I’m afraid that I, calm like a candle,
"Do not be afraid, Mary, am a fuse, a muffled firework,
that one day I’ll go off, his kingdom will never end
and she who was said to be barren is in her sixth month
and peel the skin, the arms of all who huddled close—
I’m afraid that I, with the gospel on my lips,
We know that the whole creation has been groaning
as in the pains of childbirth
am a colonist, buckled with a rusty sword,
that one day I’ll arrive on pregnant shores Not only so,
but we ourselves groan inwardly
and when I leave there will be little more—
as we wait eagerly for our adoption,
the redemption of our bodies.
For in this hope we were saved." Then the angel left her.
22.12.08
5.12.08
"Let There Be Light," revised
If you’re ever ashamed because you broke a pencil--or if you find yourself in a similar situation—you’re not alone.
It was a Wednesday in September. I walked into Crill Performance Hall through the side entrance, those heavy, cyan double-doors. Everything was dark.
“And God said. . . ‘Let there be light,’” said Dr. Pedersen, our choir director, as he pressed something on the wall. Still in darkness, he described Joseph Haydn’s sonata “The Creation,” in which the choir depicts chaos and the first day of the world by quietly chanting (he whispered, imitating them), “And. . . God. . . said. . . let. . . there. . . be. . . .” Dr. Pedersen backed away as he half-shouted, “LIGHT!” At this point, he said with a smile, the choir bursts from pianissimo to fortissimo.
The lights were now beaming on stage. They illuminated the wooden platform, the glossy black piano, the potted plants that witness our choir rehearsals every day, and even the plush folding seats and aisles in the distance. It was 12:30, and class had begun for the Point Loma Singers.
During most rehearsals, the twenty of us—sopranos, altos, tenors, basses—stand in a semi-circle around the piano as Dr. Pedersen signals the beginning of class with a procession of chords (I, IV, iv, I). We lay our music folders on the floor and stand with our feet shoulder-width apart, our shoulders heaved back, and heads up. And in case Dr. Pedersen tells us to mark changes on our music, we must always have our pencils.
After playing the introductory chords, Dr. Pedersen leads us in warm-ups: breathing, arm-stretching, high to low singing, consonant-spitting, and massaging. I like when Dr. Pedersen asks the basses and sopranos to sing in unison. While they sing, a new note rings in the atmosphere: steady, pure, and high. Searching for its source, I look to the basses, but it sounds like a woman’s voice, and the sopranos are too far away. It hovers somewhere below the high ceiling of the hall, above the piano and inches from our faces. I’ve been told it’s the sound of a harmonic fifth: the unison sound waves from the basses and sopranos vibrate together to create a note that no one actually sings. I often wonder, though, if it’s an angel singing. Then, we tenors join with the altos and match that perfect note.
After warming up and rehearsing together, we sometimes break up for our sectional rehearsals. That day, the basses, sopranos, and altos walked to different rooms while the tenors stayed in Crill to practice with Dr. Pedersen.
During the song “The Lord is the Everlasting God,” Dr. Pedersen asked us to take out our pencils and draw in eighth rests and replace quarter notes with eighth notes so that all of us could breathe at a unified spot. That’s when I felt heat behind my eyes and nose, the feeling I get when I’m sick. My pencil was broken--and I hadn’t sharpened it.
I remembered the few times last year when, as a first-year Point Loma Singer, I forgot to bring my pencil. Dr. Pedersen would tell us to write in the changes, and I would stand in the circle, quietly looking at my shoes, hoping no one saw me. Now, everyone knew. One of the guys had a pencil, so I asked him if I could borrow it to draw in the rests. The vibrant emptiness of Crill was silenced by the chanting of guilt. The seconds it took to draw those eighth rests were like the distance between two paragraphs. I felt like I was writing an apology.
“This time could have been spent going over those last few measures again,” Dr. Pedersen said to the group, though I knew whom he was addressing. “It’s important for each of us to bring pencils to rehearsals.”
I apologized. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t sharpen my pencil; it was that I am the tenor section leader and I was unprepared. I’ve been in this choir for over a year. Why did I neglect my pencil? How can I expect the young ones to look up to me now? The rest of the rehearsal for me was spoiled by shame. It tasted a little like chaos.
After concerts, when one of us feels embarrassed about having sung an outstandingly wrong note, Dr. Pedersen reminds us, “If you sing a wrong note, move on, because that note is in the past. The most important note is the one that’s coming up.”
After saying good bye, Dr. Pedersen encouraged us for developing our vocal blend. I walked outdoors, into the early afternoon sunlight, to the financial aid office. On a desk I saw a canister carrying free pencils. I thankfully took one. I hit the wrong note today, but I wasn’t so out of tune. And there are more notes coming up. I slipped the pencil into my music folder, ready for tomorrow. There may have been an angel, singing.
It was a Wednesday in September. I walked into Crill Performance Hall through the side entrance, those heavy, cyan double-doors. Everything was dark.
“And God said. . . ‘Let there be light,’” said Dr. Pedersen, our choir director, as he pressed something on the wall. Still in darkness, he described Joseph Haydn’s sonata “The Creation,” in which the choir depicts chaos and the first day of the world by quietly chanting (he whispered, imitating them), “And. . . God. . . said. . . let. . . there. . . be. . . .” Dr. Pedersen backed away as he half-shouted, “LIGHT!” At this point, he said with a smile, the choir bursts from pianissimo to fortissimo.
The lights were now beaming on stage. They illuminated the wooden platform, the glossy black piano, the potted plants that witness our choir rehearsals every day, and even the plush folding seats and aisles in the distance. It was 12:30, and class had begun for the Point Loma Singers.
During most rehearsals, the twenty of us—sopranos, altos, tenors, basses—stand in a semi-circle around the piano as Dr. Pedersen signals the beginning of class with a procession of chords (I, IV, iv, I). We lay our music folders on the floor and stand with our feet shoulder-width apart, our shoulders heaved back, and heads up. And in case Dr. Pedersen tells us to mark changes on our music, we must always have our pencils.
After playing the introductory chords, Dr. Pedersen leads us in warm-ups: breathing, arm-stretching, high to low singing, consonant-spitting, and massaging. I like when Dr. Pedersen asks the basses and sopranos to sing in unison. While they sing, a new note rings in the atmosphere: steady, pure, and high. Searching for its source, I look to the basses, but it sounds like a woman’s voice, and the sopranos are too far away. It hovers somewhere below the high ceiling of the hall, above the piano and inches from our faces. I’ve been told it’s the sound of a harmonic fifth: the unison sound waves from the basses and sopranos vibrate together to create a note that no one actually sings. I often wonder, though, if it’s an angel singing. Then, we tenors join with the altos and match that perfect note.
After warming up and rehearsing together, we sometimes break up for our sectional rehearsals. That day, the basses, sopranos, and altos walked to different rooms while the tenors stayed in Crill to practice with Dr. Pedersen.
During the song “The Lord is the Everlasting God,” Dr. Pedersen asked us to take out our pencils and draw in eighth rests and replace quarter notes with eighth notes so that all of us could breathe at a unified spot. That’s when I felt heat behind my eyes and nose, the feeling I get when I’m sick. My pencil was broken--and I hadn’t sharpened it.
I remembered the few times last year when, as a first-year Point Loma Singer, I forgot to bring my pencil. Dr. Pedersen would tell us to write in the changes, and I would stand in the circle, quietly looking at my shoes, hoping no one saw me. Now, everyone knew. One of the guys had a pencil, so I asked him if I could borrow it to draw in the rests. The vibrant emptiness of Crill was silenced by the chanting of guilt. The seconds it took to draw those eighth rests were like the distance between two paragraphs. I felt like I was writing an apology.
“This time could have been spent going over those last few measures again,” Dr. Pedersen said to the group, though I knew whom he was addressing. “It’s important for each of us to bring pencils to rehearsals.”
I apologized. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t sharpen my pencil; it was that I am the tenor section leader and I was unprepared. I’ve been in this choir for over a year. Why did I neglect my pencil? How can I expect the young ones to look up to me now? The rest of the rehearsal for me was spoiled by shame. It tasted a little like chaos.
After concerts, when one of us feels embarrassed about having sung an outstandingly wrong note, Dr. Pedersen reminds us, “If you sing a wrong note, move on, because that note is in the past. The most important note is the one that’s coming up.”
After saying good bye, Dr. Pedersen encouraged us for developing our vocal blend. I walked outdoors, into the early afternoon sunlight, to the financial aid office. On a desk I saw a canister carrying free pencils. I thankfully took one. I hit the wrong note today, but I wasn’t so out of tune. And there are more notes coming up. I slipped the pencil into my music folder, ready for tomorrow. There may have been an angel, singing.
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