Commit Random Acts of Music

Nearly every day, I walk past the Immaculate Conception Church on Derby St. Sometimes at night, I sit by their slender wooden statue of Mary, which sits atop a rock overlooking a goldfish pond, but I have never found my way inside the church's walls.

This morning I passed by Immaculate Conception on my way back from the local herbal shop, and the faint tones of the organ grasped onto the center of my heart, pulling it up through the crown of my head, into another plane. I paused and turned back towards the large wood-panaled doors. They looked closed, and why should they be open on a Saturday morning? I turned around again and began walking home, but another chord, just barely finding its way out of a cracked window in the sanctuary curled its delicate fingers around my inner being, pulling me back.

Again, I turned around and climbed the staircase looming before the door. It opened easily when I pulled, revealing an empty sanctuary with tinted light streaming through stained-glass windows, so well-kept, I felt as though its caregivers were extending their arms towards me, an invitation to worship. I wandered towards the front of the church so that I could look back into the organ's balcony. I didn't see a soul and, when I heard the sounds of chimes and opera singing accompanying the organ, I felt duped to think that some CD and a big speaker had lured me into a Catholic church.

Still I could not leave. I knelt before a pew in the back row. Prayers and tears flowed through me and mixed with the gentle organ tones in the expanse of empty space above. One song flowed into the next. After the third ended, there was a pause. The CD must be over, and God forbid, someone comes to change it and I have to explain myself. I stood up and heard a slight shifting above me. The faintest rustle of papers. I wandered again to the front of the sanctuary, this time at a different angle, and saw the back of a woman's head. She began to play, and when the angelic singing began once again, I noticed her jaw moving ever so slightly.

I returned to the pew and listened to the song before wandering back into the sunshine. Perhaps she will never know that her music was heard by another soul this Saturday morning. I thank her for the blessings carried in her music and pray that my own random acts of music--out at the lighthouse at night, in my yard, at local restaurants, or at the beach, may bring half that much joy to someone else.

If there is a God

There were more people than usual at the first neighborhood paella gathering of the spring. The living room and adjoining kitchen, warmed with wood flooring and dark wooden furniture, were packed with people, plates of food, and bottles of wine. I walked through the crowd, claustrophobic by the time I reached the counter, where I set down my jug of fresh apple cider. New and old friends mingled, laughing loudly, catching up on local news, and debriefing the previous night’s dance party as they downed their first glasses of wine. 

“Laura,” a warm voice called out of the chaos, “Get your fiddle. My guitar is downstairs.”

“No. Surely these people don’t want to be subjected to such a thing. It would….”

“Oh just get it. We can practice a song or two downstairs first.”

After a quick walk home to retrieve the fiddle, Mel and I sat down to our first attempt to play together. She looked up the fingering to a D chord and, now with a guitarist capable of all three chords in an Old Time G tune, nothing could stop this duo. Mel felt ready for an audience after a couple rough run-throughs. I wasn’t convinced, but we plodded up the stairs with guitar, fiddle, the salivating bulldog Foucault, and Mel’s coffee mug of frothy beer.

We re-entered the party and made our way to the back of the room. Perched on the narrow stairs leading up to Dinah’s loft, we could look down upon the whole party, and had just enough elbow room for bowing. When I began playing, I could hardly hear my own fiddle above the conversations.

After the first tune, a smattering of applause. After the second, a few warm compliments. After the third, Brian Donnelly, a legend in the Salem music scene, wandered over with a harmonica and set of jaw harps to join the band. After the eighth, a man with a French accent picked up some spoons and politely inquired what the rhythm was. Now our band was four musicians strong. Partly through the ninth tune, the dancers began to bounce and sway, and so did the floor. The tenth tune brought a move they were calling “the guerrilla” across the dance floor. Too may tunes to count flowed from our fingers and breath until we finished a rollicking rendition of “Cluck Old Hen” and Brian leaned over, crushing me with a hug.

“That was amazing!” he shouted. “If there is a God...” Brian’s proclamation soared over the merry din of the party “If there is a God above that brings good things, then He is music!”

Traveling at Home

Travel used to be a necessary part of life. We are so vividly alive when we travel--powerful interactions with strangers who seem to bring us just the message or lesson we need; not knowing where we are or what is next, but plunging ahead anyway; seeing new landscapes and encountering people with different life routines and thought patterns.

Playing fiddle has come with a new way of life that puts me in this state all the time--without ever needing to physically go very far. In part, it is the joy of playing music in community that gives the feeling of being as acutely alive as when one travels. It is also the people one meets, and the adventures that one embarks on for the sake of playing music in community.

When Nemo struck yesterday, and Governor Patrick banned transportation, I set out with skis, headlamp, and an Adirondack pack basket containing fiddle, bread, and cheese, for a house session with friends in Beverly. Over the course of the 2.7 mile trek I crossed paths with old friends, shared moral support with a new Nigerian friend as we crossed the Beverly bridge together, and dodged many snowplows, while my fiddle somehow stayed in tune. On one dark Beverly side street, I could make out a lone figure shoveling through the falling snow. "Hi Miss Quayle," I heard the familiar voice of one of my students say.  He gave me a knowing grin from under the bright orange hood of his parka: "I saw the fiddle and knew it must be you."

At the session, we shared Indian food, plum gin, and many Irish tunes. The wind rocketed me back across the Beverly bridge at about 11:00 pm, and the waves crashed about 3 feet from my skis on the Collins Cove bike path.

Just an hour ago, my younger cousin posted a photo of her plane about to depart for Bolivia. I remember those days fondly, but for now, I think I'll just travel at home with my fiddle.