The Quest

     Ever since I first felt the call to a life of contemplative prayer, which was sometime in 2002 (difficult to pinpoint an exact moment), it has never left me. Each and every day, almost in every hour, it enters my thoughts. This is one reason I know it's authentic -- as my spiritual director in Houston told me (God rest his soul), if a notion keeps nagging at you and won't go away, even if you consciously try to push it away, it's probably God's will.

     I followed that call into the cloister, but after nearly two and a half years there, God called me back into the world to help my mother take care of my father. Now my father has passed, God has asked me to stay with my mother for as long as she needs me. The life I lead now, this relatively quiet, uneventful life, you'd think would easily accomodate the intense prayer I had in the cloister; indeed, I have tried and still try to pattern my day to include time not only for the Divine Office but also for stillness, silence, and meditation. However, I find that "the world" contiually encroaches into that silence and my mind teems with distractions. There are the distractions of the television, the internet, Facebook, Twitter, even this blog. Not five minutes go by during prayer time without some rogue internet- or news-related thought invading my meditation. It's come to the point where I've seriously thought of giving up the computer and using it only for the most necessary things. That would mean, of course, that I would also be giving up the almost daily communication I've enjoyed with dear friends, some of whom I haven't communicated with in literally decades. I was able to give that up once, with relatively little pain. Can I do it again? The television, which was in his last years my father's sole and almost day-long diversion, stands quiet for much of the day now, but even so, it's still an intrusion with its many references to violence, random sex, and materialism. The life of contemplation which I so want, and to which I'm certain God is calling me -- if it isn't to be in the blessed environment of the monastery, then exactly how does he want me to live it, right here and now, in the environment he's given me?

     I know that life itself, no matter what it is or what it entails, can and should become one continual prayer. That's what St Paul urged us to do. All of us, whatever our life's vocation, are called to maintain a state of inner recollection. However, that's ever so much easier said than done. I'll just have to keep asking God how he wants me to do it. That in itself is prayer.

The Quest

I've lived too many lives in this one life
and still I seek to live the one that's true.
Perhaps the way is there, over that slope,
where a corps of rain lilies pristine white
rise serenely after their long, deep sleep.
Could I, too, lie in wait beneath the ground,
till rousing rains at long last break the drought?
Small reward -- such brief freedom in the light!
And yet those maiden blooms seem not to care
that joy is theirs but for a little while.

But, no, perhaps the way lies farther on --
there -- where the church roof peaks like fingertips
together gently pressed and upward straight
in earnest supplication to the sky.
To ask is to receive, or so it's said;
but I have asked, and answer never came.
It could be that I asked mistakenly,
against whatever plan was made for me.
Still, I asked.  Is that not sufficient proof
I know the answer will be mine someday?

I have no guide except the silent sun,
upon whose face I cannot even look;
and looking round, my only company
is my gray shadow, clinging to my heels,
yet stretching still toward dust already trod.
It seems to hide from the sun that made it,
but I, in present state, am poor shelter.
There is nothing, then, but to carry on;
for the sun must surely set down somewhere,
and surely that is where my life awaits.

(08/08, first published in Lonestars Magazine )

Music Monday: The Memory of Music

     In an earlier post I wrote, "Music buddies are the BEST." In an even earlier post I explain why, so I won't go into it again now, except to say by way of preface to today's musical selection, that shared musical experiences not only make for lasting memories, but can also be the stuff that keeps a friendship going -- even if that friendship exists mainly by overseas communication.

     I have many such long-distance friends, but one in particular shares my love of the piano, pianists, and piano repertoire. Though not himself a professional pianist, he does play, and his knowledge of piano playing is sufficient to enable him to listen with ears as discerning and critical as my own. Our letters almost always mention some pianist or other, a particular recording, and strong recommendations thereof. In those very rare times when we actually see each other in person, our conversation inevitably turns to music in general and pianists in particular, and if possible, we like to listen to something together.

     One afternoon during one of our rare in-person visits, my friend introduced me to a live recording of Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli playing Beethoven's "Emperor" Concerto. Though I knew Benedetti Michelangeli's work, I'd never heard his interpretation of the "Emperor," live or otherwise. Listening to it that rainy afternoon, I was much impressed by the sheer arc of his performance, its cohesiveness, and the logic of his pacing which gives this interpretation its power. That, plus a very good lunch prepared by my friend, made for an unforgettable afternoon indeed, one that years later I commemorated in a poem.

 

         The Memory of Music

 

          Listen with me.

          I'll stretch a lifetime from a single afternoon

          of Benedetti Michelangeli.  Each note

          of Ludwig's "Emperor" will drop in memory's pool

          and ring on ring go rippling through the silent years

          without you.  All the sounds we share will resonate

          on friendship's timeless stream, and when at night I lie

          asleep, the waves will carry me to where you lie

          awakening in ochre light.  In music's craft,

          oceans are crossed.

 

          (01/11, first published in WestWard Quarterly )

 

     Note in this video (which, thankfully, gives us the concerto in its entirety) how Benedetti Michelangeli paces the opening flourishes, how he manages to sustain the chord progression and direction of the whole section, which can sometimes seem, in lesser hands, very fragmented. In the second movement, note his beautiful use of portato (not staccato, but a lifting of the hand between notes that are, at the same time, connected with the damper pedal) which makes every note of those downward passages sound like gentle raindrops (or perhaps teardrops); note also the lack of that sentimentality so prevalent in contemporary interpretations. He simply lets the plaintive beauty of Beethoven's melody shine in and of itself. Personally, I'd like a bit more brashness and exuberance in the third movement; nevertheless, there is a certain élan and a not unwelcome elegance in this reading.

 

Saturday at the Opera

I have a soft spot for Purcell's operatic masterpiece Dido and Aeneas. It was the first show for which I served as chorus master at HGO (I was assistant chorus master on countless productions), and the first chorus (and, as far as I know, the only chorus) in which we used male altos. My sixteen singers were chosen carefully from HGO's chorus roster for having the most "Baroque-friendly" voices, and they were absolutely wonderful, as was the whole production by Toronto's Opera Atelier, which we imported lock, stock, and barrel (except for the chorus, of course). That whole experience was one of the happiest of my operatic career.

However, even if I'd never been given that experience, I would still have a soft spot for Dido. The score is simply stunning, and has one of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful final death scenes in the entire opera repertory. I seldom listen to it without weeping.

For a synopsis of Dido and Aeneas, click here. 

The video below is not, alas, of the Opera Atelier/HGO production. In this extract of the final scene, which consists of Dido's Lament ("When I am Laid in Earth") and the sublime chorus "With drooping wings," the Dido is stunningly portrayed by Malena Ernman. William Christie leads the Les Arts Florissants. I don't know, however, where or when this production was done. If anyone out there does know, please leave a comment either here or on my Facebook page.

DIDO

Thy hand, Belinda; darkness shades me;

On thy bosom let me rest;

More I would, but death invades me;

Death is now a welcome guest.

When I am laid in earth, may my wrongs create

No trouble in thy breast.

Remember me, but, ah! forget my fate!

CHORUS

With drooping wings ye Cupids, come,

And scatter roses o'er her tomb,

Soft and gentle as her heart;

Keep here your watch, and never part.

[Libretto by Nahum Tate]

Birth and Death of a Conductor, Part Three: Burial

     Since my Elixir of Love performances went so well, I was asked to conduct second cast subscription performances of Carmen the following season. "Subscription" refers to those performances open to subscribers and the general public. There are also student matinées (usually two), for which the show is cut down to a length suitable for children's attention spans, and high school night, for which the show is performed in its entirety; the matinées are not open to the general public. High school night is always a fun night in the theatre, as the students dress as if going to the prom and try to behave as sophisticated and nonchalant as possible.

     So I was to conduct the second cast subscription shows; my colleague Jim Lowe (who was my prompter on Elixir ) would lead the student matinées and high school night. This was to be Jim's conducting debut. He has since enjoyed quite a bit of success with the baton, including the Tony®
award-winning Broadway revival of Anything Goes.

     Unlike my experience with Elixir, for which I was impeccably prepared by Patrick Summers (not to mention coddled and protected and generally made to feel cosily safe), I was pretty much on my own with Carmen. The conductor for the first cast, the imposing Alain Lombard, did not, of course, give me private coachings in his spare time, though he sometimes handed me the baton in his stagings, after I told him that neither I nor Jim were to have any rehearsals with the orchestra. Both of us simply had to plunge into performance, as I had to do with Elixir. Maestro was appalled at this, but I assured him it was the norm, at least at HGO.

     Despite Maestro's kindness, I felt lost at sea without Patrick to guide me. This did not bode well for my future as Maestra Austria. Jim and I practiced a great deal together, each of us taking turns waving baton and playing piano. We forged a great alliance for which we were both grateful.

     The night of my first performance, I asked Jim and my friend/colleague Carol Anderson, who was one of the coaches on Carmen, to keep me company (hold my hand) before curtain and also during the intermissions. I just knew I couldn't bear to be alone, prey to my own nerves. Carol and I did the same for Jim—in fact, we were all there for each other in this way for all the performances. (Music buddies are the BEST.) Also, the afternoon of my opening, I received a message on my answering machine at home from Maestro, wishing me luck, which I thought was very kind of him.

     When I heard the stage manager's announcement over the speakers, "Maestra Austria to the pit, please; Maestra Austria to the pit," I wobbled my way to the pit door and up the stairs where another stage management person waited to cue me in. While she waited, telephone to ear, I asked her, "Do I have to do this?" She gave me a half-sympathetic, half-rueful smile. My cue came, and I walked in, following the cramped and jagged route to the podium that had been shown to me earlier. The next thing I knew, I was face to face with the cello section, and several of the orchestra players were pointing frantically to the podium behind me. In my nervous daze, I had passed it by completely! (Afterwards, Jim told me he was watching the "maestro monitor," saw the top of my head cross the screen, and thought, "Where's Leticia going?" I told him my subconscious was telling me to enter the pit, exit through the other side, and keep walking till I was back safe in my apartment.) Realizing what I'd done, I couldn't help laughing. I climbed onto the podium, bowed to the audience, turned back to the orchestra, and heard the principal violist quip heartily, "Well, that was a good start!" I was still laughing as I picked up my baton and gave a vigorous upbeat to start the show.

     There were two very scary moments in the first act. First, our children's chorus, usually so spot-on, decided to take their own (faster) tempo and I nearly couldn't get them back on, but finally did somehow. Then, at the end of the recit before the "Habanera" the flute player missed a very crucial solo cue, which caused my Carmen, brand-spanking-new to the role, to stare at me like a deer in headlights. It seemed like a full five minutes before she finally sang her next line of recit, but it was probably in reality only five seconds. Still, these two minor glitches were enough to send me back to my dressing room at intermission badly shaken. Thank goodness for Jim and Carol, who assured me that what I thought were near-disasters were hardly noticeable. In fact, they were smiling broadly—and sincerely—when I came weeping through my dressing room door.

     The rest of that performance, and my subsequent three performances, went amazingly well, aside from only one slightly rocky Act II quintet. Jim's shows, too, went very well, despite a tuxedo malfunction during high school night, when his baton nearly became hopelessly entangled in his vest. But at least he managed to find the podium.

     Came my last performance. I had decided by then, in fact, I had decided at the end of my opening night, that I would retire my baton for good. I just coudn't take the stress. It was a different kind of stress from what I was used to: it was knowing that I was responsible for the entire musical welfare of a show that was performed for 2500 people at a time, many of whom had paid a great deal of money to see it. Performing as a pianist was another thing entirely; that kind of stress, if I can indeed call it that, I could handle. As a pianist, the music came directly out of my hands, and I could control it directly. If a flutist missed an important cue while I was conducting, I couldn't play it for him; if the children's chorus ran away with the tempo, I couldn't sing it for them. Therein lies the difference. All right, maybe if I had persevered, garnered more experience, I eventually might have known how to prevent/fix such things. But I simply didn't want to find out if I could, going through in the meantime what was near torture for me.

     So that last performance, when I gave the final cut off, it was all I could do to keep from throwing my baton into the air. Instead, I fairly danced my way out of the pit and onto the stage, where, with a broad smile of relief, I took my final bow as Maestra Austria.

Walking onstage for my bow. This was not taken at my final performance. You can tell, because I'm not dancing.

 

Birth and Death of a Conductor, Part Two

     Several years passed after my Beauty and the Beast experience before anyone made any serious suggestions to me about conducting again. There was one half-serious suggestion, made by the Head of Music Staff Richard Bado, that I conduct second cast performances of Romeo and Juliet, but that was dismissed almost immediately it was brought up. I think my deep reluctance to remount the podium was apparent to everyone.

     Everyone who knew me, that is. In 1998, HGO acquired a new Music Director in Patrick Summers, one of whose first missions it was to start using prompters on a semi-regular basis. I was the first "guinea pig" prompter—I wrote about that venture in an earlier post, in which I mention that one of the duties of the prompter is to conduct rehearsals in the maestro's absence. After serving as prompter for Patrick in a few shows, he summoned me to his office one day and told me, without any preamble, "I'd like you to conduct second cast Elixir [of Love]." As I had no ready answer, after a few seconds' silence he added firmly, "I think you should."

     I don't think Patrick knew of my one previous conducting experience, nor my reluctance to repeat it. He knew I had some baton technique, not only from seeing me conduct rehearsals, but also through my lessons with him on prompting. I knew (a) he wouldn't have asked me to conduct performances of anything if he didn't think I were capable, and (b) he was my boss. So I said yes. I had a few months to prepare, plenty of time to panic.

     I was very, very fortunate that Patrick conducted the first cast of Elixir and that I was his prompter on the show. That was the best preparation I could ask for my own performances. Patrick was more than generous in giving me coachings in our spare time, going through the score phrase by phrase, he at the piano, me conducting. He was so thorough, exacting, and supportive, I just couldn't panic, and though I was a bit nervous before my first performance, I knew I could conduct that score from memory (which I mostly did, actually), and was confident that the orchestra, well-trained as they were by Patrick, would be supportive of me as well, even though I had no rehearsals with them.

     I was also very fortunate in my cast, all of whom except the Dulcamara were either Studio or ex-Studio singers. I knew their voices, their breathing, their musicality, so well from years of private coachings, conducting them was almost second nature.

     Thirdly, I was fortunate that I had a prompter of my own to help keep the ensemble tight between stage and pit.

     My three performances of Elixir went very well. I was happy, Patrick was happy, the cast and orchestra were happy. Maybe conducting wasn't so bad after all!

     To be continued . . . .

Post-performance in my dressing room with family. The tails are a bit big.

Birth and Death of a Conductor, Part One

     In a couple of earlier posts, I mentioned my jaunt as an opera conductor—very briefly, as my jaunt was indeed a brief one. But I'd like to expand upon it now. For one thing, a friend and former colleague of mine is making her debut as a conductor even as I write this, and my thoughts are very much with her. For another, I am almost constantly plagued by the question of how properly to use—or perhaps not to use —the gifts with which God has seen fit to bless me. I don't mean to boast when I say that he has given me many gifts, none of which I deserve, all for which I am truly thankful; but I have to choose among them, if for no other reason than I am a very poor manager of time and resources. How to choose is the question.

     In 1990 I spent my third and last summer at the American Institute of Musical Studies (AIMS) in Graz, Austria. One of my mentors there was a coach from Germany by the name of Heinz Sosnitza. Herr Sosnitza was both beloved and feared by all at AIMS, as he not only loved music with the burning passion of a young lover, but as a coach was unflinchingly frank and did not by any means suffer fools gladly. I'll never forget one afternoon when I was looking for an available practice room in the Studentenheim (dormitory): I passed by the closed door of one practice room wherein I heard a young baritone singing the Count's aria from Figaro. As I rounded the corner, I came face to face with Herr Sosnitza, flannel nightshirt (I assumed he'd been napping) draping loosely over his copious belly, and a dark scowl knitting his heavy gray brows.

     "Grüss Gott, Herr Sosnitza," I began, but he cut me off with,

     "I hear someone singing the Count and bellowing like a bull!  I must help him!" And off he marched like an avenging Santa Claus. My mouth twitched in amusement, but I wasn't the least surprised. Having known him for three summers, I was by then used to his well-meaning, if blustery, forthrightness.

      Anyway, I digress.

     Sosnitza was the first ever to suggest I try conducting. "I know many women conductors," he told me, "and none of them are anything special. But you can be."

     I nearly burst into tears, I was so touched—and flabbergasted. Never had the idea of conducting, not even the palest shadow, entered my head. But, respecting Sosnitza's opinion as I did, how could I dismiss it? I owed it my most serious consideration, though I admit to having equally serious qualms.

     At the end of that summer I returned to Houston for my very first year as a full-fledged member of the music staff, after two grueling but exhilarating years apprenticing in the Studio. I requested and was assigned conducting lessons with HGO's Associate Conductor at that time, Ward Holmquist. Ward has a very clean, clear baton technique and proved to be a wonderful teacher. I not only enjoyed my lessons immensely, but actually began to believe I could be a conductor, a belief further encouraged by Ward's enthusiastic "You're a natural!" Nevertheless, I was ill-prepared for the memo I received near the end of that season: one of our shows, Grétry's Beauty and the Beast, would be touring in the summer; Daniel Beckwith, who had conducted its run that spring, would lead it for the first week of the tour, then the last two weeks would be conducted by ... me.

     I felt nauseous. Couldn't I start out with something smaller, a scenes program with piano, for instance? No—my first time wielding a baton in public would have to be in front of an orchestra, leading an entire opera.

     Fortunately, due to a plunge in finances, the tour was cut to just a single performance in Galveston. Since I was cheaper than Daniel Beckwith (in other words, I was on staff and my services were therefore gratis) I was to conduct the single performance, with just one orchestra staging rehearsal the afternoon of the show. How well I remember that drive to Galveston with Mark Trawka, the principal coach! I kept asking him, "Can we turn around? Do I have to do this? Can we just go back to Houston?"

     I remember not one thing about either the rehearsal or the performance. All I know is we all got through it unscathed, and I managed not to throw up on the podium. But I vowed that I would never again conduct in public.

     Right. If you want to make God laugh, tell him what your plans are.

     To be continued ...

Sunday Meditation

     This is another series I'm inaugurating, in observance of the sanctity of Sunday. Every Sunday morning I'll post a brief passage on which to meditate, from the writings of the Church Fathers, the saints, or from books that I have personally found helpful and inspiring. Whenever possible, I'll provide a link for the source of the passage in the event someone may want to purchase a copy, usually through the title of the work. While, inevitably, my personal focus is on Catholic (with a big "C") doctrine, I'll try to select passages whose themes are catholic (with a small "c"). Hopefully, these meditations will stay with us, not only through Sunday, but throughout the week, to help guide our steps and keep our minds on higher things.

     I begin with a passage from a book that I turn to again and again for my non-Scriptural spiritual reading: They Speak by Silences, by "a Carthusian." (For some basic information about the Carthusian order -- and it is a very beautiful, fascinating way of life to which I wish I were called -- click here.) The author preferred to remain anonymous, as befits a cloistered contemplative monk. His writings were actually personal letters, intended as guidance for novices and fellow monks, and were collected and published after his death.

. . . All these miseries which criss-cross our lives are at bottom of little account . . . It is only the surface of the soul which has been slightly ruffled; the depths have remained untroubled. Alas for us that we do not live sufficiently in those depths where peace reigns, but far too much on the surface where we get disturbed. There you have the true secret of our Carthusian calm and joy. The daily upsets of hurt and wounded feelings are found no less among us than anywhere else. They form part of our existence here below, and we are still living in this world! But we do not let them distress us. A whole part of ourselves emerges from and dominates them, and all our endeavour is to live by this loftier part. It is there we preserve our serenity of soul; and it is there that our 'palm tree in the desert' grows, beneath the shade of which we rest 'in peace'.

     With God's grace, I will try to live in those peaceful depths of my soul where the Spirit dwells, and by doing so, hopefully smooth my too-often ruffled surface!
  

Saturday at the Opera

     I decided to start a regular series, "Saturday at the Opera." I figure it's one way to ensure that I have something to post at least once a week! Days can go by without a blogpost subject coming to mind, so I will rely on my old friend Opera to bail me out every Saturday. I'll also be resurrecting the "Music Monday" series I did on my old "di-Verse-ifying" blog, featuring mostly (but not exclusively) piano works, as well as posting at least one essay and one poem a week. So that's the new plan, Stan.

     To inaugurate "Saturday at the Opera," I give you something from the first opera I ever saw: Mozart's Die Zauberflöte (The Magic Flute). I saw it the summer of 1974, at the Salzburg Marionette Theater. Even though it was done with puppets, I still count it as my first opera experience. Die Zauberflöte was also the first opera score I ever bought (in London, that same summer), so it was the first opera I learned to play, as well.

     For a synopsis, click here.

     This excerpt, which is the second half of Act I, is from the Opéra National de Paris, 2001. The spoken dialogue in this particular production is in the original German, with a bit of French thrown in. Often, the music of this opera is sung in German and the dialogue is spoken in the language of whatever country in which the production is seen, for ease of comprehension and to reduce the use of supertitles. Sometimes the entire opera is done in the local language, both music and dialogue.

     The cast in this video:

          Tamino - Piotr Beczala

          Pamina - Dorothea Roschmann

          Papageno - Detlef Roth

          1st Lady - Cecile Perrin

          2nd Lady - Helene Schneiderman

          3rd Lady - Helene Perraguin

          Monostatos - Uwe Peper

          Sarastro - Matt Salminen

              

A Novice's Prayer to the Sacred Heart

Today is the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. To honor Him, I would like to post this sonnet, which I wrote during my novitiate, just four months before I left the monastery.

The Lesson

Upon Thy Heart pray suffer me to rest,

That as Thou lovest I may humbly learn;

Bequeath this gift which of all Thine is best;

Imperfect loves of earth and flesh I spurn!

O Heart, Whose wound such wondrous love hath shewn,

And whence elixir sweet doth copious flow,

Grant Thou that this Thy purging deluge drown

My sin; and then with perfect love bestow

My shriven heart.  Thou Teacher of all hearts,

To master well Thy lesson do I pray;

Thy loving art doth shame such earthly arts

As once I learnt, ere came this precious day

Thou dost vouchsafe to give Thy lesson free

To one who thirsteth deep to learn of Thee.

(07/06)

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My Favorite Summer Viewing

Most film lovers I know have seasonal favorites, films they love to watch at certain times of the year. For instance, every Advent one of my sisters likes to pull out all her Christmas-y DVDs, set them to one side, and watch one each evening. Another of my sisters DVRs all the Hallmark Channel Christmas movies.

Now that summer looms its heavy, humid head over us, I reckon it's time to pull out my favorite films and mini-series and be carried away to a cooler, more pleasant place, both geographically and spiritually.

Let's start with the film that's actually named for the season: David Lean's romantic Summertime, starring Katharine Hepburn and Rossano Brazzi. A 40-something spinster finding love while on vacation in Venice, beautiful cinematography, heroine leaning out of the train window and waving goodbye ... <*sigh*> The entire movie has been posted on YouTube, but here is just a snippet:

For years, I loved the Disney version of Pollyanna with Hayley Mills. Then I discovered the 2002 BBC version and fell in love with it. I didn't fall out of love altogether with the Disney version and all its slick, over-produced cuteness, but I now prefer this one by far.

No summer would be complete for me without a viewing of Wonderworks' incomparable Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea. (Anne of Avonlea is now marketed as Anne of Green Gables: The Sequel.) Seldom have I seen such a perfect combination of screenplay, cast, location, and cinematography -- and the musical score is absolutely heart-stirring. However, after just one viewing of Anne of Green Gables: The Continuing Story and Anne of Green Gables: A New Beginning, I have since steered clear of them—they're ridiculous, and are not taken from the books. I'll just stick to the original first two, thank you!

Maybe Enchanted April is technically a spring movie, but the general idea of getting away from miserable weather to a more congenial climate works in any season. This film is one of my top ten favorites of all time. And if you haven't read the novel of the same name by Elizabeth von Arnim, I can't recommend it enough.

One of my top five favorite mini-series is The House of Eliott. It's about two orphaned young Englishwomen in the 1920's who find themselves in dire straits and start their own couture house. The story is compelling, the script quite good for the most part; but the costumes are the real draw! At the end of the first series (twelve episodes), the Eliott girls stage their first fashion show, and the gowns are stunning. The second series is just as good, but the third (which is only six episodes) is negligible.

 

 

Way back in the late '6os the BBC graced PBS with a superlative adaptation of John Galsworthy's classic triptych The Forsyte Saga. It starred Eric Porter as the definitive Soames Forsyte, one of the most complex anti-heroes in English literature, Nyree Dawn Porter (no relation) as the long-suffering Irene, and, in later episodes, Susan Hampshire as Soames' self-absorbed daughter, Fleur (Hampshire won an Emmy® for her portrayal). When The Forsyte Saga aired (1967 in the UK, 1971 in the US), it created every bit as much public stir and ardent viewer devotion as Downton Abbey has in our time. Granada Television did their own adaptation for ITV in 2002 starring Damian Lewis as Soames, but their version pales in comparison, despite its technicolor and sumptuous production values. The acting and casting in the original BBC production simply can't be beat.

  

And of course, I can't leave out the 1995 Pride and Prejudice. Summer wouldn't be summer without an eyeful of Colin Firth in that wet shirt! (Which is nowhere in the novel; but who cares?!)

The Accidental Poet

     One of my sisters, a retired English teacher, told me she read in an interview about the working habits of a very famous living poet. She said this poet uses index cards to jot down and file any phrases, ideas, etc. that come to her in the course of the day. Every morning, at the poet's regularly scheduled time for writing, she holes herself away in her office and looks through her index card file to see if she can expand any of those phrases or ideas into the working draft of a poem. This is a full-time poet who has been widely published and anthologized; she makes her living solely on writing poetry, something only a handful of people can do.

     I am not one of the handful.

     In theory, anyone who aspires to write can jot down random thoughts on cards and keep a file. Many people (not everyone) can set aside a daily slice of time in their otherwise ordinary, non-poet lives to look through their cards, stare into space, and scribble out a line or two, maybe even a whole stanza. And there are people in this world to whom imagery, metaphor, and simile come so easily as to be almost their native tongue.

     I do keep a notebook into which I enter random phrases -- when they come to me. The problem is, they don't come with any kind of frequency or regularity. I am not one of those people to whom imagery, metaphor, and simile come easily; hence, I can't simply look at an apple and see in it the seeds (forgive the pun) of a poem. I envy those people (forgive me, Father) their fertile imaginations. 

     Anyway, I can't write about apples or trees or daffodils, unless or until they really mean something to me personally. I am a personal poet, not an abstract one. Which is probably why I don't get on better than I do.

     As to the daily slice of writing time, which every writing manual, every writing teacher, and, for that matter, every writer, will tell you is essential and necessary to becoming a good writer of anything -- I have tried, and continue to try. Because of the nature of my day-to-day life, I can't designate a specific hour or length of time as my regular writing time, inviolate and sacred. I catch as catch can. Morning pages? No. My mornings are devoted to prayer, and that is inviolate and sacred. (For those of you not familiar with the term, "morning pages" are writings done at the very moment of waking, before having coffee, before any morning ablutions. You put pen to paper and write whatever comes into your groggy brain, and you do not stop to think or edit along the way. You just write.) 

     A friend of mine, Elizabeth at Swing in a Tree, started her blog primarily for the discipline of writing regularly and "putting it out there." She inspired me to do the same. If poems, or even the seeds of a poem, don't come as frequently as I'd like, at least I can churn out blogposts on a semi-regular basis. And I do take a writer's care with them. When I post a poem, I hope my readers know how rare it really is -- not "rare" in the sense of superlative (I wish!), but rare in the sense that poems don't come at all easily to me, either in concept or finished product. They are, in truth, accidents of inspiration and the hard-to-harvest fruits of a not-so-fertile imagination.

 

The World Perceived

The world grew larger when we met.
Before these once more eager eyes
a sphere has beckoned, waking me
to revel in the endless chase
of knowledge, music, art, and words,
at once my duty and desire.

The world grew smaller when we met,
its details all within my reach,
its countries but a step away.
The vault of paradise bowed down
and let me touch the silver hem
I once believed was only mist.          (rev. 01/11)


[First published in WestWard Quarterly]

You're Unfaithful, but I Like You Anyway

     Whenever a new film or television adaptation of a Jane Austen novel comes out, I am frustrated, even angry, if it is unfaithful to the book. Mind you, it doesn't have to be word-for-word. It can even "do away" with a character or two, or with entire scenes -- that's fine with me (Emma Thompson's screenplay of Sense and Sensibility does away with quite a few of both). But if the pure essence of the story is in any way corrupted or contains the smallest whisper of "revisionist," if the characters in any way stray from Austen's crystal clear portrayals, if the elegant language of Austen is "dumbed down," and the details of production incorrect to the period, I'm very unhappy. Besides the Thompson Sense and Sensibility, the adaptations I consider truly Austen-worthy are:

     Emma (with Kate Beckinsale and Mark Strong, ITV 1996)

     Persuasion (with Amanda Root and Ciaran Hinds, BBC 1995)

     Pride and Prejudice (with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth, A & E, 1995) 

     Mansfield Park (with Sylvestra Le Touzel and Nicholas Farrell, BBC, 1986)

     I also like certain aspects of the latest Sense and Sensibility and Northanger Abbey, both BBC, 2007. Every other adaptation (and I've seen them all, either whole or in more-than-generous part) is, in my opinion, guilty of at least one of the offenses listed above. I am, however, a big fan of Clueless. Why? Nowhere in the film's credits does it claim to be "based upon the novel Emma by Jane Austen." Only those who know the novel recognize Clueless to be a very clever modern-day retelling, but it is not an adaptation. The film took the modern-day concept and ran all the way with it; it is not a mixed bag of period costume, off-the-mark characterizations, and easier-to-understand (for whom?) vernacular, claiming to be Austen's Emma.

     All that said, I must admit to a certain inconsistency in myself. When it comes to other books, I somehow don't mind unfaithful adaptations -- in many cases, I even like and enjoy them. For instance, I love A. S. Byatt's novel Possession and was very excited when I heard a film adaptation was being done. I missed it in the theaters, however, and didn't get to watch the DVD till years later, after I left the monastery. When I did finally watch it, I actually liked it, even though the character of Roland was changed from British to American, and the film was but a mere shadow of the book, and a very spotty shadow, at that. I also am not crazy about Gwenyth Paltrow as a rule, and some details of the film I found and still find laughable. But I enjoy it, nonetheless.

     Alcott's Little Women is a book I've cherished since my brother gave me the beautiful Tasha Tudor-illustrated edition for Christmas, 1972. I have always loved the 1933 film with Katharine Hepburn as the perfect Jo. For me, it captures the very atmosphere of Alcott's book, and the cast delivered the faithful dialogue so naturally and convincingly. In lesser hands, Alcott's language can come off stilted and cloying. I'm not enamored with the 1949 film, which I think is, for the most part, seriously miscast, so much so that I just can't watch it all the way through. Also, its pacing is much too slow. However, the 1994 adaptation is wonderful. Although Winona Ryder is physically not Alcott's Jo, being much too petite, she conveys the essence of the character beautifully. The rest of the cast is equally fine; the script, though certainly not word-for-word or even scene-for-scene, and perhaps bearing a few social and political banners that I'm not sure Alcott intended in her simple but relevant story, is well-written and moves along nicely. I'm not bothered at all by these small inaccuracies and liberties, and rank the film among my top favorites. I only wish that someday, someone will do an adaptation of Little Women that places Laurie's proposal to Jo in the correct place, which is after Jo comes back from New York.

     Rumer Godden's In This House of Brede is another novel I love and read every few years. There is a film version from the late '60s, starring Diana Rigg (inspired casting). The film runs 100 minutes, which is not a sufficient length of time to include every storyline and plot twist of the novel, so the screenplay focuses on just one basic storyline. Unfortunately, that storyline is nowhere to be found in the novel; or, rather, they took two of the novel's storylines, altered one of them considerably, and put it together with the second one to make an entirely new storyline. The screenwriter also sacrificed accuracy in portraying monastic life, in favor of drama. The Rule of St Benedict was pretty much torn to bits in this film, so it is not a true picture of monasticism. Still, I like it. The acting is good, the story in and of itself is good -- I just separate it from the novel in my mind, and enjoy the film for itself.

     So why can't I do the same when it comes to Austen? Why can't I mentally divorce her novels from those less-than-faithful versions? Is her work so "sacrosanct" to my literary sense and sensibility?

In the Summertime. . . !

     Dancing to this song in the privacy of my living room is about all the physical activity I can stand when the daily temperature rises above 90F.

     Once Memorial Day passes, I always feel a little restless twinge inside that warns me of long, hot, drowsy days ahead, dog days, days when the Texas humidity feels like a giant blanket round your shoulders. You get all your chores done, run all the necessary errands, as early in the day as possible to avoid going out once the sun has passed the mid-sky mark. After the morning get-it-done frenzy, all you want to do is loll in an air-conditioned space and read. At least, that's how the afternoon heat affects me.

     So it's time to plan my summer reading! Or rather, rereading. Summer simply screams for rereading old favorites. Let's see ... will it be kiddy lit? Travel narratives? Or novels?

     Leticia the Eternal Kid would choose to chase hardened criminals with Nancy Drew or hang out at the hospital with Sue Barton and her fellow nursing chums, or maybe romp around the prairie with Laura Ingalls in the "Little House" books. And there's also the Betsy-Tacy series, which she's only read once and loved -- she'd probably skip the first four books, though, and go straight to when Betsy and Tacy are in high school. Or maybe she'd reread a few of the "shoe books" by Noel Streatfeild (you know: Ballet Shoes, Dancing Shoes, Theatre Shoes, etc.), although she remembers that if you've read one, you've read them all, because they all have the same basic plot: young girl shows real talent and promise in some performing art or other, has some success, becomes a pain-in-the-neck diva, because of which she loses a big opportunity to some other girl, who likewise enjoys a big success, so the first girl learns the valuable lesson that "the business" doesn't revolve around her and there's always someone to replace her.

     Leticia the Armchair Traveler would perhaps reread some of the highly entertaining (if outdated, travel-wise) narratives by Emily Kimbrough, that proper middle-aged lady who loved planning and taking trips (and getting into less-than-dignified scrapes) with her friends, many of whom were well-known theater and film people of the 30's, 40's and 50's. In fact, Leticia the Armchair Traveler would probably start at the beginning with the side-splittingly funny Our Hearts Were Young and Gay, which Miss Kimbrough co-wrote with her friend, the stage star Cornelia Otis Skinner, and which recounts their first trip to Europe together as young girls in the 1920's. Leticia would then follow up with We Followed Our Hearts to Hollywood, the equally funny story of how the Misses Kimbrough and Skinner helped write the screenplay for the film adaptation of Our Hearts. But then, any of Miss Kimbrough's many books are great summer reading, if one is a lover of travel, humor, and nostalgia.

     Leticia the Lit Lover would most probably choose to reread her beloved Barbara Pym, which she does every two or three years. She'd first of all whiz through Pym's best-known and most popular novel, Excellent Women and once more sink into the warm, soothing bath of Pym's prose, which combines sharp intelligence, wit, and tongue-in-cheek perspicacity. She'd reacquaint herself with Pym's small but delightful world of professors, anthropologists, clergymen, and the spinsters who love them. After that, there are twelve more Pyms from which to choose, almost all of them gems.

     Two more novels Leticia the Lit Lover would consider rereading: A. S. Byatt's Possession and Rumer Godden's In This House of Brede.

     Or ... maybe Leticia the Lazy Loller will wade her way through them all! It's highly likely.

     

For Whom the Ink Flows

     Ever since I was a little girl and discovered that the written word stirred something in me, I, too, wanted to write and stir something in others. The first thing I remember writing consciously was a poem about the sun and the moon and the contrasts between them. I was ten, in the fourth grade, and my teacher entered that poem in a local contest for students where it was chosen one of the winners. I met the other winners at a luncheon (one of whom was the 17-year-old Naomi Shihab), and after eating, we all read our poems aloud and had a general discussion, during which I was my typical anxiety-ridden silent self. However, like most silent people, I used my ears, and was introduced to a world in which people not only wrote, but talked about why they wrote what they wrote. Naomi, in particular, was very articulate and passionate about her poetry; in fact, she was the only person there that has stuck in my memory all these years. Maybe I knew then, even at ten years old, that she would eventually become one of the country's most respected poets. Yet it wasn't her work that impressed me (I was ten; what did I know?) -- it was her passion for it. It seemed to me that she had to write poetry, that she was born to do it.

     My desire to write -- not just poetry, but prose as well -- was not a result of that early success; rather, it was endorsed by it. The desire has always been there, just as my love of music has been, and these two powerful forces both propel and nourish my life even now, when I do neither for my living. They make living more livable. But can I call myself a writer? A poet? I spend hours writing these posts; I can spend days writing one draft of a short poem. What is the recompense?

     Friends and fellow poets tell me I am a poet, even when I haven't submitted anything in months, even when I haven't been in print for months, even when I haven't written anything for months. And when I do write something, how many people actually read it? A handful? A couple of hundred at the most? If no one reads my poems, can I still call myself a poet? Moreover, should I really care whether anyone at all reads my poems?

     My fellow poets (if I am a fellow in the first place) also tell me, "We write because we love it and we have to write." Yes, when I feel the urge to put pen to paper, the urge is irresistible; when I have something to say -- or more often, something to purge -- I indeed have to write. But it doesn't stop there. I have to write well. What I write has to show craft, intelligence, thought, artistry; each and every word has to be considered and reconsidered, every punctuation mark has to have sense and significance. Poetry is work, sometimes exhilarating, but other times painfully frustrating. In short, it is refined purging, not simply venting for its own sake, not simply stringing together warm, fuzzy words and images. It is striving to make sense of my own soul.

     Yes, I write for myself, poetry as well as prose. Publication, payment, readership -- should these things truly matter, or should I merely consider them bonuses? Should I reroute my motivation, attempt to write poetry as a "voice" for some social or political purpose? No, that's not me; that's never been me. I have always believed that, intimately personal, even confessional, as my writing is, if what I write is true for myself, it may be true for others. If what I write is a map of my own heart and soul, it may share a common landscape with the hearts and souls of others. We are all of the same species, after all, fashioned of the same fallible flesh. My words will surely stir something in someone, as was my hope at ten years old.
     So I will continue as I have begun, and let my ink flow -- when it flows. I will continue to hone the craft and cherish the long voyage, even the all-too-frequent squalls that come of my failings and inadequacies. I will continue to submit my work, when I have sufficient and worthy work to submit. I will continue to write this blog, and post the occasional poem on it in the hope that someone out there will read and appreciate it. But if, in the end, my writing is the proverbial tree that fell and no one heard fall, I should be able to say, without any regret whatever, So be it. I should. Whether or not I can remains to be seen.

    

The Comfort of Fabrication

     Sometimes words imply a hidden meaning. Sometimes we infer one.

     All of us are guilty of inferring at one time or another. But we may infer a certain interpretation on someone's words because that is what we, subconsciously or not, want them to mean. Doing so either gives us a sense of self-vindication, or justification for blaming the other person; or perhaps we simply want something from that person which he or she can't give us for one reason or another. If the last is true, we find a sort of "fabricated comfort" in our inferral that can sustain us for a lifetime -- even if we're fully aware that it is fabricated. Denial, self-delusion, call it what you will. It's also human.

Pressed Leaves

I'll spin a hundred words from every one
you wrote and weave a blanket, many-hued,
to wrap around me with the setting sun
and let its colors permeate the truth;

or else a woolen mantle of desire,
the white desire possession cannot stain,
to draw about my shoulders when the rain
descends and I am dreaming by the fire.

I only want your words to warm my skin
as autumn folds its chilly limbs around
the earth, when fallowness has claimed its ground
of silence, and the end of life begins.                        (03/11)


[First published in Decanto]

Florence Diary, Part Four

3 July 1999   Monday was a pretty quiet day. I practiced in the morning, had lessons in the afternoon, then after dinner I went with Donatella for some sort of show featuring an African artist. We drove to the part of town where the Accademia is, wandered through dark streets to find the address where the show was to be; when we finally got there, it was locked up. Apparently, according to the sign taped to the door, the performance had already started, and si prega di non suonare--"please do not ring (the bell)". I wasn't surprised; Donatella always runs 15-20 minutes late wherever she goes. So she took me over to the nearby Ospedale degli Innocenti, designed by Brunelleschi, bought me a gelato, then we went back home.

     Tuesday night, while the men in the family (Donatella and Sergio have two grown sons) went to a jazz concert, we women attended a concert at Santo Spirito. It was a baroque group with small chorus performing a Mexican Mass and other pieces. It was a good concert; the male singers were better than the women, and I enjoyed the music itself, but the church was much too vast and live for this intimate style, and much of it got drowned in the acoustics. The church alone, however, was worth the ticket--it's the last masterpiece of Brunelleschi, awe-inspiring in its perfect symmetry. After the concert, Donatella took me around to look at the many paintings, explaining the various styles and techniques.

I didn't take this picture; that's why it's so clear!

     By this time, I was beginning to feel really tired--either I never really got over my jet lag, or I'm just getting old. Or maybe it was that we always did our daily lesson in one 3-hour chunk instead of dividing it between morning and afternoon, the way Delia and I did in Lucca. Then again, maybe it was the Bertini's phone, which never seems to stop ringing. When it isn't someone calling the house, it's Donatella making calls. I truly mean it with all my heart when I say that I have never seen a person use the phone as much as she does. Even during meals, the cordless is always on the table and it never goes unused through the course of the meal. My 3-hour lesson is inevitably interrupted an average of 4 times by the ringing of the telephone, and they never let the machine pick up as long as someone is home. Or there'd be other kinds of interruptions; a visit from a family member, or something. It's exhausting, all the busyness. And I'm just a spectator!

     Wednesday, Donatella had to go to a dinner at the contemporary art museum in nearby Prato, and I went along so that she could show me the town beforehand. Prato is a very industrial, factory-driven town, but it has a charming, albeit tiny, centro. I really don't remember much of it; maybe I was being shown too many churches in too few days; I get them all confused. But I guess if I really don't remember the details of Prato, then it wasn't all that thrilling. One thing I do recall: as we drove through the old walls into the centro I saw the words "Americani assassini" spray-painted in very large black letters next to the gate. Nice.

     We got to the museum by 7.00, which was when Donatella was told the affair would begin. Before the dinner, there was to be a presentation of a work newly acquired by the museum. Well, the presentation didn't start till after 9; stand-up appetizers and cocktails began at about 9.30, and the first course was served at around 10, by which time I was starving, tired, and bored.

     I'm still in that phase of learning a language where, in order to understand and follow an ongoing conversation, I really have to hang on every word with my utmost concentration. But at the end of the day when my brain is tired, I just can't concentrate anymore; I just can't listen. So I just wind up sitting there, letting my mind wander where it will.

     Thursday morning was spent seeing more of Florence. On our way to the Palazzo Vecchio, Donatella would point out certain buildings to me and explain the architecture and the history. She really is very knowledgeable. We went into Orsanmichele, which again, I don't really remember. I'm sorry, but unless it's the Sistine Chapel, after 3 or 4 days of churches they all start to look alike. However, I do remember the Palazzo Vecchio. When I walked into the Salone dei 500, I literally had the breath knocked out of me by the sheer scale and grandeur of it, and Donatella had to nudge me because the lady wanted my ticket.

     We went into all the rooms, enjoyed the view from the loggia, then climbed all the way up to the merli. I got a bird's eye view (which is why they call them merli, I guess!) of the Uffizi, and took a picture by setting my camera in one of the small gunholes, or whatever those holes are.

The Uffizi, seen from the top of Palazzo Vecchio

     It was a diverting morning, but very hot, and after a satisfying lunch I took a rare nap. Some friends of the Bertinis came for dinner, a very nice couple, antique dealers. I managed to converse with a bit more spontaneity; and of course, Donatella asked me to dargli un piccolo concerto (give them a little concert).

     Friday morning, I had my last lesson, then after lunch to San Miniato--and there is found the absolute best view of Florence. The view you always see on postcards. It was unfortunately a hazy afternoon, but Brunelleschi's dome still loomed serenely through it. We went also to the nearby fort, which didn't thrill me; plus which, it's been sadly neglected since Donatella was there a year ago. Weeds ran rampant, everything was scraggly and unkempt. But the drive to it from San Miniato was lovely.

     We went straight from the fort to her friend Carla's house, very close to the Bertini's, for it turned out that one of our ADs [assistant directors] from HGO--Sharyn--just arrived to do the same language program with Carla. With her came one of her school friends, Katie, who now lives in Vienna, and also a friend of Katie's, Matt, some guy from New Zealand. Katie is a singer, and as there was a piano (which was a good half-step low), they of course asked us to dargli un piccolo concerto.

     As Donatella and Sergio had a dinner that evening, to which they couldn't take me, and Sharyn's hosts were going to see Pelléas, Donatella invited the three giovani (youngsters) to her house to eat dinner with me and her twin sons. She prepared spaghetti for us before she and Sergio left, and there were leftovers from lunch, plus prosciutto and melon, and gelato. Perfect last dinner. The six of us were very merry around the table, Vanni and Duccio (the twins) acting as hosts and speaking to us in barely discernible English; but I was grateful that they didn't oblige us to speak Italian for that one evening. We had our gelato outside under the rose arbor, then after a while the twins left to go out somewhere, and the four of us talked till 11.30.

     I had to get up at 5.00 this morning to catch my flight to Paris, so I bade Donatella and Sergio a hasty and sleepy goodbye, then got into the waiting taxi that Sergio had ordered last night. I'm afraid I didn't thank them very well; my Italian failed me at that groggy hour, and also I came dangerously close to crying. I will miss them.

FINE

(THE END)

Florence Diary, Part Three

[Doing a total immersion language program can be frustrating, as nobody is allowed to speak to you in your native language, not even at social gatherings. But these gatherings are the ideal place to practice! Again, all photos were taken with a disposable camera.]

1 July 1999   Last Sunday was a proper holiday. We left midmorning and stopped first at the Convent of St Bonaventure, better known as Bosco ai Frati. There was a wedding in the chapel, but Donatella found an old guide who let us into the public part of the convent. The thing that moved me most was a crucifix by Donatello which, the guide told us, was carved from a single piece of pear wood. I was amazed at the eloquence of the face and battered body.

Very dim photo. For a clear close-up, click the "crucifix" link above.

     It was so quiet and peaceful there, nestled in the woods, I hated to leave it for the golf course [was this a subtle indication of my future monastic vocation?] which admittedly is a very beautiful and scenic one, but after half an hour, a golf course is a golf course. We had lunch at the club, al fresco. I had the local specialty, tortelli stuffed with pureed potatoes (who says you can't have pasta with another starch?) topped with a light meat sauce. Very tasty.

     Donatella wanted to stick around till Sergio (her husband) played the first few holes; we walked till the 4th hole, then she and I went back to the car and drove to nearby Scarperia (pronounced "skar-peh-REE-ah"), famous not for shoes (the Italian for "shoes" is scarpe) but for knives. It's a very cute little town. We went into a knife shop where there were three British women trying to buy knives with their heavily British-accented Italian. Donatella, listening to them, whispered to me, "Tu parli senz'accento, come una vera italiana (you speak without an accent, like a true Italian)." Yea!

     Being hot, sweaty, and thirsty from our jaunt around the golf course, we stopped for gelato and a cola, which tastes very different from American Coca-Cola. Italians who don't like cola just haven't had The Real Thing! We did a tour of the church, leaving it just as a baptism for five babies was beginning (a wedding and a baptism in one day; I was expecting a funeral next, but no such luck).

     We were taken on a tour of the Palazzo dei Vicari, led by a very knowledgeable and enthusiastic young girl who spoke with an incredibly heavy local accent--not only were her hard c's aspirated, as they are in Florence (cosa, for instance, is pronounced "hosa" in Florence), but her t's were like th's, so fiorentino came out fiorenthino. But I managed to understand most of her account.

Palazzo dei Vicari

     The thing that really interested me were these base sketches (abbozzi) for what were supposed to have become freschi (that's "frescoes" to Yanks). I learned through one of my language tapes how frescoes were executed, and there before me was the evidence: on the wall were traces of horizontal and vertical lines, forming a large grid; among the lines was a crude outline of the intended picture, all done in red. The artist would then have covered all that with a very thin layer of wet plaster, still being able to see the red lines and sketch through it, and then apply the true colors, only doing a few squares per day, because the plaster must be wet ("fresh," hence the name fresco) in order for the paint to become integrated with it, which is the essential difference between a mural and a fresco.

     After seeing Scarperia, we went back to pick up Sergio at the golf course, changed clothes at the clubhouse, then went straight to Fiesole for a big Rotary Club dinner at a large hilltop villa.

From the gardens there was the most magnificent view of all of Florence. I felt so fortunate to have a teacher with such good connections, because how many tourists get to go to these great dinners in such wonderful homes?

      When Donatella's friends heard I was a pianist, they of course made me play. There was an old Bechstein grand in the salon; the french doors that lined the entire back wall of the villa were opened to the garden, and I played and sang a number of things. Someone put "Ramona" in front of me, a wartime song I've never heard of (shame on me), but everyone there seemed to know it. It's a favorite of Sergio's, and he was so thrilled with the way I sang it, that I was happy they had made me perform.

     There were a gezillion piatti, too many really, most of them prepared by the host and a couple of his jolly cohorts. Lots of octopus. Ugh. The only thing I liked was the chocolate cake that was made by a vivacious woman named Rita. She was the one who first insisted I play for them, taking me by the arm and literally dragging me to the piano. I liked her, though.

     It was an absolutely beautiful night. A full moon rose over the neighboring monastery, huge and perfect, and when the dark finally set in, I stood for a long time at the rail of the garden, taking in the lights of Florence. Seeing that moon over it all, and Brunelleschi's duomo glowing softly in the distance ... I was moved to tears.

Monastery seen from the villa's garden. Unfortunately, you can't see the full moon in this photo.

     During dessert, Sergio talked to me at length about music and what it meant to him. (He's an amateur jazz pianist; he formed a group with a few of his friends.) He told me that I was privileged to be a musician. After so many years of practicing and rehearsing and coaching, I sometimes forget that I indeed am privileged. He reminded me, and for that I'm grateful to him.

     They made me perform again after dinner, and were all so kind and welcoming, that for the first time in my life I didn't mind being at a party or being the hosts' "party trick." All in all, it was an evening I'll never forget. It reawakened my soul and my gratitude to my art.

To be continued. . . .