Unboxing Hallelujah

How It All Comes Together

Last Friday I attended a performance of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra. I also went to Concert Talk, an informal time before the program with the DSO’s Assistant Conductor. He talked about the music, the composers, and took questions from the audience.

One woman asked, “how does your training as a clarinetist influence the way you conduct?”

His answer still vibrates. He said (paraphrased) that wind and brass instruments are about air. That percussion is about rhythm. That strings are about movement. And that the role of the conductor—whatever their background—is to bring these sections together, while simultaneously bringing out their uniqueness.

As the program began, I found myself observing the stage, scanning each section with a new perspective. Focusing in on the winds and the brass, I thought about air and wondered about their breathing. Watching the percussion, I thought about rhythm and how they set the pace. Fixed on the strings, I thought about movement and paid close attention to space.

I placed my hand over my chest, attune to my respirations, pondering my relationship with air. Reminded of how often I hold my breath. Or struggle to catch it. The times it comes with such ease. Those terrifying and exhilarating times I lost it.

I tapped my fingers softly against my leg. Trying to match the beat. Questioning my sense of rhythm and ability to find the right pace. Sometimes everything goes so fast it’s overwhelming. Other times so slow I get frustrated and impatient. I remembered a joyful night of dancing. A night of sorrow so heavy I couldn’t even stand.

With no one seated in front of me I stretched out my arms. Moving them carefully. Reflecting on the ways I move and take up space. Choices I’ve made to be still. Reasons I have left so much space empty. Times I’ve shrunk. Times I showed up uninvited, letting my presence be known.

The conductor was captivating. With the rise and fall of her shoulders her was breathing visible. As her arms swayed and her hands floated like leaves on the breeze, I felt the rhythm. As her entire being moved I felt space expand and I was drawn in. I watched in awe as she drew in each musician, drew out the sound of each instrument, and created this environment of stirring energy for everyone.

My curiosity flowed.

No matter the talent of the individual musicians, would this symphony come together without a conductor? What about our own breath, pace, space, and compositions? Who conducts our lives? Are we our own conductors?

And then…the music shifted. And so did my curiosity. No longer questioning who or what conducts our lives, but how. How are our lives conducted in ways that bring the pieces together? How does it all come together? Does it all ever come together.

There was a guest cellist. His presence animated. Eyes and smile expressive. Style unique. No music in front of him. Playing only from memory. Making it look so effortless. Near the end of the piece, he dropped his bow and reached for a guitar pick. Unexpected. Natural. Mysterious. Intimate. Distinct.

After a standing ovation he returned for an encore. I recognized the song immediately; Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. He played it with tender perfection. He also sang it. At times impossible to distinguish the sound of his voice from the vibrations of the cello’s strings. With goosebumps on my arms, and shivers in my spine, and hot tears on my cheeks, I was completely consumed. The music stirring my entire being. No longer thinking about air and breathing, or rhythm and pace, or movement and space. I was only being. Being present. Being synched. Being conducted. There were no parts of me. No sections of myself. No tension. No conflict. No suppression. No division.

I have lived so much of my life in separation. Keeping everything in its own box. Sometimes the boxes clean and organized. Other times messy and disheveled. I learned how to pack away parts of me for days, weeks, months, even years. I knew which parts were safe in what places. I knew what to say. What to silence. What to hide. What to share. What to wear. What to leave behind. What to avoid. What to never mention. What to not admit. What led to ridicule, rejection, and violence. What clues and cues to look for. This constant compartmentalizing is exhausting and dispiriting. Hindering air flow. Hampering rhythm. Halting movement. Making it nearly impossible to live purposely and in sync.

While my experience is that coming out is more of an ongoing process than a one-time event, I have clear memories of the first step out of the closet, and the day I decided to slam that closet door shut for the last time from the outside. Since that day I have learned that like closets, boxes are not meant for people. For me boxes have been a way to survive and navigate an uncloseted life. And I’m ready to empty out, break down, and recycle all these boxes.

I want to live as a whole being, being fully present, presenting the fullness of myself and my queerness that is so much more expansive than sexuality or gender, my experiences, feelings and emotions, hopes and dreams, fears and failures, sorrows and joys, answers and questions, wonders and curiosities.

I want my being and my writing to be indistinguishable like the cellist’s voice and his cello’s strings. I want to be. I want my breath, my rhythm, my movement to be unique like the cellist trading his bow for a guitar pick. I want my stories and my work to be a conduit, bringing people together with their own heart and with a stranger’s. Creating space for healing and imagination, goosebumps, and tears. Offering a moment of personal wholeness and communal connection in a world seemingly intent on breaking us and separating us from ourselves and one another.

I invite you to curiously remember a time you showed up and held space as your full self. What did it look like? How did it feel? Or maybe a time you wanted to show up fully yet were not quite ready? What would you need to be ready? What would it look like to not feel ready and do it anyway?

I invite you to be curious about one box that you have put yourself in. Is it a safe place? A hiding place? A temporary storage place? What would it look like to step out? How would it feel to break it down?

A cold and broken world invites us to create a warm and a healing hallelujah.

One less box, one breath, one step, one move at a time.

This is how it all comes together.

Water-fully Yours, Rebecca
10 Camels