A memorial for 2020
The beginning of a new year always seems full of promise, and the first day of 2021 tempts us to close the door on 2020, a year of disappointment, loss, and suffering for so many, and on such a scale. Before you close that door, think along with me about how the experience of 2020 opens us to new kinds of excellence.
As a church organist, I’ve played the organ to an empty sanctuary many times over the years, mostly at night, when it’s quiet and I can concentrate on making music. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that emptiness was actually for something, a means to a larger end. I was practicing — to keep up my dexterity, to learn new music, to prepare to play for other ears. That emptiness wasn’t empty; it had a role to play.
When’s the last time you cooked a meal for nobody to eat? How about making a quilt that would never warm or comfort anyone? As a musician, playing to an empty space seems like . . . practicing. It always points beyond itself. And when it doesn’t, it’s like the start of a conversation that isn’t answered, a gesture that just stops, losing its meaning. And that’s exactly what COVID-19 brought about: empty spaces where people gather to share experiences.
At least, that’s what it seemed like at first. I don’t know if you’ve ever thought about it, but an organ actually sounds different when the building is empty. That part is physics. The bodies of the people who gather in that space, their clothes, even their breath with its humidity, change where and how sound travels. I am able to tell the attendance at the church where I’m organist, within twenty or so, by how the previous organ sounded; I’m nearly there with the new organ. It takes time to learn the nuances, with a space full of people, and this year, I haven’t had that time.
But there’s another part that’s not physics. Playing music for people is like a conversation. I feel their response to the music; it’s a bit like we’re together, in a dance. When the space is empty . . . Well, there’s just stillness. Plenty of music, plenty of sound, but also a stillness.
In the time of COVID, playing the organ to an empty church for live-streamed worship services, I struggle with some pretty weird things. Like, I can’t just skip over boring measures like I do when I’m “just practicing.” I have to concentrate to keep myself from changing the registration in mid-phrase, or fix some fingering I misjudged. After a couple of months, I discovered that I’m constantly reminding myself that there are ears at the other end of the music I’m making, to stay focused.
And when I make mistakes — trust me, there are plenty of mistakes — I miss the exhilaration of pressing on and trying to make the mistakes sound intentional. (Yes, I do that, with varying degrees of success.) I have to stop myself from playing passages again for no good reason other than the notes just feel good under my hands and feet.
Can I be completely honest with you? It’s lonely.
But please stay with me; there’s more.
In the stillness and loneliness, something unexpected happened. I don’t quite know how to say this, but I started noticing what I’m doing. Years ago, I was asked how I keep everything straight — all the keys and buttons and activity. I responded that I think about playing the organ about as much as you think about reading a newspaper: very little. I just sit down and play.
I meant to be saying that, at a point, it becomes natural, “second nature,” as people say. But maybe that’s not what I meant; maybe, bit by bit, I just stopped paying attention.
I didn’t expect this, and I would never have chosen it, but this time of emptiness has given me a chance to look inward. I experience playing this instrument with a different awareness, a new kind of intensity. Yes, it’s lonely, but it’s also strangely full, in a way that brings meaning and purpose right to the surface. Isn’t that what we need for a new year?
What’s the opposite of emptiness? 2020 has made us miss that, whatever it is to each of us, and our sense of loss is real. But what we make of that loss is up to us. Don’t turn away from 2020; turn inward. Choose mindfulness. Choose compassion.
Choose excellence.