local theater

Maybe If We All Just Sing 2

Times are weird. We are on edge. It’s hard to know what the future holds for things that we have long taken for granted. War hangs over us like a sword. Guns kill babies. Cars crash into crowds. Churches consider the employment of armed guards on Sunday mornings. We are as politically divided as ever. Families argue. Fists flail. Facts fail us. Little pink hats represent not innocence but resistance. Everyone is angry. What can we do?

Well, for one thing, we can sing.

Sure. Whatever.

No. Really. I mean it. We could find a local choir and we could show up and sing in it. Or we could go to a choral concert and sing along—or just sit quietly, listen deeply and let the music massage the tension from our souls.

Late fall is choral concert season around here. Community choirs that reconvened from summer breaks in September have been rehearsing their programs for the last two months and are getting ready to perform. I sang in a concert this past weekend and I know of at least three more choirs readying performances in the next couple of weeks that I hope to attend. I can tell you that both singing and listening focus my energy, calm my fears and rekindle my faith in the goodness of people, their willingness to cooperate with one another and their ability to join together to create something beautiful.

If everyone did it, we’d all be a lot happier.

I sing in a chorale of about sixty members. It is my second year which makes me a newbie compared to a lot of them, some of whom have been devoted singers in this group for decades. Yet, instead of becoming cloistered as long-existing groups can get sometimes, their doors are wide opened to anyone who wants to work toward the common goal—making beautiful music accessible to everyone. And so we do.

In my books, I have written essays about my singing experiences. If you have read them, you know that, even though I have been singing since I was a kid, I am, even still, a complete and total amateur. There are some professionals who sing with us and our director is, of course, a maestro of the highest calling. All of them, incidentally, are much younger than I am. But instead of feeling intimidated by their youth and talent, I find that I am invigorated by it. Every week in rehearsal, I get to listen to them and learn from them and then add my voice, stumbling sometimes, to the magnificence of it all. And I am needed because in choral singing every voice matters. None of us can do it alone. There is no such thing as a choir of one. It is a cooperative effort of composer, conductor, instrumentalists, vocalists and audience and there’s power in the collaboration. Take any part away and the experience is diminished.

It is a timely and much-needed reminder of the good things we can put out into the world when we work together.

Keats said, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.”  In a time in our society where both truth and beauty are at a premium, we need to find them and elevate them wherever we can. Choral music is a fine and accessible place to start. You don’t have to be a virtuoso to sing along. You just have to be willing to find your place in the song.  Attending or participating in live, local performances make us part of an incoming tide that will raise all of our boats—working together to make sure that humanity never forgets the beauty of which it is capable.

So sing. Or support a local choir. Or both.  Instead of adding to the cacophony that frightens and divides us, let’s make beautiful music—together.


If you are a New Englander, here’s a directory of choirs throughout the region that will help you to get started. I hope you take a look and find a group near you to join or support.





The Road Taken

Nothing interesting ever happens around here

Well, if we sit on our butts in front of the TV, then we are right. We get to watch interesting things happen, perhaps, but to other people in other places. Never to us. Never here.

Well, interesting things, as it turns out, are not so very far away. We just have to find them. Wherever we live, we are surrounded by things that are worthy of our interest, our curiosity and our attention—things that will make us better, more thoughtful and—dare I say it?—more interesting ourselves.

And if we are more interesting, then our world becomes more interesting, too. Automatically. It’s kind of a miracle.

I have had a very interesting week. So interesting, in fact, and so worth saving that what started out as a blog entry expanded into a full-fledged essay and completely outgrew this space. So, while my most interesting week will be revealed one of these days in its entirety in Volume Three, this blog post will focus on two entertaining, enlightening and most interesting evenings. And they both happened very near here, where I live, practically in my backyard. I just had to get off my butt and find them.


Saturday Evening—I saw a play. It was a local theater company’s production of The Absolute Brightness of Leonard Pelkey, a one-man play written by and starring James Lecesne. Having read the novel (also by James Lecesne—the man totally owns this project), I couldn’t imagine how one person could possibly populate the stage with enough power to do the story justice. But Lecesne shifted from character to character with little more than a turn, a prop, a lighting cue, a video projection, a voice shift or a gesture. Understanding these shifts was like watching a movie with subtitles—a little weird at first and then, because it was so well done, effortless and natural. Not only was it enough—it was perfect.

This story of Leonard Pelkey, a 14-year-old gay boy, is a sort of an It’s a Wonderful Life with a dark twist. We learn early in the play (so this is not a spoiler) that Leonard Pelkey, crazy dresser, beauty salon receptionist and fashion consultant to older women who have lost the confidence to be different, was murdered. He was found at the bottom of a lake, bound with rope and tied to a boat anchor, so they know it was not an accident. The play then proceeds to do two things. It sorts out the details of the murder and it develops the character and personality of Leonard through the eyes of the people who were affected by his presence. Leonard’s life, they discover, made a difference in theirs. And though this may sound like a cliché, Lecesne’s performance makes it anything but. We laughed a lot, unusual in stories about murdered children, and left the theater thinking about what the world does to free spirits and what we can do to encourage kids to be true to themselves without getting killed.

This play and others like it exist, even in places where, it would seem, nothing interesting ever happens. They are being performed everywhere that there are people. Need something interesting do? Go to a play. I would highly recommend this one.

Monday Evening—I joined a discussion about a book. The same theater company that produced The Absolute Brightness of Leonard Pelky also sponsors a fabulous book club that gathers once every show to discuss a book that sheds light on the performance. Highlights of the current season were discussions of Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon in tandem with a production of  August Wilson’s The Piano Lesson and Margaret Drabble’s The Middle Ground paired with Caryl Churchill’s Cloud 9. Discussions are intelligent and spirited and generally include the director of the current production (who gets to choose the book).

Well, on this evening, the director did not join us. Instead, we got to spend our time with James Lecesne himself as we discussed his book, Absolute Brightness, the novel from which the play was derived. So there he was—novelist, playwright, screenwriter, actor, activist—totally intimidating, right? On the contrary. Lecesne, despite all his accomplishments, is one of the friendliest, most down-to-earth men I have ever met. He joined our discussion not as a leader but as a participant and he was as interested in our thoughts as we were in his. The evening flew by as we nibbled on cheese, drank wine (so civilized) and talked about Leonard’s plight and how it reflects the situations of other kids who don’t fit the mold of the communities they live in. Absolute Brightness shows that kids like Leonard who live innocently and honestly are the ones who open eyes and hearts and minds. But the question remains—at what cost?

So, here’s a question for you. Should we encourage innocence? It is an endearing quality, for sure, but is it safe? In Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Julius Caesar, Brutus says, “It is the bright day that brings forth the adder, and that craves wary walking.” In other words, danger lurks where you might least expect it, so know that and beware. But that kind of awareness comes from experience. And experience is the enemy, indeed the murderer, of innocence. Once we know, we cannot unknow. Once we have seen, we cannot unsee. We cannot go backwards. For most of us, innocence cannot survive. It is a physical, emotional impossibility. The world will beat it out of us if it has to.

This is John Knowles’s point in A Separate Peace, J.D. Salinger’s theme in The Catcher in the Rye and even Mark Twain’s message in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. The older we get the more experiences we have. The more experiences we have, the more we learn about things as they are instead of just as they seem. The more we know about the way things are, the more we know we must protect ourselves from the crap with which we share the world. The more we know the more guarded we become. The more guarded we become, the less innocence we possess until one day, it is gone altogether. In literature, characters who can’t or won’t or shouldn’t let go of their innocence either go crazy or die young.

So what hope is there for kids like Leonard? And without kids like Leonard, what hope is there for the rest of us?

Whew! That’s a lot to think about. Pretty interesting, huh?

These are the kinds of questions that we grappled with at Book Club on Monday night with James, our new BFF. After the session, he chatted with us informally, signed our books and was in no hurry to leave. He seemed to like us and we certainly liked him. By the end of the evening, he was one of the gang—the one who just happened to have written the book.

What could possibly make life more interesting than having read and discussed a good book? Book clubs are about as ubiquitous these days as plays, but they are not going to come looking for you. I’ll bet your local library already has one that you can join. If they don’t and they know that you’re interested, if they’re any kind of library at all, they’ll start one. Or, you can start your own. And maybe, one day, the author will show up.


I sometimes complain that I live in a dull, dumb, boring town–mostly when I’m feeling like a dull, dumb, boring person. I hate this feeling–mostly because neither thing is true. The solution is to get up off my butt, go out and find the places where interesting things are happening—a play, a book club, a concert, a museum, a lecture, a nature walk, a movie, a class, etc., etc., etc.

And that makes all the difference.