As promised, I am well underway writing my memoirs. I tried to do this about four years ago, but really struggled with it, and then came the shocking, unexpected death of my little brother. Quite rightly, this brought the process to a screeching halt. And many things have happened since then...
So what I have decided to do this time is write short episodes and anecdotes by hand on 4x6 lined index cards. I've bought the multicolored ones, so that the cards can be grouped by rough time period. At least as of now, I don't intend this to be a "first this happened, and then this happened" kind of chronological account. Frankly, I have lost track of the exact threads of my timeline. What old datebooks and journals I had have either been tossed, or are in storage back east, and so I'm embracing the rather dreamlike aspect of some of the narrative and working with it, I hope.
One of the things that has become clear to me this go-round is the fact that, given my passion for English cathedral music, most of my life from the age of eight on was, by necessity, a Plan B. In the sixties, young English boys with musical talent would probably find their way into a cathedral choir and accompanying school. If this continued to be an interest, they would study at Cambridge or Oxford and sing in one of the college chapel choirs, and possibly even progress to sing countertenor, tenor or bass in a cathedral choir. This not having been an option for me as a girl and as an American, quite literally most of my life choices went wide of the mark, either slightly or spectacularly. The process of writing about the colorful journey that followed is thus rather bittersweet. I love what I have experienced, and yet I feel angry too at the utter waste of human talent in a specific field. I did my best not to waste divine time (and indeed, I guess my journey to help open up the field was a good use of that time!) but at 63, I can literally feel the pain of how distant certain activities were, and still are, from my core. I realize that this may ultimately be the source of my constant longing to "go home."
The phrase came to me, "my only home is my journey." So far that's been the case anyway! Let's see how many index cards it will take to write about it.
Wednesday, May 29, 2019
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
It's Strange
I returned from the UK one week ago, and I haven't even begun to adjust. Everything seems strange, from the quality of the light to the hues of the landscape (still largely greys and browns, with green in the process of popping). I appreciate the wider streets and increased spaciousness. I appreciate the mothering lake. But the actual energy of American life -- from the crime TV shows to the malls and retail strips to the evolving downtown to the news items on a weapons cache in L.A. -- feels harsh. But then it always has, to me. Increasingly, I realize that tuning my heart so early in life to music like Howells's Gloucester Service set an impossibly high bar, one that can probably be met only in a handful of locations and situations.
Still, somewhere in this unlikely stage set is the spot from which I'll write the book that is already taking shape. I may not write as frequently over the next few months, but I promise I'll keep you posted. (Hmm...a pun in the blog era?!)
Still, somewhere in this unlikely stage set is the spot from which I'll write the book that is already taking shape. I may not write as frequently over the next few months, but I promise I'll keep you posted. (Hmm...a pun in the blog era?!)
Thursday, May 2, 2019
London's Gate
Regular readers know that after my injury back in late December, I went through a succession of what I called "gates," processes that involved healing and new understandings prompted by being in recovery mode.
This week, I took my first solo trip to London by train. On past visits to England, this was par for the course, but this time, I had become almost phobic about the prospect of dealing with the big city, the crowds, the tube, etc. Indeed, it took me until only about two weeks ago to take the train to a nearby small city. Once I navigated that successfully, it seemed like it was time for London.
I was surprised to find that my big city, New York genes immediately took hold, and although I move much more carefully than I used to, I didn't feel actively afraid, even heading down those mile long escalators in the tube. The day involved seeing some beloved art at the National Gallery, a bus to St. Paul's Cathedral, and then, of course, choral evensong. There were amusing encounters with an exasperated gallery guard (run ragged by people leaning over the guardrails and nearly touching the paintings, and taking close-up photographs), a bus driver light-heartedly teasing me about my not knowing how to use my day travel pass, and a lonely soul on the city bus with a sadly inadequate blond wig, but lots of spirit and knowledge, who tour-guided the way up Fleet Street. The service, although evensong, was not one where they allowed seating in the choir stalls, so it was fascinating to hear the music from the crossing, near the modern altar. As at St. John the Divine in New York, there is almost too much reverberation. Oddly, I found myself less wishing I were singing in the choir, and more wishing I could give a "sermon" in such a vast space, to hear my echoing voice speaking to the crowds.
Several years ago, I wrote about how I've often felt that my soul has actually been residing in London, and certainly my day there only underscored the feeling that I could easily replicate that experience morning after morning for the rest of my life. As I reach the end of this visit, I haven't crossed that off my bucket list. But I have reached the end of the road in terms of trying to find ways to make "permanence" work. I've run out of the "excuses" that I always hoped would bring serendipity ("I'm going over to study for a master's, to receive my diploma, to take an art course, to write about Herbert Howells, to sing or write about evensong"...) Now I think England will have to reach over across the Atlantic, and find its own excuse to want me here. Certainly for the short term in the U.S., my goal is to write a book, and get it out into the world. It will be rather different than this blog, which has only attracted small numbers of readers, but I'm not writing it differently to attract readers, just to give this post-63 path a little seasoning.
I am thankful for this portal journey and all its gifts. My life has definitely changed, in ways that I am sure will become clearer and clearer. I'll check in when I get back stateside.
This week, I took my first solo trip to London by train. On past visits to England, this was par for the course, but this time, I had become almost phobic about the prospect of dealing with the big city, the crowds, the tube, etc. Indeed, it took me until only about two weeks ago to take the train to a nearby small city. Once I navigated that successfully, it seemed like it was time for London.
I was surprised to find that my big city, New York genes immediately took hold, and although I move much more carefully than I used to, I didn't feel actively afraid, even heading down those mile long escalators in the tube. The day involved seeing some beloved art at the National Gallery, a bus to St. Paul's Cathedral, and then, of course, choral evensong. There were amusing encounters with an exasperated gallery guard (run ragged by people leaning over the guardrails and nearly touching the paintings, and taking close-up photographs), a bus driver light-heartedly teasing me about my not knowing how to use my day travel pass, and a lonely soul on the city bus with a sadly inadequate blond wig, but lots of spirit and knowledge, who tour-guided the way up Fleet Street. The service, although evensong, was not one where they allowed seating in the choir stalls, so it was fascinating to hear the music from the crossing, near the modern altar. As at St. John the Divine in New York, there is almost too much reverberation. Oddly, I found myself less wishing I were singing in the choir, and more wishing I could give a "sermon" in such a vast space, to hear my echoing voice speaking to the crowds.
Several years ago, I wrote about how I've often felt that my soul has actually been residing in London, and certainly my day there only underscored the feeling that I could easily replicate that experience morning after morning for the rest of my life. As I reach the end of this visit, I haven't crossed that off my bucket list. But I have reached the end of the road in terms of trying to find ways to make "permanence" work. I've run out of the "excuses" that I always hoped would bring serendipity ("I'm going over to study for a master's, to receive my diploma, to take an art course, to write about Herbert Howells, to sing or write about evensong"...) Now I think England will have to reach over across the Atlantic, and find its own excuse to want me here. Certainly for the short term in the U.S., my goal is to write a book, and get it out into the world. It will be rather different than this blog, which has only attracted small numbers of readers, but I'm not writing it differently to attract readers, just to give this post-63 path a little seasoning.
I am thankful for this portal journey and all its gifts. My life has definitely changed, in ways that I am sure will become clearer and clearer. I'll check in when I get back stateside.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)