Dreamer, Part 1

I had that dream again.  I was downstairs in the Tabernacle women's dressing room, wearing the Olympic blue dress, sparkly necklace dipping out in front as I bent to ease my heel into one of my black concert shoes.  The air was electric, full of spirit and positive energy in the bustling and chatty wardrobe room.  I strode forward and towards the stairs, music in the crook of my arm, dressed and ready to perform.  I grabbed a portion of the skirt of my dress, feeling the texture of the solid and durable crepe in my fingers as I walked up the stairs. I headed toward the library, very aware of an almost effervescent happiness and sense of belonging in my soul.  My task was to ask for a recording for rehearsal purposes of the new numbers I had heard the choir singing at a recent concert with the American Choral Directors Association.  I put my music down in front of me on the library window counter and stared hard at it as the thought process played out in my mind---wait, why didn't I already know the music? Wasn't I singing at that concert, and--oh no.  Is this real or is it a dream?

I woke up to the darkness of my room, crickets singing outside the window.  I gently tugged the light bed cover over me for comfort and burrowed my face into my pillow as the feeling of intense sadness washed through my body once again. I silently prayed for the Comforter to come and bring me the peace I sought in this moment. 

18 months ago I was released from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir after a "career" of 21 years.  One third of my life I served with them.  It is past tense.  Often when people ask me about the choir, I answer the question using the word "we" and now it's "they."  I'm still transitioning, after all this time. When kind friends ask me questions like, "Wow, it must be hard for you after all that time spent with the choir to not be able to sing with them--how are you doing?"  I tell the truth.  "Bad," I say.  "But it's getting better. Most days.  Other days it's still like a bad divorce." I compare it to going through a mutual break up with a boy friend.  I am sad and dealing with it but know it's necessary.  Then I see him on TV a week later, happy and singing his heart out with his new group of admirers, not even missing me and doing just fine, while I am in shock and feeling so betrayed he could go on without me because I can barely function through the grief.

Trying to analyze just what it is I am missing is difficult as there are several layers.  One is the flat and empty place where there used to be incredible spiritual highs. Some of the music we sang sent my heart borne heavenward and beyond. Music sung by a choir of people who have consecrated their time, talents and energy to the mission of that choir is hard to describe, it must be experienced. And experience it I did. The spirit blessed our work, and I felt it and I am missing the filling of my soul by this music.  

I  miss raising my voice in unison with those surrounding me, combining with my own personal praise.  I miss the genius of our directors with their intelligent and well placed quips and lines of correction and encouragement. I  miss the growth coming through the challenges, intellectually, spiritually, plus socially. They were my family, a special choir family.  I saw pictures of their students, children and grandchildren, and knew their stories of life and challenge and love and laughter.  I traveled with them, ate with them, laughed with them, and sang with them. We hugged and cried and performed together.  We experienced some of the most incredible times of our lives together, leaving no challenge to try to explain why it was so amazing, because we all were there, together.  


I miss seeing the "Men in Black," our nickname for the stage crew, one of who was my husband, creeping around during broadcast, trying not to be seen as they placed a harp for an upcoming number or removed a group of metal stands, trying to avoid clanging them against each other as they shuffled them offstage. There was a certain sense of satisfaction having Wally close, working together on such a magnificent project.

Honestly all of the choir experiences weren't heavenly--some were downright hard and bordered on scary.  Like the first time we performed a whole concert, two hours' worth of music, from memory.  Or like the many times I missed family events because I had made a commitment to this organization and I just couldn't skip.  Late nights at recordings and long rehearsals before and after broadcast challenged my abilities to stay dialed in and fight off weariness and sometimes sleep.   But I still miss it.

Something must be said about the identity the choir became for me. I understand the choir is famous--I wasn't. But many friends and family introduced me to others with: "She sings in the Tabernacle Choir" and I found it was enough to make me popular and remembered. As my retirement time grew closer, I began asking, "Will you still like me even when I'm not in the choir?"  It was a tongue-in-cheek question but there was some underlying shadow to it, coupling a little fear with desperation as I couldn't turn back the calendar.  

Now the time is indeed passed, and I am depending on time to help me heal. I don't know how long, and I don't know what to do except let time go by--until my experience last night. This time it was not a dream.