Life as an Alto

I've been silent since November.  At first it was necessary; I was exhausted, and badly in need of rest.  After several weeks had passed, though, I began to be a bit concerned.  I'm a writer.  Shouldn't I be writing?  And yet, I felt strongly led to remain silent.  Until today.  Today, it dawned on me that the silence I've been exhibiting recently is actually a very compelling portion of the song I am here to sing.

After a long hibernation through one of the coldest winters we've had here in central Florida, I am slowly beginning to return to my usual activities.  Rehearsal season has resumed, and I've spent a great deal of time in the past few weeks learning the alto parts to both the Dvorak Requiem and the Mozart Mass in C Minor.  For many years my life has revolved around choral performances.  I generally plan my rest periods between performances, and then work like mad during rehearsal season.  This spring I've committed to two simultaneous performances of very challenging pieces of music, and after my long rest I'm thoroughly enjoying the process.



As I've been working on this music, it has occurred to me how much music mirrors life.  In a piece of music - choral or orchestral - each voice or instrument plays a unique and vital role in the overall piece.  When I played the bass drum for the community band, my job was to keep time, driving the tempo for the rest of the band.  My part was loud, and if I screwed up by not keeping good time, the rest of the band suffered.  As an alto, my job is much different.

The alto voice tends to sing the dark notes.  We sing inside the music, usually offering up harmonies rather than melodies.  If there is need for dissonance, which happens often in a Russian piece like the Dvorak, the altos are often the ones called on to deliver.  In practicing my part, those dissonant notes seem wrong, and are hard to learn at first because they just don't seem to fit.  Yet when we put those dark notes together with the rest of the voices, the result is an eerie beauty.

In an ensemble piece such as the ones we are rehearsing now, it is quite normal for each of the voices to remain silent for many measures at a time.  Like the dissonance, those silent rests add to the excitement of a piece.  A voice or an instrument drops out for a period of time, so that when it returns it adds color and tension that would not be possible otherwise.  While I am observing my measures of rest, I do not stress out and think, "I need to be singing something.  I should be contributing to this piece.  I came to sing and I'm not singing!!!!"

Why, then, when I am observing several measures of rest from writing, do I feel the need to freak out, as if the silence means I am not fulfilling my purpose?  Instead, maybe I should just trust the score.  My part may seem wrong at times, and I may be asked to be silent from time to time.  Some parts will be fast and loud, other parts slow and whispery soft.  Just because my part changes in quality and intensity, and at times may seem less important than the contribution I hear others making, I need to trust that the Composer of this music called Life has taken my unique qualities into consideration while writing this score.

I may not know yet how my part fits into the greater whole, but I am certain that the end result will be true Beauty.   My job is to learn my part, show up at rehearsals, watch the Conductor, and listen to the other voices and instruments.  Over time, magic happens:  we cease being individual voices, and together we become the music. 

Music, like life, is a challenge to perform well.  Yet that is exactly what makes it so fulfilling.