Saturday, January 15, 2011

Music and Memory, Part 19: Reparations

For most of my life, my behavior was so selfish, willful, amoral, and defensive that, in recent years, my fervent wish has been not only that the people I've known along the way would have peaceful and happy lives, but also that they might forget me completely.  So it was with some trepidation, and a great deal of embarrassment, that I sent a check to the workplace of A., the Columbia boy I'd borrowed money from years ago.  Although it was during Lent of last year that I remembered this unhappy incident, it took me until the end of the year to make reparations, because, although I went out on gigs with some frequency in 2010, after travel and childcare expenses were figured into my fee, I generally returned home each time with something like fifty dollars.  In December, however, two large-ish fees came in that did not need to be offset by as many expenses as usual, so I took myself to the post office, praying that paying off this old, until-recently-forgotten debt would not open up some unpleasant can of worms.

A letter from A. came in the mail yesterday, and I opened it grimly.  To my astonishment, he was not only happy to hear from me, but also, unbeknownst to me, he'd been at a concert I gave last month in Boston, where he now lives.

He wrote: 

. . . I don't want to be a creep, which is the main reason I didn't approach you at your concert.  That and -- well -- certainly the memory in my mind is not the actual person you are . . . . it was at a recent bored moment at work [that I undertook a "Pentimento" internet search and] saw that you were giving a concert soon, and in fact it was in my own backyard. . . . And the performance [brought] tears to my eyes.  [Your] voice was soothing to the soul, and especially exciting given that I knew you back when you were first going down this path . . . .

Most striking [were your] expressions after the songs.  The bashful turn to the pianist, the being exposed, the being vulnerable and showing it.  I could see why you have specialized in [concerts given] in salon or intimate settings.  You share yourself with your audience.  You are there with them, not above them . . . You share their vulnerabilities. . . To see how that path you started -- to see the beautiful place it has progressed to -- that also brought tears.

The letter brought me to tears too.  I thought of how the Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen had told his friend, my old voice teacher Barbara Conrad, that she must never give up singing, because she could never know when it might make the difference between life and death for someone in the audience.  I doubt that my singing carried that import for A., but perhaps some healing did come out of it, some reparation for the past.  If only A. knew how bitter the road was that led me to the point of being able, now, to be vulnerable onstage, and to share in the vulnerabilities of the audience.  For so many years, I sang defensively, acquisitively, planning what I could get from it.  Life -- everything -- has changed so much since then.  Once, when I mentioned to my husband that my singing had changed, he suggested that one can't compartmentalize one's life; when one's heart changes, everything must change along with it.  As the poet Jane Hirshfield writes:

let one animal/eat from your hand and the whole herd comes.

Hirshfield's poem, "Letting What Enters Enter," concludes with the line

she forgave me nothing that I love.

But after reading A.'s letter, I believe that God, in His mercy, somehow forgives us everything that we love.

9 comments:

Rodak said...

Being certain that there is no comment I can make which would add to, or even highlight, the beauty of what you've written, I simply click the "like" button, to indicate that I've read it. Thank you. Again.

Pentimento said...

Thanks, R.

Enbrethiliel said...

+JMJ+

This is beautiful! And what you believe about your singing is clearly what you believe about your blogging as well, which is why this is such a great place to visit.

ex-new yorker said...

I am not always good with poetic language, but found myself trying to ponder the idea of "God forgiving what we love" (as it might apply to my own life) without knowing exactly what you mean by it. Then I thought I'd just ask. Were you referring to the improvement in your music, which was also part of your "old life?"

I don't know, not that anyone asked, and I'm inquiring primarily for clarification of your idea that intrigued me. I am not one who goes around looking for debates in the comment boxes :) But I'd think it was probably just another one of those mysteries of God's direct and permissive will. Some people probably have to give up their art for one reason or another for God's sake, even if it really is or could be something good and beautiful, because of a higher good He wants them to pursue.

Pentimento said...

Ex-New Yorker, you're absolutely right. What I wrote was probably quite unsound, theologically speaking. I've often wondered myself whether I should give up what I love for God, and in fact still wonder. I have the feeling, though, that God speaks to us through what we love, and that often He calls us to serve Him that way. But the truth is that I can't speak for anyone else's life, and barely for my own, so probably I shouldn't generalize. It is truly a mystery.

And Enbrethiliel, it's always nice to have you visit.

Otepoti said...

Wonderful.

maria horvath said...

Such a beautiful story of hope.

Lizzie said...

I discovered your beautiful writing via Betty Duffy - I've been reading for a while but this is the first time I've commented. Such a beautiful reflection and makes me think of Catherine of Siena's often quoted saying 'if you are who you should be, you will set the world ablaze'.
I won't comment on all the posts I've loved but I will say I love all your writing especially the posts about music (as a fellow musician and singer), the arts generally, Dorothy Day, and more...
That Bach Cantata recording you posted the other day is just sublime - thanks to you, I bought the whole album on itunes. I'm enjoying it so much! Thankyou...

Pentimento said...

Thank you, Lizzie, I'm delighted that you're here!

I'm happy that you've discovered the great Lorraine Hunt Lieberson. She performed the two cantatas on that CD ten years ago in New York in a semi-staged production directed by Peter Sellars, and witnessing the performance was one of the greatest artistic experiences of my life.