Singularly Breathing Together [Again]

This is a repost of the relevant section from my July 20, 2008 post, about a Conspirare experience:

[...]
What I am posting about today is one of my favorite groups of people, namely, Conspirare, the professional choral group with which I sing and with which I am traveling to Copenhagen for the 8th World Symposium on Choral Music this week.

In order to prepare for the Symposium concerts, the 30+ of us gathered in Austin this weekend to touch up the memorized version of the program we sang in January in Austin and San Antonio.

[Let me say this off the bat in case any of my students are reading this. Conspirare usually performs its concerts from scores, that is to say, un-memorized. While it has been a challenge for some of us who are unused to memorizing concert music, I think we all agree that it makes for far more immediate and fulfilling music-making once the task is achieved.]

I want to share with you a particularly unexpected and deeply moving moment from this afternoon's rehearsal. One of the songs we're performing is "Soneto de la Noche," the second piece in a triptych by Morten Lauridsen to a text by Pablo Neruda.

As a group, we have had experience with Neruda before. One of the commissions on the soon-to-be-released Conspirare CD of Tarik O'Regan's music is "Tal vez tenemos tiempo." (Shameless plug. Look for it in September. The title is Threshold of Night.)

I digress. We had all read the text of the piece, and some, who like me cannot memorize foreign texts without translating them (another hint to my students), were quite familiar with it. Be that as it may, most of us had a few spots tripping us up as we worked towards complete memorization.

It is a beautifully touching poem. I will include it here and hope it gets to stay (not for nothing have I learned how to cite sources in Grad School 2: The Return):

Cuando yo muero quiero tus manos en mis ojos:

quiero la luz y el trigo de tus manos amadas

pasar una vez más sobre me frescura:

sentir la suavidad que cambió mi destino.

Quiero que vivas mientras yo, dormido, te espero,

quiero que tus oídos sigan oyendo el viento,

que huelas el aroma del mar que amamos juntos

y que sigas pisando la arena que pisamos.

Quiero quo lo que amo siga vivo

y a ti te amé y cante sobre todas las cosas,

por eso sigue tú floreciendo, florida,

para que alcanses todo lo que mi amor te ordena,

para que se pasee mi sombra por tu pelo,

para que así conozcan la razón de mi canto.

When I die, I want your hands upon my eyes:

I want the light and the wheat of your beloved hands

to pass their freshness over me one more time:

I want to feel the gentleness that changed my destiny.

I want you to live while I wait for you, asleep,

I want your ears to still hear the wind,

I want you to smell the scent of the sea we both loved

and to continue walking on the sand we walked on.

I want all that I love to keep on living,

and you whom I loved and sang above all things

to keep flowering into full bloom,

so that you can touch all that my love provides you,

so that my shadow may pass over your hair,

so that all may know the reason for my song.

 - Pablo Neruda, "Soneto LXXXIX" from Cien Sonetos de Amor (trans. Nicholas Lauridsen),in Morten Lauridsen, "Soneto de la Noche," Nocturnes. New York: Songs of Peer, Ltd./PeerMusic Classical, 2005.

This particular text caused more than one person to choke up or actually tear up at one point or another in the rehearsals. It is undeniably a touching text. But today was different.

Today locked it in for pretty much everyone. Craig (Hella Johnson), in his infinite wisdom, had us listen to the Spanish being spoken phrase by phrase, repeat the Spanish back, and listen to the same text spoken in the English translation. A brilliant pedagogical moment that is probably not unique to us, but here's the masterstroke: We then sang it, while one of our beloveds, David F. spoke the text over our singing.

No one was prepared for what came next. Maybe all of our defenses were broken down by 3 days of all day and into the night rehearsing. Maybe it was the combination of a powerful text, set powerfully by a master composer. Maybe it was the addition of that last layer of the same powerful text we were singing being rendered pitch perfectly by a reader we all love in a language we comprehend on a heart level, versus the head level of an acquired tongue. Maybe Mercury was in retrograde.

But almost to a one, the room erupted, spontaneously, in sniffles, sobs, hitched breaths. Tears streamed down faces-- even faces one never expected to see bathed in tears. It was not everyone at once, but nearly everyone by the end of the song. I  know some were shocked by their response. I know that I was.

In that moment we were all touched by something rare. Something ineffable. There is no way to know what each person experienced in that singular moment; although I believe its outward manifestation was the kind of deep intimacy one can experience in collaborative music. I do not believe that any of us left that room unchanged. I also believe that we will never sing that song the same way again-- or hear it sung the same way, by ourselves or by another choir in another lifetime.

The name Conspirare was chosen for our group because it means "to breathe together." It is the most basic premise of any choral ensemble. In a larger sense, it is a fine premise for any community of people, when you stop to think about it. (Surely it is no mistake that the verb "conspire" is related?)

Today, Conspirare did more than fulfill our mission of breathing together. We, with the help of Messrs. Neruda  and Lauridsen (and Johnson and Farwig), were able to be together, in a way that was both deeply personal and deeply communal.

Thank you, Gentlemen.

Requiem: A Symphony of Love

Harold Lynn McManus, Jr. June 30, 1949 - September 14, 2016
Photo from his 1995 birthday party Chez Yankee Hobbit

My sweet, funny, intrepid, and much beloved friend Harold McManus died on September 14 of this year at the age of 67. He was diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson’s disease just over twenty years ago. He thought it would be the end of all the things he held dear. Instead, after retiring from a decades-long teaching career, moving back home to Macon, GA to live with his dad, and getting regulated on his meds, he resumed the running, organ playing, and traveling that he enjoyed so much in Houston.

I was unaware that his disease and its complications had progressed so far when I felt the urge to check in with him. His wonderful sister Marcia messaged me and gave me the sad news that he would not live much longer. I was so happy to be able to have one last conversation with him before he died. I was humbled and honored when Marcia asked me to speak about his Houston days at his Rosary service on September 23.

So many of his friends from all of the sectors of his life sent condolences via Facebook and email. For that reason, and so that his family can have it in written form, I decided to post my remarks here. If you were a friend, student, or acquaintance who somehow missed his obituary, the family designated the Organ Fund at St. Joseph Catholic Church for memorial donations.

************************

Mass Bulletin, September 24, 2016

Harold McManus was a friend to everyone who knew him in Houston, whether they served with him in worship at First Presbyterian Church (FPC), where I met him, whether they were taught by him at HSPVA, or whether they met him as a runner, biker, or neighbor. He was truly the epitome of a Southern gentleman. He was raised in a home where graciousness clearly reigned and he carried that with him. He loved as deeply as he was loved. I don’t know a single one of his friends who was not secure in the knowledge that Harold loved them, cared for them, and sought the best for them.

A few FPC friends wanted to share their thoughts:

LYNNE LANCASTER QUINN, FPC member, missionary and Preacher's Kid of longtime pastor Jack Lancaster:

There are so many wonderful times and fabulous experiences with my lifelong friend, Harold McManus. Here is just one reminder of how Harold touched many lives.

 I was born into a preacher’s home where Sunday lunch was quite the ordeal. My mother was not known for her cooking but that was no matter. We ate on china and used the best silver for Sunday lunch. I had moved in after a divorce so I wasn’t the most favored child. My two young sons moved in with me. As you can imagine, my parents were devastated, not only for my children but goodness, the talk in the community! Then there were my three sisters. As I was quietly tending to eating, my Dad said to the family, “I just wish Lynne could meet someone who was a gentleman, a scholar, a kind soul who knows what it is to be a Christian.” All three sisters and Mother chimed in with their opinions. Finally since no one was coming up with any good ideas, my Dad got the floor and said, “I’m talking about Harold McManus. He is such a fine man.” Immediately without hesitation, the oldest sister said, “Harold would never be interested in Lynne. She can’t sing and knows nothing about music. It’s just too late for her to be re-trained in college.” I’m sitting at the table and no one noticed me happening to be listening. So I decided to find out about Harold McManus.

 The next Sunday, I asked an usher who Harold McManus was and he pointed me to the front of the church. Harold came down from the organ; I introduced myself as a poor inner-city school teacher with two children of my own. I asked him if he could play the guitar and sing to my class of 4 year olds at Lockhart Elementary. He said without reservation, “well how about if I brought the Bell Choir?” Are you kidding? I truly thought he was joking. The date was planned and I became famous at Lockhart Elementary. Harold came multiple times to Poe Elementary, Horn Elementary, and Longfellow Elementary. He not only blessed me but hundreds of elementary students. I finally told him the story of what was said at the Sunday table. He laughed and said, “Oh no, the one that got away.” 

How could I ever thank Harold enough? He came to my parents’ home for choir parties and was the life of each party. He also was a fabulous cook and the food he brought was amazing. He continued to play the organ, run marathons, teach Algebra; and I continued to be blessed by just being in the presence of Harold McManus. I will always miss Harold. I will miss his letters after Christmas. I will miss his friendship and his talent. No one has ever played the organ like Harold. Say hi to my Dad in heaven, Harold. He really wanted you to marry me.

CARLA BURNS, FPC Chancel Choir, referring to our often raucously fun post-Christmas Eve parties:

I’ll never forget Harold’s accompanying us “off hours” as we sang Christmas carols while we enjoyed Christmas “cheer.”

BARBARA BUCKNER, FPC Chancel Choir member and substitute director, Houston musician:

I have never known anyone more authentic than Harold in his professional as well as personal life. He so disciplined and so joyous...and so loveable. 

I respected his sensitivity to the words of the hymns and the whole of music. He was, from all I ever saw and heard, so comfortable with himself that it was a privilege to be with him. 

I particularly remember spending a week with him at Montreat [the Presbyterian retreat center] when the then new hymnal came out. He would get up at some ungodly hour in the a.m. and run about 1,000 miles and come back for clean-up and breakfast. BUT after lunch was a seriously dedicated nap time and he’d grin and say, “JUST SUMMARIZE THIS NEXT EVENT FOR ME.” And I laughed so hard – EVERY day – and we spent a lot of minutes later joking about our “summaries.” I ALWAYS felt lucky to have Harold at the piano and the organ when I’d fill in for Ara. I knew he would save me from being totally embarrassed. 

And that’s Harold: disciplined, kind, thoughtful, enormously professional but with sensitivity and faithfulness to what he considered important. I hope he knew how much I valued him...and I’m sitting here grinning just thinking about how hard he tried to help me understand INTERGRAL NUMBERS. HE didn't fail but I never really “got it.” All in all, he was FUN...and most important of all, he was REAL and WELL WORTH LOVING! The fact that he was always REAL to me and kind to me meant so much to me. I am still flattered by the thought that he might have considered me as a friend. 

I think all of us leave some of ourselves behind...and Harold left us HIMSELF...available, real, and inspiring.  I don’t know of anyone I respected and admired and affectionately appreciated more than Harold. What a gift he was to our world.

ARA CARAPETYAN, FPC director of Music Ministries:

I have rejoiced in our communications in recent years; he has been consistently the most joyful of all the folk that I still communicate with. Always he rejoiced in his “good” state and the privilege of his ability to still serve the Church in its worship of our God. 

I will never forget his practice routines at FPC-H. He most often arrived in the side sanctuary door late at night, turned off security, and went to the organ console to practice. His hymn-playing was unquestionably the best I, in all my 60+ years of church music leadership, have ever experienced. 

I never knew until after Harold retired what a huge strength his simultaneous singing of the hymns gave to Houston First’s congregational hymn singing. That is a gift Harold consistently gave our congregation that I believe could not help but bring a smile to God’s face. A subtle point? Yes. But a palpable gift to us all; also yes! 

I’ve long missed Harold McManus. I will always treasure the unique and wondrous gifts of Spirit he brought us all when we worked together. I thank God hugely for His gift of Harold’s life to every one of us.

As for me, I came to Houston in 1990 as a young kid starting a Master’s program. FPC Chancel Choir was my side gig and Harold was one of the first people I met. His combination of gentleness and crazy fun-ness attracted me and we soon became best friends. He was game for just about anything. He was an integral part of our post-church Lunch Bunch— a group that quickly expanded into post-rehearsal Bunch, Birthday dinner and party Bunch and just hang Bunch.

He had the most infectious laugh—instantly recognizable—and completely unselfconscious. We rejoiced in hearing it and making it happen as often as possible. The best way was with puns and silly jokes—and if we could work math into them—all the better. He would get tickled by the most random things. Some friends of ours, the Borsts, had a cat named Marshmallow. There was somehow a kerfuffle about the pronunciation of this cat’s name and Marilyn was perplexed at why it was marshMEHlow, when it was spelled marsMÆlow. That would always set off howls of laughter.

I know his HSPVA colleagues have/had many stories to share about his time there, but I can also tell you how much he adored his teaching and how he was adored as a teacher. I’ve ended up with a few generations of his students as my college voice students. When I hear they are PVA alums, my first question was always, “Did you have Mr. McManus?” and the smile that suffused their faces always told the tale. Several of them expressed their sadness at his death.

I never saw him teach, but I had the pleasure of helping to assemble the end of year Strawberry cakes—  a labor of love that remains unsurpassed by any of my teacher friends. I also loved hearing about the Christmas quiz—and his glee at preparing the goodie bags and watching his students discover that he wasn’t only teaching math, but reading comprehension and direction following. [The quiz began with an admonishment to read through the entire quiz before answering any questions. There followed about a zillion hard math problems. The last one? Answer five questions and come get a present from the goodie bag. I may do that this semester in his honor!]

I could go on forever, but we’re on a deadline here, so I’ll close with this. Yesterday was my birthday [9/22]. I say that not as a shameless plug, but because Harold was the person who introduced me to the concept of the extended celebration. He’d say, “You have to celebrate for at LEAST a week!” Well, my habit is to play Earth Wind & Fire, because the first line of their song, “September,” is “Do you remember the 21^st night of September?” Yesterday, I kept getting distracted while trying to find it on Spotify and one song kept getting played. It’s called “I Write a Song for You.” A portion of the lyrics: 

Love is a symphony, hearts in one melody

‘Cause I write a song for you.

Sounds never dissipate, they only recreate in another place

There in your silent night, joy of a song’s delight,

I write a song for you, you write a song for me, we write a song for love.

              -Phillip Bailey, Al McKay, Steve Beckmeier

Our dear, sweet Harold wrote a song of love with his life. He wrote a symphony of love with his life. He will never dissipate—he’s only recreated—WHOLE and HEALTHY—in another place, with the God he loved, served, and joyfully worshiped. He IS a song of love.

September 23, 2016

St. Joseph Catholic Church

Macon, Georgia

A Somanautic Journey

My friend Nicole Lamartine is an amazing woman. Really, amazing doesn’t really cover it. We met when she sang for a time in Conspirare. We got to know each other better when we roomed together on one of the away gigs. These days, we keep up on Facebook. She is a phenomenal choral conductor in addition to being a fine singer, and she is a choral mover and shaker in the West/Northwest area of the country. As if that weren’t enough, she’s also a champion weightlifter with the moniker “NiLa-Tiny Hulk.” Like I said, amazing.

While keeping up with her on Facebook, I came across a series of posts chronicling a recent experience of hers while on sabbatical this semester. Her mother posted, “Although much of her work during this time has involved adjudicating different choirs around the West, sharing her expertise with other conductors, and participating in her professional choral groups, this past week she was in San Francisco to participate in a long-awaited event. She joined one of Gil Hadley’s classes on dissection of forms (human cadavers).”

As a former would-be physician, I have always been fascinated by the human form. As a singer and voice professor, I am completely interested in the way our body supports and facilitates music-making. I asked her if I could share her reflections and if she would tell me a little bit about how she came to this experience. She writes:

 This journey was like nothing else I have experienced in my life and I am truly seeing people for the first time. And in the seeing I am loving. It is so deep... Yes, please share. I feel like I have so much more to say, but lack the words to express it. I have always been fascinated with anatomy and this human form that we call our instrument as singers and conductors. About 15 years ago, I took two week-long intensive courses on Laban Movement Theory and Bartenieff Fundamentals. This changed my life. I realized that in movement, whether singing or conducting or dancing or simply being, we communicate, both intentionally and unintentionally. We have this power at all times. I wanted to know more and see inside this beautiful and profound instrument, but was frustrated that I had to be a med student to truly explore our fundamental physical humanness. My husband found Gil Hedley on the web, and his dissection videos... I watched some and wanted to be a Somanautic myself...exploring inner space and all of its beauty. That’s how I came to it!

The following words are all Nicole’s and I thank her for sharing them with me and, by extension, with you. I hope you find them as useful and beautiful as I did.

My Somanautic Adventure begins...

Day 1: Integral Anatomy Dissection Lab with Gil Hedley

When I have described my intentions for Somanautic Adventure many have replied with a simple “why?” The reason: To explore the inner being (both physical and spiritual) and learn from a reflection of myself.

Gil set a beautiful tone for the day with a palpable sense of gratitude and respect for the forms. Our beauty as human beings is reflected back to us by the “intelligence of nature.” Our greatest teachers would be the forms (bodies) in/on which we would explore.

The form is simply a representation of a human being. It is no longer animated.

All five forms for the class (2 women and 3 men) were arranged in a circle with heads together and covered in a sheet. After the unveiling, we simply walked and observed, noting this particular embalming style. All of the bodies looked similar after the 5 gallons of fluid had been pumped through the system: bloated with swollen faces, obscuring the individualized facial characteristics. We simply touched and palpated, noticing that the flesh texture was somewhat more firm, but that the forms would become mobile with gentle movement.

We were given the task to assign ourselves to a form and name it as a group. I was particularly drawn to one gentleman whose abdomen rose like a mountain off the table. My table-mates and I named him Grandpa Buddha and came to understand that he was 85 and died of heart failure. Grandpa B. showed no signs of trauma save for some bruising on his arms and ankles. There was a scar on his left shoulder. No tattoos. A hand placed on his cheek felt the gray stubble on his face.

It was a profound moment when, after meeting and naming our forms, we stood two of them upright— a true reflection of self and the intelligence of nature.

The first part of the dissection involved separating skin from superficial fascia (adipose layer), which is quite difficult and time consuming. The skin thickness and texture are so different from the fluff of the superficial fascia, but the scalpel understands the layers. After we dissected off the skin of the entire front side of Grandpa B. we put it back on to see the form as we first met. Then, peeling each section of skin away, we revealed Superficial Fascia Man, with his glorious layer of fluffy protection from self and environment.

The skin is an amazing organ, and drastically different between people. One form, 95 year-old Venus, had skin about 0.5-0.75 inches thick...on every surface of her body. Compare that to Grandpa B., whose skin was paper thin at the wrist, but very thick and leathery on the shoulders, butt, and thighs. The cranial skin is also incredibly thick– 0.3 inches thick on Grandpa B.

Tomorrow we finish the back side and explore superficial fascia and deep fascia.

Yes, the process is juicy. Yes, the form is heavy. Yes, the formaldehyde is strong. Yes, there are 7 people and 7 scalpels at my table. Yes, the lab coats get “schmutzed.” Yes, it is very physical work.

And yes...it is totally worth it.

Day 2: Superficial Fascia

Grandpa B. taught me so much today, and I am continually reminded of the amazing gift he has given to me.

The body’s layered organization is stunning, like peeling back the layers of an onion. With each layer, a new world is exposed. With the observation, differentiation, reflection, and finally removal of each layer, we get to experience each glorious layer only but once.

The skin, I think, is the first physical element of our being that communicates. It is our first meeting of another’s emotion. Today we went beyond.

The superficial fascia is largely a shaping layer; that which gives us our morphology. The muscle shapes underneath can be expressed through it, but we mostly observe one’s outward shape as the expression of the superficial fascia. The superficial fascia, or what many understand as “fat,” is actually a fibrous and spongy web containing nerves, blood vessels, lymph nodes, and fat. It is a world unto itself. The superficial fascia is that which protects us: from the elements as an insulator, from harmful substances stored in the fat, and sometimes from ourselves. The matrix is at times hard to follow, and will often cross and reorganize into the deep fascia of the muscles. The attachments of this fascia range from fibrous strings to the web-like “fuzz” that can be separated with a finger stroke.

Grandpa B.’s general shape did not change on his belly after removing the 3-inch thick superficial fascia. The 2-inch thick fascia on his rear, though, is actually responsible for the shape. Once this was removed, the glutes are actually flat.

This ever-fascinating journey continues tomorrow with skeletal muscles.

Day 3: Deep Fascia and Muscles

The brain must compartmentalize to understand things. It categorizes, names, and files in the appropriate drawer. Grandpa B. challenged my understanding of muscles as independent movers.

The deep fascia is membranous bag which surrounds each muscle. Sometimes it is a delicate gossamer, and others a fibrous sheath. Held up to the light, one can observe the structure which gives this layer such strong integrity: the fibers run obliquely to each other in many cases, and in others, parallel fibers remind the observer of strapping tape.

I spent the whole day focused in on the left abdominal area. By the end of the day, each muscle layer was visible and relationships between them had been separated to reveal the most amazing layers, that each muscle morphs into the next, and that the deep fascia acts as the structural integrity. I had revealed and reflected each belly of the rectus abdominis away from the rectus sheath, the external and internal obliques and the transverse abdominis. I was amazed how the lower fibers of the pectoralis major blend, without much distinction, into the upper fibers of the external obliques. We are truly connected in ways I never understood.

What was even more fascinating was the fact that both the superficial fascia and the deep fascia are strong and sturdy. They do not rip when pulled, but the muscles fibers themselves disintegrate easily at touch and their structure is lost very quickly once the deep fascia has been removed.

The superficial fascia gives context and structure to the muscle tissue we think we know. The deep fascia holds each muscle carefully, like a hammock, making sure it can glide through space as needed.

My exploration of inner space continues tomorrow.

Day 4: Muscles and Viscera

Today I observed rivers, trees, and opalescence. The muscles of the hip to the knee meander like a river. The vascularity of the small intestine creates a forest of trees. The structural deep fascia swirls and straightens with its collagenous fibers. The wonder of the fifth quadriceps, the feeling of the abdominal muscles sandwiched between my hands, the trapezius, lats and rhomboids in all of their anchoring glory. The levator scapulae as a meaty body joining head and scaps, the sciatic nerve as it uncommonly split in two to divide the pectonius, and the wonder of the internal organs.

The diaphragm reveled itself as a thin, membranous muscle whose deep fascia meld into the transverse abdominis. Held up to the light, one can observe the fascial layer with diaphragm fibers running down while almost contacting muscle fibers of the transverse running across. Each muscle is indistinguishable at that junction. I was reminded of the unity within the body.

The wonder of the intercostals contains fascia strapping tape and muscle fibers running in opposite directions. The accordion action of the ribs and intercostals was illuminated while backlit.

Upon opening the visceral “bag,” a new and alien world emerged. The lungs feel like foam with structure and one can easily see the three lobes on the right and two on the left. The intestines meander, but are more like 10 or 15 feet...rarely the 22 feet length mentioned in books. They can be gathered like a bouquet in the hands and lifted from their origination point at the lumbar spine.

The greater omentum originates from four fascial surfaces, two from the transverse colon and two from the stomach. It represents as a sheet/blanket of fluffy, vascular, lymphatic, and adipose [tissue] that acts as a vacuum for toxins in the body. It can move within the abdomen in response to inflammation and tends to cover those areas which are sick. This is a spectacular sight to behold and has become my favorite discovery of the abdomen.

I am ever thankful for Grandpa B., and am reminded of my responsibility to honor him in his amazing gift to me.

Day 5: Viscera, Thorax, and Other Projects

I have found great appreciation for what each of us carries in the belly. It is where we gather and process all of the outside food to provide energy and life force. To hold the intestines in a bouquet and sever their bodily connection at the mesentary root, I was able to appreciate the centralness of the intestines to the body itself. Then, in spreading them out on the table like a coral-shaped fan, I could see their beauty echoing though shapes familiar to me in nature.

The breath lives on, even in the cadaver form: with a turkey baster and by sealing the mouth and nose, air filled Grandpa B.’s lungs in a steady rhythm demonstrating the massage that the lungs give to the heart and liver... 20 thousand times a day.

The blood vessels in the mid body are huge, about the diameter of a quarter. With each beat of his heart, blood flowed through these superhighways until his last day. The blood vessels have sturdy integrity and are not easily broken.

After evisceration, we could clearly see the relationship of the psoas muscle to the lowest fibers of the diaphragm. I have always thought of the psoas muscle as the great connector in the body...joining breath life force to body and global movement.

I was able to dissect the floor of the mouth (including tongue and mylohyoids) and release it through the mandible while still attached to the larynx and retaining the structure of the pharynx. This view of our human instrument was profound for me: to stare down the tube of his larynx and think that every word he spoke or note he sang originated from this tiny house.

I held a uterus on my hand (in situ) and was surprised at how tiny it was. I followed the fallopian tubes to each side to the bean of each ovary.

Other projects continued around the lab: removing the arm to study joint articulation, more muscle finding, illuminating the diaphragm with light to observe its fibers, opening the cranium, comparing livers and kidneys.

Tomorrow we open the heart and I will open the larynx.

Day 6: Various Projects and Closing

Time and time again I witnessed the “infinite fractal community of branches.” The teams revealed the wondrous worlds within the body— each part echoed by patterns we see every day in nature: trees, webs, branches, flowing water, rivers. Words cannot express the awe I have for each part of human body.

The heart’s cross section revealed a forest of branches inside each chamber and thick muscle walls. Lung tissue was scratched away to reveal the beautiful tree of bronchial tubes and vascularity within each lobe. The eyeball’s lens was a small, thin, and tough piece on top of the jelly filling the structure, and the iris muscle fibers travel around the inside of the eye. The convoluted surface of the brain is very much a mushroom-like texture, but the cerebellum is like a ball of string fibers. The ear bones are but tiny specks of white, easily lost in dissection.

There are only two places in the body where 3-D spiral motion is possible: the spine and the forearm. This movement in the arm is part of what makes a conductor expressive. Today I put my fingers on and witnessed the rotating head of the radius as it crossed over the ulna. My finger fit just inside the carpal tunnel.

My biggest project for the day was to dissect the larynx. After freeing the tongue and removing the esophagus, the hyoid bone was clearly seen in its lack of relationship to any other bone in the body. The removal of the epiglottis allowed easier access to the actual vocal folds and arytenoid cartilages. I split the larynx posteriorly and had to crack the thyroid cartilage to open up the gift. The folds were swollen and the tissue immovable because of the preservation process, but the sight and palpation was still fruitful. I was able to free and clean one arytenoid cartilage.

As we finished the day, we cleaned heartily then came to a circle of appreciation surrounding all five forms, now nestled each in its own cardboard box for cremation. Upon Grandpa B.’s box we placed a flower and greenery. Our physical closeness presented human flesh on each side of me...a stark contrast to the week. I was overcome with a deep sense of gratitude for the gift I had been given by a man (and his family) who I will never know and never have the opportunity to thank. I have been changed in a deep and profound way. Thanks, Grandpa B.

Everything Old Is (Sadly) New Again or, The Tao of the Curmudgeon

(I started this over a year ago. It's still a thing. Sigh.)

I suspect that my first post in over a year is going to be, shall we say, less linear than usual. Lots of things rolling around in the old cranium, so this will be spew-ish. If I'm feeling inclined, I might edit it into something more like what you're used to, but perhaps a view into the rabbit-hole that is my brain might be entertaining.

So many things are puzzling to me these days. I know I can't be the only one who wonders if we've somehow zipped into an alternate universe where all the socio-political progress of the last 40-50 years has vanished. Voting rights are no longer considered endangered in a country where less than 35% of the population bothered to vote and a good portion of that 35% was influenced by a few people who could buy the entire country outright if it were legal. And it practically is.

The rights of women to control their own reproductive destiny are once more back on the table– also, seemingly, to the highest bidder. People with no "skin in the game" (maybe I should say "uterus in the game?") get to decide when and how American women get pregnant or choose not to remain pregnant. But these same people a) not only have no interest in early and effective sex education for children, but b) seem to think that having knowledge of such things is an open invitation to sex it up all over the place. This, despite years of solid research to the contrary.

We are letting our collective id run free, making "telling it like it is" a thing far less valued than "Before you speak, ask yourself: is it kind, is it necessary, is it true, does it improve on the silence?" We are seriously contemplating making choices for our country based on who is the biggest outsider, as if that is a good thing.

We have abandoned the pursuit of truth in public and political discourse and, to some degree, in our journalism. We're more interested in page views and the metrics of superficial engagement than we are in actually engaging people on the issues and talking them out– even (especially!) if we disagree.

We have become so easily offended that our students require safe spaces and trigger warnings. That members of the largest segment of religious America claim persecution because a growing number of people disagree with them, or have decided that practicing their faith does not require other people to practice it similarly.

Oh, well. Like I said. Spew-ish. I promise that the next entry is not only organized but incredible. I know this because I didn't write most of it.

Until next time...

Advent tidings, or, "I Have a Blog?"

Hello long-lost Hobbit Fans (yes, all two of you)!

According to Blogger, it's been over two years since I last left you a bon mot or two. Good reasons. Really good reasons. Because, Facebook. Ok, can't put all the blame on Facebook, even though Mr. Zuckerberg's little juggernaut really does take care of the urge to say a little sumpin' sumpin' about many things quickly. Despite having a note function however, it really doesn't sate the need for long form thoughts-- which we all have and which I've mostly let float off into the ether. But I'm back, at least for now, and am finally able to be addressed as Dr. Yankee Hobbit! For almost a year now! That alone should have merited a post, but, alas...

So what brings me back now? Today, December 1, is also Advent 1, for those of you who follow the liturgical calendar. Once upon another life, I worked at a church and was tasked with the meditations for the weekly prayer letter. I picked December because, as a singer, there are so many good Advent hymns. Also because with Advent is pretty much a red-headed stepchild with the acceleration of the holidays. (Halloween in July, anyone?) Anyhoo, I wrote these back in 2000 and revised them in 2002 (yes, the date will be telling in at least one of them) and went looking for them when so many of my Facebook friends were posting about Advent. I thought about parceling them out week by week, but decided that a) if someone were to want to borrow the series (with proper attribution, of course), I would follow the lead of my dear friend Joby Bell and offer them up here and b) I haven't posted in two years, can I really be trusted to post these weekly? LOL!

Here you go, my once and current thoughts on advent as illustrated by some favorite hymns.

Advent I

“Gidget’s House of Gadgets, can you hold please?” Oh, FINE! I tell you, I get so very tired of waiting. Waiting on hold. Waiting in line. Waiting for bulletin information. Waiting for Internet Explorer to load a page [Ha! Ok, now Firefox. Did it even exists in 2002? -ed.] Wait, wait, WAIT!!!!

Come, Thou long-expected Jesus, born to set Thy people free;
From our fears and sins release us; let us find our rest in Thee.

Israel's strength and consolation, hope of all the earth Thou art;
Dear desire of every nation, joy of every longing heart.

Born Thy people to deliver, born a child and yet a King,
Born to reign in us forever, now Thy gracious kingdom bring.

By Thine own eternal Spirit rule in all our hearts alone;
By Thine all sufficient merit raise us to Thy glorious throne.
         - Charles Wesley

At this time of year, we are waiting for something really good. Advent is the time we await the coming of Jesus, the Child born a King, Savior of the nations. As Charles Wesley’s hymn so beautifully tells us, He was born to set us free from our sins and our fears, to be our strength and our consolation, and the joy of each of our hearts. A friend of mine calls Advent “Thanksmas.” I’m sure it has to do with the way life speeds up between Thanksgiving and Christmas. But I prefer to think of it as the intersection of the hearts of the two feasts: we are thankful for the blessings of our lives as well as for the Lord who gives them, and who gave His Son that we might have them. We are “expecting” in every sense of the word, prayerfully waiting for the One in whom we find our rest, our peace and our salvation.

Even so, Lord Jesus, quickly come!

Advent II

There are few hymns in the Presbyterian Hymnal that give you a Technicolor-Charlton-Heston-in-a-dress-vivid view of heaven and earth. Well step right up, folks, ‘cause right here is one of the best of them!

Let all mortal flesh keep silence, and with fear and trembling stand;
Ponder nothing earthly minded, for with blessing in His hand, 
Christ our God to earth descendeth, our full homage to demand. 

King of kings, yet born of Mary, as of old on earth He stood,
Lord of lords, in human vesture, In the body and the blood, 
He will give to all the faithful His own self for heavenly food. 

Rank on rank the host of heaven spreads its vanguard on the way, 
As the Light of Light descendeth from the realms of endless day,
That the powers of hell may vanish as the darkness clears away. 

At His feet the six-winged seraph; Cherubim, with sleepless eye,
Veil their faces to the presence, as with ceaseless voice they cry,
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia, Lord Most High!
        - from the liturgy of St. James

 
If all mortal flesh really were to keep silence, in awe to see God as Christ descend to us, we wouldn’t need a liturgical season set aside to await His coming. Close your eyes for a second. See the untold numbers of the Heavenly Host do a color guard for the Lord. Even the Cherubim—who can see everything—have to cover their eyes against His glory! And what is this grand and glorious pageant for? The power and majesty that commands all of that adoration is coming— here— to be a small, weak, tiny baby. Once you catch your breath you ask, “Why?” For us folk. That we might never know sin, darkness and death. That we might live forever in that self-same Technicolor glory with Him.

Alleluia!!

Advent III

“Merry Christmas!” By now we’ve all said it hundreds of times. To clerks, co-workers, people who cut us off on the freeway, even telemarketers. After all, Christmas Day is only a few days away. We are all suffused with joy.

Let our voices resound with joy, welcoming this baby boy. 
Sion’s children, with us join to sing the Son, the holy One of Mary. Rejoicing! 
Christ is born this holy day! Rejoicing! Mary’s Son is born today! 

Sion, let His praise begin, tiny Child, all free from sin,
Come from heav’n our souls to win, we sing the Son, the Holy One of Mary. Rejoicing! 

Born is our Emmanuel, named by angel Gabriel. 
Long ago Ezekiel foretold the Son, the Holy One of Mary. Rejoicing! 

Run together everyone! Shout the praise of God’s own Son. 
Let His will on earth be done, and follow Him, the little Son of Mary. Rejoicing! 
Christ is born this holy day! Rejoicing, Mary’s Son is born today! 
        - from Walther’s Gesangbuch

[Note: can't find this hymn anywhere and don't remember where I found it. Oops! -ed.]

And why not rejoice? Shouldn’t the promise of God-With-Us make us happy? Peace on earth, good will to all? Well, sure. But there’s more to it than that. “Sion’s children join with us to sing the Son.” Not just Sion, but the world. East, West, North, South, downtown, outside the loop, in our backyard and a world away, Christians join to celebrate the birth of Christ. And in some of those places (think Israel/Palestine, Africa, rural America), joy is in painfully short supply even during this most joyous of times because of strife, poverty, hunger and illness. These are also the souls He came to win, something we easily overlook as we navel-gaze over our sense of lost prosperity and peace. So yes, be joyful! Spread cheer and good will! But let us also, through prayer, charity and action, spread opportunity and the tidings of comfort and joy that come through our Lord, Jesus Christ.

Rejoicing!

Advent IV

“Whatdja get for Christmas?” echoes a common refrain of the season. The gifts are opened, the carols sung, the candles burned low, and you are sick to death of anything with sugar or butter in it. What now?

The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown, of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown. O, the rising of the sun and the running of the deer, the playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir.

The holly bears a blossom as white as any flower, and Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ to be our sweet Savior…

The holly bears a berry as red as any blood, and Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ to do poor sinners good… 

The holly bears a prickle as sharp as any thorn; and Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ on Christmas Day in the morn… 

The holly bears a bark as bitter as any gall, and Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ for to redeem us all…
        - Traditional English Carol

As some of you parents have undoubtedly discovered, some of the gifts we gave and received today have a life shorter than that of the average fruit-fly (28 days for the scientifically inclined). Some will prove to be more durable. A precious few will live on, if not in existence, then certainly in treasured memory. We’ve all been given a gift that is rare and precious. We were given it long ago, and we just take this time to be reminded of it and to celebrate it. It is the gift of the Savior. Much like some gifts we receive, on first inspection we weren’t sure what to make of this gift, this Jesus. What do I need with a baby? To quote the Rugrats’ Angelica, “Babies are dumb!” But this baby, blameless and innocent, grew to be the Son of Man, who healed the sick, wore a thorny crown, bled and died to redeem us all. Let us carry the light of Christmas in our hearts all the way though Easter and beyond…

Gloria in excelsis Deo!

- Melissa Givens

The Silly Season Starts Early

I don't remember when I first heard it referred to that way, but some pundit somewhere started calling the election cycle the Silly Season. Wikipedia says it's a British term for the slow late summer news cycle, but it would appear the term has been re-purposed on this side of the pond.

Just like Spring, its heralds are brightly colored and often blustery-- and rarely mistakable. Strident public discourse, sniping among differently minded friends who, in saner times, get along swimmingly, the wholesale retiring of senses of humor, gotcha political cartoons and commentaries (although, what one considers "gotcha" depends, really, on whether or not the item in question supports or denounces your view, right?).

Really, this quadrennial's (?) silly season might be deemed to have begun with the debt-ceiling debate. (Actually, debate is far too grown-up a word for what was essentially a mud-pit tug of war with both ends tied to tractors, but I digress.) It was certainly here by the time the GOP started their primary debates (again, a strong word for a bunch of people trying to sell you different brands of the same cereal. I was going to say corn flakes, since they are the most generic of cereals, but I would not wish to be misinterpreted as casting specific aspersions upon the GOP aspirants. And, again, I digress.). No matter how you slice it, we are in full silly season mode more than a year before the General Election.

Who I want to win and why I want him to win is likely apparent, but also irrelevant. It is as irrelevant as the facts that are and will continue to be trampled in what my friend calls fact-free rhetoric; as irrelevant as the straw-man arguments that will continue to draw attention away from our real and pressing issues. You know, the ones where people-with-way-more than-most try to pit the various flavors of the have-not-so-much against one another for blood sport, hoping we won't catch them absconding with our nation's promise. That was definitely not a digression.

Anyhoo, looks like we're in for the longest, ugliest haul of our Union. I really hope our better angels take flight. But I am also a child of the 70s who had a Magic 8 Ball:* "Very doubtful."

*FYI, Mattel has an online Magic 8 Ball here.

Remembrance of things past

Ten years have passed and people are asking once more, "Where were you when it happened?" No need to qualify that question with "when the planes hit," or "when the towers fell."

On that freakishly bright, beautiful September morning, I was listening to NPR and getting dressed for an audition when the first plane hit. I listened to the report, incredulous-- certain that it was an accident. Secure in that certainty, I went on to First Pres, where I was meeting my friend and pianist, Joby Bell. We had just gotten to the media control room when the second plane hit; we were sure, now, that it was no accident. While we were sure that something horrible had happened, we were not yet sure what it all meant; whether or not our worlds were meant to stop-- whether tasks and errands planned for that bright, beautiful day were to be given over to disbelief and stunned numbness.

Because we weren't sure, we went to the audition at Houston Baptist University. We drove down US 59 under a bright, blue sky absent of the contrails that usually betrayed the presence of the (usually) ever-present air traffic of the country's fourth largest city. We drove, wondering what would happen next-- unaware of the planes bound for the Pentagon and that field in Shanksville, PA. As we drove, we wondered: would the music faculty of HBU still be there? Were we still expected? Whatever could be the use of auditioning for a teaching job when the world could end at any minute?

We were met at the University by the (still) calming and beautiful presence of Dr. Ann Gebuhr, who has since become a treasured friend and colleague. She shared our sense of being unmoored, of going through the motions in the absence of... of the right-side up, unassailable country we lived in when we woke up just a scant few hours earlier.

I managed to get through the audition; sang a few of my favorite things, worked with a student, and got the job. Much later, Ann (and one or two others) told me that my singing that day had been a balm for the confusion we were all feeling. I don't recount that to toot my own horn in any way. There is a long piece by Karl Paulnack, his 2004 welcome address to the Boston Conservatory. In it, he argues for the singularity of music as the one thing we use to relate to and express those things we can't necessarily verbalize. It's an amazing piece; you should read it. He writes, in part:

In September of 2001 I was a resident of Manhattan. On the morning of September 12, 2001 I reached a new understanding of my art and its relationship to the world. I sat down at the piano that morning at 10 AM to practice as was my daily routine; I did it by force of habit, without thinking about it. I lifted the cover on the keyboard, and opened my music, and put my hands on the keys and took my hands off the keys. And I sat there and thought, does this even matter? Isn't this completely irrelevant? Playing the piano right now, given what happened in this city yesterday, seems silly, absurd, irreverent, pointless. Why am I here? What place has a musician in this moment in time? Who needs a piano player right now? I was completely lost.

And then I, along with the rest of New York, went through the journey of getting through that week. I did not play the piano that day, and in fact I contemplated briefly whether I would ever want to play the piano again. And then I observed how we got through the day.

At least in my neighborhood, we didn't shoot hoops or play Scrabble. We didn't play cards to pass the time, we didn't watch TV, we didn't shop, we most certainly did not go to the mall. The first organized activity that I saw in New York, on the very evening of September 11th, was singing. People sang. People sang around fire houses, people sang "We Shall Overcome". Lots of people sang America the Beautiful. The first organized public event that I remember was the Brahms Requiem, later that week, at Lincoln Center, with the New York Philharmonic. The first organized public expression of grief, our first communal response to that historic event, was a concert. That was the beginning of a sense that life might go on. The US Military secured the airspace, but recovery was led by the arts, and by music in particular, that very night.

So, here we are- here I am, ten years later. Ten years of teaching and "raising" singers at HBU; a tenure that began on a hugely momentous day. I have always believed that what I do is important and necessary. I try to teach my students that what they are learning is important and necessary. I think, sometimes, that my sense of the importance of what I/we do is heightened by the backdrop of 9/11, of having begun this journey with these people while it was still happening and being able to use music to minister to frayed souls in those shattered moments.

There is a balm in Gilead, to make the wounded whole.
There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick soul...