Tutti

There is something magical about singing with a choir.

Last week, Santa Maria and I traveled to Tampa for All-State choir. It was amazing. We sang in different choirs, so we were each able to see the other's concert.

I love the symbolism of it. Each individual is significant and valuable. They are responsible for knowing their own part. They must be able to stand on their own two feet. And yet...singing in a choir is so different from solo singing. There should never be any ego in a choir. You must listen and blend. Each voice part supports the others. Sopranos, Altos, Tenors, and Basses. You need all four parts or there is something hollow about the song, something empty and barren.

A week ago, I stood on the stage at Tampa Performing Arts Center and stared at a sound-proof wall that hid us. As it rose, the cheers of the crowd seeped under it to reach the ears of the other 314 vocalists who made up this choir. We saw the empty orchestra first, then the first rows of the audience that were filled with FVA members. A forest of faces on the floor. A balcony that hovered above them. Then another. And another. It was dizzying. The lights that focused on the stage created a haze then, and it seemed as if the ceiling disappeared into the clouds. Brick and red and faces and light. And music.

Life is like singing in a choir. Each person is vital. You have your notes, your entrances and exits. You have phrases that rise and fall. You play your role. You influence others, and they influence you. You have no control over anyone but yourself, and so you must let go of them. Watch the director. Watch the music. Breathe.

But you are only a part of something much greater, something that is absolutely beautiful.

While we were there, I asked for permission to doodle on the piano we were rehearsing with. It was a Steinway piano. If I ever have enough money to own a grand piano, it must be well-polished and as dark as night. My Black Beauty.