Worship in a Foreign Language

Over the summer I had an opportunity to attend mass in both Portugal and Italy.  While others in the group were going to Etruscan museums and an alabaster workshop I was heading off to church.  I’m not even Catholic, as you know, but I just can’t help it.  As a church musician and someone more than casually interested in liturgy, I want to see how it’s done wherever I go.

In Portugal, where I was on tour with the choir from First Parish Church in Brunswick, the chance to attend mass was built into our performance schedule.  We were at the famous pilgrimage site of Fátima where the choir was scheduled to sing at an afternoon mass at the basilica.  They hold many services everyday and there is a real herd ‘em in, herd ‘em out mentality.  Nonetheless the basilica is truly beautiful and conducive to worship (unlike the newly built auditorium which seats 8,000).

As the previous mass was concluding I was excited to hear organ music, and as I walked in the door I set my eyes on a beautiful free-standing pipe organ near the front of the church.  After playing on electronic things so far on the trip I couldn’t wait to get my hands on a real instrument!  But no…the organist, an ancient little sad man, would not let us use the instrument.  He turned it off and stomped away with the key in hand.  So once again I accompanied the choir on an electronic gizmo.

We finished Mozart’s sublime Ave Verum a minute or so before communion ended and I jumped up to take my place in line.  I brazenly looked the handsome Brazilian priest right in the eye, feeling just a tad guilty for taking communion as a non-Catholic.  But I’m glad I did: that sacrament became the meaningful remembrance for me rather than the rude treatment given us by the organist.

In Italy Bill and I were in the beautiful walled city of Volterra on a Sunday.  After trekking around with a tour guide for a couple of hours I veered off to the cathedral, built oh-so-many hundreds of years ago.  Of course it was stunningly beautiful.  There were no hymnals or service leaflets but there was a pipe organ, of sorts, and an ad-hoc choir. (I was tempted to speak to the priest afterwards and offer my services free for a week or two in exchange for housing in this beautiful town!) And as usual in a Catholic church there were all sorts of people in attendance, from the well-dressed American ex-pats to the local handicapped man.

In both Portugal and Italy I could easily follow the order of mass, even with my limited knowledge of the language.  I could even get an inkling of what was in the sermon; at least I could tell both priests were impassioned about their subject!  But I was freed from the intellectual side of worship, full of many words, and that felt good. Best of all I felt a spiritual bond with those around me, one that transcends culture and language.

So here’s a recommendation:  when travelling in a foreign country, go to a church service.  You will be among the people, away from other tourists and the top sites in your guidebook.  And you will have a clear and unique window into the real life of the place you are visiting.

Grace

When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers,

   the moon and the stars you have set in their courses,

What is man that you should be mindful of him?

   the son of man that you should seek him out?

You have made him but a little lower than the angels;

   you adorn him with glory and honor.

You give him mastery over the works of your hands;

   you put all things under his feet.

All sheep and oxen,

   even the wild beasts of the field,

The birds of the air, the fish of the sea,

   and whatsoever walks in the paths of the sea.

O Lord our Governor,

   how exalted is your Name in all the world!

                                                                   Psalm 8:4-10

Grace is one of those church words that is hard to grasp.  We hear it a lot in sermons and use it often in casual conversation, such as By the grace of God I wasn't in that accident! (By the way, that comment seems like a total misinterpretation of the meaning of grace.)

Psalm 8 was appointed for October 7, and as I prepared to rehearse the musical setting with the choir it abruptly dawned on me that here is grace, as defined by the psalmist.  A gift, deserved or not, freely given.  And what a gift, to be a meaningful part of creation, no matter how small I feel.

What I Like About Italy

Ponte Vecchio in Florence

Fashion

 The Duomo in Florence

Vacationing with Bill

Gorgeous Scenery

Cappucino

Outdoor Markets

Architecture

Volterra Cathedral Cat

Wine

Antiquity

Gelato (everyday!)

Italian Businessmen

Cappucino (it bears repeating)

Big beautiful doors, everywhere

Felicita's pesto

Ciao!

Reunion

That would be Bill’s 60^th high school reunion…a daunting number, yes.  Bill graduated from Livermore Falls High School in 1952 (before I was born) and over a recent weekend we made the trek to Central Maine for the event.  I went purely out of a sense of duty and surprisingly ended up having a good time.  It certainly made for a few hours of superb people-watching!

As we arrived, a man taking photographs for a scrapbook exclaimed Hello there, Billy!  Did you bring your daughter?  I’m afraid he wasn’t joking-he was truly confused and later, during the meal, he asked Just how old are you?  The appetizer hour was full of stares and questions, but once people realized that Bill and I have been married for 29 years things calmed down.  I was at least 20 years younger than everyone in the room, but all the same I have lived a full 57 years and thought it much ado about nothing.

I was taken back to another time and place by everyone calling my husband Billy. He had long left that name behind when I met him. And it was interesting to observe these people, most of who had stayed within a few miles of their birthplace.  Superficially one could look at their lives and assume they had been dull and predictable.  But just start asking, and you hear about seeing the US in a motor home, international travel, successful business ventures and recovery after devastating loss.  When I asked one of the women at our table about her family, she volunteered that two of her four adult children had died within a year of each other.  I quickly lost my snobby assumptions about life in Livermore Falls.

Bill had spoken of one of his classmates, “the prettiest girl,” getting pregnant, going away to have the baby and subsequently giving it up for adoption.  Well, she was there at the reunion with her husband of decades, very sparkly and still pretty.  She told of their four children, a teaching career and a family business.  It struck me as a good example of overcoming a mistake, and I can’t help but wonder as I see many, many young unmarried women with a child or two, trying to make a life.

I came away from the reunion pondering, again…What would it have been like to stay in one place? Or even in one place for more than 10 years?  I have always wanted to see what’s around the bend and I thrive on bringing my particular skills and talents to a new choir, a new church and new students.  Although I would do it all over again, given the chance, I find that as I age my restlessness is subsiding. And I think that one of these days I might just stay put.

Comfort

Last night I heard a breathtakingly beautiful piece of music, Arvo Pärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel (Mirrors in the Mirror) for ‘cello and organ.  Performed in the resonant acoustics of St. John’s Catholic Church in Bangor, the notes filled every nook and cranny of this magnificent space.

From the program notes: Spiegel im Spiegel, composed in 1978, is an ethereal lullaby.  It moves at an unvarying pace and is built from the simplest of musical materials: a continuous broken-chord pattern, subject to only the most subtle harmonic shifts; bell tones, deep in the bass and high in the treble; and long-held notes moving by fundamental intervals in the ‘cello. There is not a single chromatic note in the entire work.  The title refers to the infinity of images produced by parallel plane mirrors: tonic triads endlessly repeated with small variations as if reflected back and forth in ever expanding phrases.

There are performances on You-Tube, of course, but I can find none that begin to replicate what I heard last night.  Most are with piano rather than organ, and this work seems to beg for the sustained sonorities of the organ.

Beginning with my dad’s memorial service on January 1, this year has been filled with loss and challenge.  I feel much like the plants that grow in bogs, buffeted by difficult environments and struggling to grow.  Last night the first few notes of the organ touched me; I closed my eyes and my mind to the distractions around and listened. I was moved to tears and felt comforted in a way that only music can comfort.  I am grateful.

Otherwise


I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.


At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver 
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.


Jane Kenyon, Constance (1993)

This Is Why…

My darling student Lily, age 9, recently presented her Suzuki Book 1 recital. This means that she learned, polished and memorized all 18 pieces in that level and then performed them on a private recital. It took place at my house, with her parents, sister, grandparents and 2 friends in attendance.

This is always one of my favorite work-related events.  The student is excited, the parents are proud and generally some lovely music-making is heard.  By this point the young pianist has learned quite a lot and is able to play with dynamics, rubato and the like.  It is the jumping off point for the real piano repertoire of Bach, Beethoven and Schumann.

This recital was a little different, though, because since Christmas Lily’s mother has had 3 surgeries for cancer.  She is a beautiful, vibrant woman fighting for her life. Throughout this ordeal Lily has continued her lessons and diligent practicing and I have had the honor and responsibility of providing some stability and normalcy to what surely must be a petrified little girl.  Even at her young age she has internalized the music and made it a means of expression, which she desperately needs right now.

So at her recital we all sat in my living room and listened in wonder as Lily laid out her highest hopes and deepest fears.  And yes, this is why I teach piano.