A Glimpse of Heaven: Beethoven's Sonata Op. 109

Certain pieces of music can make such an impact on one's life, one cannot listen to them without feeling as if the heart may at any moment stop beating, so gripped is it with an emotion impossible to fathom, much less express. If I had to single out one piece that affects me in this way, it would be, without question, Beethoven's Sonata in E, Op. 109.

I did play this piece; in fact, I used it quite often in recitals and competitions. Technical challenges aside, its interpretive and emotional demands are such that I always released the final chord completely drained and (pardon me) soaked in sweat. But I also felt, every time I played it, that I had grown a little as a human being.

When at the age of 19 I first told my college piano teacher, Andrew Mihalso, that I wanted to learn the "109," he did his best to discourage me. "You're much too young," he said. "You should wait another fifteen years at least, when you've lived life more fully." But one of my colleagues at a summer music festival who was not much older than myself had played it, and there was something in the piece that spoke directly to my soul. Since then, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I simply had to play it. After more coaxing from me, Andy finally but grudgingly consented, and I plunged into the "109" with an alacrity—and also a certain fear—I had not felt in a very long time.

I can't remember exactly how long it took me to get the piece under my hands, but it was a considerable length of time mostly devoted to the fugue and final variation of the third movement. During this period I learned to be a bit more detached about the piece (technical work always has that effect) which turned out to be a great blessing. That detachment saved me from becoming too psychologically mired later on, when I had to tackle the interpretive challenges. Throughout the learning process, Andy would speak to me about the piece from a purely abstract angle. "Picture an old man sitting by the fire with a blanket over his knees, thinking about his life and all the suffering he's endured, physical, emotional, mental. Now, at the end, he's come to terms with his journey, and heaven is just there, at his fingertips. He can almost see it." Perhaps this view of the piece is not shared by everyone, but it was exactly what I heard in it. I felt very old for my 19 years; I had recently lost my sister to a sudden and violent death, and I was at that time in a difficult, somewhat abusive relationship. I knew the suffering part, but heaven? What did I know of that? I was still a willful agnostic, and would not recover my faith for many years yet. But I did know that I craved peace of mind, so I used that craving to help me through the "109." Sadly, I no longer have my score, but I remember writing in very bold print at the big climax of the final variation, "HEAVEN OPENS." Anyone who knows the piece knows exactly to what moment in the music I refer. And after that ecstatic moment, the final bars evoke a peace and, yes, a serene resignation, that to my mind is not found anywhere else in all music.

I didn't use the piece publicly till the next year. After debuting it in a recital, one of my professors told me how deeply moved he was by the "109"; that he was astonished at the maturity of my interpretation. I don't know about "mature," nor can I agree that my performance was moving; but I do know that that piece had wrapped itself around my heart and conscience at a time when my life was in seemingly endless turmoil. In a way, it saved me.

Years later when I was working at the Houston Grand Opera, I took my score out again and reworked the "109," not with the view to perform it again, but just to see if those additional "fifteen years at least" that Andy had recommended did indeed make a difference. I can't say that they did, to be honest. Because at that moment in my life I was much happier, much more secure in myself. Perhaps—no; no "perhaps" about it—the "109" helped get me to that better place. It came along in my life at the right time, despite my youth.

Highly recommended listening: Artur Schnabel

My Life 10 Years Ago

My life 10 years ago? I barely remember, frankly. Probably because it bore so little resemblance to my life today. Still, it's amusing to look back in one's journal and laugh - or groan - or wince. Or all three.


2002

3 February   Semi-finalists (for the Studio) party yesterday OK. Large River Oaks house filled with Americana, wonderful folk art portraits, etc. Good food. A bunch of us ate around the island/breakfast bar in the airy kitchen, much jollier and easier than balancing one's plate on one's knee while perched primly on a couch. Again, hung out with J_ and S_. He keeps relating colorful facts and anecdotes to her about me. They are disgustingly in love, she billing and cooing, and he solicitous and adoring. I nearly threw up.
    I was never able to bill and coo with __ in public, since our relationship was clandestine, so I've never experienced firsthand the joys of being nauseatingly romantic in front of other people. Am certain, however, that it must give one a sort of smug satisfaction.
     This promises to be a very busy week, and my day off isn't till Sunday, which will have been a week and a half since my last day off, which I didn't take because I gave an outside coaching to D_ and made the chorus master copy for Abduction. So I'll be right grumpy by the time Sunday rolls around, what with all that, plus suffering from bearing witness to nauseating lovers' exhibitions of affection, and Valentine's Day looming up - as if I really need further reminding of my state of blessed singleness.

8 February   This very busy week of Studio semis and finals is over. I got to play the concert segment of the finals last night - the Cesare duet, the final duet from Carmen, and the audience sing-along of "God Bless America." The Handel was, I'm happy to report, the highlight of the entire evening. M_ and A_ and I were much more attuned to each other than in the scenes program; there was a wonderful hush over the audience; many compliments afterward. I felt I played well - surprisingly, I received many more compliments on my playing of the Handel than on the Bizet. I guess I underestimated the sophistication level of the audience.

9 February   Yes, today is Jeff Bowen's birthday, and yes, it is totally sad that I would, at 42 years of age, still remember the birthday of the boy I had a hopeless crush on in the 7th grade.
     I have become a Sex and the City addict. But I can't decide if I watch it to feed my fantasy of what I wish my own singledom were like, or if I watch it to make myself feel better that I'm not on that horrible "dating-having sex-hoping it turns into a relationship-breaking up-being temporarily disillusioned-putting back together your shreds of hope-telling yourself you're still fabulous" carousel.

17 February   Life plods on. I should be learning Samson and Delilah, but I keep putting it off. And I can't seem to decide on a novel to read.
     Maybe my dream of the unfinished poem the other night has something to to do with my inability of late to finish anything. But my whole life seems to be in limbo right now. Even work - J_ showed me an article in the Houston Press about the rather alarming effect of Enron's demise on HGO. It mentioned layoffs. Can HGO survive this? We've made it through difficulties in the past, but this one seems to be of much greater proportion. Frankly, I don't know what I would do, should worse come to worse. The thought of relocating is too much for me. I don't have that "vagabond gene" that so many people have; I want to stay in one place. Fear of change, I suppose. Embracing change as the only constant in life is something that has always eluded me.
     Oh, this "nothing time"! Nothing happening, every day pretty much the same. Better to feel something than nothing - even if it's teeth. (That's a line from Impromptu.)

Eric Owens: A Kid in a Candy Store

One of the most rewarding aspects of being a coach, especially one connected with a fine training program like the Houston Grand Opera Studio, is working with some of the top young talent in the business. When they come to the Studio, these singers are at a very crucial and exciting juncture in their development: most of them are fresh out of conservatory or graduate school, but not yet ripe enough for a full-fledged professional career and all the pressures such a career entails. Their voices are still developing, their techniques still settling, their artistry and dramatic skills still in their infancy. The majority remain in the Studio for two years, some for three. It was always thrilling for me to watch them grow during that time, as singers, artists, and human beings.

A good percentage of Studio singers, I would say about 90%, go on to have viable careers in opera. Of that percentage, out of the fifteen years I was with the Studio, there were a handful of singers of whom I could confidently say were extraordinarily and uniquely gifted. The voice itself, surprisingly, wasn't the single most important thing for me. Neither was that mercurial quality called "drive," nor a reliable technique, nor dramatic instinct, nor superior musicality (not the same as superior musicianship, which is, alas, even rarer). All those things are givens in anyone who ultimately enjoys a major operatic career. No, what struck me as extraordinary in these few singers was a certain quality that is difficult to articulate - and since the word "passion" has become almost meaningless in its overuse, I will avoid it like the plague it has become. Instead, let me simply tell you a story.

In 1996, the Houston Grand Opera brought its production of Four Saints in Three Acts to the Edinburgh Festival. In its cast were several Studio singers, one of them the now renowned bass-baritone Eric Owens. After the Festival, some of the singers including Eric, and I, as their pianist, stopped for a couple of days in London where auditions had been set up with a few General Directors. The day before the auditions, I and another singer we'll call "Jim" took Eric on a whirlwind tour of the West End. It was Eric's first time in London and he was as excited as I remember being on my first visit. When we got to Piccadilly Circus, Eric espied a Tower Records and asked if we could go in. Jim and I remonstrated at first, saying there was so much more to see in so little time, but Eric kept begging, "Please, please, puh-leeeeze, can we go in? Just for a few minutes?" Now, there are music stores in every city all over the world, but Eric's boundless enthusiasm for music was such that the very sight of CDs for sale was irresistible to him. Me, I could have passed up that Tower Records and waited till I was back in Houston to shop for CDs. After all, London awaited! But this was Eric's day, so we indulged him, and he came out of the store happily dangling a bag full of treasures. A couple of hours later found us at Covent Garden. Eric all but went into a rapture of glee at the sight of the opera house and demanded I take a picture of him in front of it. "Someday. Someday - !" he said. Years later, when Eric did indeed make his debut at Covent Garden, I thought back to that moment and thought, "You made it, Eric. And you deserve it."

Eric's vocal gift is obvious and indisputable. His musicality and musicianship are impeccable. His theatrical instinct is strong and growing ever stronger, along with his gift for communication. But that utter, complete, almost childlike, absorption in music - and I'm certain that music is always playing on his subconscious' turntable - is what makes Eric extraordinary. Throughout his two years in the Studio, and especially on that day in London, I fervently hoped that that particular trait would stay with him always, would never grow dim as it does in so many musicians. I knew that if it stayed as vibrant as it was then, it would on an unconscious yet potent level inform every performance throughout his career, and in turn stir even further in his listeners the fervor that brought them to the opera house and concert hall in the first place. It would mold him into an artist of profound and unshakable integrity, one that would always place the music before everything else, keeping him its devoted servant, because I believe that true greatness comes only when one realizes that the thing one serves is far greater than oneself.

I've read a few articles about Eric in the past few months and, judging from his own words, I know he is still that kid in a candy store I knew in his Studio days. That extraordinary spark, given to so few, hasn't dimmed one jot. Keep it burning, Eric.

Regret? No, Gratitude

I'm a creature of nostalgia, I admit. Cherishing the past, wrapping its memories round me like a comfortable quilt, is a part of my character that informs almost everything I do: writing poetry, journaling, analyzing the present. I have never been a planner of my own future, a weakness in some people's eyes, I suppose; but I've always been one to take life a day at a time and confine my worrying to what's on my plate at the moment. Right now, I can't really think beyond simply being here for my mother and her needs. Her grief for my father is still deep, though she seldom speaks of it, and I know my company affords her some comfort - that, and baking up batches of cookies and one cake after another.

Many of my dreams take place in the apartment I had in Houston, in the Allen House. In all these dreams, I return there after some absence to find the place either in a shambles, or broken into by burglars who have left the place nearly empty. I don't need Jung to tell me the significance of these dreams, nor do I need him to tell me what prompted me to write the poem "Regret":

     I've lost the key to every house I've owned,
     but I recall the way to all of them
     as though the multi-layered years between us
     never were.  I still could navigate
     around the furnishings with eyes shut tight
     and not disturb a thing.  Although the keys
     are lost to me, like all my schoolgirl clothes,
     the sounds of every house are still as clear
     as bubbling laughter from a baby's lips,
     and all their scents still linger on the threads
     of tattered memories.  The houses stand
     as if in wait for me, but I must stay
     forever on the outside looking in.

I often think I should change the title of that poem, because it isn't so much regret I harbor for the past, but a grateful affection that helps me deal with the present. Though I sometimes feel like a slightly dowdy, genteel spinster penning memories on pages that will inevitably yellow and turn to dust, I can be happy in the knowledge that I've made good use of my life and my gifts. And every night when I kiss my mother and wish her a good sleep, I can be happy knowing I am of some use to her.

["Regret" was first published in WestWard Quarterly]

Note from the author: After the writing of this post and the publication of the poem, I officially changed the name of the poem to "Retrospect."

My Valentines for You

A Tear-Jerker Valentine

The final scene, in two parts, from An Affair to Remember

A Poetic Valentine

W. B. Yeats, "When You Are Old"

A Musical Valentine

Beethoven's "Ich Liebe Dich"

"My funny valentine, sweet, comic valentine ... "

The now classic opening scene from Frasier, "Three Valentines," Season 6

Working Through Pain

"We read to know we're not alone." That's a line from the 1993 film Shadowlands, which starred Anthony Hopkins as the writer C. S. Lewis. Lewis didn't come up with that line; it was one of his students, who in turn was quoting his father. But those words hit a nerve with Lewis in the film, and they hit a nerve with me. When I first heard them, I realized that, besides my love of good writing, one of the main reasons I read is unconditional companionship. Another is validation.

There was a time, during my years in Houston, I went through a prolonged depression of a kind I had never before experienced and have never again since. Although well aware of what had triggered it, I was at rather a loss as to how to pull myself out of it, other than writing a good deal in my journal. Mind you, this was all prior to my religious "reversion," so I really did feel alone despite my good friends. Comes a point when you no longer want to prevail upon your friends' sympathy for fear of wearing it thin.

On the worst days, I found myself getting in my car and sitting there for long minutes, wondering where I wanted to go. Sometimes I wound up going to a music store, where I'd spend an hour perusing the racks of CDs, picking up around ten or so, only to put them all back and leave the store as empty-handed as I entered. More often than not, I went to a bookstore. I would weave in and out of the stacks of fiction and biography (for some reason, I've always spurned so-called "self help" books), trying to find a story similar to my own, so that I would know I wasn't alone. I did find something once in a while that had elements similar to my experience, which helped—sometimes I'd be comforted; other times, I'd end up actually laughing at myself. If it were fiction, it interested me to see how the author treated the particular situation I identified with, how he depicted the character, whether or not I thought he "got it right." If it were a biography, a diary, or correspondence, I of course felt a stronger connection, it being someone else's true life experience. Either way, books provided the companionship and validation I so badly needed.

In the film, however, Lewis comes to realize that reading is not experience. Reading can't teach you what experience can teach you. Most importantly, he discovers that, in substituting reading for experience, he was subconsciously avoiding the inevitable pain that experience can sometimes bring. In the end, his own words come back to him: "Pain is God's megaphone to rouse a deaf world." So he decides to open his heart to experience, and to the healing power of pain.

It wasn't long after that period of depression that I rediscovered my faith. God is a patient suitor; he waits until you're ready before he endows you with that precious gift. There was indeed much pain to work through. Maybe he knew, given my love of words, that I had to read about it first before I was able to face and experience it truthfully in myself.

An Exercise in Frivolity

     One of the things I resort to when going through a poetical low patch (euphemism for "writer's block") is writing lyrics to well-known tunes. It amuses me and keeps my meter/rhyme muscles in shape. I was called upon several times to use this skill, if you can call it that, when I was in the monastery -- e. g., for our novice directress' feast day one year, I wrote funny lyrics to the Brady Bunch theme, and all the novices sang it for her at recreation. We were a big hit. My "crowning achievement" (*snort*) was a little musical in eight vignettes about a young woman who enters the monastery and has to face a family dilemma just before her clothing day. That is, I wrote the book and lyrics, but the music for all the songs was, shall we say, appropriated from The Sound of Music. I had hoped that we, the novices, could perform it on the next St. Louis Bertram celebration (he's the patron saint of novices and novice directors), but, alas, it was not to be.
     One of the songs is about a struggle every postulant goes through -- learning to use the breviary. For those who don't know, the breviary is the book used every single day, several times a day, by ordained/vowed religious for praying the Liturgy of the Hours (also called the Divine Office), either together as a community, or in individual recitation. The common pronunciation, in America at least, is "bree-vree." Yes, the dictionary says otherwise, but for some reason I've always heard it "bree-vree," so that's how I say it, too. Anyway, learning how to use the breviary is a tortured process; hopefully, as a postulant, you are guided through it daily by your "angel," an older novice assigned to help you with all the practical aspects of monastic life.
     So here is my song about learning to use the "bree-vree." It is to be sung to the tune "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?"


POSTULANT:  How do you solve a problem like the breviary?
     How do you figure where to go, and when?
     How do you find your way around the breviary?
     I think I have got it, and then I get lost again!
     Many a day my "angel" tries to help me,
     Many a time my neighbor lends a hand.
     How can I expect to pray, and trip all along the way?
     When will I ever reach the Promised Land?
     Oh, how do you solve a problem like the breviary?
     How can I ever hope to understand?

NOVICE MISTRESS:  When I entered, it is true, I was clueless just like you,
     And I never knew exactly where we were ...

PRIORESS:  "It gets easier," they said, but inside my muddled head
     The memorials and the feasts were all a blur!
     But at last there came a day when there shone a hopeful ray,
     And the tangled muddle vanished from my brain.

NOVICE MISTRESS:  Until then, you must expect --

POSTULANT:  -- to become a nervous wreck?

NOVICE MISTRESS:  It's a penance!

PRIORESS:  It's a challenge!

POSTULANT:  It's a pain!!!

ALL 3:  How do you solve a problem like the breviary?
     How do you figure where to go, and when?
     How do you find your way around the breviary?

POSTULANT:  I think I have got it --

PRIORESS:  -- and then you get lost --

POSTULANT:  -- again!

PRIORESS and NOVICE MISTRESS: 
     Many a day my "angel" tried to help me,
     Many a day my neighbor lent a hand.

POSTULANT:  How can I expect to pray, and trip all along the way?

PRIORESS:  When will you ever reach the Promised Land?

ALL 3:  Oh, how do you solve a problem like the breviary? ...

     (Sudden, long pause while the SIGN CHANGER enters, carrying a sign which she places on the easel. On it is written: "Tomorrow's Liturgy: Paul Miki and Companions - Memorial - Common of Several Martyrs." The POSTULANT reads it silently, emits an anguished groan, then continues singing:)

POSTULANT:  How can I ever hope to understand?