9/11/11

Following the events of September 11, 2001, I found myself unable to stop thinking about the destruction of the Towers and the suffering that happened there. The idea of lives extinguished in the most horrifically painful way took over my consciousness. I played my first solo recital as an adjunct faculty member at the University of Richmond on September 23, 2001. At that point, I still couldn't stop thinking of planes striking great structures. Those images changed my way of hearing and interpreting my repertoire on that occasion, and I prefaced the concert by saying so. The program was Bach's E Flat Minor Prelude from the first book of the Well-Tempered Clavier, Debussy's prelude "The Sunken Cathedral", Liszt's Petrarch Sonnet 104, and the F Minor Sonata of Brahms. I added "A Mighty Fortress is Our God" as a closing meditation.

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When I first heard about the second plane, it seemed inevitable to me that we would respond to these events by going to war. As I experienced my shock and grief at what happened on that day, and as I reflected on its impact on my own understanding of my art, I thought that 9/11 would be the defining event for my generation of artists in the United States. Perhaps that has come to pass, but so much has happened since 9/11 that has moved us away from the grief and, in some ways, away from the possibility of healing, that I'm not sure if 9/11 itself has become the theme I expected it to be.

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While watching footage from that day this weekend, my sense of the immense grief of 9/11 was renewed, although I still can't get myself to accept (for more than a few moments at a time) that those events really happened . I accept them as facts of history, but the parts of my mind and heart that could try to feel the maginitude of their human significance seem inaccessible to me. This has generally been my experience of grief: at some point, my system simply stops trying to make sense of what has happened. Maybe that's what is meant by "acceptance." But when I closely observe my inner workings, I haven't accepted anything. I just don't seem to have the capacity to grieve non-stop indefinitely.

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I played Bach's F Minor Prelude from the second book of the Well-Tempered Clavier for offertory at church on this tenth anniversary of 9/11. As I prepared and as I played, I thought a bit about "Why Bach?" and as we drove to church, I noted that I was not the only one who turned to Bach on this day. As names were read at Ground Zero, Bach was played on the flute.

Why Bach? For me, it's not because of his context or some detail of his biography. While those things may affirm my faith and assure me that the human experience and the experience of art transcend any single time and place, what I discovered in the midst of the living and researching of playing the music is that somehow Bach's music is a gift from God. It ministers to us, and we intuitively turn to it at times like this. As such a gift, it seems to be able to convey the pain of the individual as well as the grief of the entire race while also sounding a note of hope.

As I played, I realized that my generation can find an authentic voice in interpreting our work, our music, and the great classics of our civilization in light of 9/11. No other generation can do this and noone can define what it is to do this but us. Perhaps this is a profound truth that each generation learns. As Fleisher puts it, the structure of the musical work is a vessel into which we pour our feeling.

As I grieve and seek to console others at the piano, I learn afresh how to phrase, how to wait, how to aspire, and how to end.

Peace

We visited St. Paul's Church which is across the street from where the World Trade Center stood. 14,000 volunteers traveled to St. Paul's to support the rescue workers in the months following 9/11. There were also 500 musicians who played in the church to minister to rescue workers as they tried to rest between shifts.

It seems that being the focal point for so much ministry following 9/11 revitalized the church's sense of mission.

Today the church is also a shrine for many who come to reflect on 9/11 and to remember lost loved ones.

In the church, one hears the inspiring story of volunteers from around the U.S. who reached across all sorts of boundaries in acts of love because of their common cause and their shared humanity. I think that outpouring was a beautiful beginning of healing.

I wonder if that healing movement could have grown into a spiritual revival that would have swept around the world.

But my intuition tells me that the healing and the revival were cut short as war ensued.

The phrase "cycle of violence" and humanity's need to break the cycle of violence really sunk in with me as I thought of that lost opportunity.

As I write that, I must also confess that it must be incredibly hard for politicians to seek peace in the wake of such an event.

And that brings me to another often-heard phrase - "give peace a chance." Frequently, what we learn about and call "peace" is a less-than-ideal agreement dictated by the victors after war has been given a chance.

While war is often presented as the only possible choice, I have heard very little about the times when peace has really been tested as an option.

It seems to me that the anger and indignance that are stirred up by even the most basic talk about peace indicate how unwilling our society might be to really considering peace as a way forward.

Just the Facts

We've just returned from a two-week trip up the east coast to Hawley, MA. On the way we visited friends in Richmond, New York, and Boston. I'll be blogging about some details of the journey over the next few days.

In New York we visited the Met Museum. I was interested in returning to see the great masterpieces there after many years. I wondered what the impact of being in the presence of great works by Rodin, Rothko, Seurat, and others would be on me today. I didn't find myself as personally overwhelmed as I was when I was younger, but I am still moved by the works and respect the genius that created them. In a way, these works have become solid great facts for me, but no longer the vital and immediate challenges and experiences they once were. That isn't necessarily a bad thing. Maybe it means I am free to be moved and to respect the works without worshiping them now.

We also visited Ground Zero. I had intentionally not visited once before when I could have. At that time I didn't feel ready. But this time I felt ready and I like I wanted to and should.

Ground Zero is a construction site now. From street level, no structures can be seen rising. There was little personal impact for me. Maybe I'm numb. But really I think it is that 9/11 has passed from the realm of felt reality to mere fact for me and for many of us who don't live with the personal memory of lost loved ones.

I thought the events of 9/11 would become the principal theme of artists of my generation. But all that has come to pass since that time has changed that.