A moment..

I have a friend who I have written about before, a beautiful, strong Frenchwoman. We walked together for hours, days, weeks on our way to Santiago to meet Saint James. A year later, while visiting her in her home town of Besançon, I asked her where to go in Paris where I would soon be heading. Genevieve spoke softly with far off eyes, weaving through English in a way that a native English speaker wouldn't think to. "I had a moment," she said and went on to describe a space of precious time forever frozen in her memory, a moment of soft fluttering snow, a deep dusk sky and warm street lights flickering on as she exited the train station. She had a moment; a temporary awareness of being immersed in the joy of living.

I have had moments; a grappa toast with an old man, a meal and a bottle of Lambrusco under a fat moon, a chord resolving and echoing through an old church, a piano lesson by the glow of a Christmas tree, counting stars the night before reaching Santiago, hot chocolate with orphans at 13,000 feet, the pop of a bottle of champagne and a thousand fireworks as a new year began, the smell of sage and lavender, and the taste of sweet lemons next to the sea.

Mary Ann and Dianne had a moment. Dianne's eyes shone and a mischievous, wistful smile touched her mouth in the telling. "It was Mary Ann's birthday.." Diane began. As the story goes, forty years before, Mary Ann had interviewed and hired Dianne, thus setting in motion a lifetime of friendship, love, and a fair amount of misbehavior. Long lunches were common at the time and as they were celebrating Mary Ann's birthday, a group of work friends toasted her more than once around a table in Chicago's Greektown. The last two to leave, Dianne and Mary Ann teetered their way happily and warmly drunk back towards the office. As inebriated people are often plagued by clumsiness, Mary Ann's heel caught and she tripped taking Dianne down with her. The two beautiful drunk women looked around them at the contents of their purses scattered haphazardly in the street, and as their eyes met, the laughter began.  

Hours later, when Mary Ann's date showed up to take her out for her birthday, he shook his head.. "I saw the strangest thing today...these women were just laying in the street laughing!"

It was through Dianne that Mary Ann met her husband and when asked if bothered, a no nonsense Dianne snort laughed. "Mary Ann had the patience that Brian needed," she responded with a knowing smile.  Years later when Brian got sick and passed on, Mary Ann valiantly fought her battle with grief. As she began to heal, her smile becoming more frequent, our choir began it’s preparations for our trip to Spain. Music was picked, organized, rehearsals scheduled and orchestrated, walking shoes and Spanish dictionaries were bought and amidst the collective anticipation, Mary Ann had quietly removed her wedding ring.  

A week before we were fly off on our Spanish adventure, our beloved alto Mary Ann went in for routine surgery. Unexpectedly, and some would say unfairly, we lost Mary Ann that day, 8 months after she lost her Brian. We cannot change fate or the will of God, but in these moments, we surely know                                                                        how to question it. 

Her friend Dianne, while not a singer, (so she claims,) decided to come with us to Spain though with a heavy heart. We are so grateful that she joined us. At the Madrid airport, we looked down at our luggage tags sporting large “MAD”s not just signifying Madrid but also Mary Ann Doyle. As we lifted our baggage, we carried her smile with us into Spain. 

We had a moment... a late night in Zaragoza. After a full day touring multiple churches, singing a powerfully emotional concert in Carlos’ home town and stuffing ourselves silly, most of the choir and it’s friends had dragged their exhausted bodies up to their beds. However, as was often the case, a small group of us gathered restlessly in the hotel lobby, waiting to head off into the Spanish night for drinks and laughter. Patrick, our tireless leader in music and often times rascality, Carlos, our brilliant and brave man of the hour, Murnie and her husband, our irreverent suburban friends, Susan, our creative smiling adventurer and myself wandered out into a chilly misty night. We found a small bar with modern features just on the edge of the city square, Pilar visible from our warm seats. We toasted our night, our trip, our performances, Carlos, our friends, our God, and we toasted Mary Ann. “Would she have come out with us,” I asked.  Perhaps she would have said, “I’m gonna call it a night, I have to sing in the morning!” while shaking her head at us or perhaps she is with us right now, raising her own glass.  

Upon the announcement of “last call,” we rose and walked on happily unsteady feet into an empty town square. Looking down, we discovered tiny brass seashells, marking the way to Saint James. Patrick leaned wobbily down, running his fingers over the cool scallop shell as Saint James loaned a shoulder to keep Patrick on his feet.    

Susan and I walked slightly behind the others and while they chattered on ahead, I explained with slurred speech, that we were having a moment. We were living! I was thrilled and proud of my late night drunken moment of self awareness. I raised my camera and as I have so many times in the past, I took a picture with my heart. (.. my very wine fuddled heart..)

As we walked in our concert black, the mist clinging to our eyelashes, the quiet square paved in reflections of the surrounding churches, we teased, we joked, we laughed and Mary Ann’s voice echoed with ours, sharing in and strengthening our moment. Oh yes, we had a moment… 

Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

-Mary Elizabeth Frye

CORO SAN GREGORIO EL GRANDE, DE Chicago, Illinois U.S:A

Painted Streets

We were a lazy bunch, lingering in our plush beds past set alarms. A cold damp rain fell through the weak morning light, taking me back to another such chilly day years before, in a beautiful Parador to the north in the tiny village of Hondarribia. That particular morning had been full of mussed covers and pastries in bed and wrinkled newspapers in three languages, the rain outside cocooning our warm world inside. But fast forwarding a few years to present time, such languid luxuries were not to be had, as Zaragoza beckoned and a morning mass wasn’t going to sing itself. We wearily brushed our teeth, tamed our hair, packed our bags, hastily sucked down coffee, and reluctantly settled in on our bus, glancing backwards through the rain splattered bus windows as our beautiful Brigadoon parador disappeared in the distance. 

Knowing nothing of the city except for the silliness I felt at pronouncing it’s name with the Spanish lisp, (Thhah rrrah GOH THHah..) I was  surprised at the prettiness of the outline of multiple ornate churches lining the river, signaling our entrance to Zaragoza.  Located halfway between Madrid and Barcelona and lining the banks of the Ebro River, Zaragoza traces her origins back to the time of Christ, when she existed as a Roman military camp. The two millennia since then have only added to her beauty with stunning  architecture influenced equally by the Moors, Jews and Christians. As we filed off of our bus and scrambled through the main square to our mass, our eyes happily flickered from one lavish bell tower to the next.

Even my dear Saint James, as full of perseverance and eagerness as he was, had low points, and it is said that Zaragoza was the place of one such moment. As Jim sat dejectedly, his head falling forward in his hands, his heart sick and his will discouraged by the endless task of bringing Christianity to Spain, Mary appeared before him, reassuring him of his eventual success. However, before leaving his side, she asked that a church be consecrated in her name, marking the spot of her appearance.  And so, The Saint Gregory the Great Parish Choir raced to line up inside the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, singing in the very place where Saint James and Mother Mary had their much needed pep talk.  

Photo credit Gilbert Godon

Photo credit Gilbert Godon

In it’s most recent form as the second largest church in Spain, the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar was constructed in 1681 and boasts 11 colorful tiled domes. As we sat through the mass, tucked away in the elaborately carved wooden chairs of the choir, cameras flashed and a TV reporter quietly interviewed our Spanish speaking members. While the priest performed the familiar steps of the preparation, our choir stood and commenced singing painfully slow, long, blue- faced lines of music. Despite our director’s wildly waving arms, an unfamiliar though lovely organist slowed our tempo to that of a listless, gasping, dirge. Even so, the mass ended with many happy congregants approaching us with hearty handshakes and thanks. 

Photo credit Gilbert Godon

One should never hand 

one’s camera off to a five year old if one will be upset by the fact that the five year old takes better pictures than her.  After finishing our mass at the Basilica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar, we wandered across the town square to La Seo, to strain our neck muscles further. With Carlos as our freakishly well informed tour guide, we took in the beauty of the 14th century Unesco world heritage site, our shoes and voices echoing throughout. As Patrick gleefully sat down at the 13th century organ, filling La Seo with sound, I sat with little Gilbert, quietly talking though the buttons of my camera. With only a trace of adult fear, I placed the camera strap around his neck and sent him on his way. I watched curious at what his young eyes would see and I chuckled at his fledgling efforts to remain still to avoid blur while taking a photo. 

At the completion of our tour, some choir members headed for scattered lunches, while others wandered towards our hotel in search of a much needed rest.

I spent my afternoon, pastry in hand (really... is there any other way to be?) meandering through the quiet corners of the city, dipping into perfume scented stores full of soft cotton and taking photos of unexpected urban art and shiny rain painted streets. 

Pastry Abstinence…Pfft!

"Hmm.. just out for a stroll, you say?"

Back in the early 1500s, young Teresa de Cepeda y Ahumada knew exactly how the world should run, and she wasn’t afraid to make it happen. So, it was with no great surprise that her father discovered her and her easily led brother, Rodrigo, outside the city walls of Ávila, attempting to run away in order to fight the Moors. At the time, our little martyr wanna-be, Teresa, was seven years old.  Amazingly, this was only one of many attempts and each time someone showed up at the door toting a runaway future saint, her parents must have rolled their eyes and tugged at their hair in bewildered frustration. One can only imagine that this was the true origin of the current “free range” parenting method..

"What? I am soo NOT reading a romance novel!!"

 Though Teresa’s teenage years were    marked by a slight obsession with self  image  and popular fiction (knights  tales) She didn’t take long to get herself  back on track. Upon entering the  Carmelite order, she immediately felt  frustrated at the indifference of the other nuns towards their vows. Teresa set about creating a new order, much more formal and austere, a new order recognizable by their lack of shoes and shirking of extravagance. Of course, those around her were less than thrilled with being called out and spiritually shown up.. 

It was with great irony that in the home town of a saint known for her strictness and self restraint, I found myself nearly licking the window of a bakery on a sunny late afternoon. In Ávila, thoughts of pious abstinence fled from my mind. Despite having lost the rest of my group, despite not knowing where the bus was and despite the very real threat of having to take a train to Zaragosa if the bus left without me, Satan tempted me and I succumbed to gluttony in it’s most delicious form. As I opened the bakery door, a warm breath of sweet cream scented air greeted me along with the guilty gazes of other straggler choir members. I pointed out my chosen sinful decadent pastry to the woman behind the counter and as she rang me up for the unexpectedly low price of one euro, I instantly regretted not buying five more pastries. I still regret that... In fact, I would greatly enjoy one more right now. 

The problem with villages built on top of hills is that the church is always at the top, and our choir always needed to get to that church. Our afternoon began by being herded from our bus, up a series of escalators (much like Toledo) and through the lovely, upward slanting, narrow cobbled streets. The town of Ávila, having existed in some form or other for a couple thousand years, had surrounded herself in the 11th century with a still intact 39 foot wall, serving as a chastity belt for her Christian values. By the time Teresa entered the scene in 1515, the great expulsion of the Jews and Moors was already 23 years in the past and her grandfather had long since been condemned to death by the inquisition for returning to his Jewish heritage. Teresa existed in a world almost entirely occupied by Christians of varying devotion (or lack thereof..)  

Convento de Santa Teresa

When the Saint Gregory Choir stepped into the Catedral de Ávila, five hundred years later, Ávila, located about 60 miles northwest of Madrid, had become a Unesco World Heritage sight, and home to approximately sixty thousand residents, still predominantly Roman Catholic. As we craned our necks to look at everything at once inside the 12 century cathedral, the smell of cool, stone infused age surrounded us. We lined up, pulled out our creased copies of Saint Teresa’s Bookmark, and blended our voices in a series of unexpected dissonance and occasional resolution, portraying the difficulties of praying for calm and patience amidst turmoil.

We stepped back out into the day, continuing our walk through Ávila, past men carefully placing the individual stones of a new road, past lovely little storefronts temporarily closed for afternoon siesta (our tour had impeccably bad timing in this regard..many times wandering through sleeping villages.) and on to the Convento de Santa Teresa, where we 'oohed' and 'aahed' over a preserved finger of Saint Teresa. After enthusiastically emptying our wallets in the gift shop, we strolled along the sun warmed walls surrounding the city as we slowly and reluctantly made our way back towards the bus... some of us slower than others, as there were bakeries in need of patrons..

Late that evening, while some choir members dreamed away in their plush luxurious beds, others gathered downstairs in the overstuffed chairs and couches of the Parador Nacionel Castillo de Sigüenza. Though once merely old moorish ruins, the castle was rescued and restored in 1971 by the ministry of tourism. Now a high end hotel, the parador, full of beautiful carved wood furniture and hand woven textiles, offered warmth and sanctuary to a group of weary singers. 

Giddy at staying in a castle and full to our throats from a decadent, well prepared multi course dinner, we lounged sated with drinks in hand, laughing, talking, sharing stories, singing and living... though perhaps not in the way that our dear austere Saint Teresa would have approved of...

Let nothing disturb thee,
nothing affright thee,

All things are passing;

God never changeth.

Patient endurance attaineth through all things

Who God possesseth, nothing is wanting.
God sufficeth. 

-St Teresa

My, how we fall...

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