Are all circles the same size?
Not a chance, right? You walk around the perimeter, you run your finger around the perimeter, you gaze at the curve of the perimeter - yes indeed, circles come in all possible sizes. And yet there is a strange feeling that comes with circular motion, a intimation of infinity. The end is the beginning, all that good stuff. It seems like every circle contains a bit of that particular magic.
Walking around Jamaica Pond always feels a bit like that. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes during the day, sometimes at night. Every walk feels like it has a different length, a different character, despite all the familiar markers along the way. Perhaps it's not, in fact, that all circles are the same, but rather that the same circle is always a different size.
The light shifts as you walk and change your relationship to its angle. New perspectives unfold. The wind rises and falls. Familiar rocks and trees come into view, in positions that keep moving with you. The conversation flows, changes, people come walking and running by. Waves introduce themselves across the water. You keep walking, curving, watching, experiencing. Perhaps most poignantly, there's a feeling of completion that comes into being as you round the final corner, but one that also teases the beginning of the journey as that opening location slides into view once more.
The heron hiding in the picture above is from a recent walk - one in which we went around in the reverse of our usual route. (That was a strange circle too, reminiscent of the Hysteron Proteron Club at Oxford which would host "backwards" days that began with scotch and bridge, and ended with a bowl of breakfast porridge. Of course, every day is fully a circle of its own.)
I find myself thinking of these smaller circles as A Far Cry rehearses this week, preparing our opening concert which has the massive title (and theme) "Circle of Life." The idea of the program is to trace one of the largest circles we inhabit, from infancy all the way through maturity. It feels strange, in a way, to be participating in a program that represents an arc of experience that we haven't felt yet. (But not that weird - we are musicians, after all.)
It's a beautiful program, beginning with an exquisite set that pairs Bartok's "For Children" pieces with lullabies that are significant to various group members - some passed down, one written from scratch. Childhood moves into the pangs of adolescence with the extaordinary and tumultuous "Shystar: Metamorphosis" by Franghiz Ali-Zadeh. A sweet fullness of experience arrives with Dvorak's flippin' gorgeous Serenade for Strings (also written when Dvorak was a young parent.) There's an exclamation mark that follows, in the shape of the fiddle-inflected "Castles" by AFC bassist Karl Doty. And then there's the utter serenity of the slow movement of Beethoven's op. 135 - a serenity that is the furthest thing in the world from simply "easy."
Rehearsing a program like this can be a little tumultuous - not only are you moving from one emotion to another, but also from one "age" to another. Sometimes when Bartok follows Beethoven in a rehearsal cycle, I can feel the weight and wisdom of years finding its way into my bowarm - kind of great. (The reverse is also great!)
Ultimately, though, I find myself stepping back from the big theme and thinking of these smaller circles and cycles, because they're the ones I know. Morning light to evening light. Spring to fall. Opening Days to Commencement. Minutes and hours. Watering the plants and feeding the cats. Sleeping and waking. Healing. And, of course, a pandemic year.
I'm still not sure quite how to construe the time that has passed since we were last in Jordan Hall. Was it a break from time? Was it a cycle of its own? What did we just go through? Lots to think about, but the only thing I can say for certain right now, is that for A Far Cry, we've proceeded beyond the end, far beyond it, and tomorrow - today - we find ourselves at the beginning again.
How large is the area that we just traversed? What was it for each of us? I don't know and can't begin to say. I know enough to know that no mathematical or metaphorical trick would ever make it the same size for all of us, nor did we all have the privilege of experiencing it as a circle. All of that is painfully clear.
But I also know this: that soon we'll see each other again in Jordan Hall (in person, online, in whatever way feels right) and we'll get to share the extreme joy of both "beginning again" and, more meaningfully, of continuing on.
All my best,
Sarah
-
Circle of Life:
Friday, September 17, Jordan Hall
Saturday, September 18, South Shore Conservatory (outdoor concert)
|
