"That's a work out!" observed an alto about the organ part for the anthem this week. "Someone should bring her a bagel!" "Or some Gatorade." It was true, I had to swing my legs south to the low notes, alternating with reaching for the volume pedal, then stretching feet way up north to land on unexpected notes again. I must have some specially evolved bench gripping muscles in my butt, because sometimes I don't know how I stay on.
This is piece by John Rutter, that moves at the speed of light, has enough notes to break a wheelbarrow, an organ part that goes north and south while the singers go east and west, and charges helpfully into 7/8s time signature at one point.
I feel like I'm jumping out of an airplane when I begin the intro. Into the mess! Heave ho! Faster louder harder!
Double tasking at its most insurmountable. Watch conductor (somehow, out of my third eye that's not blocked by the massive organ console?), play both feet, play both hands, modulate volume with feet, turn pages with hands, stay adhered to bench. All at breakneck speed.
Somehow our conductor is the nicest man alive and does not fault me for the 35 additional unexpected notes I offered during rehearsal.
I asked him for survival advice, and the best way to live through battle was to not worry so much about the exact notes, but stay in the rhythm and feeling of the thing. Better to leave a few notes out than to try for every one and gain ugly addendum notes in the process.
I practiced this piece doggedly all week, starting with a shapeless lump of clay, and working with it to create some art. The clay starts cold and unapproachable, difficult to mold, and I can watch the process of learning and adapting take place as it becomes something recognizable.
"Phil. ... Phil. Phil! Phil!" Its Sunday morning before church and I'm clinging to the bench and paddling away at the pedals and then realize there is a gentleman staring at me. And his wife is trying to get his attention. I'm practicing the finale of the choir piece. "Its just so exciting!" he gushes and then his wife comes over and we three realize we have similarities of gardening and places we've been before. I do love living here.
All this work for 3 minutes of glory Sunday morning. Or at least 3 minutes of adrenaline-pumped energizing praise. We do not over-rehearse in this choir, aiming not to exhaust the singers over too many details. Efficiency and preparedness instead. Everyone's still excited about the piece this way, a little raw, like that energy of a first kiss. I draw on that which I cultivated as a horse girl--Forced Calm--where the horse can feel what you're experiencing and magnifies it. Such on the pipe organ.
They sang. I expressed notes. I landed the final tower of a chord and that was glorious; the director made the International Relief Sign at me (brow wipe) and that was that.
After the smoke cleared I realized my sparkly scarf was shimmering with movement, my heart beating so bigly that the scarf picked it up. I'm rarely nervous anymore (history knows this has not always been the case, one of the unexpected boons of having "grown up"), on the pipe organ or elsewhere, so its kind of a novelty for me. I just wish I could work to be more present at these times when all I see is flames. But the afterward felt really grand.
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