I'm back again. Sort of.
Monday was intense. I watched just about all the coverage of Queen Elizabeth's funeral from 4:30 AM central to nearly noon...I had to turn it off after the bagpiper at the end of the service at St. George's Chapel, Windsor. Since then, I have been shaky and somewhat out-of-body. Fortunately, some friends invited me a few hours later down to Park Point for tea on a deck looking out at Lake Superior's massive horizon line. That was about all I could manage, staring. I was rubbish at conversation.
I will leave it to others to analyze the historical importance of the Queen's death, and what it means to the world. Even I, with my love of pomp and ceremony, felt at times as if I were a fly on the wall at some similar event a century ago. It was archaic, yet, of course, strangely hi-tech, with our ability to watch from across the world, and search for music lists and other pertinent information. It was about many things much more important than this other "Liz", watching from Minnesota.
Yet the reason I was turned inside out is that nearly every spot in the day's journey held resonance for me. "My" composer, Herbert Howells, who I've written about and whose music is so dear to me, featured prominently on the day, with organ preludes and his wonderful hymn tune (Michael) to "All My Hope on God is Founded". Howells's own ashes are buried at Westminster Abbey. The first and only time I attended choral evensong there, I was directed with other service-goers through the north aisle and, literally, stepped on his plaque without really having a chance to appreciate it.
After the Westminster Abbey funeral service, the motorcade drove by Royal Albert Hall, which is where my University of London degree ceremony took place in 1982. They then drove by Heathrow Airport, which, of course, I have flown in and out of numerous times. Soon, thanks to the drone's bird's eye view, I saw the turnoff where the A30 heads west toward Royal Holloway College (Egham/Englefield Green), and the motorcade turned north to Windsor. Lastly, in 1981 when I was in Royal Holloway's choir, we sang choral evensong at St. George's Chapel, and with all Monday's amazing camera work, I could see approximately where I sat on that occasion. So the day had a "this is your life" quality for me and, of course, anyone who has lived, worked, or studied in that part of England. I suppose for me it is more intense than simple nostalgia because I (who have never figured out how to create a permanent home in the U.S.) have often told people that my real home is in the choir stalls of English cathedrals (abbeys/chapels...) It was a day immersed in that world from so many camera and audio perspectives, making it seem both real and surreal, natural and really unnatural. I sang along with most of the hymns and anthems (I'm not sure if I have ever sung "My Soul, There is a Country" or "Bring Us, O Lord" for an actual service, but their lush harmonies are literally the sound of my soul), and I was pleased to see a woman countertenor in the St. George's Choir. Through her, perhaps, I was represented.
I'm blathering. That must mean it's time to stop. But in the end, I'm not really back, or at least, I'm not sure which "back" I am. My soul is tethered as much to the sound of this music in its space as it is to the various specific spaces themselves. About 95% of my life has been spent much too far from this choral, emotional and spiritual home base (yes, even for Goddess-oriented me!), and at 66, you can only be honest: it doesn't feel good being chronically cut off from yourself. I'm too shaky, still, to know what means for my future, near or long term.
