Six days before the party, the bride rang me up. Would I please sing a special song at the party? The Human Heart, a touching song from the musical (produced with my friend, the bride, years earlier) Once on this Island. I close-to-immediately replied that I would be happy to do so. She'd arranged that our mutual friend J.E., an extremely gifted pianist, would accompany me.
It so happens that in the winter of 2010, a dear, loving group of my students, former students, and alumnae parents, banded together to organize and create the glorious Farewell Party that was otherwise denied me after twenty years of loyal service. All Alva and I knew was to be some place on a particular evening.
That evening was amazing. Such love and joy. One of the highlights came early on. My hosts prevailed upon me to sit at our table (yes, a party with dinner and dancing!) and, with piano accompaniment played by Steven, a long procession filed through the hall up to the raised platforms. Twenty-four dear friends and even my brothers and sisters-in-law, including numerous faces I hadn't seen in years! They'd been practicing The Human Heart in the preceding weeks, and now they all lined up, wearing costumes from our past productions of the musical, and sang their hearts out to me. Time stood still.
Four years and a lot of recovery later, it was my turn. I had to learn to sing the song. Both Jonathan, my accompanist, and my husband, Alva, coached me and egged me on. While I was practicing, I was remembering my rich history with The Human Heart. And I was thinking of the newlyweds and the honor and joy I felt at being able to give them the song as blessing.
The occasion was soon upon us. We schlepped an electric piano to the venue. I felt good and relaxed. We ate and schmoozed with our friends at the table. Suddenly Liz signaled that my moment had arrived. I'd decided to think out my toast but not write it down. The toast went wonderfully. I was prepared not only because of pre-thought, but largely because of my love for this beautiful couple.
And then I sang. I almost want to say, I was sung through, for that's how it felt. I don't know when I've ever felt this way before. Eighty people sat and listened. The song seemed to be singing itself, and I just had to stand there and remain in my heart, looking into the eyes somehow of all eighty people there. My voice was deep and my voice was big, but there was no belting, no performing going on. All my doubts about whether I could "pull it off" on short notice were out the window.
When we allow ourselves to be fully present, when we let ourselves be lifted up by a roomful of people who are all celebrating love together, or when you're out for a walk all by yourself, grace gently awaits your human heart to open up and let it all flow through. That's what we're here for. That's what matters.
[Because the celebratory evening now almost five years ago was so intensely heartening and comforting to me, I'd like to share another highlight of the evening. My friend and colleague, Bill Smoot, spoke so beautifully. I'd like to share his remarks with you here.]