Worthwhile Mistakes

Recently I answered a request for volunteers to perform in Purimspiel, a lighthearted and very corny celebration of the book of Esther.

I did this because I made two mistakes... I would never have attended the third rehearsal if I hadn't thought it was the first, and I didn't realize that there were no simple spoken parts.

I walked in, was handed a folder of sheet music and a highlighter to mark the parts I should be singing. This was going to be more than interesting, possibly catastrophic, as I have never sung in a choir. Fortunately, most of my part consisted of backing vocals, things like "Shooby doo-wop" and "Sock it to me," so I overcame my dismay and managed to finish the rehearsal.

The next morning, I was walking in the local parks, listening to the birds and reflecting on the experience. I remembered something from a visit to England when I took a train for a family get-together; got off meaning to get out of the station as quickly as possible but stopped when I heard something unusual.

It was a rhythmic tap, tap, tap—at first so quiet that it came and went. Slowly it became louder, a beating noise coming from a great distance. Gradually the rhythm became more insistent, the beating louder, until suddenly, a steam train came into view heading at speed towards me. The sound increased dramatically... push, push, push, push, accompanied by matching pants of smoke and steam. As the train approached the platform, there was a crescendo of panting and pushing, and the engine gave a high-pitched scream of warning... Eeeeee.

It slowed as it passed me, I was totally absorbed in the moment, enveloped in a bath of warm steam and overpowering sensations. When the scream deepened and ceased and the panting urgency quietened, I gradually regained awareness of my surroundings.

The rehearsal had been somewhat like that. I was forced to stop worrying and thinking about the strange novelty of it all. Gradually the rhythm, the concentration and the repetition took over. I was just one not-very-important voice among many concentrating on what was needed of me.

When I got home Mrs. Mike looked strangely at me, asking, "Why are you so high?" This post is my attempt to explain.

Yesterday, five or six rehearsals later, the play went live in a synagogue packed with weirdly dressed people who had just spent some time celebrating the reading of the Megillah in an extremely rowdy fashion. Even the experienced members of the cast showed signs of nervousness, possibly because they had solos to perform and any stumbles wouldn't be masked by the rest of the choir. I was hoping desperately that I wouldn't produce some terrible error that spoils the whole event.
Then we were on. No more time for nerves, just keep time, watch the conductor, listen to the beat, stay with everyone else, relax and sing.

Slowly, then faster, it came together. We were performing. The choir carried me along with them; I was lost in the moment and the music, a small part of something good. My best explanation of how it felt was that I was no longer on the platform. I had become part of the train, which was going somewhere worth visiting and getting there very fast.

I certainly want to sing in a choir again; one of the best mistakes that I've made.

N.B. On this side of the dateline, it is Friday afternoon