On a Sunday Afternoon

We all have those experiences where on recalling the joy we felt, we for some reason have to visit the notion of not having had the experience. Surely it’s not just me who has to tantalize himself by imagining some disappointment. Such was Sunday afternoon.

My first taste of music from the hearts of a mostly octogenarian group was the British documentary, “Young at Heart”, which tells the story of a group of elders in Massachusetts. The film focuses on the process of these men and women coming together and then preparing for performance—the frustrations of the director who formed the group, the tenacity of the performers, many of whom struggle with health problems, and the health roller coaster that ultimately leads to the performance being dedicated to two of the men who died before the group finally took the stage. It is the story of triumph, loss, and celebration.

Had I not picked up the Friday arts magazine from the local newspaper and read about “Lifesongs,” had I not convinced myself to head downtown to the performing arts center in spite of a cold, overcast early May afternoon with temperatures hovering around 40, had I been put off by the innocent challenge of free tickets with no reservations—how many people will show up, how early do I have to get there, and will I have to stand in the cold waiting for the theater to open—had I not understood somewhere deep inside that a potentially heartfelt experience awaited me, I wouldn’t know what I had missed. But I showed up and I found myself wiping away tears throughout two hours, until I finally just gave up on the finale.

I know, of course, that the memory of loved one’s lost tugged at me throughout the event, though one of the story tellers was only in his 50s—a handsome Hispanic man battling Parkinson’s disease—and an elegant woman poet I assumed to be in her 70s or 80s, even though her hair was colored jet black, turned out to be my age, a mere 66 years. Many stories from many men and women were set to music, a collaboration of the story tellers and the talented artists who translated these stories to instrument and voice and body motion. Photographs taken by some of the storytellers were projected onto a large screen at the back of the stage while their words were spoken against a lyrical backdrop of music.

Four of the storytellers were on stage—a part of the performance, each in a wheelchair—while others were in the audience, including one man who had asked that he not be pointed out. I don’t remember ever before witnessing such a rich coming together of community—nursing home residents, hospice patients, nurses and other caregivers, artists young and not as young, and so much honesty. Musical and performance perfection was not the purpose, and yet, the afternoon couldn’t have been more perfect—for me.

“Step by step that’s the way that we started
Step by step under the Stars
Not too fast, kinda slowly
That’s the way that I like to dance
That’s the way that I like to dance”

Dancing by the Moonlight—by Bits and Pieces

So on a gray, cold Sunday afternoon, as I walked briskly back to my car parked several blocks away from the theater, I smiled and remembered and I gave thanks for the groups and individuals who gave themselves to a process that had culminated in an afternoon—something that couldn’t be repeated, even though a similar performance had been given the night before in a neighboring city 60 miles to the south. I smiled and remembered and gave thanks for the love—love that was obvious in the faces and love spoken. It is in giving that we receive. And so it is.

On a Sunday Afternoon—Santa Fe, New Mexico (May 3, 2010)
R. Harold Hollis