I’ve often said that I like to think about life as a series of forks, a sort-of Choose Your Own Adventure book, in which we’ve already made countless decisions, and whose alternate endings reside only in our dreams. We make these decisions everyday, quite proudly at times when we decide to “reclaim” our lives or “seize the day”. But, do you ever stop to think about the decision points that have already happened?
Yesterday marked the end of my fifth year as choir director at Edwards Church, UCC in Framingham, Massachusetts. This means that in less than six years, I have made a transition from never having heard of this place to not imagining life without it.
It’s my wife’s birthday, and I’m the one who’s overly excited. This happens every year. It’s not that she’s afraid of birthdays, or anything like that. In fact, I’d say, she gets an appropriate amount of joy from her birthday, for an adult.
Easel outside my Jeopardy! audition
This week I’ve had the great pleasure of auditioning for the Jeopardy!, the esteemed game show now in its 30th season. For as long as I can remember (since I was six, I guess!), I have been aware of the show, and longed to be a contestant. Now, having completed an in-person audition for my second time, I can say it was an amazing experience, and I’ll have good memories regardless of what happens next.
Somewhere, stuffed in a box heaped with memories from the first, distant years, there exists a written account of the following; more accurate, and most likely daubed with liberating tears of joy. These here are memories that persist, after fifteen years.
“Marathon Monday” brings back so many memories for me. I don’t have anything particularly meaningful to say on the matter, but I suspect that these adventures form a healthy amount of jumping off points for the autobiography of anyone like me.
I grew up in Hopkinton, and for as long as I can remember, I have described the town to people as “26.2 miles west of Boston… where the Marathon starts.” I’ve worn that as if it were a defining part of me. In my years, I’ve been to the start of the race a few dozen times, and always watch at least a few hours of coverage on TV each year. Not the biggest fan in the world, I know, but also not bad.
I’m useless this afternoon. Mixed into the very busy days ahead due to Holy Week, and some projects at work, I have a vacation scheduled with my family in New Hampshire.
This morning, I bounded out of the house, cheerful to see what the day had in store for me. It’s Friday, the last day of my work week, and we’re going out with my sister-in-law tonight to celebrate her birthday. As I approached the bottom of my street, on my way to the bus stop, I noticed a police car blocking both lanes of the intersecting street. Not being able to see clearly around the corner, I decided I’d attempt to walk in that direction, so that I could meet my bus prior to the obstruction, whatever it was.
I’m a reflective person, who frequently thinks about dates and milestones. I have a friend who regularly counts down to every future event on his calendar. 30 days till vacation, 100 days till the next Olympics, etc. I work in the other direction. Past dates tend to stick in my brain, and I remember with as much accuracy as a birthday or anniversary those dates which have become as defining. Today is March 27, and fifteen years ago this evening I learned that I didn’t want to be alone anymore.
That is what makes the performing arts so unique.
This past weekend, I had the pleasure of attending a rare Boston performance by the Los Angeles Philharmonic during their 2014 tour. This would be the first visiting orchestra I’ve seen at Symphony Hall.