
Recently my connection to music has been rekindled. Upon a friend's invitation and encouragement, I went to a community sing the community choir, Blue Moon Rising, hosts between choir seasons.
I entered the space timidly, pleased to see my friend, Margie, there to welcome me with a smile. I chose a seat next to her, and learned the horseshoe of chairs was divided by choral sections, and hers was tenor.
I situate, or I did 26 years ago when I was last in a choir, on the space between alto and soprano. I opted to start in the soprano section, for the high notes are more difficult, and I was already stepping outside of my comfort zone by attending at all.
The altos welcomed me with smiles, greetings, and so glad you cames. One experienced singer, Pam, took me underwing and made sure I knew what was going on and that I hit my notes. She would whisper in my ear 'you are an octive low', or ' you dropped there' and nod and smile when I got back to the correct note. How tender and kind.
I had an enjoyable time, I did not feel the improved mood and sense of calm the coir director, Denise, discussed folks tending to feel or report after choir. So, I thought maybe I was missing something. Denise announced that the choir season was about to begin, and new members were welcome. Margie had be encouragingly inviting me to join choir for about a year, and I had been considering it, but the membership fee seemed prohibitive the first choir season I was going to join. You can tentatively attend the first two weeks without committing or paying, how wise and welcoming of Denise. She has great insight into people's emotional reactions - apprehension of joining a new group, desire to explore the experience before committing, and standing in the space of indecision without be left out.
So, I told myself, "You don't have to decide right now. Go to the first week of choir and see how you feel."
On the first week, Pam remembered me and took me under wing again in a friendly, caring manner. I was grateful for Pam. I felt I had a security zone, she was kind, and talked with me, so I did not pull into isolation in a group setting, which I do, and then opt out, which I do. That kind hand of outreach is so important in this world of alienation.
I enjoyed the evening, though I missed the depth of full, multi-verse songs. The choir learns songs aurally, and tends to sing short songs and the layers come in the form of harmony. Those of you who share my Horizons for Youth (HFY) experience, it is very akin to pre-meal singing. For those of you who are not familiar with HFY, it was a residential environmental education center, before each meal we would gather the 100 - 200 students on the dining hall steps and lead them in song while awaiting their turn to join the queue for food. This kept there from being long lines of bored hungry students in the dining hall. Plus it was fun. We would teach 'repeat after me' songs like, "Wishy Washy Washer Women" and "Bill Groagan's Goat" and 'sing-along with me' songs like, "I'm alive, awake, alert enthusiastic", a breakfast favorite, or 'Bazooka-zooka-bubble gum" There are dozens more.
Back to Blue Moon Rising. The night went well, I enjoyed myself, yet still did not feel that 'hum' of energy from the singing. Nonetheless, I had pretty much decided to join. I could use the regular social interaction in a structured setting. Too easily did I remove myself from groups, gatherings, events. I needed to walk through the hesitance and discomfort and engage fully. 'Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead." (can't site the movie... sorry)
Angelo was all for it, and since I did not have the membership fee to spare, he said, "join! go have fun! I'll pay the membership fee."
The next week I returned, not yet any more confident in my presence. I followed along the songs, and wandered around alone during break drinking tea, watching the other members cluster and talk. Such chummy clusters were lovely to see and experience peripherally. I did get friendly nods, hello's and smiles.
Break occurred part-way through session, hot and cold water were available, along with an array of teas and sometimes snacks. Fostering community and interpersonal connections are built into choir intentionally. Denise leads well and true, musically and socially.
Week three of choir, I got my binder of music. I felt official now, a member of Blue Moon Rising Community Choir.
Slowly comfort built, I observed from the edges, dipped my toe into conversations. Started to feel less timid. I spoke to some other members, new and continuing. Went home each week feeling happy and singing songs aloud in the car. Good vibes.
Then life started to through some curve balls, and I wasn't even expecting to be at bat, let alone swinging at these tricky pitches.
Choir remained a constant; a weekly break from stress and strain: an hour and forty-five minutes of peace, cheer, and community.
Then mom died.
I missed a week of choir when I was home in Pennsylvania.
I returned to choir a different person, in some ways, my identity was adjusting to this unexpected and profound loss. Choir still was a comfort. I had pulled back a bit to the periphery.
We sang "White Owl" at some point in the first part of session. Michael, a sort of co-leader of choir, from what I could tell - always playing instruments, responsible for equipment, conferring with the choir director on songs and harmony elements - played the harmonium during 'White Owl'. The harmonium is beautiful to look upon. Blond wood, shiny and well crafted into a box that opens, like magic, and an accordian like bellows emerges, along with a keyboard and buttons. The sound it emanates is soulful and lamenting.
I found myself overcome with emotions as I tried to sing the lyrics:
"White owl, white owl flying in the moonlight
Through the ancient forest you bring me light
White owl white owl flying in my dreams
Grandmother, please guide and protect me"
It is a slow paced song, and with the harmonium infusing it with the ethereal air, I was struck, at the core.
Mom was woven into it, somehow. And I was choked up and crying, and trying to sing, and not too fully fall into the emotional moment, while still experience it, move through it. Surrounded by about 45 -50 people.
I moved through it, the song ended - either we sang another or immediately had break I don't know.
Once the song ended I easily collected my self. During break I approach Michael, with the harmonium still on his lap.
He told me about it, hand crafted, only made in three places in the U.S. and then a bit about how it worked. We continued to chat as he packed it up, and I was happy to be making connection in choir. Margie walked up, we three spoke, a conversation triangle. How lovely.
I had wanted to tell Margie about Mom. I consider Margie a good friend, and knew she would want to know. But, Michael was a virtual stranger, and I was not sure if sharing such a raw loss would make him uncomfortable. I learned from experience when my brother died, and a bit when Dad died too, people do not react well to grief, to loss,. They tend to express condolence, then awkwardly depart, and then awkwardly interact with you, when they must, avoid you when they can, and disassociate if possible.
I looked to him, then backed to Margie, we were all talking about "White Owl' and the harmoniums addition to the beauty of the song.
I admitted that I had trouble singing. Margie replied with compassion in her voice, and concern in her eyes, "I noticed. I saw you were getting upset, are you okay?"
I looked from her to Michael again, then put my hand on Margie's upper arm and admitted Mom had just died.
"Oh, Brooke, I am so sorry!" were the words, common, yet infused with such love, tenderness and compassion. I was glad Margie was there. I was glad I told her. And I was glad Michael was there, and I told him. I could tell by his reaction he would not be among those individuals who skedaddle in the face of grief and loss.
I felt safe and welcome, with these two friends, and in choir.
That was weeks ago, and we have learned many a song, added many an instrument to various pieces, and the music is lovely. I go home feeling peaceful and joyous and hopeful. I am not missing anything, after all.
I entered the space timidly, pleased to see my friend, Margie, there to welcome me with a smile. I chose a seat next to her, and learned the horseshoe of chairs was divided by choral sections, and hers was tenor.
I situate, or I did 26 years ago when I was last in a choir, on the space between alto and soprano. I opted to start in the soprano section, for the high notes are more difficult, and I was already stepping outside of my comfort zone by attending at all.
The altos welcomed me with smiles, greetings, and so glad you cames. One experienced singer, Pam, took me underwing and made sure I knew what was going on and that I hit my notes. She would whisper in my ear 'you are an octive low', or ' you dropped there' and nod and smile when I got back to the correct note. How tender and kind.
I had an enjoyable time, I did not feel the improved mood and sense of calm the coir director, Denise, discussed folks tending to feel or report after choir. So, I thought maybe I was missing something. Denise announced that the choir season was about to begin, and new members were welcome. Margie had be encouragingly inviting me to join choir for about a year, and I had been considering it, but the membership fee seemed prohibitive the first choir season I was going to join. You can tentatively attend the first two weeks without committing or paying, how wise and welcoming of Denise. She has great insight into people's emotional reactions - apprehension of joining a new group, desire to explore the experience before committing, and standing in the space of indecision without be left out.
So, I told myself, "You don't have to decide right now. Go to the first week of choir and see how you feel."
On the first week, Pam remembered me and took me under wing again in a friendly, caring manner. I was grateful for Pam. I felt I had a security zone, she was kind, and talked with me, so I did not pull into isolation in a group setting, which I do, and then opt out, which I do. That kind hand of outreach is so important in this world of alienation.
I enjoyed the evening, though I missed the depth of full, multi-verse songs. The choir learns songs aurally, and tends to sing short songs and the layers come in the form of harmony. Those of you who share my Horizons for Youth (HFY) experience, it is very akin to pre-meal singing. For those of you who are not familiar with HFY, it was a residential environmental education center, before each meal we would gather the 100 - 200 students on the dining hall steps and lead them in song while awaiting their turn to join the queue for food. This kept there from being long lines of bored hungry students in the dining hall. Plus it was fun. We would teach 'repeat after me' songs like, "Wishy Washy Washer Women" and "Bill Groagan's Goat" and 'sing-along with me' songs like, "I'm alive, awake, alert enthusiastic", a breakfast favorite, or 'Bazooka-zooka-bubble gum" There are dozens more.
Back to Blue Moon Rising. The night went well, I enjoyed myself, yet still did not feel that 'hum' of energy from the singing. Nonetheless, I had pretty much decided to join. I could use the regular social interaction in a structured setting. Too easily did I remove myself from groups, gatherings, events. I needed to walk through the hesitance and discomfort and engage fully. 'Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead." (can't site the movie... sorry)
Angelo was all for it, and since I did not have the membership fee to spare, he said, "join! go have fun! I'll pay the membership fee."
The next week I returned, not yet any more confident in my presence. I followed along the songs, and wandered around alone during break drinking tea, watching the other members cluster and talk. Such chummy clusters were lovely to see and experience peripherally. I did get friendly nods, hello's and smiles.
Break occurred part-way through session, hot and cold water were available, along with an array of teas and sometimes snacks. Fostering community and interpersonal connections are built into choir intentionally. Denise leads well and true, musically and socially.
Week three of choir, I got my binder of music. I felt official now, a member of Blue Moon Rising Community Choir.
Slowly comfort built, I observed from the edges, dipped my toe into conversations. Started to feel less timid. I spoke to some other members, new and continuing. Went home each week feeling happy and singing songs aloud in the car. Good vibes.
Then life started to through some curve balls, and I wasn't even expecting to be at bat, let alone swinging at these tricky pitches.
Choir remained a constant; a weekly break from stress and strain: an hour and forty-five minutes of peace, cheer, and community.
Then mom died.
I missed a week of choir when I was home in Pennsylvania.
I returned to choir a different person, in some ways, my identity was adjusting to this unexpected and profound loss. Choir still was a comfort. I had pulled back a bit to the periphery.We sang "White Owl" at some point in the first part of session. Michael, a sort of co-leader of choir, from what I could tell - always playing instruments, responsible for equipment, conferring with the choir director on songs and harmony elements - played the harmonium during 'White Owl'. The harmonium is beautiful to look upon. Blond wood, shiny and well crafted into a box that opens, like magic, and an accordian like bellows emerges, along with a keyboard and buttons. The sound it emanates is soulful and lamenting.
I found myself overcome with emotions as I tried to sing the lyrics:
"White owl, white owl flying in the moonlight
Through the ancient forest you bring me light
White owl white owl flying in my dreams
Grandmother, please guide and protect me"
It is a slow paced song, and with the harmonium infusing it with the ethereal air, I was struck, at the core.
Mom was woven into it, somehow. And I was choked up and crying, and trying to sing, and not too fully fall into the emotional moment, while still experience it, move through it. Surrounded by about 45 -50 people.
I moved through it, the song ended - either we sang another or immediately had break I don't know.
Once the song ended I easily collected my self. During break I approach Michael, with the harmonium still on his lap.
He told me about it, hand crafted, only made in three places in the U.S. and then a bit about how it worked. We continued to chat as he packed it up, and I was happy to be making connection in choir. Margie walked up, we three spoke, a conversation triangle. How lovely.
I had wanted to tell Margie about Mom. I consider Margie a good friend, and knew she would want to know. But, Michael was a virtual stranger, and I was not sure if sharing such a raw loss would make him uncomfortable. I learned from experience when my brother died, and a bit when Dad died too, people do not react well to grief, to loss,. They tend to express condolence, then awkwardly depart, and then awkwardly interact with you, when they must, avoid you when they can, and disassociate if possible.
I looked to him, then backed to Margie, we were all talking about "White Owl' and the harmoniums addition to the beauty of the song.
I admitted that I had trouble singing. Margie replied with compassion in her voice, and concern in her eyes, "I noticed. I saw you were getting upset, are you okay?"
I looked from her to Michael again, then put my hand on Margie's upper arm and admitted Mom had just died.
"Oh, Brooke, I am so sorry!" were the words, common, yet infused with such love, tenderness and compassion. I was glad Margie was there. I was glad I told her. And I was glad Michael was there, and I told him. I could tell by his reaction he would not be among those individuals who skedaddle in the face of grief and loss.I felt safe and welcome, with these two friends, and in choir.
That was weeks ago, and we have learned many a song, added many an instrument to various pieces, and the music is lovely. I go home feeling peaceful and joyous and hopeful. I am not missing anything, after all.
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