I was guest organist at the First Presbyterian Church this
past Sunday. Currently, I am fortunate
enough to have organist gigs booked at various churches until the end of
August. I am usually pretty brimming when I finish a Sunday service—little
descriptions and observations and feelings rising up wanting to be written—but
there’s something extra brimming about this church.
Maybe because I’d come there as a wee granddaughter object,
holding the hands of my grandparents.
Or maybe because it is a tremendous echoing edifice, all
bell towers and stony outcrops (I don’t have architecture terms for those
things), and inside there are PILLARS. I’ve not played in churches with pillars
very much. Tremendous marble pillars.
Or maybe because the instrument itself is over a
million-dollar affair, with five manuals, and more buttons, levers, and stops
than I actually know how to process. I’m waiting to push something and have a
small genie come out and tell me off. I did push something the other day and a
continuous tinkling of bells sounded, like an angel assemblage, and I realized the
zimbelstern was in decidedly good working order.
So I feel a little compelled to write about this church and
my organ-izing within it.
I slide onto the bench in this empty huge place before the
people come in, flip the magic switch, and a huge beast breathes to life. You
can hear the blower of its lungs taking a rich inhale, then the air moving
through the entire length of its body, the little clunks and audible shudders
and twitches that happen with this.
I realized I’ve built a mental association (just like my
cat: an approach to the lower cupboard means food). The sound of over a hundred people sitting
down—slightly rustly and with subtle groans of the pews, maybe a few deep
inhales after the singing—this to me is the sound of triumphant success and
relief. In a smaller space with a
smaller crowd, this is much less magnified. But in this huge space it is echoey
and majestic. It means I just finished a hymn, held the last resounding chord
for as long as necessary for the weight to plumb deep, and then let off the
keys to a wash of relief at having gotten through the thing, and these Sounds
of Sitting.
You see, this is not an unapologetic instrument, and I do
not spurn the loudly encompassing foot pedal stops. But that means that if I do
make a mistake, it is undeniable.
The anthem for the choir this week was no insignificant
affair, even on the piano, a lyrical rendition of Be Thou My Vision in 4 sharps
(and then the occasional A-sharp thrown in for befuddlement). I had only a few
days to learn it, and I had to work. I was marking sharps, practicing page
turns, writing “aim!” over the unmanageable chords, singing lines to try and get
them into my head. There were triplets, there were large hand-stretching
chords.
But I did it. Having the perfectionist gene (or at least a
similar one) means that this work is not always a choice for me. (I guess I could get better at Faking Things
and have more time for other pursuits…)
And then: Sunday morning, the choir sounded sublime, I
didn’t burn my triplets, I remembered my sharps, I aimed my “aims”. And the
final chord hung beautifully in the air…. and the thing was done. Over. Never
to be played again. The manifestation of
all my work had 3 minutes of existence and no more.
I think about it like its making a Mandala. Creating a thing
with insistent carefulness for the sake of creating it, all those fine grains
of sand in place, a practice, a focus on being present for a task. Others enjoy
it for a bit, and then wipe-wipe-wipe its over.
And then the next Sunday you work for something else.
After the service I skittered downstairs to eat cookies
(playing makes me undeniably hungry) and drink church-basement coffee. Before I could escape the organ bench a few
people approached, thanking me for playing, asking what year I was at the
Ithaca College music school (“uhm, nope, I am a soil scientist at Cornell….”)
and a Mrs. Norma Stevenson to send her regards to my grandparents.
But I didn’t get a chance to chat with the pastor of this
formidable church (a positively charismatic young woman, much beloved,
incredibly positive and thoughtful). I had listened intently to her sermon
about change. How change HAPPENS for us as people; we can become someone
perhaps even nearly unrecognizable to whom we had been before. And this is
natural and ok.
But later this week I was playing late at night in the pitch
of the black space, just the organ overhead light on. I heard movement but
could see nothing, blinded in my little orb of organ light. Then, like a
radiant specter, she appeared by the bench and I could see it was Pastor. “I
just wanted to say, I love it when you play,” she said. “It is so expansive.
You obviously are not afraid of the instrument.” This raised me about 3 feet off the bench,
and I blustered a blushing thank you….and explained that once I had been afraid of it. Which is kind of
why I felt I should learn how to play it.
After some thinking, I realized I have three levels of
Organist within me. The first level is Faking It But Making It. These are the
mornings where perhaps the night before was a little longer than probably
proper, or where the week was busy and I didn’t have practice time. I can play
hymns, I keep everyone in tempo, but perhaps I hit a few off-pedal notes.
Perhaps I miss an entrance. My first few years of being a church organist were
this level, whether I liked it or not.
The second level is Yes Right. Things aimed are landed
accurately, music sounds good, it’s right. After a few years this was the
standard. I focus and effectively make tidy neat music.
Now I’m realizing there’s a third level. It is called With
Soul. This has been happening more and more lately. Where I am playing, and am
able to take in and hear the music, not just play it. Where I can play a piece
I’ve played 49 times before and suddenly here a phrase in a new way. With Soul
is more likely to happen on sunny days, after beautiful bicycle rides or a
special human interaction. I tend to play this content into my music. That
phrase is the sunset view; this next phrase is being in love. I’m more liquid
when I play this way; I can hear the congregation getting quiet for the
prelude, or maybe singing more lustily on a hymn. If I sense this beginning to
happen I get even more in it and thus begins a positive feedback loop. The Leo
in me would argue I’m blissed out on the power of my own power. The humanist
would say I’m grateful to be contributing something beautiful to the universe.
Who knows. I love it. It’s also rare and I want to be wary of
trying to control it.
