Every time I return to Chicago, I am overwhelmed again by the love with which the singers greet me. In addition to all of the hugs, squealing, and promises of blood sacrifice to the ethnomusicology faculty of the University of Chicago so that they'll accept me into the Ph.D. program, my friend David showed up for a few minutes. David is a professional conductor whose days are packed tight with gigs and rehearsals so he can earn enough money to keep body and soul together. He likes Sacred Harp and usually tries to make at least the second half of the Sunday session of the Midwest. This year, though, his schedule didn't allow him to come. But he showed up for a few minutes anyway, even though he didn't have time, just because he knew I'd come, and he wanted to see me. The fact that I have friends like that means more to me than I can ever express.
I have no voice left. We had an unusally live singing room on Saturday, and I oversang a little, so I was hoarse this morning. I thought I'd try and conserve my voice and sing softly. But after the first hour of the singing today, my singing voice came back; it would not be denied. The Singing took over, and I could no more hold back from singing than I could stop breathing. Sacred Harp uncovers hidden resources deep within a person. Then it demands every bit of what it discovers.
The memorial lesson was the finest I have yet heard, and I have heard memorial lessons that have reduced grown men to open tears. This one left them all behind.
Usually, I find it difficult to feel myself as being part of a community. I'm not an emotionally open person, and it's hard for me to be really part of a group. But sitting once more next to the guy I sang next to for four and a half years and blending my voice with his as if I'd never left was incredible. They'll always have a place for me in their hollow square.
I'll write more after I've had a chance to sleep a little and process this weekend.