Appalachian Trail, Mount Everest, and bliss...

Tonight, because of poor planning on my part, I hiked the Appalachian Trail and climbed Mount Everest  just to reach my seat at the Embassy Theatre for the first performance of the season.  For my first attempt to experience life outside the GREEN chair every once in a while.

I have spent quite a bit of time, off and on, trying to figure out what I could wear.  To me, dressing up for the symphony is not so much about being impressive as being appropriate.  I just don't think it is appropriate to wear shorts or jeans (not that I wear either) to the symphony.  However, of the work clothes that have survived all my down-sizing, I could not figure out something that would do.

For one, even though I can pick up the innards medication, it has to be ordered.  So, I am now rather swollen in the abdomen again—rather noisy, too.  SIGH.  So, what might have worked is much too tight.  After trying on eight different options, I decided that what I really wanted to wear were my black boots, which meant that what I needed to wear was a black skirt.  So, I took one of my old work silk jackets that was sort of playful (it is white with folk-art black line drawings of safari animals on it), added a white shell, and then picked the straighter, black version of the thin denim skirts I found and have been wearing.  They are closer to chambray than denim, so they do not look like a jean skirt at all.  Both the tiered ones and the yoked ones hang more like a flowy cotton skirt than any sort of denim would.  Probably, they are neither denim nor chambray, but some other completely fake fabric.  Only, how can a fabric actually be fake.  Perhaps imitation?  Of course, at this point, I do not know what type of fabric the fabrics of the skirt would be imitating.  In any case, I was dressed.

My plan—my rather ill-conceived plan—was to park in the handicapped spot at the Botanical Gardens and then hobble around the corner to the theatre.  I figured I would then pop in my seat and rest up during the two hour performance.  Only, when I drew near the Botanical Gardens, I was rather surprised to see folk everywhere!  Veritable hoards of well-dressed people—most wearing black—were all walking in the same direction.  I would have thought I was back in DC going to a football game, except football fans wouldn't be dressed to the nines.  Did I mention the word hoards?

I knew there was a parking lot nearby, so I started looking for it.  After circling around for a bit, I turned in, paid $2, and begged for handicapped parking.  I was directed to just pull straight ahead into what is, technically, an alley.  The walk from the parking space to the door of the theatre was the Appalachian Trail for me.

Online, you can read (and watch videos) all about the Embassy Theatre, and if you do you will learn that on any given event, there are a minimum of 50 ushers.  So, when I stood at the entrance, I announced that this was my first time and I needed help knowing where to go.  One usher sent me across the floor.  Another usher sent me up Mount Everest.  A third usher sent me down the all to another entrance.  A fourth usher sent me further up Mount Everest.  A fifth usher had me climbing down the back side of Mount Everest until he figured out that I was actually just below its pinnacle, so we climbed back up what we had just descended.  I barely lowered myself into my seat.  My very tiny seat.  [Perhaps folk in 1920, when the theatre was built, were smaller?]

I have a lot of difficulty hearing, primarily because of nerve dysfunction.  Things are distorted.  I have blogged about that before, about how I can no longer hear the melody line in a hymn on a piano and an organ is just noise to me.  Much is just noise.  So, I consulted wide and long on where to ask for seats.  Three different folk told me:  upper balcony, left side, nearer the front.  My seat is perfect.  

To be honest, I was rather worried that I had recklessly spent money on trying this raising-my-quality-of-life thing because I picked the symphony.  I mean, someone who has bemoaned just how much she can no longer hear (and see) really should not have chosen an auditory event for her leaving-the-GREEN-chair outing.  But I revel in classical music.  Classic, classical music.  Rachmaninoff Symphony No. 2 in E minor, op. 27 is just the music for me.

So, I was thrilled to learn that all the advice I received was good.  I basically knew it was because each usher exclaimed:  "Oh, you have a great seat!"

But hearing Rachmaninoff comes later.

First, well, everyone there knew everyone else.  I was stunned by all the greetings and hollering over chairs and hugs and shouts of joy at seeing one another again.  I felt like the Great Interloper.  There I was, huffing and puffing, trembling and sweating, and trying to disappear into my seat.  I also felt like I was back in high school watching all the popular people greet each other in the hallways and such.

So, the music began, a bit late, and it was not Rachmaninoff!  It was our national anthem!  What??  Everyone leapt (I mean that they really jumped up out of their seats) and began singing rather The Star Spangled Banner with great gusto and fervor.  In all my years of football games, I have never seen a crowd sing like this one.  Of course, I spent most of the time trying to haul myself up out of the tiny seat.  The very cushy, soft tiny seat.

Then, the first violinist came out with fanfare.  And next, with greater fanfare, came the conductor.  Finally, the real music began.  But it was not Rachmaninoff!  What????  I kept checking the program.  I guess in the intervening 20 years, I forgot how a symphony performance works.  Apparently, it is a lot like Sugarland concerts (my only real concert experience), where much of your concert time is spent on warm-up acts and then you just get a portion of the evening with the Main Act.

We were warmed up first by Respighi's Suite I from Ancient Airs and Dances.  I was not really wanting to hear Respighi and Respighi's Suite I from Ancient Airs and Dances is not Rachmaninoff.  Mostly, at times, I felt like I was listening to a musical interpretation of children chasing each other in circles on the playground.

But, apparently, we were not warm enough, because Mozart's Concerto No. 20 in D minor for Piano & Orchestra, K. 466 followed Respighi.  I would like to write that I am not familiar with this piece, but my broken rememberer means that I do not actually know if I am familiar with this piece.  I cared for it far less than the Respighi.  Some of the bits where the orchestra was playing with the pianist were not all that bad, but I simply do not care for runs up and down the piano keys ... runs and runs and runs.

Thinking that we were at intermission, I asked the man to my left, who had announced to me that he and his lovely bride had been season ticket holders for the past 42 years (I almost wanted to ask who died ... as in whose seat did I take), how long intermission was.  I wanted to see if it might be possible to decent partway down Mount Everest to the Ladies' Salon and climb back up.  He said it was usually 20 to 25 minutes.  Only whilst he was talking, the pianist walked near the front of the stage and said something I could only partially hear (he was not miked) about visiting Fort Wayne and then wanting to play a dance song from Argentina or something like that.  Then he walked back to the piano and started playing.

I was not the only one who looked confused.

The piece was a POUNDING furious flurry of notes.  I admit ... the truth is I am just not much of a piano fan.  This, this is the very epitome of orchestral music that I do not like.  Wild and chaotic, like the pops sort of stuff.  When he finished, with great gestures on his part, there was an immediate round of thunderous applause, followed by some hooting and hollering.  I guess I was the only one who wished he did not share from his favorite repertoire.  And I should note that the pianist is world renowned and has won some major competitions.

Another note I would like to make is that I never saw anyone put music on the inside of the piano before.  There was no music rack.

After he finished, I did my descending, salon visiting, and climbing.  As I was navigating my way about the theatre, I was often asked if I needed help. The real help—other than a wheelchair—would have been for someone to hold up my skirt so I could hold onto the rail and my cane and not constantly trip on the hem of my skirt.  You see, you can descend from Mount Everest in a skirt, but climbing it in one is not all that advisable, if it is an ankle-length skirt such as mine.

When I got back to the chair, and caught my breath, I saw that the piano was gone. I would very much like to have seen it moved.  Looking at the layout, I couldn't figure out how it was moved.  But mostly I wanted to see if the first piano tender came out again.  You see, that guy came out, opened the lid, propped it up, and then walked off the stage.  Then, he came scurrying back and opened the cover to the keyboard.  He looked at the audience, shrugged, and then bowed with a flourish as chuckles turned into applause.  I was wondering if he was fired between then and intermission or if his forgetfulness was overlooked.  And I wondered if he forgot any bits as he was moving the piano.

Being in the midst of all the half-time socializing going on around me, I was grateful I put my kindle in my purse.  I spent the rest of the time reading my book.  You might have thought I should have taken the time to explore the program more, but whoever authored the performance notes had a very sappy pen. I mean, who in the world would use the word "luscious" to describe music??

Then.  Finally.  Rachmaninoff!
Bliss.
My surgeon was right; I needed something not utilitarian and not medical in my life.

Honestly, I cannot see how the orchestra could possibly give a better performance amongst the nine remaining in the series.  It was bloody fantastic!

I want to be the cymbal man.  Seriously, can anyone tell me how I can get that job?  He had the best time and he got to sit down a lot.  He even had three different sets of cymbals.  I totally need me a set of symbols.

Mr. Big Drum man, at one point, very sedately walked over to what I think is a xylophone and played a very delicate and beautiful run of notes.  I found the dissonance between his playing those tinkling notes and pounding away at the massive drum intriguing.

I also want me a set of the four drums that are all connected.  Becky said they were timpani.  I do not know what that means, but I do know that I need them.  I even have space for them!  I also need the rather large collection of puffy-headed drumsticks he was using.  I got lost a bit trying to figure out why he kept changing them.

What turned out to be the first clarinet—who had an important solo coming up—had a bit of problem with her instrument.  She made a face playing something and stopped.  She bent over and pulled things from her bag of tricks and set about fussing with her clarinet.  She would play.  Fuss some more.  Play. I think she was timing her tinkering with when she played, because she would bend over and grab something only to leave it in her lap for a while.

She was not the only tinkerer, but I think she was the only one who had a problem.  The entire French horn section kept turning their instruments in circles to dump out something.  I do not want to know what.  Several other of the horn players were also engaged in dumbing, so I avoided looking at any of them.  But I will note that, up until this performance, I have never been much of a horn fan.  Tonight, I was so thankful for a lesson in just how beautiful and important different horns can be in an orchestral performance.

I did spend some time watching my beloved oboes.   I adore oboes and believe all people who play oboes are magical folk.  Whilst the bassoons were just there, I will also note that the first clarinet, when she got her instrument settled and played her solo, made me weep.  I believe I was errant in not having room in my oboe-loving heart for clarinet magic makers.

The instrument I have longed ever so deeply to own and play is the violin.  Tonight's performance had quite a bit of violin magic making.  What would have made this a truly perfect evening was if instead of a piano piece as a warm-up, someone had chosen a violin piece.  But beggars cannot be choosers.  And I am a beggar.

How can it possibly be that I denied myself such bliss as going to the symphony for twenty years?

I will also admit one thought I had whilst there.  It is an honest question:  Why do you need a conductor?  I mean, all of them are professional musicians.  Why do they need a leader?  The conductor is new this year.  Being so absolutely un-musical, I have no idea who he is.  What I do know is that he is very, very, very fervent in his work.  Maybe musicians feed off his energy to get them through the long performance??

My other stray thought was that each and every man in the orchestra was dapper, handsome, adorable, and downright dashing.  They were all wearing tuxedos.  Lovely things.  The women, however, were only clad in something black.  Anything black.  Some wore pants!  I was scandalized.  Some showed bosoms. I was embarrassed when they leaned forward.  Short sleeves.  Long.  Scoop, square, and plunging necklines.  Dresses, skirts, pants.  The women ... well ... the men took the prize.

And, for the record, just as I believe there should be no long hair in football, I now wholeheartedly and unreservedly believe that there should be no cleavage in orchestras.  I know, I am old fashioned that way.  In all ways, really.

Just to let you know how good the performance was, the audience clapped after the third movement.  [I only know to call it a movement because I looked it up in the program.]  The conductor was very kind, in my opinion, at that moment. Rather than show impatience or even ire at the interruption, he smiled and acknowledged the orchestra, as if he understood what the audience was feeling.  When the fourth movement was over, there was a bit of a hush and then a wild burst of applause that went on and on and on and on.  A few folk left, but as I looked around me, I saw so very many audience members—young and old alike—whose faces looked how I felt.  Utterly grateful for such bliss as we had all been gifted.

You know, I left the land of everything when I left the DC Metropolitan Area.  I do rather miss not being able to have Lebanese food.  But I believe that had I been at the Kennedy Center tonight, I could not have had a better experience with Rachmaninoff.

What a mind classic classical composers must have had.  As I looked around the rather full stage, noting all the musicians and the many repetitions of the same instrument, I was in awe that any man, any person, could envision music this way, knowing when you needed two violists vs. three or six.  To understand how the music would sound in his head, because they did not write with an orchestra around them ready to play out bits and pieces.

I know that there is beauty in mathematics. I know that others can see a symphony in the work of Einstein, for example.  But, tonight, as I sat there listening to all that music, so very many different occasions of this life came to mind.  At one point, I thought a certain segment would be perfect for a ballet whilst another bit would help send a gymnast flying across the mat.  I could hear weddings and stories (movies/TV) and ceremonies.  I could hear life accompanied.

Call me strange, but I could also hear the Psalter and, consequently, the sweet, sweet Gospel.

I do know all the instruments of an orchestra. I do not know composition theory.  I do not know all the different types of music (all those strange terms for movements and such).  But I did not have to know and understand all those things in order to receive the blessing that hearing such beautiful music, experience such a work of art, is.  I do not have to know and understand all those things in order to receive the blessing that musical accompaniment can be to life.  I just have to listen and all the work of music is being done for me.  It has been done.  It is being done.  It will be done.

Hymnody, symphonies, and the contemporary music playlist I mentioned previously alike.  Music can carry meaning and will cling to us even when we cannot quite understand or hold on to our very selves.  I have heard pastors talk about what it is like to sing hymns to the dying, how even when the person is rather ill or is non responsive, music can bring about a peace of mind and a peace of body.  I know that playing music can help children be better students.  And I know that music can help the ill and/or wounded recover.  It is something that goes into us and works in us.

I do not need to know Hebrew. I do not need to know history. I do not need to know the different styles or types of psalms.  I just need to hear them, to receive them.  I just need to read them aloud to myself and to others and to have others read them to me.  They will cling to me. They will come into me and work in me, because this is what Scripture promises, this is what the Holy Spirit does for us.

I do not know why I stopped going to the symphony.  I suspect that it has something to do with my thinking I was not worthy of such an experience.  That I should not spend money on nothing else but pure pleasure for me.  It really is surprising, to me, to realize that I have not been to the symphony since i was 26.

I am 46 years old and I have only taken one vacation in my entire adult life.  Vacations are not something I can do anymore.  Expense aside, I cannot travel by myself.  And, even with help, travel is extremely hard on me.  But when I could have, I did not. I wasn't worth it.  I spent time off from work the way others wanted me to without ever doing anything for myself, with that one exception.  And that, really, was as much for Becky as it was for me.

This is really something for another post, but I want to mention it here. I want to remember it now.  People tell me quite frequently that I am too hard on myself.  At this point, when someone does, I want to scream back:  And why do you think that is?  Negative language is my first language.  It is my family's language.  Pointing out all the flaws and failures, all the what-could-be-betters, is my normal.  From the time I could learn to talk, this was the language I heard and lived.  If not the current flaws and failures, the what-could-be-betters, I hear a re-hash of all the old flaws and failures, all the what-could-have-been-better.

In one of her songs, Pink writes:

You're so mean
when you talk
about yourself.
You were wrong.
Change the voices.
in your head;
make them like you instead.

The video, linked above, is rather raw.  The words, I suspect, many would find offensive.  But they are about healing from brokenness in a way that is real or honest.  There is a "clean" version of the song, but I happen to like the poignancy of the juxtaposition of that word and "perfect" when it comes to the topic she addresses in the song.  I find the video brave.

The thing that drives me nuts when folk tell me that I am too hard on myself is that they are actually being hard on me in telling me that.  Instead of pointing out my flaw or my failure, my what-could-have-been-better, why not simply say something nice about me, why not simply fill my ears with the language I am struggling to learn so that I can ... learn it.

I find it so difficult to talk about that moment in my surgeon's office, how she looked at me when she was asking if I would try yet another doctor, try seeing an integrative medicine specialist.  She told me that she knows there is no healing for me, that what is happening to my body will continue, ultimately, to happen, unless some really good work in nerve science happens (really could work that would need to be funded first for it to happen—autonomic nerves are not as sexy as central nerves and nerves themselves are not as sexy as breast cancer or erectile dysfunction).  She said she just wanted to see if there was some bit of improvement that could be made to my quality of life.  And she asked me to think about my whole life.

The kitchen upgrade continues to be a struggle for me.  I know and have experience the good of that decision.  I know that it will be a good investment for my future. I know that this was, probably, the only time I would ever have the money to do it.  But, setting aside the troubles and failures with the contractor, I still think about the thousands of dollars sunk in there and what those could mean in, say, prescriptions.

So, trying to take a stab at quality of life, I spent a rather large chunk of change on three things:  the season tickets to the symphony, functional chairs for the dining table, and a cookware set.  The latter turned out to be free.  So, I have less I'm-not-worth-that guilt over the cookware set for sure.  I did, since it was free, go ahead and get the 12-inch pan it was missing and two new spatulas, since mine are more than 20 years old.  The point it, I chose three things to do for myself that have no other value than for my pleasure.  I mean, it was possible to cook with my grandmother's pots and pans (I kept and still love all her aluminum baking pans).  Given that I am a hermit, it was possible for my infrequent guests to make do with the 160 year old broken down chairs (oh, how I love those antique chairs).  And it is clearly possible to live one's life without going to hear Rachmaninoff played live and played rather well and played in a beautiful, historic building specifically designed for acoustic excellence.

But I chose three things I thought would fit what the surgeon meant about quality of life.

Climbing down from Mount Everest was hard.  I knew it would be, so I waited until everyone else had descended before I made my attempt.  Just as on the ascent, each step got slower and slower.  Unbeknownst to me, I was being followed by an usher, a music teacher by vocation, who finally darted in front of me and asked if there was anything she could do. I blurted out, "Drive me to my car."  I had texted Sandra to see if she would before the performance started, and she thought she could, but the performance ran long and my descent even longer and I was loathe to see if she could still drive all the way over to simply drive me the equivalent of a block or so.

The usher made it happen.  Well, she asked me if I wanted to change my seats and actually listened as I explained about my hearing problems and how I wanted to remain where I know I could hear not just the music, but also many of the instruments.  Then, after asking me point blank if I had MS and then listening to me again when I explained that I did but that I also had Dysautonomia and the problems with hearing and vision being more about nerves and reception than failure of organs and so outside helps do not always help, the usher took me to a police officer who took me keys and fetched my car.

[Yes, I did holler across the lobby:  "I learned to drive in the 80's so the parking break is set!" when I realized how young the police officer looked.]

When I was telling Margo about how I decided that what I wanted to do for myself was to go to the symphony and then I wondered if Fort Wayne even had a symphony, she asked me how long I had lived here. I told her it would be three years in December.  Three years of getting sicker and sicker and my life getting smaller and smaller until I exist primarily in the GREEN chair.  She was surprised that someone who clearly savored the performance so deeply (I gushed quite a bit about all the things I liked about the Rachmaninoff piece) would take nearly three years to check out the symphony in town.  I was too embarrassed to tell her that it was actually twenty years with regard to that.

While we were talking, I learned that Margo had a very close friend who was just diagnosed with MS and so she said she thought it was great that I got out.  I had already chastised myself several times for my poor planning.  But Margo did not tell me to not be hard on myself.  Instead she pointed out that I did, in fact, arrive and did, in fact, get to hear Rachmaninoff.  Next time, she told me, I could plan better.

[How does one plan for hoards of classical music lovers parking all around the theatre?]

Margo ask me how she could help her friend. I told her to tell her friend on a regular basis that she is NOT crazy, that what she is experiencing in her mind and in her body is real, and that she is courageous to even get out of bed.  It is good to hear those things.  I bet you all my Dr Pepper now and until I die that no man with MS goes into a doctor and hears how he is just stressed and that men cannot handle stress as well as women.  ARGH!

Margo laughed and thanked me for coming tonight.  Thanking me for keeping her and other staff late whilst I shuffled my way down the stairs and waited for the police officer to find my car and bring it to me?  Wild, eh?

As wild as Jesus continuing to forgive me when I continue to struggle with believing He could forgive someone who continually finds herself back in dark places even when she has finally walked into the light.


Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!