the cassandra pages

End of an Era

Over the past two weekends, we bade farewell to our beloved music director at Christ Church Cathedral, Patrick Wedd (far right,above) who is retiring after 22 years in this job, and 58 years in church music - he had his first job as an organist at the age of twelve. The previous weekend was a whirlwind of public events - a big Stravinsky concert with a wind ensemble on Saturday night, where our choir was joined by many former singers, then we sang the Stravinsky Mass again as part of the Sunday morning liturgy -- as the composer had intended. On Sunday afternoon we did a big, special Evensong, with music by Britten, Howells, and Jackson, followed by a reception for Patrick and his husband Rob, who has always sung with us, taken care of the music library, and even served as cathedral verger. It was a big deal, and a lot of work for those of us on the music committee who were in charge of all the events, fundraising, and publicity.

The poster for the Stravinsky concert, and the cover page from a folio of Patrick's music that we published as a gift for him. Patrick has been a prolific composer, and was a major contributor and advisor to the revised Canadian Anglican hymnal. We love singing the music Patrick has written for choir, and wanted to make more of it available to other groups.

Yesterday, though, was a quieter goodbye for our parish and the choir family. Instead of showy pieces,  Patrick had chosen some of his more reflective favorites: Healey Willan in the morning, and Orlando Gibbons in the afternoon. The Gibbons was a perfect choice because it was St-Jean-Baptiste Day here, the national day in Quebec, which meant we could sing some Advent hymns about John the Baptist ("A voice crying in the wilderness/Prepare the way of the Lord"), sing the magnificent Gibbons Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis, and end with one of his greatest verse anthems, "This is the Record of John" for solo alto or counter-tenor and choir. The anthem was written by request sometime between 1611-1621 for St John's College, Oxford -- which is dedicated to John the Baptist -- and has been sung by Anglican choirs ever since.

Getting ready for Evensong rehearsal in the Cathedral's "crossing:" the area behind the forward altar, in front of the choir stalls, between the two side chapels. Nathalie Gagnon-Joseph, in the black top, has sung with Patrick since she was a little girl in the treble choir - like all the other former trebles, receiving a broad musical education in the process.

A Gibbons verse anthem in rehearsal - various soloists are singing the verse sections, and the entire choir comes in for the "chorus" sections, marked "Full" in the score. The high altar is behind us. Our assistant organists are accompanying this particular piece on a portative organ, behind the choir. The soloists, standing, are Michel Duval (bass 2), Catherine Murray (alto 2), Christine Jay (soprano 2), Ana Lewton-Brain (alto 1), Phil Dutton (tenor 1,behind Anna) and Carole Therrien (soprano 1).

It was difficult to have so many "last things" happen: the last rehearsal with Patrick in the choir room, the last time seeing him robe outside his office, the last Agnus Dei and post-communion motet, the last Sunday morning postlude. But Evensong was even harder, since it feels so much more intimate, and is something that is mainly the choir's responsibility. During the rehearsal for one of the Gibbons pieces, I stepped aside and took a few photographs. And after the final recessional, instead of going down to the undercroft to disrobe and put away our music during the organ postlude, we all stayed in the side pews to listen, and then posed on the chancel steps for a final, formal portrait with Patrick that will hang on the wall of the choir room for posterity, along with photographs of former choirs from other eras.

We were all struggling, I think, to keep up a professional appearance and not make things harder for Patrick, but I'm sure I wasn't the only one to shed a few tears. We celebrated, though, with champagne and treats after Evensong. One thing this choir knows how to do, besides sing, is enjoy a party!

In the choir room before Evensong, looking at a commemorative photobook that we gave to Patrick last weekend, with photographs from his more-than-two decades in Montreal. Carole Therrien and Normand Richard, left, are professionals who have sung with Patrick for more than twenty years. Margery Knewstub, holding the book, sang with him in other churches before coming here - she's been with Patrick for thirty years. Emily Hush, at right, was a faithful member of the choir during her years at McGill and came back to sing with us for these weeks after graduating from Columbia Law School last month. Behind them are Bob King and Bob Gibson, both longtime parishioners and volunteer singers in our choir - Bob King and his wife, Janet, have been singing in the choir since long before Patrick became director.

Some of my own discomfort about this transition comes from the questions Patrick's retirement brings up about my own music-making. I've never wanted to be one of those old ladies in a choir who get whispered about: "Why is she still here? Doesn't she know?" While I don't think I'm at that point yet -- I hope I'm still contributing -- will I know when it's time? When you're a beloved professional like Patrick, and stop well short of being an embarrassment, as he did, everyone feels like it's too soon. There's no perfect answer, but it's certainly better to exit gracefully too early rather than too late. Still, when making music together with other people in this form has been such a major part of one's life -- I've been singing in choirs since I was seven -- to stop feels like cutting off one of your limbs.

Patrick in the organ loft.

At last Saturday's concert, three of us gave short speeches. Here's mine.

---

It's one of the great privileges and joys of my life that I've been able to sing with Patrick for the past decade, and to sit next to the organ in the loft, watching him play. He's a consummate musician - which is clear through all the tributes you will hear and read throughout this weekend.

But tonight, I want to say a few words about Patrick not just as a musician, but as a person.

Someone with his talent and dedication certainly could have taken other paths in music, but I don't think it's an accident that Patrick has dedicated his life to being a musician in the Church.  He rarely speaks about it, but those of us who know him well realize that his whole life is deeply informed by his beliefs, and the choices he has made about how to live and how to be. What we see is a profoundly good person, a cheerful person, a generous person, a kind person, a supportive and respectful person -- a true friend. The faithfulness and commitment of Patrick and Rob has also been an example to all of us.

As a leader, Patrick brings all of these qualities to our choir, and quietly influences how we behave toward each other. He often accepts blame for things that weren't really his fault, he never singles people out, he moves on after the inevitable mistakes and problems, and always looks forward with a positive attitude. He is almost never absent. Unlike many performing groups, this choir is not about Patrick or his ego: he encourages us to work as a team, to continually improve, and to care about each other. His approach is to build an atmosphere of mutual respect, offer a wide variety of the best material to work with, and then expect more of us than we think possible.  As a result, we often surprise ourselves, and do our best to rise to the challenge presented by Patrick and the music. And we are loyal because he is loyal. We keep showing up, week after week, year after year, because we love what we do -- and because we love him.

As a cathedral music director, Patrick looks inward, because presenting this much music, week after week, at a very high level, requires a cohesive and committed group of musicians. But he also looks outward. Liturgical music encompasses a tradition, stretching back to the time of the psalms and even before, of composers and poets who tried to make sense of what it means to be human and mortal. The music is rich and complex, rather than simple, because human lives have never been simple and neither has the world. In order to interpret this music well, you have to look into yourself and outward toward the lives of others, and grow as a person over time.

Patrick has made lasting contributions to the great tradition of liturgical music as an interpreter and performer, a conductor, a teacher, and a composer. But his primary job in this place, week after week, has been to present a broad spectrum of music to a wide and unknown variety of people. It is a serious responsibility. We never know who has walked through these doors, or what is in their hearts, or what they are looking for. Maybe they're here every week for the services, or maybe they've just come in for a few minutes, bringing whatever is going on in their lives. All we can do is to sing and play what has been handed down to us to the very best of our abilities, and trust in the power of music itself to uplift, comfort, heal, and transform, and to express the mystery of being spiritual beings on a human journey. Patrick has done this with grace and integrity for an entire lifetime -- and what a privilege it has been to do it with him.

We will miss his presence here, but I think you will agree with me that the qualities of the teachers and leaders who've inspired us never leave us -- they form important and lasting parts of our own selves that help us as we meet life's challenges -- or try to sing a complicated line of music! I know that Patrick will continue to make music, and that we won't be strangers in this wonderful city that we call home. Our promise to you, Patrick, is to guard your legacy in this place, and to keep on singing all our lives. Thank you from all of us.

Vendredi saint / Good Friday

A day less, for me, about events of the past or personal hopes for the future, than about the immense injustice and suffering of the world, and my place in it.

Here are a few of the pieces we'll be singing during an hour of meditation before the afternoon's solemn Eucharist.

Tomas Luis de Victoria: Tenebrae reponsories, Eram quasi agnus

Cecilia McDowall: The Lord is Good

Jason Noble: Corpus Christi (text by Evelyn Underhill, composed in 2015 for Patrick Wedd and our choir. Jason, who is one of our tenors, successfully defended his doctoral thesis at McGill yesterday)

Gregorio Allegri: Miserere mei

--

Unlike some of the places we have visited, Mexico and Sicily in particular, where there are huge Holy Week processions and traditional observances, Quebec is mostly secular , and what I'll be doing today runs counter to life here. As I went down to the cathedral last night to rehearse for the Maundy Thursday service, I saw a huge poster in the metro with an image of Christ on the cross in chocolate -- very much in keeping with the anti-church sentiments that arose when the province was rejecting Roman Catholicism during the Quiet Revolution of the late 60s and 70s, following a history of abuse and oppressive clerical authority over most aspects of personal life.

And yet, most French Canadians in Quebec still consider themselves Catholic, and many are believers: they just don't go to church, and are quite comfortable with the sacrilegious curses, puns, and anti-religious images that are part of present-day Quebec society. Today, though, we'll see quite a few strangers walking through the doors of the cathedral to sit and reflect, listen to the music, light a candle, offer some prayers. It's a very personal day of atonement, and I think it means different things to almost everyone who has grown up in the Christian church. Even in the years when I was completely out of the Church, I went on Good Friday. For me, it's about all of us, and our responsibility toward one another. The central words that have come down to us from the cross are these: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Persistence

Knitting, while listening to music, has been my relaxation in the evenings after long days of writing and editing. I finished my green Gansey sweater a week ago, and started knitting a Brora shawl (it's a Brooklyn Tweed pattern) from a lovely fingering-weight wool. It's been going pretty well, or so I thought, until I looked closely under the light last night and saw a fairly significant mistake, oh, maybe 18 rows back. (I took the picture above several nights ago-- the mistake was already there but I didn't see it.) Dammit. I put the work away for an hour, read a book, and then, before bed, ripped out the last two nights-worth of knitting, back to the problem row, corrected it, and went to sleep.

Yesterday I had felt like I was nearly done with the manuscript, but after lying in bed for a while this morning, thinking about it, I've realized I need to make some additional changes, and they may take quite a while. I was ok with that, in fact, anxious to come up to the studio and get going.

This wasn't always the case. I've changed from a more slap-dash person to the way I am now, not in a flurry of flying yarn, but over time. Maybe it's often that way in people who have a certain innate facility: people who can "get by" without a lot of studying, or practicing, or editing, or wiping out the paint from the day before, and still end up with a pretty good result. But at some point, you either stay that way, or you realize you have to ramp it up, with a combination of patience, determination, self-observation and self-discipline.

Last night I thought about my father, who is fond of saying "a thing worth doing at all is worth doing well," my online friend Frances who just frogged thirty rows of a complicated cabled sweater because of a mistake; the top musicians who practice the same passage over and over for days and weeks; the authors I most admire who simply don't stop writing until they are sure they have done the best they possibly can. I don't think what I am talking about here is perfectionism, exactly, because there is no such thing as "perfect" in the arts, and perfection alone is not necessarily what we're after. It's not really obsessive behavior, either -- in the sense of compulsive repetition -- though I'm sure some people see it that way. I admire persistence: people who want to do their best, and don't lie to themselves about what is "good enough" when they know that with more effort, they can do better. You do it more for yourself than for anyone else. It's a quiet, inner feeling, not some sort of ego-centered, outward push -- because after a while you realize that that sort of effort doesn't get you to the same place.

The "Terra" shawl. This has a mistake in the garter rows, too, but I discovered it so late that I decided to forget about it.

I think I learned this lesson of going further in two ways: from having a business, and taking piano lessons as an adult. Somewhere along the line, I accepted as truth the criticism I had defended against: that I wasn't taking my design work as far as it needed to go. It was good enough, but it could be better. Instead of fighting and resisting, I started to just buckle down and listen to the inner voice that said, "It's not quite done," and not stop until I had found a solution or an answer to whatever wasn't fully resolved. Satisfying the client was easier than satisfying myself, and I had to do the latter.

And, in my late thirties, I listened soberly to my wise, older piano teacher who said one day, "When you first came to me, I thought you just wanted to play fast and learn a lot of music, but you didn't want to put in the work to really get all the notes."  I couldn't argue; she was absolutely right, and it had always been the way I had approached music. I liked to practice, because it was fun and relaxing, but I had always worked just enough to be able to fix the difficulties noted in the previous lesson and make a little more progress; when I was young, that was enough, it was pretty easy for me. But now, twenty years later, why was I there? My teacher waited until she thought I'd be receptive to hearing what she had to say, and then she dropped that one sentence in my lap, like a little subversive bomb. She didn't need to say any more. Was it worth it to me to work harder? It turned out that it was. I was never going to become a really excellent pianist, with fantastic technique -- I was too old, and didn't have the time or desire to devote myself to such a goal anyway -- but I became a better musician. I improved a lot, taking the time to figure out exactly what was on the page and how to play it.  With better technique and more accuracy, we could turn to the questions of interpretation that I found more interesting; in other words, it was possible to go both wider and deeper. My teacher held me to a higher standard than before, helping me with greater engagement and interest, and I found much greater satisfaction in my practice and my playing -- but her lesson reverberated far beyond music in my life.

That question, "what am I doing here?" is important. I'm never going to be a master artist-knitter like my friends Alison or Rachel or Judith, capable of creating incredible, intricate lace shawls -- and it's only recently that I got more careful about correcting mistakes and tried to improve my skills by choosing harder patterns. But I have no aspirations or illusions about myself as a knitter, whereas art and writing are the areas to which I'm really dedicated.

I'm the first one to say that everybody has talent, regardless of what we were told as children, and to encourage people who once drew or dreamed of playing an instrument to begin again. Any art form is primarily about creativity, and satisfaction in the doing/making -- if it isn't fun and joyful, then why do it? The thing is, that once you get over the initial hurdles that kept you from starting, and you gain some facility, then you have to decide how serious you're going to be. For an amateur, it may simply be about pleasure and satisfaction in the doing, and knowing you are making progress. As a professional, I've had to ask myself that question, at different levels, all my life, and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. I don't think I'm going to "retire" as an artist or writer.

People tend to think art is all about talent, but frankly, talent only goes so far. It's like a seed that has been planted; all it represents is potential. Some artists who have early success treat it as a destination, and for the rest of their lives they coast; some become bored. Others, equally talented, never find the same level of success, but they work at their art with dedication and joy all their lives. The best musicians I know, people in their forties and fifties and beyond, still practice for as long as it takes for them to perform confidently, at their peak, and they constantly challenge themselves with new repertoire that stretches their abilities and their understanding. Talent certainly plays a part, but without about a huge amount of hard work, you're balanced on a pinhead -- maybe there's a stretch of days when you dance brilliantly and everybody's dazzled, but sooner or later you're going to fall off. What's required is some sort of crazy combination of stubbornness and passion for the art form itself, driven by an inner search rather than "success" or praise from the outside, that propel you through the painful days of showing up and doing the work, the days when you struggle with doubt, fears and loneliness, the days when you wish you were a "normal" kind of person -- until the work starts to shine with an inner light that you aren't even sure you put there yourself. And when it's finished, you get up and start all over again.

A Rainy Sunday, Inside and Out

Sunday... was soggy. The rain had begun in mid-morning, battering the cathedral roof so that we could barely hear the Sanctus bells. In the late afternoon, as we were singing Evensong, a drip began from the highest point above the chancel, the water drops falling and accumulating into a spreading brown stain on the marble floor just beside the choir to the left of the altar. We continued to sing, casting nervous glances upward, fervently hoping the plaster ceiling wouldn't fall on our heads.

Like so many old buildings, the cathedral has roof problems, and during recent years we've had to repair many leaks and damage to plaster walls and ceilings. In the next few years, the entire spire will have to be replaced. It's a huge headache and massive expense, shared partly by the province which gives grants for preserving our architectural patrimonie. When I used to visit London churches, long before my own days as a cathedral singer and parishioner, I often wondered about the small congregations charged with the burden of caring for those magnificent but difficult-to-maintain buildings. Now -- with a newer building, only 150 years old, but a more punishing climate -- I see and feel the problem firsthand, and each new leak sets off a collective sigh among us.

Beyond the porous stones of the cathedral, thousands of cyclists were getting soaked during the annual Tour de l'Isle, and many streets and bus lines were closed. I took the metro after the service and walked home from the nearest station, without a coat or umbrella, drenched but happy, forgetting about leaks and troubles; it was a warm rain, and the scent of lilacs hung in the heavy air.

I left the sidewalk and turned into one of the ruelles, the narrow unpaved alleys in the centers of the blocks between the three-story apartment houses, lined with painted or vine-covered fences offering an occasional glimpse of a backyard garden, criss-crossed with old-fashioned clotheslines on pulleys, overhung with low tree branches weighed down with water. It was dark and secluded in the alley -- there were occasional sounds of voices, the clink of dishes as dinner was prepared in an upstairs apartment, someone practicing scales on a piano -- but these were all interior sounds, turned inward; there were no faces at windows, no dogs barking behind the fences, no couples on the high balconies. Suddenly I felt free like a child, alone with the cats and sparrows, hidden by summer's first lush growth, loving the mud beneath my feet and the exhilaration of being soaked to the skin. My toes squished in my water-logged sandals and I marveled at an improbable flotilla of bubbles the size of ping-pong balls dancing on the puddles.

During the hardest rain, we had been singing a Renaissance verse anthem set to the Song of Solomon, and now, as I walked slowly home, the music played and replayed in my head:

The time of the singing of birds has come

and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land --

Come away, my love,

Come away!

Holy Week Begins

Woven palm crucifixes and other objects made by indigenous people in Mexico City, Domingo de Ramos, 2015.

Palm Sunday is past; now we've begun Holy Week. I'm singing almost every day, and this responsibility, combined with the solemnity of the story that we'll hear repeated throughout the week, and its sad echoes in present-day news, have made me feel that it is not "ordinary time." Holy Week never is, but the events in Ankara, Istanbul, Brussels, and so many other places bring home the sobering fact that we humans have not learned very much in 2000 years, and are not a great deal closer to the peace and equality that was envisioned by Jesus or any of the prophets who preceded or followed him. The Powers still wield their terrible force; people who speak the truth are too often silenced by oppression, imprisonment, and death; the rich receive a different kind of justice from the poor; racism, sexism, ageism, homophobia and all other types of discrimination continue to persist; and far too many people live without proper shelter, clean water, sufficient food and, more than anything, hope for their own future.

At the same time, I'm trying to think about the advances we have made, about the hard-won but tangible freedoms now enjoyed by women, gay people, people of color: things are better for many of us than they were fifty years ago, even though there's a long way to go. The world is fitfully moving toward an end to patriarchy, and people of color will one day share power in the places where white people have exclusively dominated -- which is why we see such rage in politicians like Trump and his fearful white male counterparts in the population. Equality won't happen in my lifetime, but it will eventually come.

On Sunday, our parish put on a Passion Play in the place of the Gospel reading and sermon. Jesus was played by a young woman of androgenous appearance; she's intelligent, sensitive, and a good writer who I suspect may someday become a priest. Her performance, nearly wordless, was extraordinary. And at the end, as she mimed being dead, a wooden cross behind her, a woman in a shawl came up the aisle singing a lament, just keening, without words, in a strong voice that seemed to perhaps Greek - the choreographer/ director told me she had heard her at a funeral last year and approached her to be Mary Magdalene in our play. I was moved by her voice: so unexpected, and so universal and timeless in its sorrow.

Last night, in a dark church, we sang Compline. It began with the Beatitudes, part of Jesus' Sermon on the Mount:

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn: for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek: for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness: for they will be filled.

Blessed are the merciful: for they will be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart: for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers: for they will be called children of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

It's odd. I don't believe a lot of what is in the Bible, and I certainly don't take it literally. I deplore a lot of what the Church has become and what it has condoned throughout history, while recognizing its capacity to be a force for good. But the core message of Jesus' teachings, contained in the Gospels, is simple, and I've tried in my life to listen to it, and to follow it. Holy Week is a time when I come face-to-face with my own shortcomings: my own denials, my own ways of deserting the truth and running away from Loving my Neighbor, with a capital L. The blueprint is all right there in the Beatitudes: humility, compassion for those who mourn, simplicity, working for justice, showing mercy, trying to become more pure of heart, working toward peace, and having courage to do the work of seeking justice and righteousness. There is nothing here about violence as a means to an end, nothing about retribution, nothing about superiority or "winning." How totally unsatisfying! And yet, it's only by loving one another in spite of all our differences that a just and peaceful world will ever exist.

I'm glad that my life includes Lent as a time of reflection, and Holy Week as a time to really go deeply into these thoughts. It's often uncomfortable for me, but when we emerge on the other side -- hopefully into spring as a symbol of new life -- I usually feel that I've learned something. And it helps to sing my way there, too.

In-between

 

 

 

On Sunday afternoons, I leave the cathedral around12:30, have something simple to eat -- a sandwich, a bowl of soup - and then walk through the underground city or along the streets for two hours, before rehearsal for Evensong begins. The walking is exercise for my shoulders and legs, to shake off the stiffness from holding a music folder while standing in concentration, but also for my eyes and head: long views instead of arm's-length, bright light, the busyness and movement and indifference of the city forming both a respite from, and a heightened awareness of our practice: a detailed focus on six or seven centuries of liturgical music, performed to the best of our ability. The city swirls around me, rushed, fragmentary, neon, bought, sold -- and I am in it, part of it, and also there, in that other place, where out of the gathered silence emerges the first note, an enormity.

Happy Christmas

Hans Memling, Virgin and Child Enthroned (detail) c.1480 - 1489 Oil on oak  Staatliche Museum, Berlin, Germany

It's been a year of thinking about Mary for me. This beautiful painting by Hans Memling reminds me of Berlin, where I was fortunate to see it; the swans in the background remind me of Iceland; and the book beside Mary reminds me of  how often books appear in paintings and poems about the Annunciation: even though the baby has appeared here, the book is still there, along with a lily (not shown in this detail), another symbol of Mary. Such a literate, refined, white baby and mother! At least most of us no longer harbor those illusions.

I'm finding it difficult to be truly happy this Christmas: there's too much pain in the world and in my own heart for me to forget all of that and just concentrate on my own many blessings, or on the pleasures of the moment. And actually, I'm glad that I can't; I think it's more realistic to try to hold both the darkness and light together as we walk, stumble, write, sing, paint, and talk our way forward.

The other night, before singing, my choir director and I shared a few moments together. He is a consummate musician, well-known in Canada as an organist and composer as well as a choir director, and it's been one of the great privileges of the last decade to be able to sing with him, watch him work in the organ loft, hear his playing, and to be friends. He's only a couple of years older than I am, and has been a staunch and interested supporter of my own artwork and writing. We spoke about the difficulty of the world we're living in, and how important we both feel it is to continue to work in the arts, to dedicate our lives to being creative and to doing the best work we can, at the highest level we can. We acknowledged how, as church musicians, we can never know who will have walked through the door, why they are there, or how the music may be able to touch them - but that we know that it often does. We talked about how difficult a climate it is, not only for liturgical music and classical music, but for all the arts right now, but that this makes it doubly important to persevere and just be strong and steady about what we do, in all our fields. And we spoke about how important it is, in such a climate, for younger people to see and know that there are people who happily and willingly devote their time and best efforts to the arts, in spite of the difficulties, whether or not they ever achieve great "success" in the eyes of the world - because that really is neither the point or the motivation that can sustain a whole life in music, or writing, or the visual arts.

I was grateful for that communion, and also for a moment with one of the young singers, at the very beginning of what I think will be a fine career in music, who told me how much it mattered to her to know people like my husband and me who have spent our lives in this work and are still excited about it, working hard, and pursuing new projects. And I, in my turn, look at a painting like the one at the top of this post, and see a lineage unfold: the dear friends with whom I saw it, my own mentors, and all the artists who came before me and kept working through their own dark periods of history and their own turbulent lives. What, after all, is this season about, but love -- love of one another, love of one's true work, and love of all that is noble, true, and beautiful? That's the light that shines through the centuries, always trying to make us realize we, we are the lamps.

 

Taking Stock

The activity that's defined my life this fall has started to slow down. For the past few days, I've felt like one of the seals we saw in Iceland, poking my head above water and looking around to see where I am. Over the weekend I had time to clean my area of our studio and file leftover material from these projects. It feels good. But it's also never been easy for me to deal with a sudden lull in activity (hence the cleaning, no doubt) and I see it as a challenge this time. I deliberately haven't made clear plans for what comes next, in order to leave some time and space.

One of the things I want to do is to get back to some serious writing, but where that might go is still quite unclear, and I have a huge volume of artistic inspiration in the Icelandic landscape that is waiting to be explored. I know I need some time now to just be, to refill the energy coffers. I also know that it's very easy for time to become filled up again, especially during the holidays, especially when the person in question is me, and especially when I feel guilty for neglecting other people or tasks. But guilt is an emotion I've worked on understanding better in recent years, and it holds less power over me than it used to.

It's often good for me at these times to turn to meditative handwork (and much more fun than cleaning!) Last week I knitted a warm hat from two strands of wool: a thick natural grey alpaca and a thin creamy white merino - the whole purpose being a hat to go with a fur pompom that a friend bought for me at a Native powwow in the fall. The quilt I started last winter is ready to be backed and quilted, and there's a scarf to hem. Today I cut up some squares of origami paper to fold into Christmas ornaments. The appeal of these projects is that there's no deadline, and while my hands are busy with repetitive motions, the work proceeds little by little, creating a meditative space where clarity about larger questions sometimes occurs, unannounced and unexpected.

The written word, though, always functions for me both as a comfort, and a more conscious means for understanding myself. Reading is one side of the coin, the other is my own writing -- it's how I take stock, how I figure things out, and also, often, how I let go and move on. From the pages of private journals, letters to close friends, or writing for this blog, ideas form, and the swirl of inchoate emotions transform into understanding, and finally into plans. When I'm knocking myself out to meet deadlines, I miss writing that way, and I miss the side of myself that becomes too busy or too distracted to enter that space. It's OK for a while, but eventually the lack of self-care takes a toll.

In the past weeks I've seen a number of articles questioning the superficiality of social media, the emptiness of homes without books or art, the falsely-predicted death of the printed book, and the growing appeal among younger people of more tactile, less digital forms of art: vinyl records, shooting with film, learning how to knit and sew. I get it. For those of us who grew up in a world where all of that was commonplace, some of the advantages of new media feel obvious and compelling: for example, I'd never want to go back to designing on a light table with a parallel rule, waxers and phototype, x-acto knives, rubylith and stat cameras. I'm glad we gave away our collection of vinyl, and even though our house included not one but two darkrooms for many many years, we both love our digital cameras. But I agree that there's a lot that seems to have been lost, as we've hurtled headlong down the digital road: too far and way too fast, I sometimes feel.

We don't know yet if we're in the middle of a pendulum swing, with a "correction" underway, or if the road to "progress" -- in large part a skillful manipulation of human desires and anxieties spurred by corporate interests -- will simply continue as it has. I'm often grateful that I've lived in both worlds and have the ability to choose whether to pick a printed book off my shelf or click on a digital title; I'm glad I learned to play instruments and draw and make my own clothes and be curious enough about the natural world to go poking around in it, because there was nothing much else to do when I was growing up. My mother used to tell me to get my nose out of my book and go outdoors, but somehow the books, as fascinating as they were, never felt like they had an organic attachment to my brain and body the way today's phones seem to. I might have continued to think about the world in those books, but I was also able to set them down and concentrate on something else, for hours, without being interrupted or distracted. Working that way feels good to me; it also feels good to use my hands and brain together. Being pulled in twenty directions at the same time does not, and neither does spending hours and hours, day after day, in front of this screen.

I loved the tactile, physical, intellectual, and emotional process of creating a series of relief prints over the past six months. Last night, singing in a performance of the Messiah for a rapt audience in the packed cathedral, I was aware of how physical the act of singing is, and how fully it involves the whole organism: body, brain, and spirit. As a species, we have not evolved at the same pace as our technologies, but we've almost stopped thinking about form follows function when it comes to our own bodies and minds: what is this human-shaped thing actually designed to do? When it's all working together, as it so miraculously does most of the time, what does that look and feel like? When we feel incomplete, empty, hungry, exhausted --  how can we regain or achieve some balance? Personally, what I know is that I want to go slower and deeper, into this mid-winter time that may look bleak, but feels full of possibilities.

All Saints', All Souls'

I don't know if I can actually write a post every day in November -- I've got a bunch of deadlines, singing, dental work, and some travel ahead -- but since I usually put something up on Instagram, I figured I could at least echo those posts here.

Halloween is a big deal in Montreal; the image above is my small contribution.

Yesterday, All Saints' Day, is a major feast day for Anglicans and Catholics and was a long one for our choir. In the morning there were two baptisms, a bunch of hymns special to that day, with innumerable verses and descants, such as Ralph Vaughn Williams's famous "For All the Saints," and a relatively new mass setting by Malcolm Archer, flanked by two Renaissance motets for the introit and at communion. In the afternoon, instead of Evensong, we sang the Faure Requiem in the context of a mass, with the names of the departed read aloud. We had a chorus of twenty, a small group of strings, the organ, and two great soloists, and it was a huge pleasure to perform for the congregation and the listening audience on Radio Ville-Marie. I've sung this work a number of times but this was the best performance I remember. It's fun (and difficult) to be a soprano in the angelic chorus, required to float smooth, high, pianissimo melodies in perfect unison. There's one moment when, after a lot of dramatic and intense choral singing, the sopranos enter on a single quiet note that is sustained for several measures, singing "Lux eterna:" I think that transformative moment must sum up Faure's concept of death and resurrection, and be part of the reason why this music is so beloved.

Songs for the End of Summer

Northeastern University crew team members practicing on the Charles River.

Well, I seem to be neglecting my blog lately, and a lot of it is due to the fact that in August, we northern people tend to get a little desperate about the end of summer. Just as happens around the holidays, there's a flurry of last-minute warm weather activity and invitations from friends who've been meaning to get together for months. Picnics that were talked about in June finally materialize on the spur of the moment, hikes and swims and trips out of the city suddenly loom in importance, and people who've wanted to visit the city in good weather turn up on your doorstep. All of that has been happening, and I just haven't been "here" very much.

Jon Appleton and Yoshiko Kline discuss one of the pieces in Jon's "Suite des Hommages"

I also flew to Boston for a few days, working in the WGBH recording studios with composer Jon Appleton, pianist Yoshiko Kline, and audio engineer Frank Cunningham, to produce a new CD of Jon's piano music that will come out this fall.

Yoshiko practicing.

One of the days I was there was Hiroshima Day, and I thought how life-affirming it was to spend that day remembering, but also making music with a Japanese-American pianist. We didn't speak of it, but the thought was in my heart. And the performances were absolutely fantastic: I'm very excited about the recording, and anxious to share it with some of you who've become fans of Jon's music.

During breaks from the studio, I was able to take a few walks along the Charles River, watching the crew teams practice, and taking a look at community gardens, Boston-Style. There were a lot of bunnies living a gourmet life in the gardens, and Jon, who speaks many languages, enjoyed talking to some of the Russian gardeners who had plots in the area.

I send apologies to my Boston friends: there was no time to come and see you on this trip, but I really hope to rectify that sometime soon -- probably not before the end of summer though!