On Last Month's Performances of "Words and Silences"

I’ve finally had some time to reflect on the Words and Silences shows last month. It was an extraordinary week. Now, I feel relieved, and a bit lonely, too.

Practice began on a Monday afternoon at Mershon Auditorium (the Wexner Center for the Arts generously offered us the space and time to rehearse). From the ensemble’s first notes, I knew it was going to work. The performers (in the above photograph: Phil Rodriguez, Jeremy Woodruff, Katie Porter Maxwell, me, William Lang) were so incredible and professional that it was easy to trust and share with them. They responded to the project, too: I could hear how they cared about each note, and about each other. From the beginning, it felt like a real band.

Tuesday, we rehearsed most of the day. My 14-year-old son Henry visited in the morning. He quietly moved throughout the auditorium, sitting in each section, listening. I hope he remembers being there when he is older. In the evening, we all had dinner together at our house along with my wife, Jen. She patiently helped behind the scenes, giving us time to work. She also helped keep us (me) grounded, and not too serious. There were lots of jokes, and laughing, and some shop talk as well (but not too much).

On Wednesday, we had a dress rehearsal, then dinner, then waiting. The dressing rooms were nice, quiet, a little cold. The entire building felt stuck in the 1950s.

The last moments before a show can really wreck your mind. I did pretty well, considering: constantly practicing careful breathing, and focusing on observing rather than thinking (not easy). Some of the time I was by myself, trying not to be nervous, but then I would wander into the Green Room to see the other musicians as a distraction. William (trombone player) was keeping his instrument warm with virtuosic runs and scales; Katie (bass clarinet) could be heard playing long tones a few doors down; Phil (trumpet) was wandering the hallways, improvising; and Jeremy (alto sax and flute) occasionally joined me, moving between conversation and melody.

Then, the call to go on stage. I had to remind myself to stand up straight, take deep breaths, and smile, too. I avoided making eye contact with anyone in the audience; it might have been too much, emotionally. Fortunately, I had a new pair of glasses that allowed me to see the score and keyboard very clearly, but not much else. It was an advantage to have the audience be a blur!

The performance—55 minutes or so—felt like 5. Performing is very much like meditation: your mind wanders and you have to gently bring it back to focus without getting nervous or mad at yourself. It was the best performance I could have asked for: everything worked (including my fingers!); and to my ears, the performers sounded lovely.

After, a buzzing feeling—of relief, and of love—for family and the musicians and the audience, of course, but also a feeling of deep connection to the world in that moment, standing on the stage. The feeling is this: there is a river below us, below our thoughts, below the stage, below the ground. For just a moment, we can dip a toe in it, and feel all of the others there, too.

I said hello to people, but do not remember much. Henry joined us on stage, playing a few notes on the piano and snapping photos of the band. My mom was there, too.

The next morning (Thursday) we left early for Kentucky to record at Thomas Merton’s hermitage. Kevin Davison joined us to film it, too. When we arrived, Brother Paul Quenon was already waiting for us. “This is beginning to look a bit like a cult,” he said, presumably about the fact that I keep bringing more and more people with me to the hermitage. 

Just before we began to record, Paul stepped outside to listen. He said, “We should take down the windchimes! They might get in the way.” He was right, of course, and his keen sense of listening helped us avoid having the windchimes take over the recording. We did the entire album in one take, and then we scrambled to pack everything up. 

A few days before, Paul wrote to me with bad news: the Abbot had reserved the hermitage for the week, and could we reschedule? Feeling the pressure of only having the musicians with me for that one day, I decided to press him, asking if we could just be there for a few hours. I received a short reply, that Abbot would “make himself absent” from 1pm to 5pm. Grateful (and feeling a bit bad, too) we went ahead with our plans.

At the hermitage, I told Paul that asking the Abbot to leave his retreat for the afternoon had been weighing on my mind. He said it had been weighing on his mind, too. He said it in an honest, authentic, and empathetic way—no judgment. I have a strong sense that his spiritual training/mastery comes out in this way, in addition to being eager to work, light in his step, filled with humor and delight, sharp and serious, playful.

Speaking of humor. At 4:55pm, just as we were loading up the cars to leave, Paul came tearing up the drive in a camouflage ATV. He hopped out (in his robes and sneakers) and said, “Now, I’ve brought my shotgun and am gonna chase you off the property!” We all laughed; it was truly unexpected and funny and made us feel comfortable with him. And then, quietly, he said, “No, seriously, you had better go before we see the Abbot walking up the way.” Meanwhile, Phil had brought his frisbee golf discs and was taking advantage of the large fields to get some throws in. I had visions in my mind of a stray disc hitting an unsuspecting Abbot in the head. But that didn’t happen! It all worked out. It was just fine.

We took our picture together on the porch, and left. Paul invited us to Vespers and to see the chapel. We went in and sat down and everything hit me like a ton of bricks—fatigue, happiness, wonder. The interior of the chapel is sparse, with white brick walls. The light from the stained windows (at 5:15pm) projected across the plain back wall, streaks of color slowly moving and changing. We could only stay a few moments, and I felt restless, with an urge to get on the road before fatigue completely overwhelmed me.

We all stayed together that night in a big old house in Louisville. It had many more beds than people! And here we let go, enjoyed each other’s company, listening to hours of music and sharing with one another deep into the night.

And then, it was over. William and Phil both left from Louisville, and Katie and Jeremy left the following day from Columbus. Dropping them off at the airport, I let go once again, surprisingly becoming very emotional. I felt a deep sadness to see them leave, but grateful for our friendship, and grateful for this most extraordinary week.

The funny thing is: there was so much uncertainty during these moments—Will someone get sick? Will the music even work? Will I forget everything?—that in retrospect seems distant, or even silly. But the uncertainty and anxiety are simply part of the process, part of the big wave one must ride to move through the experience.

Photos courtesy of Kevin Davison, Henry Harnetty, Lisa Rehark, Jeremy Woodruff, Katie Porter Maxwell (and others I can't remember—thank you!). Also: many thanks to Lane and Adam and the Wexner Center for the Arts for their support of the project over the past two years. Amazing.