"There's a pipe organ concert at St. Ann's this Sunday, if you want to go," my friend Svet mentioned in conversation.
An organ concert? Who has time for an organ concert? I mused, buried in papers, preparing for an exam. But when Sunday arrived, I found myself leaving my studies. I drove down Wisconsin Avenue, parked my car alongside the tall church, and walked into the sacristy. It was early May and beautiful outside - a perfect time to hear a classical concert in Washington, D.C.
The opening piece was unusual. In place of standard Bach organ chords, a light, almost frivolous Haydn melody emerged through the pipes. In my mind's eye, I envisioned three ballerinas doing bourreés across a stage, effortless and light. I closed my eyes and allowed my emotions free rein to move with the music. Dipping here, swirling there, flying overhead and then steadying to a stop. The music prompted an inner dance. I glanced at Svet during one of the pieces. He, too, had his eyes closed. As the concert progressed, I was reminded how art allows us to access emotions that mundane life obscures. Engaged in the listening, the viewing, the performing, the creating, another reality opens and we are caught for a time in its spell.
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"Mom, please! Faster! I'm late!" I was fourteen years old, wearing pink tights and a black leotard. Rehearsals for The Nutcracker were starting in five minutes.
My mother, a drive-the-speed-limit stickler, didn't understand my urgency. What was five minutes? But the dance studio was my home - a place where my teenage self felt safe to explore fully. Serenity and exhilaration, anger and jealousy, hilarity and humor - all were given freedom to fly. The darker emotions were challenging to portray - the jealous sister, the vengeful rival, the betrayed bride. Consequences were known before the curtain rose. Given that safety, I was free to go all out and dive in. The extra minutes my mother spent driving on the highway were minutes of fun I was missing out on in that other world.
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"What's going on with you?" My lover took me aside during scene rehearsal.
"Nothing."
"Bullshit. Tell me."
"No."
"Pretend we're doing a scene. Tell me."
I let him have it. Words flew from places I didn't know existed. Consequences didn't matter. When I was done, he sat quietly. "Feel better?"
"Yes," I admitted, head hung and relieved.
"Let's talk about this after rehearsal, okay?"
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The emotions we run from catch up to us. The ones we'd rather hide come out. The ones we're brave enough to share make life more intimate, more real. Making art, viewing art, listening to art - it demands us to admit there is more than just the superficial, polite world. There is another world that cannot be touched physically, but can be felt. We reach these emotional worlds in creativity, in waging battles and personal wars, in making love and making peace. As sure as you know the back of your hand, this world exists. It is where the healing of souls begins.
The last chords of music echoed through the church. A full silence permeated the air.
"That was great," I whispered. Svet nodded in agreement.
The organist bowed. The audience applauded.
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