And Life Goes On...

In my senior thesis I wrote about the connection between music and suffering. There is an inherent connection between man and suffering, and an inherent connection between man and music. Put that together, add about 1100 more words and 39 pages, and you get the redemption of suffering through music. It's as simple as that. (If only it were; I could have been saved almost a year's worth of work.)

But I am not here to write about my thesis, though I would like to talk about suffering, and music. I would like to talk about orchestra, and Beethoven, as well. These thoughts came to me during orchestra today. We were playing Beethoven's 7th today. The whole of Beethoven's 7th is a masterpiece. The scherzo is a little long, but it is still a masterful joke. Anyone who has read my senior thesis or gone to my thesis oration will know that I love Beethoven. And that I hate Mozart, but that is a story for another day.

Well, we were playing the second movement of that masterful work, the 7th symphony, and our director, Dr. Newby, said, "The thing about tragedy is that life still goes on, and I think that is what Beethoven is trying to express here. You have to keep the music moving. When you slow it down, it defeats the whole purpose." That made me stop and think. While I was listening to the winds and brass practice a section, I began to muse over what Dr. Newby had said. Yes, when there is a tragedy, life goes on. We can never hold onto our sorrow for too long, for even though someone we love is gone, we still have life. The world around us has life, and we have to go on living. We can't help it. It is not any sort of disrespect to the dead. They know, and we know, that we have to keep moving. When we slow down, it defeats the whole purpose.

Throughout the rest of the movement, I mused on this, and as I mused, I saw what Beethoven was trying to express unfolding in his music. The movement starts quietly and somberly with the lower strings. It is a throbbing rhythm, as if someone were weeping. It it the sound of a coffin being lowered into the grave, while we look on and weep. The sorrow continues. It gets stronger, but it keeps moving. The pain is excruciating, but we must keep on going.

Then, quite suddenly, the sun comes out. The music is serene. It is not Mozart-happy; it is peaceful. The pain is not gone, but it is hidden away in a secret recess of our hearts, so that when we want to, or must, we can let it out. And we do want to let it out. Not long after the sun comes out, the music turns to the theme again, and the sorrow returns. It is not for long, however, and as it always does, the sun comes out again. That is the way of things.

The movement ends with the theme. It gets softer and softer, almost dying out, until it resurges in the last two measures. I do not think that is despair. No, it is a promise. It is a promise that we will never forget. We will go on with our lives, but we will always remember, and that pain will always be in the deepest recesses of our hearts because we loved. That is the way of life. That is the way of Beethoven's music.

And that is why I love Beethoven.

Alexander's Grave

When once he raised his head in brazen pride
From centuries of stony serpents' hearts,
He looked upon the world and raised his hand,
Encased in black and terrible to see,
And took his sword to conquer all he saw.

The world was at his feet, dejected, torn,
And still he cannot rest, till all is his;
He will not stop till his is heaven's door.

His visage stamped in silver, gold, and bronze.
Proclaiming all his glory to the ages hence,
He shall live long, and after death still more -
His name enshrined in memory's annals while
His mark upon the world is left behind.

For Death shall have no sting, no chilling bite.
Death shall not take his spirit, though he die,
His body withered once from dust to dust,
And grass grows sweetly on his mounded grave.

But yet when all is done and gone
There is no more than shadows on the grass.
And grass in winter's chill shall wither and be gone,
And love shall not his memory resurrect;
It lies not in his cold and lonely grave.

Music in the Modern Mode

In our day people, especially if they are young, say that classical music is boring. They would much rather listen to the latest pop hits or watch Justin Bieber gyrating on stage. When I go to orchestra concerts, I am struck by the overwhelming number of older people present. The ratio of people over forty is much greater than that of people under thirty. Our youth do not listen to classical music. They don't think it is relevant to them; the problems they are going through are expressed so much better in "Teenage Dream" or "Twenty-Two." So to make classical music "relevant" to today's youth, the symphonies of Beethoven and the concertos of Bach are given a touch of rock. Thus we have such atrocities as Walter Murphy's "A Fifth of Beethoven." Granted, that is from 1976, but that kind of "remixing" of the greats is still present. I hate to pollute the innocent ears of my readers, but this can only be understood with an example.

I hate it when people do this to beautiful music. It has always been my contention that in order to present something to young people we do not need to dumb it down. Thus my utter hatred of Christian rock. Just because something is called Christian does not mean it is good. (See Bad Catholic's post, "5 Reasons to Kill Christian Music.) Young people can be just as receptive to beauty as adults. They do not need Precious Moments to explain the faith to them. They do not need anything less than Beethoven's complete and unadulterated 5th Symphony.

I can understand a little the trouble, and why young people find classical music boring. After all, when you only hear Mozart and Haydn on the radio, what else are you to think? It's like showing someone the entrance to Arches National Park and not the majestic Double Arch or the stunning Delicate Arch. There are depths in classical music to which only Mozart and Haydn do not take you. You cannot simply stay on the surface and not explore the depths.

Yet there is hope. There are young people who love classical music, and even prefer it to the music their contemporaries are listening to. (Did you guess that I am one of those people?) Beauty and truth will not be ignored, now matter how much the other side presses forward. There are ways in which we can make good music relevant to today's youth without adding a drum set and electric guitars.

Recently I discovered a new phenomenon. Well, it is not exactly new to the world, but it is new to me. It is the classical flash mob. You know the principle of the flash mob: a group of people assembles suddenly in a public place to perform something for a brief time then quickly disperse. I was watching videos of such flash mobs on YouTube when I came across the Beethoven flash mob.

Since then I have watched this video many times. Every time it delights me. It is so wonderful, so powerful, so charming. One of the best things about it is the children. Granted, it is in Europe, and people are a bit more cultured there. All the same, it was delightful to watch the children throughout the video. The little girl who puts a coin in the bassist's hat stays to listen. A girl in red climbs a lamppost to have a better view and conducts from her perch. Two little boys dance and wave their arms around in time to the music. In general people are enjoying themselves. Who would not?

That kind of spontaneity lends a freshness to the music without changing it. When I see it, I think, this is what we need. Not necessarily classical flash mobs, though those would be fun. We need to clear the air around classical music. Classical music should not appear old and musty. I am all for the traditional appearance of classical music, but traditional in a fresh way. It is fresh because it is beauty. It is new because it is truth, and truth is present and relevant in any age.

And finally, as a conclusion, Peer Gynt on the metro. I love how the video portrays how beautiful music can lift us out of the humdrum routine of our lives while still being an essential part of our lives. Now this is a fresh take on classical music.

Once in a Blue Moon

They say it only rains in our town once in a blue moon. Whatever that means, it’s true. At least now it’s true. The old men would sit in the café every morning and talk about how they remembered a time when it rained nearly every day in the summer months. I can remember a time like that too. I don’t remember it raining nearly every day, but I do remember it raining at least twice a month. It was quite small then. Those were big rains. The gutters outside our house would be flooded. I would climb up onto the sofa under the window and press my nose against the cool glass, watching the rain come down in sheets outside. It would watch my father come home in the rain, his coat buttoned up tight and his hat pulled down low over his face. Mother would say, “You really need to remember to take the umbrella next time.”

My father would say, “But then I couldn't do this,” and wrap his arms around mother so that she shrieked. My father would laugh and kiss her, and then he would chase me around the house while I screamed with delight.

When the rain stopped I was allowed to put on my cherry-red rain coat and rubber boots and go out to play. The puddles were fabulous. The other children would come out to play in their rubbers, and we would have a splendid time until our mothers called us in. We went in reluctantly. Those puddles full of rain water were wonderful, magical things. You could see the whole world in them if you looked carefully. There is nothing you cannot be when you have a puddle of water and a world that smells as fresh as if it had been newly made.

But that was all so long ago. I don’t remember exactly when the rains stopped. I only remember that as I grew older the earth began to shrivel up and die like a grape that has been left too long in the sun. It was sad, and depressing, but we got used to it, all except for the old men who sat in the café every morning. They said we were under a curse. They said it was because children didn’t have as much respect for their elders anymore. I once asked my father if this were true. He sighed and looked sad as he said, “No, but perhaps it is because we do not have as much respect for our world as we used to.”

When I was fourteen I went to visit my cousin. Where my cousin lived it was fresh and cool and green. People had lush lawns instead of cracked brown earth and straggling weeds. Their trees were large and green and vibrant; ours, those few we had, were small and stunted and had a tortured sort of look. It was such a different world than the one I was used to. I loved it and wanted it to be my home. When I went back to our dry town I asked my father if we could move away. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “Our life is here right now.”

So I prayed. I prayed that rain would come again and turn our little brown town into a green paradise. I prayed that children would be nicer to their elders. I prayed that people would love their world more. God seldom works in the ways we want him to. The rains did not come. I finished high school, and the rain did not come. I went to college, and the rain did not come. I graduated, and still no rain. Perhaps the old men were right; perhaps we were under a spell that would not be broken for a hundred years. I would not see it happen. Perhaps my children would. I could not stay and wait for it, though. I had to leave, go some place where people were happier, and the towns were more than one color. I took a job at a newspaper office far away.

The night before I was to leave, I lay awake in my bed. Sleep would not come. The windows were open, letting in the little summer breeze there was. Everything was still. The moon was full and very bright, brighter than I had ever seen it. I looked at it and thought about the new life I was going to have. I was still thinking when I heard a noise.

When you've lived in a town your whole life you come to know its noises, the song it sings every day. But here was something new, and it awoke sudden memories in me. Perhaps I was dreaming, I thought. I sat up and listened hard. There it was again, a long, low rumble, followed by a crack. I got out of bed and ran downstairs in my pajamas. My parents were standing on the porch, tense and listening. I stood beside them and looked up. The sky was dark; only in patches could the stars be seen. The moon was still there, bright as ever, but all around it was darkness. In a flash I was little again, and the sky was dark and ominous, and the rain came.

And the rain came. It came slowly and lightly at first, a mere sprinkling, as if it had come to a new and strange place and didn't know where it was. All around the neighborhood doors opened and people came out, some in their pajamas. I walked out into the middle of the street and held out my arms. The rain pricked my skin. It was cool and refreshing, like a cold drink after a long, hot day of work. I could smell it, I could taste it, and it was good.

Then without warning the skies opened up. The rain poured down in sheets, soaking our bodies, seeping into the hard, dry earth. It woke us up. We were all out, the old folks to the little children. We laughed and danced about, splashing in the puddles that the thirsty earth did not drink up.

I slipped away, and went behind the house. I lay on my back on the ground. The rain poured into my eyes and mouth it seeped into every pore of my body. It was cold, but it was blissful. The moon still shone just as brightly despite the pouring rain. I laughed aloud for sheer joy. I was alive. I could feel it.

One rain does not make a river. But one rain can break a spell. Years later I came back to my home town. I lay awake in my bed again. I could hear the radio coming from the living room where my father was still up. I heard the announcer say, “Hello stargazers: get ready for a blue moon tonight. The moon will not actually be blue, but it is the second full moon in the month of August. This is the ‘seasonal blue moon,’ the third of four full moons in a season, an occurrence with has not happened in three years.” As the announcer’s voice faded into the back of my mind I heard the thunder. And the rain came.

Things seldom come out exactly as you want them to, but sometimes life can surprise you, once in a

blue moon.

From Darkness, Light

A couple of weeks ago I decided to read The Lord of the Rings again. It's been quite a while since I last read the trilogy; I think I may have read it either before or after my freshman year in college. Somewhere in my four years of college I watched all three of the movies, one after the other. Please note that I was very sick with strep throat and I was in bed for ten days. Otherwise I do not think I would have done that. The movies are well done insofar as they are movies, and they have a certain charm, but of course they do not compare with the books on any level. The charm of the books is far more charming. There is a depth in the books, a great amount of detail and beauty, that is lost in the movies. Why, they even cut half the scenes out! As I was reading the Fellowship I kept thinking, "That wasn't in the movie." Tolkien's portrayal of his characters is far better than Peter Jackson's. In the book, Strider and the Elves have such nobility and beauty. The Hobbits are cute and funny, but incredibly strong. Gandalf is magical and wise, but he has his comical moments that are not ridiculous. In a movie you can't display the depths of each character.

And then there are Tolkien's descriptions.

"The voice seemed far away and immeasurably dreary, sometimes high in the air and thin, sometimes like a low moan from the ground. Out of the formless stream of sad but horrible sounds, strings of words would now and again shape themselves: grim, hard, cold words, heartless and miserable. The night was railing against the morning of which it was bereaved, and the cold was cursing the warmth for which it hungered." (From the Barrow-whights scene)

Or, "The face of Elrond was ageless, neither old nor young, though in it was written the memory of many things both glad and sorrowful. His hair was dark as the shadows of twilight, and upon it was set a circlet of silver; his eyes were grey as a clear evening, and in them was a light like the light of stars. Venerable he seemed as a king crowned with many winters, and yet hale as a tried warrior in the fullness of his strength. He was the Lord of Rivendell and mighty among both Elves and Men."

Elrond in the movie must makes me laugh. He is nothing like Tolkien's Elrond. How can you get anywhere near that? I'm glad Peter Jackson decided not to put the Barrow-wights scene in the movie. Imagination fails at that point.

Before you begin to think I'm a LOR nerd, I am not. I do not particularly dislike LOR nerds; they are certainly better than Star Wars nerds of Trekkies. My main contention with LOR nerds is that they seem to focus more on the adventure of the books, or the movies. I am not a nerd; I am a fan. But perhaps "fan" is not the right word either. You are never a "fan" of Brideshead, or the Odyssey.  It is much more than that. I'm not sure I have a word for it. I don't have LOR paraphernalia. I don't hang up maps of Middle Earth and change my name to Elvish. I revel in the sheer beauty of the work. I marvel at how it can be written about such simple folk as Hobbits and be so beautiful. As C.S. Lewis said of the work, "Here are beauties which pierce like swords or burn like cold iron." A newspaper's review of the work says, "Tolkien's stories take place against a background of measureless depth...Tolkien's epic trilogy remains the ultimate quest, the ultimate battle between good and evil, the ultimate chronicle of stewardship of the earth."

The Lord of the Rings is not just a story about a fictional world. It is not just an adventure story. It is our story. It is the story of beauty being taken away from us. It is the story of the fight between good and evil. That is probably the reason I love the book so much. I have always been fascinated with the fight between good and evil, primarily because in the end, no matter what happens, the good always overcomes the evil. That is the way it is, whether it is in our world, or in Tolkien's Middle Earth.

So I will finish with a poem. I was not thinking about The Lord of the Rings when I wrote this poem. I believe I was sitting outside on a sunny day.


From Darkness, Light

The kings of old walked in the dark
With minds of steel and hearts of gold,
And as they trod their heads bowed down
While darkness pressed on every side.

But yet through dark and dismal skies
The light shone through and caught the spark
Of life within the men who trod
And warmed their hearts to burnished gold.

The light shone on and slowly grew,
And over land and on the sea
The men looked up, their hearts on fire,
And rallied in the golden light.

The dark drew back and fell to earth
On bended knee, with strangled voice
And moaning out in its despair
Retreated back into the depths -

For dark shall always bow to light
And darkness never can prevail.

Exulting in a Word

Sometimes I think about words. Words are wonderful things. I love words; I love to read them, I love to write them. It always astounds me how much a single word can express, how much it means. It astounds me that I can pick up my journal and read something that I wrote several months ago, and still feel exactly the same as I did then. It is as if the words, whether you read them or write them, capture a little of yourself and keep it imprisoned in themselves until you look at them again. Yet a word is only a certain configuration of letters, shapes really, on a page, and that configuration of shapes expresses something about us and the world around us. How can that be? My classmates will understand when I pull the Mystery Card, but that isn't enough. I wish I could know.

Today I was thinking about the word "exult." I thought about this word several months ago. I was sitting in the choir loft during the Easter vigil. Father Bob was reading the Exultet, and all was dark save for those little spots of dancing light down in the congregation, the little Easter candles. They seemed to be the words themselves, the words taking form in light.

Rejoice, heavenly powers! Sing, choirs of angels!
Exult, all creation around God's throne!
Jesus Christ, our King, is risen!
Sound the trumpet of salvation!


As it often does, my mind wandered a little, because I was thinking of the word "exult." It is such a small word, only five letters long, yet it is such a special word. It sounds like what it is. It sounds like water bubbling up, laughter, light, all at once. Some words are like that. "Exult" is a word that only has meaning in the context of what was going on around me at that moment during the Easter vigil. What if you were not a Catholic? Would you understand that word? If you were Jewish, perhaps you might. After all, the Israelites walked with God. If you were a Puritan, a Muslim, would you understand what it means? I can't think that you would. To me, the word "exult" can only have meaning in the context of our salvation.

The dictionary says that "exult" means "to show or feel a lively or triumphant joy; rejoice exceedingly  be highly elated or jubilant." For example, "They exulted over their victory." I suppose if you were a pagan and you killed your mortal enemies you could exult. But is that really exulting? It can't be the same thing as "Exult, all creation around God's throne!" We exult around God's throne because he is love. He is our God, and he loves us so much that he gave us his Son to die for us. That is such a wonderful thought that my heart cannot help but exult. Today as I think about that word I feel almost exactly the same as I did that Easter morning. 

I make a motion to change the definition of exultation. Exultation is when it is dark as night, and then the organ breaks out into a glorious prelude before we sing the Gloria, and the whole church is full of light and song. It is when a friend is baptized. It is when you sing Handel's Hallelujah Chorus with your friends at the end of a beautiful Mass. It is Christ redeeming us with his great love.

I don't care what the dictionary says. That is exultation.

Ghosts of Writings Past

Last night I was looking through my the files on my computer, and I came across a folder named "Plays." This immediately brought back memories of plays I used to write and perform with the aid of my siblings and numerous cousins. I would always write the plays, taking into account every one of my cousins' strengths and weaknesses, and creating parts that could easily be played by various members of the Ellis family. I always played the lead, because I felt I could never count on anyone else to learn all the lines required to be the lead. I even formed a theater company: the Ellis Family Theater Company, or the E.F.T.C.

A facsimile of the original program

We would practice these plays for months, and then at a convenient family gathering we would put them on for the parents and youngest children who weren't yet old enough to play parts. I would come up with the costumes, the music, and the programs, occasionally delegating tasks to the two cousins my age.

The first of these plays was The Story of a Princess and the Tale of a Dragon, a short drama about a princess who is captured by  dragon and an evil witch who are in cahoots, and is freed by a brave knight. The most memorable scene from that play was the one where the dragon failed to come out of the coffee table cave when she was supposed to. It was the first play I had ever written, and I was very proud of it, despite the errors of my actors. I thought I had lost the manuscript for this play, but I found a copy of it in the scrapbook I made of all the E.F.T.C. plays. It's absolutely wonderful.

Gismund and Chrysophylax plot their devious plots

The dragon and the knight battle

The princess thanks the knight for rescuing her

The next play we performed was a very short skit for the annual Thanksgiving talent show we held for our grandparents. This was The Daughters of Liberty. At a tea party five young women talk about the work they are doing for the revolutionary soldiers, and denounce King George. There wasn't much of a plot, but it was fun to jump out of my chair and cry, "Liberty forever and down with all tyrants!" And it's always fun to dress up in period costumes.

Discussing the upcoming highland dancing contest

Our piéce de résistance was a play set in the Scottish Highlands, We'll Come as the Winds Come. The play centered around a group of children who formed a clan called the Rob Roy Clan. They terrorize the game warden,Will MacNeil, who is always trying to catch people for poaching, but is secretly poaching himself. In one scene they write R.R.C. on various rocks to frighten Will. (This came from a club me and my siblings had once where we would go around the property and scrawl those initials on all of the cement surfaces and even trees. There are still evidences of the club today.) There was even a Scottish dancing competition, complete with swords, to showcase our dancing skills. (I choreographed the dance moves.)

Highland dancing

The boys try their feet at dancing, with disastrous consequences

An example of the choreography of the highland dance

When we put on our plays, they were far from perfect, and I would often get frustrated with the lack of appreciation of art. I still marvel that we were able to sort of pull off We'll Come as the Winds Come, the longest play we had ever performed. They were amusing at best. When we performed, the grownups were always very aggravating, always telling us to speak loud, and sometimes even laughing when they weren't supposed to. I think they enjoyed them, though, despite their annoying tendencies.

Those were not the only plays I ever wrote, though the others were never performed. There was the infamous Joan of Arc. Joan of Arc has always been one of my favorite saints, and after I read Mark Twain's Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc, I had to write a play about her. The play was extremely long. Unfortunately the manuscript has been lost, so I don't remember exactly how long it was, but it was long. It has become a family joke: Joan of Arch in ninety acts. The number grows every year. We started to practice the play after I wrote it, but I soon gave it up, as I realized it would never come off.

Last night as I was looking through the folder named "Plays" I found two other plays I had written years ago. The best one is One Wore Blue, One Wore Gray. This play, as the title suggests, is set in Civil War Virginia. The main character is Meriel Lee, niece of Robert E. Lee, to be played, of course, by me. (Each character in my plays was designed to fit each member of the family.) She and her male cousins (played by my brothers) met two Yankee girls and a Yankee boy (played by my Yankee cousins). They start off as friends, then find out that they are on different sides, and promptly hate each other. I'm still not sure what Yankees were doing in Virginia in war time. Meriel's cousins go off to fight, one gets killed, and the other is captured. When the Yankee girls find out, one of them (conveniently the niece of Lincoln), writes to her uncle and asks that he be released. The girls become friends again, and all is happy and well. I began to read this play out loud to my sisters. I did not get very far since I was laughing too hard. My dad came in, and read it out loud to us, using different voices for each character. I've never laughed so hard in my life.
When I wrote the play, I was probably around fourteen or fifteen, and I was into melodrama. The play is very melodramatic. The characters are always talking through their teeth, talking in stricken voices, or looking stricken, or some variation on being stricken, and Meriel twice breaks out into verse. It was extremely amusing, if not slightly embarrassing. Here is one priceless scene:



Meriel: (Between clenched teeth.) So. You are a Yankee.

Emily: What’s wrong? Aren’t you one too?

Meriel: (nearly shouting) No!

(Emily jumps up and faces Meriel)

Emily: Oh, so you are a rebel. I might have known.

Meriel: Yes, and I am proud of it. My uncle is Robert E. Lee.

Emily: So what? My uncle is the president of the United States.

I have no idea what I was thinking.

Back when I wrote those plays, I took them very seriously. Now, years later, I can look back at my writing and laugh. I have fond memories of those days. I'm toying with the idea of publishing my first mystery story, Ocean Mistory. I can guarantee you'll laugh. I know my family did when I discovered the notebook I had written it in and read it aloud to them. But that, as a certain professor of mine is fond of saying, is a story for another day.