Soaring without wings

St. Mary's church in Krakow, Poland

When I was 15 years old I was invited to travel with a youth orchestra as their mezzo soprano soloist. It was a dream come true for many reasons. I wanted to get out of the small rural New York hollow where I lived because there were no opportunities for artistic expression or development there. It was a place where there were more cows than people. I also lived with two frustrated musicians whose sad stories about what they wanted to accomplish musically had always been a disappointment to them. I didn't want that to happen to me. Traveling to Europe, the seat of Anglo culture, was very exciting to me. But most of all, the prospect of being able to sing was thrilling. If my voice could meld with strings and woodwinds to create something beautiful, I would even be content to lie down and die--so badly did I want to sing. It wasn't about being seen or identified with the music. Many were the times I said that I'd be happy to sing from under a drape or high up in a balcony so no one could see me--only let me sing freely and express all that is within me.
It was a one-month tour to Poland as guests of the country in a kind of artistic exchange experience. Concerts were scheduled in many of the larger cathedrals and a few concert halls.

The first concert took place in St. Mary's in Krakow. One memorable moment was when our orchestra was ushered in the back of the church toward the steep staircase to the balcony. As mass had already started and we arrived late, we had to traipse through the silent worshipers on the back aisle of the church. Each of us picked up a packet of music, music stand, or instruments, and hoisted up our long concert dresses to get up the stairs. I picked up two french horns in cases and following on the heels on the soprano, Hope, crept toward the stairs, gaping at the architecture. Unfortunately, I was looking up at the flying buttresses when Hope, paused and dropped into a dramatic and graceful genuflection as she passed the altar. Of course, we both landed in a heap with me on her back, horns skidding across the stone floor. Yes, I do know what it feels like to be "country come to town"!

As we assembled up in the right side of the balcony around the organ, I was told that our fearless conductor had negotiated with the then communist watchdogs who forbade us to perform religious music. "Oh," she had remonstrated, "These are just musical classics." And they had backed down. What I didn't realize was that these people had not heard sacred music with the exception of plainsong chant during mass for up to 30 years.

We started out that concert with Hope and I singing "Wir eilen mit Schwachen" from Bach's Cantata No. 78, accompanied by organ and oboe, with cello continuo. We stood as close to the balcony rail as we could, so our voices could soar out over the congregation. I looked down from what seemed to be miles above the worshipers to see a sea of bodies huddled together in pews, all looking downward. Many wore dark kerchiefs over their heads and seemed bowed down in a depressing way. We could see very few faces since we were so high up and a bit behind them. The entire cathedral seemed dark and a bit frightening. We had heard that there were communist "bugs" amongst our interpreters who would report us if we were seen talking to anyone. Neither could we give anyone anything. We were being watched, and having grown up with all the hype about communists, I was very anxious. I assumed the people down below were as intimidated by the regime as I was. And how dare anyone forbid sacred music? It was unthinkable to me.

But then the organ began the introduction with the cello happily sawing out the motif that sounds like running feet. It is such a cheerful piece and just the day before Hope and I had sung it over and over for nearly an hour in an old church hall while the harpsichordist twanged along with us. Now here we were, getting to sing it for people. We launched out into the music, disappearing into the lyrics:

Wir Eilen Mit Schwachen

du Emsigen Schritten

O Jesu, O Meister,

zu helfen, zu dir.

As we paused at the coda, I suddenly realized that I could see faces of the people below us. They weren't looking at us. They were leaning back in their seats and with eyes closed, like cats in the sun, they were basking in the music. Some had tears running down their faces. Others wept openly. Many looked as though they were enjoying a private audience with God, through their closed eyes. It was as though they could also be free for a few minutes, even if only in their minds. Hope and I sang our hearts out, sitting down breathless at the end of our duet.

At the end of the concert, the entire place erupted in spontaneous, uncontrolled applause. We had to leave quickly because of our schedule, and rushed from the place. People stood outside the church leaning toward us, unable to say anything in English, but their faces said more than they could have articulated. Some reached out and touched our hands or arms.

This was an immensely formative experience for me. I realized that there is power in making music---power to heal, to liberate, to bridge gaps in language and culture. And I suddenly wanted to be present, seen, and part of the music. It was something that I could give, and for a girl who despaired of ever having anything to give to anyone else, this was a miracle.

That day both the hearers and I were free--them from the communist restrictions that threatened to control even their minds, and me from the mundane circumstances that threatened hope. The hearers soared in their hearts toward God. My hope and joy soared further than ever before. And for a short time, we all reached upward and outward in what felt to be a magical hour. I hope that in the hereafter I might meet some of these Poles and thank them for teaching me how to soar without wings.