I see myself in a line of Smith College Chamber Singers in Toledo, Spain, walking to our concert in long white dresses, being cat-called by passers-by. Driving the daughters of a prominent Washington, DC family to school when I was a mother's helper. Playing the organ for one service at Washington National Cathedral. Living to sing daily morning services at Royal Holloway College and as part of the choir-in-residence at Lincoln Cathedral. Researching my MMus thesis at the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris, twelfth century parchment spread out before me.
I see myself back in the States, making the painful decision to drop England and further efforts to sing English church music, since there were no opportunities for adult women at that time. Working in my corporate window office high above Rockefeller Center, and walking to art classes in the Village. Volunteering at South Street Seaport museum. Putting Herbert Howells' Coll Reg Te Deum on the record player at my upper West Side apartment and singing until I cried. Lots of bagels and cream cheese.
I see myself on retreat at Pendle Hill in 1990, trying to decide whether my English church music time had come, and on realizing the answer was still no, deciding to get to know America instead. Choosing "eagle" as my totem animal and making one in raku clay. Driving around the country in a little red car. Finding my way to Duluth, new friends, frostbite, rowing, and the vast expanse of Lake Superior outside my window every day. Using Minnesota as a springboard for more exploration by bus and automobile of the US and Canada. Waitressing, selling stationery.
I see myself back east at the end of that decade, accompanying my mom through the last eighteen or so months of her life. After that, rediscovering the little town of my childhood summers. Making weekly meals for farmers. Commuting by ferry across near-frozen Lake Champlain to teach. Trying unsuccessfully to create a painting career, or find an appropriate academic program in women's spirituality. The trauma of bankruptcy.
I see myself suddenly, miraculously, singing in the choir of St. John the Divine in New York. The three-mile-long processions of choirs, clergy and acolytes at Christmas and Easter. The bliss of finally singing weekly evensong. The heartbreak when the choir was disbanded a mere few months later.
I see myself in Montana, visiting my elderly Dad at his retirement community, and writing my first article about composer Herbert Howells at various dining room tables, at the public library, and in my little yellow room at the YWCA. My data entry job out near the big box store. Singing in that cathedral's first ever choral evensong. Never quite acclimating to the mountains and the dust.
I see myself, finally, on yearly trips to England the last few years. Researching a second Howells article (also published) about the motet "Take Him, Earth, For Cherishing." Eating a Lenten luncheon with the current congregation of the Lydney church where Herbert's father played the organ, and HH learned to do so too. Singing an evensong at King's College, Cambridge, stunned to hear my own voice lifting to that famous ceiling. Meeting some of my musical heroes and heroines. Auditioning for an alto position in the Gloucester Cathedral choir, the first time it was open to women. Not getting it but realizing it was OK. The view of the Cotswalds from a friend's window. Singing daily evensongs for a week last summer at Canterbury Cathedral. Walking into St. Albans Cathedral just as an organist started practicing the Howells Coll Reg Magnificat.
It's an astonishing thing, really. A lifetime that could never have been lived by a single woman before the late 20th century. I am really, really thankful. I am really, really tearfully thankful. It hasn't been what I would ever have expected, but writing it out like this, I see that it's my version of, "Nevertheless, she persisted." I see the threads and "get" that I haven't even begun to mine or share the richness of these experiences. It is time to start.
