Tag: music

Pas de Deux

When I was 13, I saw The Nutcracker ballet for the first time. It wasn’t my family’s style to go to the ballet, or symphony or theater, but my best friend and her mom had invited my mom and I along. I went in cold without any knowledge of the music or story, and I probably thought I was too cool for it or something, fairies and tutus and such. But the anticipation alone was excitement enough. The whole experience of dressing up, handing over our tickets, finding a seat through the crowd, a live orchestra– all of it was new and exhilarating. I felt immediately elevated; I felt wealthier, smarter, more beautiful; I felt like a classy broad.

As soon as the orchestra played the first several measures and the curtains swept back, I was gone. By thirteen, I had quickly buried my love of fairytales and sense of wonder in favor of a more enlightened and cynical worldview, but The Nutcracker called my bluff. I don’t even know if it was critically good, but I will never know because I was in love with all of it: the costumes, the narrative, the story-telling through dance– all of it was magical. But the moment that transported me was the Pas de Deux. I was sure I had never heard any music so ethereal. I was swept away with its romance and grandeur. When we got home, I picked out the melody on the piano, and later when I received the soundtrack as a Christmas gift, I listened to it over and over again. It was like getting wrapped in a tender whirlwind and lifted off the ground. I regularly listened to that album, just as regularly as Smashing Pumpkins’ Siamese Dream and Tori Amos’s Little Earthquakes.

It wasn’t until I had children that I began to explore more of Tchaikovsky’s work. I excitedly introduced my little girls to Disney’s Sleeping Beauty, which had been my absolute favorite animated movie as a child, only to realize that Disney had borrowed Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty ballet as its score. Watching that movie as an adult was like finding the source of my own aesthetic: the stylized art inspired by medieval tapestry, the sharply angled faces of the heroes and heroines, the woodland cottage and stately castles, and the score that carried it all on a current through peril and triumph. This was the foundation of beauty for me.

I was thrilled to introduce my children to Tchaikovsky, and while the ballet is still expensive, many ballets are available on disc, which is how we watch The Nutcracker every year, and how we’ve all seen Sleeping Beauty and Swan Lake. I have loved watching it capture their imagination as they bound about the room copying the dances and memorizing the melodies, and then when they’re older, discussing themes, motifs, and artistic choices. It renews the wonder for me. Gradually, I take one child at a time to the ballet (or live theater) as we can afford it so they can experience the heightened anticipation of a performance, and possibly be transported by a song.

Even now, thirty years later, something happens to me when I listen to the Pas de Deux, like the invisible string that connects me to my Creator pulls taut and draws my attention. I’ve thought a lot about why. I think it captures the overwhelming feeling of longing and desire, and the exclusivity of romance when the world passes away and the only other body you’re aware of is that of your lover. There’s safety, protection, and strength in its exclusivity and one-ness. The continuous, climbing scales within the song that ascend and descend capture the moments of anticipation, of joy and delight, at times of sorrow, and ultimate ecstasy of love. The grandeur of the song– and the moment in the ballet– captures the pursuit of God the Lover for us, and the full realization of our purpose in communing fully with Him.

Going to the ballet was transformative. It opened up a whole new arena of visual and musical storytelling, of beauty incarnate in the human form. There is a cathedral-like quality in the ballet, a sacramentality where conceptual beauty meets the human form and music tells a story to draw our attention elsewhere, not to escape, but to connect more fully with our humanity.

St. Hildegard of Bingen

Feast Day: December 17

St. Hildegard was a 12th century Benedictine abbess, mystic, poet, composer, physician, Doctor of the Church– in short, a remarkable woman. I don’t know much about her and I’m only just now beginning to seek her out, having caught interest from a convert-friend of mine who loves her.

Pope Benedict XVI said this of St. Hildegard, “Let us always invoke the Holy Spirit, so that he may inspire in the Church holy and courageous women like Saint Hildegard of Bingen who, developing the gifts they have received from God, make their own special and valuable contribution to the spiritual development of our communities and of the Church in our time.”

Though her original feast day is September 17, it has been moved to December 17, which is convenient since much of her poetry and song is fitting for the contemplative period before Christmas when we are accompanied by the O Antiphons. Below is a beautiful choice for the season, though there are many others worth seeking out.

Ave, Generosa

Hail, girl of a noble house,
shimmering and unpolluted,
you pupil in the eye of chastity,
you essence of sanctity,
which was pleasing to God.

For the Heavenly potion was poured into you,
in that the Heavenly word
received a raiment of flesh in you.

You are the lily that dazzles,
whom God knew
before all others.

O most beautiful and delectable one;
how greatly God delighted in you!
In the clasp of His fire
He implanted in you so that
His son might be suckled by you.

Thus your womb held joy,
when the harmony of all Heaven chimed out from you,
because, Virgin, you carried the son of God
whence your chastity blazed in God.

Your flesh has known delight,
like the grassland touched by dew
and immersed in its freshness:
so it was with you, O mother of all joy.

Now let the sunrise of joy be over all Ecclesia,
and let it resound in music
for the sweetest Virgin,
Mary compelling all praise,
mother of God. Amen.

how much farther?

Walking through dew-lit grass in the early hours of late summer mornings conjures a specific memory for me, and I’m surprised what a hold it still has on my senses. It’s a mix of nerves, dread, and nausea. I played soccer for my formative years, from the ages of five to sixteen, and in the later years of competitive play, training began in August (though unofficially all year). I was never a good or happy runner. There was this one particular run in pre-season training where the last mile was uphill (and was aptly named “suicide hill”). It was through a thickly forested area, which provided some refreshing shade from the August sun. Even so, this part of the run was the worst, the most difficult, the most tiring, the most painful—and it was also when I had no clear idea of where I was in my run—I knew I was towards the end, but how close? And that thought—how much farther?—nearly drove me mad. Other girls were passing me, seemingly energized by the thought that they were almost done, while I felt more discouraged than ever. Their breathless, motivational exclamations as they passed did the opposite of motivate—I wanted to be maliciously clever, but I mercifully didn’t have the energy even to spit.

Then I’d crown the hill, and just like that I was in suburbia, the dark forest behind me, running down the paved road towards the soccer field where most of my team waited (yes, I was usually last), bent over, guzzling water, or lying on the ground in a sweaty mess.

I can honestly say that, while I don’t willingly subject myself to running as an adult, I am grateful for that experience—for the discipline, the drive, and just to know that I could do it and not die. But that moment on “suicide hill”, those aching minutes where I was haunted with the thought of how much farther has come to my mind repeatedly in so many other instances—in labor, in difficult relationships, exhausting days, Job-like years of life—and even annually in Lent. How much farther?

This Lent hasn’t been particularly trying for me, in fact it’s been sprinkled with graces. But the past week has been like trudging through mud. The daily grind of life was grinding me down and I really wanted to hit up my old stand-bys for comfort and sustenance, the very things that I’d given up for Lent (or that I’d given up for life). I’d failed, tripped up under the cross, and felt like an embarrassed child at the foot of Our Lord, half hiding my face, half ignoring Him. To indulge the metaphor, I was stuck on “suicide hill”, only thinking about how hard it was, how much I hurt, and not looking up and ahead towards the finish line.

Yesterday, my family and I trekked an hour and a half north to visit a monastic-community-in-formation. The Maronite monks of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are in the process of building a monastery in Castle Rock, Washington. Their enthusiasm and love for the faith, vocation, Our Lord and thus His people, is infectious and inspiring. Even though I was dreading the drive through a mud-puddled highway and spatially-challenged vehicle, it was well worth every minute of car bickering and the penitential porta-potty.

Aside from the beautiful divine liturgy (which was food for my soul!), the homily, augmented after Mass in Abouna’s announcements, was all about answering, “How much farther?” In short, we’re at Passiontide, only two weeks away from Easter. But the real answer is eucharistia, a word that’s chock-full of meaning. In Greek, it means thanksgiving; for Catholics our Eucharistic feast is an offering of thanksgiving as we receive our Lord’s Body and Blood. As I listened to both priests, I thought of quotes I have on my frig (that I apparently need to be looking at more often) that read, “Gratitude is the root of joy,” and, “Gratitude is the beginning of trust.” As I took the Body of Christ that had been dipped in the Precious Blood, I was reminded to not only make an act of thanksgiving for this Eucharist, but that this was the true sustenance that would help me get through to the end.

Another message of these holy priests that was echoed in today’s readings and a rich homily from our own parish priest, was that as we continue on to the end, not to look back. “Go and sin no more,” Jesus said to the woman caught in adultery. It reminds me of how often Jesus said to paralytics, “Pick up your mat and walk,” as though to say, your half-lived existence is over—go and live fully, sin no more, take your light into the darkness, baptize nations, preach the good news, etc. Lent is the time to renew repentance, and renew the Christian life. Only with eucharistia—with gratitude and the Eucharist—can I accept what has been and have the strength to move on.

Thinking back to “suicide hill” and that run of all runs, I got lost in what I had run to that point. I was overcome by how far I had run, and was sure I couldn’t finish the race. My teammates who passed me were thinking about the finish line, not about the space between.

The answer is not to look behind where lie our failures or even past glory, but to look up and ahead where Christ is raised up on the cross. I have been thinking a lot about two “secular” songs this Lent—“Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails (Johnny Cash’s cover) and “I Can Change” by Lake Street Dive. These songs echo the self-loathing that either precedes repentance and new life, or despair and death. In any perpetuating sin or addiction, it is our past failures that take our eyes off of what’s ahead and concentrate instead on sin. It’s not a lack of knowledge of our shortcoming, but a deafening awareness of it that drowns out hope and chokes our joy. It takes strength and humility to call out to God who is all too eager to wipe out our offenses and give us new life. But if we allow Him to do that, we need to think on it no longer, to keep no record of our failings once they’re offered up in the sacrament of reconciliation, but to be content to “go, and sin no more”, over and over again, until the final race is run.

I for my part do not consider myself to have taken possession. Just one thing: forgetting what lies behind but straining forward to what lies ahead, I continue my pursuit toward the goal, the prize of God’s upward calling, in Christ Jesus.

Philippians 3:13-14