How Lovely

Many, many times over the past few weeks, in many instances in my life—even at work—I have experienced a strong feeling that the only appropriate thing to say or do is to open my mouth and have Brahms’ How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place issue forth. Not just the alto line, but all the voice parts together, as if I were some super Tuvan throat singer and could sing all four vocal parts at once—with the orchestral score issuing from my throat as well. It has been almost a physical sensation, as if I am a channel, or a pipe which, if placed in the wind just so, would come alive with sound. Or maybe it’s as if I am a television that, if my antennae were placed just so to catch the wave, would spring into sound, color and narrative.

Saying the appropriate thing these situations has been a real challenge. If I am possessed in those moments, it is a wonderful possession. It feels as if it must feel to be standing on the edge of a cliff with arms outstretched and the wind blowing in the right direction, and wanting ever so badly to take off and fly—but maintaining just enough rationality to know that it wouldn’t happen, so best not to jump off, best not to open my mouth wide and wait for that fully formed music to come flowing out.

Do you think I’ve packed enough metaphors and similes into these scant paragraphs? Here’s one more: Though it’s not issuing forth from my mouth, the music lives inside of me, and I ride it like an eagle riding a thermal.