Did You Feel That?

Performances light a flame in my soul that I don’t know how to explain in words. You just have to go through the experience to understand what I mean. I haven’t been able to understand why I come close to tears when watching or listening to a performance (musical or theatrical), and it frustrates me when I don’t get the sense that others are feeling what I’m feeling. The adrenaline rush in the midst of a chase, the heartbreak of death, the agony of loneliness, the warmth of a caress.

When I experience a performance, I feel a deep emotional connection to it. But I don’t want to just feel connected to it, I want to be part of it. To help others feel how I feel. It’s not enough for me to turn to the person next to me, grab their shoulders, and exclaim, “Did you feel that? Did it break your heart like it did mine? Didn’t you want to die with them, get married with them, run with them, breathe with them?” Because I can’t make a person feel something. They have to do that on their own. The best I can do is convey that feeling to them.

When I was younger, I had the privilege of singing in a children’s choir that performed in Philadelphia. We once performed a cantata entitled “The Long Bright,” along with a full orchestra and some amazing adult soloists. Provided the link works, I’ll let this website explain the story:
The Long Bright | Schola Cantorum on Hudson

Of course, reading about it and listening to recordings is not nearly the same as being there in the moment. I tend to think I got more out of it as a performer than the audience members did, because I was part of the family that understood the hard work that made that performance possible. But it’s not just about the family. I remember approaching the end of the piece and thinking, “This is it. It’s nearing the end. I’m not going to be able to experience this again.” I savored those last moments, and as the final melodies floated away I could see Anni in my mind, flying to heaven on those last notes. I hope the listeners saw the same thing, but I also think it was a secret that the performers and the writers shared, and could only be told in part to the audience.

This video pretty much sums up my thoughts on communicating through performing for others:

My Thoughts Today: Singing

I was having a few thoughts. And when I have a few thoughts, I like to write them down to try to sort them out. And the sort of thoughts I was having today involve what things I enjoy. I was contemplating my desire to sing. I want to sing because I want to sing for people on a stage. I want to sing for people on a stage because I have been moved so deeply by people who sing on a stage, and I want to move people in the same way.

The next idea in my thought process is that I don’t know if I really like to sing. I don’t like to practice at all. Perhaps if I were alone more often I would enjoy singing by myself more. But I would just as happily play the harp or read a book or edit a video instead. I must admit, though, that when I hear music I feel the need to hum along, and I can’t resist making up a harmony. I love doing that, even if people around me don’t love me doing that. But it’s fun.

My next thought is that when I first started playing the harp I didn’t enjoy it very much either. I hated practicing that as well, and I couldn’t see much of a future in it. I was, however, a very young child at the time, and could not perceive where my playing would take me. I am thinking that perhaps I am still a young child in my singing journey, because while I do not enjoy practicing the exercises, something useful may come of it later, even if I can’t imagine what.

Things I Love: The Harp

“I had a dream that you were older and you were playing the harp for a lot of people.” I don’t remember what her exact words were, but I remember her telling me that.

In a way, her dream came true.

I was only around six years old when I began playing the harp. People ask me how I got started playing such a unique instrument, and I really don’t remember. I went to a harp teacher’s house for a lesson one day. And then I went to another lesson. And another. I grew to like the Irish woman with long hair who had a quirky sense of humor and a patient heart. My little fingers were clumsy on the small harp, but I never remember her becoming cross with me.

I loved my teacher, but I hated practicing and wanted to quit. My family kept telling me that I would regret it when I was older. I didn’t have much of a choice but to keep playing.

A couple years later I grew bigger, which meant I could play a full size harp. I had gotten better at playing, so now I could play more complicated songs. And now my teacher could play duets with me. We played mostly Celtic songs, ancient melodies that had stayed alive only by being passed down by people listening to them and playing them back. And that’s what my teacher did with me. She played part of a song, and I played it back. Once I learned the whole song, we would play it together.

Some of my favorite lessons took place when it was chilly outside. My teacher would build a fire in her wood burning stove, and we would make music together while the cats wrestled in the warmth that radiated from the stove. Everything was cozy, and the happy feeling I got would linger through the next morning upon the realization that my shirt smelled like smoke.

I stopped playing after my teacher stopped teaching. Every once in awhile I would pluck a few strings, play a song here or there, but not like I used to. It wasn’t until my later teenage years that I got back into it again. I don’t remember why I did other than for the offer of money I received.

The first few performances I played are a bit of a blur. The more I played, the more I wanted to play.

After most of my performances now there is at least one person who comes up to me to express their appreciation for my playing. A young boy who is learning how to play, a middle-aged woman with tears in her eyes, an old man who squeezes my hand. A pastor, a waitress, a kid who had never even seen a harp.

I’ve gotten to play for a lot of people. Because it makes other people happy. “I was having a hard day, and this was what I needed.”

When I see how I’ve made people happy, it makes me happy too.