Rekindling My Inner Pianist

     Ever since I gave up my youthful ambition to be a concert pianist and decided to be an opera coach instead, which was back in the early '80s, I also gave up playing solo piano music. I even gave up listening to it. True to my obsessive nature, I focused all my energy and concentration on opera. My pianistic skills were then used to learn and study as many opera scores as I could. Even art song was pushed aside, only to emerge whenever I was hired to play the occasional voice recital.

     Playing opera scores—piano reductions of orchestral scores, that is—is an entirely different discipline from playing solo piano repertoire; I had to forget about all the interpretive freedom that goes along with being a solo pianist, and learn to think like an orchestra following a conductor, slowing down when he slowed down, speeding up when he sped up. I had to play like an orchestra, imitating woodwinds, brass, legato strings, pizzicato strings. There really is no freedom to be your own artist, musically, that is; but the technique has to be solid and flexible enough to cope with all the difficulties inherent in playing music that wasn't written for the piano. Many opera pianists are a bit stumped as to how to play Rossini, for example, whose music can be hideously unpianistic. This is where the fine art of "cheating" comes into play (forgive the pun). Take, for a typical Rossinian example, the shaving scene in Barbiere: the tempo is lightning fast, one of the fastest tempos in the entire score, and the strings are playing all these scrubby repeated notes. What does a pianist do? Broken octaves. It's cheating, but it's necessary. (However, not all repeated notes can be substituted with broken octaves—in Rigoletto's big aria "Cortigiani, vil razza" the tempo isn't fast enough; broken octaves would sound downright silly. In this instance, the pianist simply has to have the finger technique required to play clean repeated notes.)

     The secret to good cheating, of course, is to sound as if you're not cheating. I became known as a very good cheater, and was often asked to coach other pianists on Rossini, and also Handel. But after some years of cheating, thinking like an orchestra, and following the bouncing baton, I began to miss playing real piano music. I knew I could never be a solo pianist, but the artist in me was getting stale and my playing getting more and more mechanical. The only remedy was to dust off my old Bach, Mozart, and Chopin scores and make time in my already demanding schedule to nurture my inner pianist. The most gratifying part of this was finding that my technique had greatly improved; passages I had once found beastly difficult were suddenly easier; even learning new pieces came more easily. Best of all, I was once again exercising the interpretive muscles which had become stiff over the years. Once again, if only in the solitude of my studio, I was my own artist, making my own musical choices, following my own baton. All of this made me a better operatic pianist as well.

     When I left opera and entered the monastery in 2004, I had to give up the piano. There was simply no time or place in monastic life, with its emphasis on relative silence, for playing seriously and on a daily basis any kind of instrument except the organ—which I was permitted to learn, but even so, I had to use the quietest registration while practicing! Giving up the piano altogether was hard, yes, but nothing is too difficult or painful if it's done for God. If he asks you to do it, you must believe it's for a greater good. I've already recounted, in earlier posts, the good that giving up the piano has done me and my overgrown ego, not to mention my blood pressure.

     It has been eight years since I gave it up. Even though I've been back in the world since November of 2006, I've felt no real need to play again, but I have lately given it a fleeting thought or two. What has most emphatically come back into my life, just in the past few months, is listening to piano music. Since I haven't done that, really, for so many years—three decades, in fact—I'm only now discovering all the wonderful pianists playing today. Among them, my all-around choice is Stephen Hough, though there are many others I admire. And of course, I've had the pleasure of reacquainting myself with pianists I loved in my youth—de Larrocha, Arrau, Brendel, Gould, Fleisher, Rubinstein, Vásáry, Cortot, Benedetti Michelangeli, Bachauer, Kraus, Landowska, Kempff—all my old ghostly mentors! I'm also becoming interested in a broader range of repertoire, expanding my knowledge and tastes.

     The most wonderful thing of all is actually a kind of compromise: though I myself no longer experience the joy and satisfaction of producing music with my own hands, I experience it by proxy, through the art of pianists who've been given a far greater gift than mine. My quiet days are underscored with music, with all its poetry and passion. That's enough for me. That's everything.

On the Feast of the Annunciation

When I was a postulant, our prioress, Sr. Mary Annunciata, asked me to deliver the sermon at Lenten chapter one year. It was to be about the Annunciation, which is usually celebrated on March 25; but that particular year, Good Friday happened to fall on that date. I wanted to combine both of these important events in my sermon. Also, I have a great devotion to the Divine Will, and believe that our sanctification lies in our obedience to that Will. Here is the sermon I wrote for chapter:


Fiat. "Let it be done." In the Bible, the very first word God utters is fiat -- "Fiat lux," he said, "Let there be light." And with that word began the universe, the world, mankind, human history, and, in time, the history of human salvation.

Twice more in the history of salvation was that word spoken, by the two key figures in that history: Jesus and Mary.

Much has been written about Mary as the New Eve. When she said fiat in response to the glorious vocation announced to her by the angel, she reversed forever the disobedience of our fallen mother and, with her simple "let it be done," set into motion God's greatest work since the Creation: the redemption of his own creatures. But though it all happened in accordance with his divine plan, revealed to man through heavenly messengers and the prophets, it is clear that the reversal of Eve's disobedience could not have been accomplished had Mary been coerced in any way to give her consent; it had to be given of her own free will. Thus, that same human free will which, exercised by our first mother, brought about the fall of Man, now, exercised by our Eternal Mother, is the instrument through which is brought about Man's salvation.

Though Mary was troubled at Gabriel's words -- not because she doubted their validity, but only because she was unclear as to how it could happen -- she nevertheless gave her fiat with the complete trust and faith inherent in her sinless nature. Great and exalted as her fiat was, it portended an even greater: that of Jesus, spoken in utter desolation, in the depths of his agony in Gethsemane. This was the fiat of a man who, though sinless like Mary, was crushed beneath the sins of the men of centuries since centuries began; a man who was tormented by the temptation of Adam and Eve and all their generations of descendants; a man who, burdened by the ingratitude, inconstancy, vices, and vanities of those very creatures whom he created out of his infinite love, embraced that heaviest of burdens in his human arms and offered it in the ultimate human triumph to the Father, saying, "Non mea voluntas, sed tua fiat" -- "Not my will, but Thine, be done."

The twenty-fifth of March was the date that the early Church universally understood to be the actual day of the Crucifixion. How fitting, then that this year, Good Friday should have fallen on the Feast of the Annunciation. Mary, at the crucial moment of the Annunciation, and Jesus, at the turning point of his Passion, both gave the only response they could give: fiat. They both knew that it was only by submission to God's will, through complete trust and faith in his will, that man could be saved. And so it was, too, that Jesus our Savior gave us the most powerful prayer we could offer -- the "Our Father" -- in which he taught us to say, "Fiat voluntas tua"  -- "Thy will be done."

The world began and was saved by that simple word, fiat. It was the command of our Creator, the response of the Mother of Redemption, the prayer of the God-Man who is our Savior. It is the song of the saints, the battle-cry of the Church Militant, and the greatest and most eloquent plea of Man for his own salvation.

© Leticia Austria

Nostalgic for My "Nun Buzz"

I'm not one to fuss overmuch about my appearance. Having been a cloistered religious, even for a short time, has helped curb the old vanity that once governed how I perceive my physical self and how I hoped others would perceive me. Consequently, I no longer wear make-up, and the only concern I have about my hair is that it be the right length.

When I left the monastery I of course shed the close-fitting cap and long veil that concealed my hair. Stepping out from the cloister walls wearing the jeans and sweater of old, I was a bit conscious of the inch-long "nun buzz" that was now exposed to the world and the elements. I felt like a shorn sheep in midwinter. I loved, however, the no-maintenance aspect of my crop; like Jo March, I felt liberated by it, loved that all it needed was a wash-&-air-dry, not even a comb, just a finger-fluff now and then.

The first hint of disenchantment came one day when I approached a checker at WalMart, who, just barely glancing in my direction, greeted me with, "Find everything you need, sir?" After my initial chagrin (and hers, as well), I realized her gaffe was somewhat justified. In my plaid shirt and jeans, and with my nun buzz, I might indeed have been mistaken for a man if one were not looking directly at me. So I let the sting pass -- till a couple of years later.

While in flight one morning to Seattle, I heard the rattle of the drinks cart behind me, and a cheery voice saying, "Something to drink, sir?" I turned around to find that the flight attendant was addressing me. The expression on his face, upon seeing my own obviously feminine one, clearly registered his embarrassment and was more than enough apology for me. However, having the identical incident (with a different flight attendant) occur on my return flight proved one "sir" too many! That was it -- being mistaken for a man three times spelled out in big letters, "GROW OUT YOUR HAIR."

Grown it out, I have indeed, but only as much as is needed to leave absolutely no doubt about my gender, whether I'm viewed from behind or from the corner of someone's eye. My brief bob requires a bit more day-to-day maintenance, however, and I do miss the utter freedom of the old nun buzz.

Three Sunday Mornings

     It's a Sunday morning in the year 2000; time, about 9.00; place, my apartment in Houston. I awaken sans alarm clock, since I don't have to be at the opera house till 2.00 for a chorus staging. Since I am still an agnostic at this time, I have no thought of going to Mass. Instead, I get up to grind my coffee, brew it in my french press pot, and retrieve the newspaper; then, armed with steaming cup (Italian pottery) and said newspaper, I head back to bed, put some Mozart on the CD player, and settle down for a leisurely morning of reading, sipping, and listening. I wonder where I'll have lunch.

     Fast-forward to 2003. It's Sunday morning, same city, same place, but I have set my alarm for 7.30, despite having had a four-hour piano tech the night before, followed by a half-hour production meeting, and not getting home till nearly 1.00. I am determined to go to the 9.30 Latin Mass at Holy Rosary. I could go to a later service, but I love the Latin and the chants. This particular Sunday is a day off for me, so I look forward to lunch with my journal at my neighborhood La Madeleine, followed by an afternoon of book hunting.

     A Sunday morning in 2005, The Monastery of the Infant Jesus in Lufkin. I awaken in pitch darkness to the silvery tinkle of the rising bell, which is rung by one of the novices. It's 5.20. The tinkling continues as the novice goes down the narrow hall of the novitiate past the other cells; I get up from my hard, narrow monastic bed and feel with my feet around the cold linoleum floor for my slippers. Standing up, I weave groggily as I silently pray a Hail Mary. Then I quickly throw on the tunic of my work habit over my long muslin nightgown (because nuns are not allowed to be seen in their nightgowns), straighten my cotton night veil (because nuns are never allowed to have their hair uncovered) which has gone askew in my sleep, trudge down the hall to the toilets, then trudge back to get dressed. As I don tunic, belt, scapular, cape, and veil, I say the prayer that accompanies each one, thus reinforcing in my mind the symbolism behind every component of the holy habit. These prayers are a custom long dead, but having seen it done in a movie, I asked my novice directress if I might do it. (Unfortunately, I have now forgotten all those beautiful short prayers.) Once dressed, I go out into the dark to the main building. I have about fifteen minutes before Office, so I step into the small oratory situated on the other side of large windows behind the altar and tabernacle. If I keep the lights off, no one in the chapel will be able to see me through the windows. I kneel behind the tabernacle with only the cool glass separating me and the Blessed Sacrament, and place myself in the silence of Christ's presence. No words go through my head. I simply focus on his presence. Ten minutes later, I join the rest of the community in the chapel to prepare my breviary and hymn book for the Office of Readings and Morning Prayer. At exactly 5.50, one of the chantresses quietly goes out to the hall to ring the bell. Our day of prayer and contemplation has begun. After Office, individual meditation; at 7.00, Holy Mass (on weekdays, Mass is at 7.20). By 8.15, I'm sitting down to breakfast. If it were five years earlier, I'd still be fast asleep in my bed in Houston.

Poetry Readings

When I was invited to give my first poetry reading, I had never actually attended one. I was still very new to the world of poets and poetry, never took any writing courses, and I've been a bit of a hermit anyway, since moving back to this city. I wasn't worried about getting up in front of an audience; Lord knows I'd been doing that almost all my life as a pianist and singer. But what exactly did a poetry reading entail? YouTube proved to be somewhat helpful. I also asked a poet friend for advice. But in the end, you just have to do it and find out what is the best way for you to communicate to an audience the reflections and insights you've labored so hard to hone into words.

A lot of it has to do with the venue. I was lucky that my first reading was in the intimate space of a small independent bookstore, where my very quiet, introspective poems wouldn't get lost, as they might among the milling customers of a Barnes & Noble. I can't see myself bellowing (albeit over a microphone) phrases like "and wakefulness / becomes a prayer, the holiest of sighs" into the mini-canyons between towering bookshelves. So even though I've been asked a few times to read at Barnes & Noble, I reluctantly and, I hope, graciously, declined.

Then there's the issue of the microphone. Being a classically trained singer, I prefer to project my voice naturally, by taking a proper singer's breath and supporting the sound with unimpeded airflow, and I have no problem being heard in a small to medium sized room. Our natural resonance is always more clear and pleasing to a listener than the tinny, artificial resonance of a speaker system; plus, you don't get those annoying spitted p's that result from having the microphone too close to the mouth. However, I'm well aware that most poets have not had formal vocal training, that many of them have naturally smaller voices, and that sometimes the venue's space is of a size that requires a microphone. At any rate, when using a microphone, don't have it too close, try not to spit your p's, and in the meantime, learn to speak louder if you can.

Also, being a singer, I'm very conscious of tempo. Since I started doing readings and listening to other poets read, I've noticed that some poets tend to deliver everything at the same tempo. Whether that tempo is slow or fast, if sustained for more than ten minutes, it has a lulling effect on the listeners, and they actually stop listening for large chunks at a time. I realize that when there's a certain sameness to a poet's poems -- as I said, mine are mostly introspective -- it may be difficult to change the tempo from poem to poem; but one can and should vary the tempo within a poem. Some phrases, for instance, are more urgent, warranting a speeding up; others require more deliberate emphasis, if they contain words with particular meaning and importance. If a poem is metered (many of mine are), try to find a good balance between respecting the meter, and giving a natural rhythm to the text to avoid seasickness in your listeners. Some poets like to observe enjambments, others pay them minimal attention, preferring to observe the number of feet in a line. That's a matter of personal taste. Sometimes a phrase is simply difficult to say because it has too many complicated consonants clustered together (case in point); these require greater articulation and a slight slowing of tempo. Hopefully, those phrases are few and far between, music and sound being crucial elements in a poem.

Which brings us to diction and pitch. Whatever tempo you take, make sure it isn't so fast that the words become melded into an incomprehensible mass. A good poet chooses his words carefully, purposefully; he sometimes agonizes over his choices, because he knows that the wrong word can ruin the impact of a phrase, and even the whole piece. So in your reading, treat those carefully chosen words with the respect due them, by pronouncing them with great care, even when you take a faster tempo. Try to vary the pitch of your voice. In the privacy of your home, explore the highs and lows of your speaking range and, if your natural tendency is to speak in a monotone, try as much as you can to expand it. There is nothing worse than listening for half an hour or more to a drone -- no, there is one thing worse: listening to a mutter.

Which in turn brings us to memorization. Certainly no one expects you to memorize all of your poems, but it's a wonderful plus for the audience when you deliver a shorter piece directly to them, without the barrier of the page. It engages them, compels them to listen, lets them know that you respect both them and your own work. Even when you do read from the page, look up every so often, not just in pauses, but with important phrases so that you really get your point across. If nothing else, looking at the audience once in a while keeps them awake.

Should you introduce every poem? That's up to you. If a poem really warrants some kind of intro or explanation, or if there's an interesting or amusing anecdote attached to it, by all means, share it -- but keep it brief, and be sure to speak clearly or you'll have defeated your purpose. Sometimes, however, it's really nice just to launch into the next poem after a short silence. Deliver the title (if there is one) looking directly at the audience, then take a slow, relaxed breath through the nose, which allows three or four seconds to pass before beginning the text. Or if the poem has no title, you might want to give the first line or phrase in lieu of one. Important note: no poem should require interpretive explanation. If it does, in my opinion, you've not done your job as a poet.

I like to begin and end the reading with a shorter piece. Beginning with a short piece gives you a chance to warm up, try out the room, and deal with your nerves. Ending with a short piece is the equivalent of keeping a farewell short and sweet. Short goodbyes are better. It's nice to say your thank yous before announcing the last poem; it's like a "heads up," and you leave the audience with your last line of poetry still in their ears. Try to choose as your closing piece one with a really memorable last line.

To sum up, always remember that the whole point of reading is to communicate. Poetry is communication and connection -- and, hopefully, illumination.

My Greatest Inspiration

     For most of my life, I have been a victim of what I call "lazy ambition." My head was always full of lofty musical goals, most of which I knew I was capable of attaining, but a deplorable lack of motivation kept me from attaining them—that, and being by nature a yellow-bellied chicken. All the more peculiar, considering I was also competitive to the point of pettiness; I resented the accomplishments of other people with talents like my own, thinking, "That should be me getting that job/award/compliment, I'm a much better pianist than he/she is!" Meanwhile, my piano was getting dusty from lack of use. Perverse, I know.

     In school and college I was also unmotivated but, while I had musical aspirations aplenty, I had zero scholastically. Deep down, I knew I was a lot smarter than my grades showed; I simply didn't care. The classic Underachiever.

     After being accepted into the Houston Grand Opera Studio, my primary goal was to land a job on the HGO music staff. But it had to do with simply earning a living, not so much with realizing my potential as a pianist and coach; although indirectly, by virtue of the fact that I put in more practice time than I ever had in my life, I did make some advances in that respect. However, whatever motivation I had managed to fire up subsided quite a bit once I did land the job. Within five years, it came dangerously close to burning out altogether. My playing grew more and more mechanical, my coaching dry and superficial. I was becoming complacent, both as a musician and as a person, and began to question why I was in opera at all. Some of my colleagues exhorted me to conduct, but after just one perfomance, I discarded the idea.

     My life changed quite suddenly around my 36th birthday, when I met the great love of my life: a wonderful, talented, and intellectually brilliant man I'll call "C." Unfortunately for me, C was and still is very happily married and a father, so I have never told him my feelings, but am perfectly content and greatly privileged to share with him a friendship based on common interests and deep mutual respect. For the past sixteen years he has simply been The Distant Belovèd, and while I have come to know and accept his faults, I've chosen to hold up his many merits as inspiration by which to better myself. His intellectual curiosity, which is insatiable, has stimulated my own and spurred me on to expand my tastes in reading, art, and music, as well as my knowledge of Italian, which is his native tongue. He has made me see, all unknowingly, what a waste I made of my mind the first thirty-six years of my life.

     So I began studying like a fiend, setting goals and attaining them. Improving my Italian was my first priority, and to that end I went to Italy twice to do a total immersion program. My biggest personal project during those first years after meeting C was writing a translation of Torquato Tasso's play in verse, Aminta. Not an easy task, that, even—as C himself told me—for an Italian, as Tasso's language is very archaic. To make the task even more challenging, I decided the translation should be in prose and in period English, which meant I had to limit my vocabulary and idioms to those in use before 1600. It took me about two years to come up with a satisfactory draft but, with C's help on a couple of particularly difficult passages, I did accomplish what I set out to do. I had and have no intention of publishing it (who am I, after all, in the academic world?); I only wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. And it was fun!

     There were other projects—translating more plays, studying Latin, poetry, and art, taking up drawing and bookbinding. A whole exciting world opened to my eager eyes and, more importantly, I was ready to see and learn.

     Of equal if not greater consequence was the influence C had on me as a musician. After meeting and working with C, my coaching underwent a marked improvement. My playing also took on a depth it didn't have before. I had a new enthusiasm for my work, a desire to be the best coach and pianist I'd always known I could be. I wanted to be worthy of the respect C had for me as a musician, and I began to think of all those wasted, gray years of old as my life "B. C."—"Before C." Now I had discovered what I could accomplish with true motivation, there was no turning back. I even made another attempt (actually, two) at conducting, with the added encouragement and help of HGO's Music Director, Patrick Summers, but finally and firmly concluded that it was not for me. I wrote to C about it and he agreed, writing back that he thought my "true destiny was to be a pianist/coach."

     Though my present venture as a poet began with writing spiritual poems in the monastery, C has been my primary muse. My ongoing collection of love poems, The Distant Belovèd, written for him, is one of the things I'm most proud of in my life so far. Not every piece in it is "up to snuff" by my poetic standards, but every piece is straight from the heart. I've promised myself that someday I'll send it to him, as thanks for everything he's unwittingly done for me.

Starting a Bucket List

I have passed the half-century mark and there are still many unfulfilled dreams in my bucket, some big, some small, some definitely do-able, some not so much. As is sadly and so often the case, finances (rather, lack thereof) render those in that last category nearly impossible. But one can still dream, can't one?

I have nothing to complain about, really. My life has been full thus far and punctuated with ventures, adventures, and misadventures; and indeed much has been gained from them all, to torture a well-worn vernacular. I already have memories sufficient in number and variety to keep me company. But there are so many memories yet to be made. Hopefully, some of these will be among them.

Here's my list so far (!):

• Venice
• Verona
• Siena again
• Rent a farmhouse in Tuscany or Umbria for at least 2 weeks
• England's Lake District
• Cornwall
• London again
• Rent a cottage in Yorkshire or Surrey for at least 2 weeks
• Publish a book of my poetry (NOT self-publish or e-book)
• Write at least one novel or memoir (not necessarily to publish; I'd be satisfied just to write one)
• Pay at least one more visit to the Abbey of Regina Laudis
• Read every single book on my "to be read" shelves (this alone will take the rest of my life)
• Further my Italian language study, including Neopolitan and Venetian
• Translate the rest of Svevo's plays (I've done a few already); again, not necessarily to publish
• Learn Latin for real so I can read Ovid and Virgil in the language
• Learn classical Greek so I can read Homer in the language
• See Stephen Hough perform either in recital or with orchestra, preferably both
• See David Hyde Pierce in a play or musical, preferably both
• Meet David Hyde Pierce. Then I can die happy.
• Send The Distant Belovèd, in both English and Italian, to the person I wrote it for, along with a letter of confession. Then I can truly rest in peace.