Beginning last night at rehearsal, I find myself in the epicenter of a major full-circle experience in my life. I know, like life itself, that this experience is going to have a beginning, a middle and an end. And I want to be present for the whole thing, because this is major. This is the end of perhaps the most significant era of my life other than the child-rearing years.
I am grateful for the clues life sends me to alert me of the need to pay attention. Otherwise I could just blunder my way through my days and not take notice when notice needs to be taken. The "clue" that got me started on this particular episode of paying close attention was a name written on the top of a score to the unbelievable Brahms Requiem, which we began rehearsing last night. I was grateful that I found the box of music scores during my unpacking this past week, so that I could use the score I already had for this concert, instead of having to repurchase that which I already owned. . . which I have had to do for several other pieces this season. And given its age, the score for the Brahms is in pretty good shape. This is my third time using it, as it happens.
The clue? At the top of the inside front page is where I wrote my name for my first time using it. My name at the time was Ruth Smith. I never fail to be startled when I see that name. I was Ruth Smith for a mere three years of my life, after which I reverted back to, and will stay, Ruth Powell for the duration. I often forget Ruth Smith in my remembering of all the people I have been in my life. But she was the pioneer me who bravely went out into the world in a direction, by necessity, completely different than the one she had planned. I probably could write a whole book on the Ruth Smith years. I will spare you most of the details.
In a nutshell, upon graduating college with a Bachelor of Music degree, and armed with the significant backing of my college choir director who had pulled some very significant strings and got me admitted to one of the top graduate choral conducting programs in the country, for which I didn't even have to audition, I said good-bye to the love of my life (foolishly believing that there were many many loves of my life out there), and ventured to the way-station between college and grad school, my summer job at the National Music Camp at Interlochen, Michigan. During that summer between what should have been undergraduate and graduate schools, my dad pulled the rug out from under me. I don't think he intended it to be such a traumatic pulling. But nevertheless, his phone call, mid-season, to tell me he would not be providing the money for graduate school, left me in the northern woods of Michigan, with nothing for communication but a stand of phone booths in the main building, and without a Plan B. This was way before I knew enough to always have a Plan B. This was my first experience in "Things Don't Always Work Out The Way You Think They Are Going To!"
The Ruth Powell I am today would have said, "No problem. I will move to Madison, Wisconsin, the school where I have been accepted, get a job, look into financial aid, and SOMEHOW figure out how to get myself through this grad school experience." However, the Ruth Powell I was then, only saw that my world had been shattered. I was about to enroll in a Masters of Life program, for which no one had pulled any strings to get me in.
Set adrift for the remainder of the summer (I have woefully neglected to further explain my dad in all this. . . . and let's just say that looking back, I cannot thank him enough for what happened. It was supposed to be this way. It is absolutely critical in setting up my current Full Circle experience.), I had no choice but to set about doing my job as the High School Choir Manager. And I met George. A very nice guy, also had just graduated from Ithaca College in New York. He was on the stage crew of the venue where my choir rehearsed. We started dating. He was working that summer just before joining the US Navy Band in Washington, DC for a 4 year tour of duty that would involve playing only in Washington, DC. Looking back I see the Perfect Storm of alignments in my life. A cute guy, no agenda for the immediate future, and (I now know) most importantly. .. . WASHINGTON, DC!!! I had only read about DC and seen the pictures in my history books. As a little mid-western bumpkin, I could only dream of one day visiting Washington, DC! Looking back. .. . it could not have been easier to "fall in love" with nice guy George. He would take me to Washington, DC.
I'm going to skip a whole lot more details here and save them for the book (I'm only kidding about the book), but suffice it to say, I made a major life choice to be "in love" (which is a whole lot different from "falling in love" for sure) and to get a married, move to Washington, DC and start the circle moving. Ruth Smith.
I'll skip a bunch more details and jump right to my audition for the Washington Choral Arts Society, conducted by the wunderkind conductor, Norman Scribner. Right out of college I got into this group. In the first year, we sang with Leonard Bernstein! I was 23 years old and not only singing with Bernstein, but making a recording with him. I still have the "album" with a picture of the choir. Little minuscule, long-haired, unbearably young me in the front row, being conducted by Leonard Bernstein. One of dozens of "pinch me. . . . .no don't!" moments I have had with this choir.
The marriage to George did not take. But my love affair with Washington, DC lasted an adult life-time and continues to this day. When I went from teaching middle school music to elementary music, I had to drop out of the choir because I had no voice left at the end of the day. For the next 30 years. And then I got back in when I stopped teaching elementary music. Surely another miracle in my life.
So on my Brahms Requiem score last night was my former, long-forgotten other name. The marriage that might have been a mistake, but the move from Illinois that had been spot-on. In my twenty-something Ruth Smith handwriting was notated: April, 1975. My first Brahms Requiem with the Choral Arts Society. I had sung it once in English at Interlochen a couple of years previously. Also, written on the score is "April, 2005." The last time I sang it. The year I got back in the choir after my long hiatus. My reason for being brave enough to audition again for this group was that they were scheduled to sing the Brahms that year and I couldn't believe I might have another opportunity to sing it in the Kennedy Center.
And now. . . . . . Norman's last concert as Artistic and Musical Director of this group he founded and led for the past 47 years. A full-circle of the most profound kind. An unbearable full-circle. For him, for us, and for me. Because this is likely my last Kennedy Center performance as well. I'm not sure how all this "finding the new guy conductor" thing will turn out for me. But it certainly will be my last concert at the Kennedy Center with Norman. Norman, who has always been a big fan of me. Who used to call me to substitute in his small, paid church choir. Who has always told me how much he values my abilities, when, quite frankly, and totally honestly, I don't have any idea what he is talking about. I have always been self-conscious about my singing voice. I won't sing for anyone who asks me to. It's not a solo voice. It's a blending voice. But Norman likes it. And he has treated me as one of his top altos ever since I joined. I am tearing up just typing that.
Here comes the Brahms. For the third and final time with Norman and the CASW. 1975. . .2005. . . . .2012. Of all the things I have done in my life, the only thing that has transcended this experience with the choir was the raising of my children.
Thank you Dad, for kicking me out of the nest. Thank you George, for being there to rescue the falling bird, and then being gracious enough to let me go. This has been my bliss, from the bottom of my toes.
I don't know how I will bear this final run at the Brahms. But I'm all in.
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