Note: This essay is longer than usual because of all the photos, and Substack warns that some email programs might truncate it because of length. However, if that happens, SS says that you can click on “View entire message,” and you will able to view the entire post in your email app. You can also go to the Substack app and read it there. If you have difficulties, please message me.

Today I celebrate publication of my 100th essay on Substack. This piece seems particularly appropriate, given my Substack’s title, “A Seeker’s Journey.” Please join me.

As I planned my July trip to the UK and Estonia, I had my eye on several stops that would be pilgrimages, of sort.

I have already written about one of them, my visit to the Arvo Pärt Centre in Laulasmaa, Estonia. Read about it HERE.

The other took me to Canterbury Cathedral, in the southeastern County of Kent, in England. I had visited there decades ago and remembered the cathedral’s grandeur and colorful history, but this time I wanted to visit as a pilgrim, participating in a Choral Evensong service and experiencing the sacred space as a person, not as a tourist.

In this essay, I will let the photos do much of the talking. (Shout out for the idea to my inspiration, Yvette Perry over at Margin\Release and her recent beautiful photo-poem, “Arches (Interlude).” Linked HERE, and definitely worth a look.)

Margin\Release

Arches (Interlude)

arches (interlude…

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7 days ago · 6 likes · 5 comments · Yvette Perry

My journey began at Charing Cross Station, just a block from my hotel. Lots of hustle-bustle in the terminal, as trains arrived and departed.

About an hour later, I was in Canterbury and proceeded to walk into town, through the Westgate (pictured here), which was built around 1379 and is “the largest surviving city gate in England.” (Wikipedia)

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Then on to St. Peter’s Street and the High Street.

This interesting building housed the Royal Museum and Free Library. I didn’t visit, but found the facade fascinating.

And at last, Canterbury Cathedral.

Here is some detail from the Southwest Porch entry (which you can see on the photo above).

And then the nave. I was awe-struck.

and the impressive pulpit.

A Buddhist monk was visiting at the same time.

The Compass Rose, inlaid in the floor of the east end of the nave, symbolizes the 70+million members of the World Wide Anglican Communion, which includes the Episcopal Church in the United States. The inscription in Greek states, “The Truth Will Make You Free.” (Canterbury Historical & Archaeological Society).

[Are we listening?]

This list of Archbishops of Canterbury begins with Augustine (AD 597), and has been brought up to date with the 2026 installation of the current Archbishop, Sarah Elisabeth Mullally, the first woman to hold the role. It brought me great joy to see her name on this list, and to see the larger-than-life photo from her installation exhibited on the cathedral lawn. No doubt, Susan would have been cheering her on.

After walking and gawking for quite a while, I rested my weary feet, finding myself next to this venerable stone column which supports the building. I sat there for quite a while, pondering how many people from earlier centuries have sat next to that same pillar. For how many services, baptisms, weddings, and funerals has that pillar stood patiently by? How many wars has it endured? It made me recall Ken Follett’s sweeping novel, The Pillars of the Earth (1989), which tells the story of the people involved in the construction of a Gothic cathedral during 12th century England. And that was way before they had many of the tools and methods used in construction today. Yet these impressive buildings have survived for centuries to tell their stories. I’ve started re-reading the novel (which became a series of books), and it has taken on new meaning.

Throughout the Cathedral are hints of the many stories that have unfolded there over the centuries. Because of Canterbury’s proximity to the North Sea and its historic and cultural importance, the city was bombed repeatedly during World War II. This memorial stone in the floor of the nave asks us to remember the Fire Watchers, “who saved this building and others in the City from destruction during the War 1939-1945.” The brave Fire Watchers climbed onto the Cathedral’s roof and threw firebombs that had landed there from the German planes down to the ground so that they could be extinguished with sand and water. “Their actions saved the Cathedral from destruction by fire.” To protect the church during the bombings, many stained glass windows were disassembled and buried in dirt for protection. (Canterbury Cathedral website)

I toured the town and the Cathedral for a number of hours, patiently waiting for Choral Evensong to begin at 5:30 pm. I was not disappointed. I was able to sit in the choir stalls (pictured here), and the choir was seated just a few feet away. The Cathedral Choir was on holiday break, but the service featured an excellent visiting choir, The Clerks of Melbourne (Australia). This was a lovely complement to my Choral Evensong experience a few days earlier at St. Paul’s Cathedral, London. I had to keep pinching myself as a reminder -- I am here, at Canterbury Cathedral, founded 14 centuries ago, participating in an inspiring choral service, surrounded by lovely stained glass windows letting in the last rays of the day’s sun. It was an overwhelming set of feelings, but welcome.

Back outside, I encountered the Canterbury War Horse, explained on the sign (below) next to the sculpture. Yet another reason why the Cathedral environs is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

After a very full, satisfying day, I made it back to the train station and headed home to my hotel, returning around 9:30 pm - spent, but in a very good way.

Thank you for joining me on this leg of my journey. For my out-of-London travel day, I could have gone many places. But Canterbury called to me. Perhaps it was the promise of the music, the venerable building, the historical city ... But I think I also experienced it as an oasis of peace and sanity in a world that seems to be losing it. And the Compass Rose in the floor is a good reminder: “The Truth Will Make You Free.” That is my task; our task. Despite my exhaustion at the end of the day, I felt refreshed and re-invigorated to go forth.

I was reminded of the following from the Book of Common Prayer: “Send us now into the world in peace, and grant us strength and courage to love and serve you with gladness and singleness of heart.”

I also took many photos of the beautiful stained glass windows in the church and will post a separate photo page of them, just so you can share in their beauty. They each have stories, but I don’t know them all. And I don’t think we need to in order to appreciate them. It’s an interesting exercise to let them speak without words.

Credits: I took the photos in this piece during my visit on July 20, 2026. Texts were constructed from my notes, several travel guides, and various websites, including the websites of the Cathedral, the Canterbury Historical & Archaeological Society, and Wikipedia.

When I travel to London, my reference point is Trafalgar Square -- a hub of activity, with the National Gallery and St. Martin-in-the-Fields facing its fountain and lion statues, not to mention the world’s tallest Corinthian column, which honors Admiral Horatio Nelson.

For this trip, I arranged a hotel just half a block away from the Square. Upon arrival, I was a bit confused to find the area around the fountain barricaded off. A guard told me it was in preparation for the Nelson Mandela Day celebration, which would occur in just two days, while I was still there. Yes!!

I was not aware of this global celebration, but here’s what the Nelson Mandela Day website told me:

Mandela Day is an annual global celebration, officially recognised by the United Nations, that takes place on 18 July to honour the life and legacy of Nelson Mandela. The day is a call to action for individuals, communities and organisations to reflect on Mandela’s values and principles, and to take meaningful steps to make a positive impact in their own communities.

That morning, following a hearty breakfast at the Caffé Concerto next to my hotel, I followed the crowd and the sounds across the square to the celebration. The area was cordoned off to facilitate a security check (no problem with that). Inside the square, there were lots of smiling faces, exuberant music, dancing, food vendors, face painting, merch from South Africa -- you name it. The area was filled with people from all over the world, speaking many different languages -- yet it felt like we were all family.

By the way ... I think we need a word for those special times when strangers come together, even briefly, in intense solidarity on behalf of a particular cause. (Do we have such a word in English? If none come to mind, feel free to suggest one or more. Your thoughts are welcome!)

For Nelson Mandela Day, music is about celebration -- freedom from tyranny, coupled with determination and hope for the future.

Here is the website’s call to action:

In an increasingly polarised world in which inequity continues to grow and in which new forms of polarisation, populism and dispossession are emerging. Climate change, war and conflict are leading to the displacement and impoverishment of a multitude of communities and even whole societies. The need is greater than ever for initiatives that promote solidarity, transcend difference and embrace the concept of a shared humanity.

It is still in your hands to combat poverty and inequity.

The call to action is as broad and as inclusive as possible – identify those in need around you and do what you can to make a difference with them and for them.

That is my kind of call to action AND celebration, with music at its center.

Enjoy the vibe seen in this 30 sec. video!

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It was very hot that day - probably in the 90s with no escape from the direct sun. I enjoyed the music and the vibe of the Mandela Day celebration for an hour or two, but then needed to get to cooler ground.

As I was returning to my hotel, a parade came streaming down the street, protesting the oppression in Palestine. It moved seamlessly down The Strand within a few hundred feet of Trafalgar Square and the NMD celebration I had just left. The long parade grew more intense as it moved along.

I stood watching and taking pictures for more than an hour, and there must have been at least 1,000 people on the march representing all kinds of constituencies. There were babies, young people, middle-age, and older people, and even a very old woman being pushed in a wheelchair. Many different constituent groups were participating, including Jews for justice in Palestine. There was a very strong anti-Israel vibe with a great deal of criticism being pitched at the Trump administration and the UK Starmer administration, both for their role in arming Israel and stoking the violence. (Andy Burnham had not yet taken office.) This vibe was serious, not festive.

What a powerful juxtaposition -- one, the Mandela celebration of victory over oppression, coupled with hope and determination for the future; the other, a grim reminder of the atrocities occurring daily in the Middle East and the uncertainties for the future.

I doubt that many of the participants in the two groups were aware of each other. Both of these events going on within yards of one another had freedom from oppression as their theme. In the case of South Africa, hard work was done years ago. In the case of Palestine, the work is very much incomplete and ongoing. Both events were extremely peaceful, yet determined. I had the creepy thought that if this parade were in an American street, it might have brought out the police with tear gas. It was simply not necessary here.

Importantly, both events had music in common, providing a pulse for their shared goals of freedom. The parade included lots of organized chanting --but in contrast to the softer beat of the rock music at the Mandela celebration, it featured percussive beats delivered by drums, cymbals, and trumpets that carried the marchers’ urgent message. (22 sec. video)

There was also a small group of elders, singing protest songs at the side of the road near where I stood, doing their part as if serenading the marchers. They reminded me of one of the protest choruses in my home town.

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Of course, there is nothing new about the use of music to protest tyranny and to celebrate freedom. Ten days after my Trafalgar Square encounters, I had the opportunity to visit the epicenter of the nonviolent singing revolution in Estonia, the northernmost of the three Baltic states bordering Russia. Russia had annexed Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania in 1939 after the outbreak of World War II.

“As was the case in Latvia and Lithuania, by the end of the war more than a quarter of the Estonian population had been deported, executed, or had fled the country. During the turbulent decades that followed, music became a powerful unifying force in the occupied Baltic states - a means of preserving each country’s national identity, as well as a tool for political resistance in the face of cultural genocide. “ (Wikipedia)

Spurred on by their strong national identity, Estonians joined together in the hundreds of thousands between 1986 and 1991, singing national songs and demanding the end of the Soviet occupation.

Before leaving home, I had watched the 2006 documentary, “The Singing Revolution,” which contains detailed footage of the crowds of people gathered together at Song Festival Park outside Tallinn. In 1988, approximately 300,000 Estonians (about 1/3 of the population) gathered there to sing special patriotic songs, in defiance of orders from Moscow. It is a powerful film, and I highly recommend it (available on streaming services.)

Prior to receiving its independence, Estonians also gathered (in 1989) to protest their occupation by creating a human chain. There is also excellent footage of this in the documentary. Here is the English text from the poster below:

“23 August 1989 marked the passing of 50 years since the signing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact and its secret protocols, as a result of which the Soviet Union occupied and annexed the Baltic states. On that day, a peaceful mass demonstration took place in Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. The aim was to demonstrate the Baltic countries’ desire for freedom. Nearly two million people showed up to form the Baltic Way, a human chain that stretched over 600 kilometres long.”

Singing fortified their solidarity.

In these photos, you can see the large amphitheater which today hosts a huge national song festival every five years involving over 25,000 singers and 100,000 spectators. The first photo below (with our tour guide) shows a photo of a recent festival.

I was very moved to be standing on that very special ground.

Estonia gained independence from the Soviet Union in 1991, and it joined NATO and the EU in 2004. Although it is an independent nation today, its long border with Russia and its relatively small population (1.4 million) contribute to an air of political anxiety. A local driver told me that the economy was in bad shape. Wealthy oligarchs from all over the world (including Russia) had come in to Estonia, bought up most of the land and many of the profitable businesses, and then sent the wealth back to their home countries or financial safe havens, leaving local people with few opportunities to establish their own businesses or buy land. He was not optimistic about the country’s future, or the prospects for his young adult children to be able to thrive and raise their families.

The central theme of my trip to London and Tallinn was music - especially choral music -- and these three examples (Nelson Mandela Day, Palestinian protest parade, Song Festival Park) heightened my awareness of the power of music as a force for solidarity, for protest, and ultimately for peace.

Peace.

Peace.

Peace.

I distinctly remember my first serious encounter with the Requiem as a form of choral music. In fall, 1996, I was singing in the Cathedral Choir of St. Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral in Minneapolis, under the direction of our beloved Canon Musician, Howard Don Small III. (”Don” to us. RIP. ) Don programmed three Requiems for our November concert: those by Herbert Howells, Gabriel Fauré, and Maurice Duruflé. It was an ambitious and inspiring program.

Having been raised Catholic, I was familiar with the Latin Requiem Mass for the Dead. I had heard the Mass sung in Gregorian chant, but had never heard the Requiem text set to choral music.

I loved each of the three pieces we sang, and in considering their similarities and differences, became fascinated more generally by the Requiem as a form of choral music. So far, I have had the good fortune to have sung the Fauré and Duruflé multiple times, the Brahms twice, and also the requiems by Howells and Mozart --- perhaps even others I’m not recalling.

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When the opportunity to sing the Brahms “German Requiem” with Berkshire Choral International arose, I applied immediately. In this essay, I’m first going to provide a little background about the Requiem as a form of choral music, then about the Brahms Requiem specifically, and then about my experience during my recent week of rehearsal and performance (July 26-August 1, 2026).

The earliest Requiems (middle ages) were set in Gregorian chant. The first polyphonic Requiem (multiple voice parts) was written by Ockeghem (1425-1497). The form evolved over time, eventuating in dramatic choral settings by Mozart, Verdi and others in the 18th century (Rathey, 2025). The Requiem text continues to be set to many types of choral music; I found estimates ranging from 2,000 - 5,000 Requiems existing ... although only a small number are regularly performed. Many contemporary Requiems are not intended for church services but rather for concert halls. For an excellent overview of the Requiem as a form of choral music, see Robert Chase (2003). Dies Irae: A Guide to Requiem Music. Lanham, MD: The Scarecrow Press.

Brahms German Requiem

The Brahms differs in significant ways from those that follow the texts from the Latin Mass for the Dead. Brahms’ texts are not drawn from the Mass -- he selected them from the Luther Bible (German) with specific goals in mind. It is sung in German rather than Latin. And it is not intended to be performed in its entirety as part of a religious service.

That said, Movement 4 (”Wie Lieblich Sind Deine Wohnungen” “How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place”) is often performed as an anthem during church services, either in English or in German. I’ve sung it quite a few times in different church choirs. This beautiful recording (duration 5:23) is performed by Seraphic Fire, under the direction of its founding artistic director Patrick Quigley. We had the very good fortune of having Patrick direct us in the Brahms during our week at Berkshire Choral International (BCI) in Tallinn, Estonia, this summer.

Note the director’s “stretching” the tempo at different points -- holding a phrase just a tiny bit longer (for emotional impact) and another, a little shorter. This is an example of “Elastische Takt” (”elastic” pulse) or rubato. Patrick told us that once, Brahms walked out of a performance of his own Requiem, because it was being conducted too mechanically, like a metronome. He said his heart did not beat like a metronome, but beats in response to what was going on around and inside him. It was exciting to experience this emotional approach to the music in Patrick’s conducting.

Other familiar Requiems (Fauré, Duruflé, Verdi, Mozart, Howells, Britten) vary greatly in terms of their focus on the judgment of an angry God vs. God’s mercy and consolation. I personally am drawn to the latter type.

As we were preparing the Brahms during rehearsal week, another chorister (C.) and I had several heartfelt conversations about the text and its meaning. We both noticed an arc to the 7-movement work, with the first and last quiet movements bookending Brahms’ more dramatic selections.

I was struck by the fact that the first word of movement 1 and the last word of movement 7 are the same: Selig (in German, “Blessed.”) The first movement (loosely translated) says, Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted. The last movement basically says, Blessed are the dead who have lived upright lives. They rest from their labors, and their works will follow them. In movement 1, “selig” is marked piano (soft volume), and in movement 7 it is marked pianissimo (very soft).

C. and I both came to this choral experience having endured significant personal losses. She felt that Brahms’ texts were encouraging us not to fear death -- that those we leave behind will be comforted, and that we who die will rest from our labors and will not be forgotten. I found that helpful.

Pondering the theme of “comfort” reminded me of an earlier encounter with the word -- in the opening tenor recitative in Handel’s Messiah. The first word uttered in the piece is “comfort.” The tenor sings, “Comfort ye, my people” (from Isaiah). I find it interesting that “...for they shall be comforted” (from movement 1 in the Brahms) is in passive voice. Who is to be doing the comforting? And in Messiah, “comfort ye, my people” is a bit ambiguous (IMHO) in terms of who is to be doing the comforting.

I recall a talk that I heard (unfortunately, I’ve not been able to pin down the source) making the case that it is WE who are to be doing the comforting for one another. No need to wait for some divine force to provide it. We can (and should) be doing it for one another.

Let that sink in.

The impact of it all pretty much takes my breath away. I still feel the raw emotion, and I try to embrace it rather than push it aside.

During the week, I learned that allowing myself to fully experience the emotions, as I did after our final rehearsal with the orchestra, prepared me to be fully present and “together” during the final performance. I so appreciate my choir friend E., who was there for me as I let it roll that afternoon. What could be a more perfect example of providing comfort?

Following our last rehearsal with the orchestra, Director Quigley commented that people don’t go to live performances to “hear music.” They go to experience live people making music. With those words, he said it was time for us to make that music! And we absolutely did. It was a glorious climax to an intense week.

Here is a brief clip from our performance.

This was my third summer singing with BCI. Each experience has been personally transformative.

My first summer experience (Tanglewood, May 2024) closed with the retirement of Music Director Frank Nemheiser, after over 30 years with BCI. On our last day, I remember him saying the following to us (gently paraphrased): “As a group, you are all individuals who have come together from all over North America to share an intensive experience to prepare an outstanding performance -- after which you will all return home, never to sing together again. I encourage you each to “pay it forward” as you return to your home choirs, enhanced by our experience together. And remember, as we sang today in ‘Who is Sylvia?’ Beauty lives with kindness.” These moving thoughts from such a talented and generous director touched me deeply, reaching into my soul.

If you’re interested in my reflections after BCI 2024 and 2025, take a look at the following:

https://halgrotevant.substack.com/p/on-singing-from-hallelujah-to-coraggio

https://halgrotevant.substack.com/p/inviting-joy

https://halgrotevant.substack.com/p/summer-camps-not-just-for-kids

I have recently had the pleasure of meeting a fellow Substacker, John, who also writes from his experience as a tenor, at Life on the Tenor Line. He too was involved in singing Requiems this summer (in Chicago), and his recent essay is a nice companion to mine. Please take a look!

Life On the Tenor Line

A Summer of Requiems

For the past thirty-five summers, I have sung with the Grant Park Music Festival, a ten-week summer classical music festival offering free performances in Chicago’s magnificent Millennium Park. Situated between Lake Michigan’s rocky shore and iconic DuSable Lake Shore Drive, and the towering skyline with its mix of high-rise office and residential tower…

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16 days ago · 5 likes · 1 comment · Life On the Tenor Line

When I tell friends how excited I am to be visiting the Arvo Pärt Centre on my trip to Tallinn, Estonia, I’m usually met with a quizzical look, which is some combination of Who? and Why?

I probably first heard Arvo Pärt’s music on classical Minnesota Public Radio in the early 1990s. If memory serves, among the first pieces that drew me in were Cantus in Memoriam Benjamin Britten (composed in 1977 for string orchestra and bell) and Fratres (composed in 1977 for string orchestra and percussion). I remember being so intrigued by the piece — I wrote down the title and sought it out right away. (And neither Spotify nor Apple Music were around back then.) I’ve included links to both at the end of this post. I’ll be very interested to hear your reactions.

I followed Arvo Pärt on social media when I was still on Facebook, where I learned about the existence of the Arvo Pärt Centre in Laulasmaa, Estonia, about 35 km west of Tallinn. I looked it up online and was struck by its mission and its beauty. When I learned that Berkshire Choral International would be offering a singing opportunity in Tallinn this summer, I jumped at the chance to apply, in good measure because I hoped I could see the Centre in person.

And I did … and it was every bit as wonderful as I had been anticipating for two years.

Visiting the Centre is neither quick nor easy. It is about 45 minutes away from Tallinn by car, out in the countryside and away from civilization. I took a Bolt, the local version of Uber.

The building entrance is a 10 minute walk from the parking lot. As I walked through the quiet forest, I could feel everything about myself slow down. If that was the desired effect, it certainly worked.

I spent an entire afternoon at the Centre, and I’m glad I did. The audio guide gave little narrations about each stop along the way. One of my favorite places that I returned to several times was the library. It houses the books that have been collected over the years by Arvo and his wife Nora.

The library also contains musical scores for every one of his compositions (on the bottom shelves in the photo). I was astonished that ordinary visitors like me could simply select a book off the open stacks, sit down, and read. I could also pull out a musical score and follow along as I listened to it on the audio guide. A reference librarian was available to help.

The first piece I looked for was Spiegel im Spiegel. I have already shared this very special piece in several of my earlier Substack posts. I’ve included my favorite recording at the end of this post. The scores available for me to view were arrangements for cello and piano (my favorite), violin and piano, clarinet and piano, flute and piano, oboe and piano, and bassoon and piano. I’m sure that there are others as well.

I have listened to the piece many many times, but I never visualized what it would look like on paper. I was amazed to see that the part for the melody was simply an entire page of dotted whole notes. It almost looked like an exercise that a young musician might be asked to play.

But each of those whole notes holds such beautiful secrets! When played with great tenderness, they evoke tears. One comment on the YouTube video below was from a nurse in a neonatal intensive care unit who said that they play this piece in the background to help premature infants who are physiologically dysregulated.

During the afternoon, I returned to the library several times to listen to his Magnificat, Te Deum. and Fratres while following along in the scores.

My experience at the Centre felt very much like a spiritual retreat. With the exception of the audio guide and the orientation film, very few words were spoken. It was all about the interplay between silence and music, both of which are dear to Arvo.

After eating a late lunch in the Cafe, I walked outside and around the building to the watchtower. See my brief narrated video below.

The lift takes you high up above the trees and gives a beautiful view of the forest area and the water beyond. More peace.

I was overcome with emotions several times during my visit. I came away with a better sense of Arvo as a human being who cares deeply about humanity and our unity rather than our divisions. He says, “one plus one equals one.” In his world, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts --- it becomes a new “one” of its own.

I can see in his compositions that a single note, perhaps one of those whole notes in Spiegel im Spiegel, contains everything in itself.

Toward the end of my visit, I stopped in the beautiful little Greek Orthodox chapel in the center of the complex. During adulthood, Arvo had a significant religious conversion experience and became very centered in the orthodox tradition. The iconography portrayed in this chapel is stunning.

As I was in the chapel by myself, I felt embraced by its sacredness. On the west-facing wall is a depiction of Adam, bearing the following inscription: “Be merciful unto me, O Lord. Bestow on me the spirit of humility and love.” I came away feeling that Pärt’s prayer had been answered.

It was a day I will never forget. I hope you enjoyed accompanying me on the special pilgrimage.

For detailed biographical information about Arvo Pärt, refer to his thorough Wikipedia page:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arvo_P%C3%A4rt

and the “biographical” section of the Arvo Pärt Centre website:

https://www.arvopart.ee/en/

Here are excellent recordings of Cantus in Memoriam Benjamin Britten, Fratres, and (my favorite) Spiegel im Spiegel.

I hope you enjoy, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts about him and his work.

[Note: This begins imperceptibly softly… Close your eyes and let it sink in.]

[Note: The cello is playing the whole notes you saw on the score above. Such beauty in each note.]

Eight plane flights; two train trips; a half dozen subway rides; another half dozen bus rides; several trips by Uber, taxi, and Bolt; and walking --- lots of walking. Lots of moving about over the past three weeks. But what a fabulous adventure.

I’ve traveled extensively over the years, most typically to reach a destination where I meet other people (such as a professional conference), or to visit other people where they live, or to go with family or friends to visit a particular vacation spot.

This trip has been very different. Although I ultimately did meet a group of people at a destination, I had 12 unstructured days on my own between departing from home and meeting up with the group. That segment is the focus of this first travel essay.

Wholeheartedly engaging in this travel in each of its moments has given me opportunity to become a better observer of myself and others and to reflect on how I move through the world.

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Context: I left my home in Western Massachusetts to join a group of singers in Tallinn, Estonia, for an intensive weeklong choral experience culminating in a performance of the Brahms Requiem. (Details about that in subsequent posts.) I considered many different options for extending that trip, finally settling on a week in London prior to Estonia, where I would take in as much music and art as I possibly could. I had visited London four or five times in the past and had always found it a fascinating place, full of unending cultural opportunities.

“When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” (Samuel Johnson)

I also found London to be quite straightforward to navigate and a reasonably safe place to have some new adventures. After London, I traveled to Tallinn several days before the choir gathered in order to visit the Arvo Pärt Centre, which I will write about separately.

Being a solo traveler allowed me to be mindful about my experiences, both as a participant and as an observer of the larger fabric of humanity. Although I did not have a travel companion, I wrote constantly during the trip ... writing was my companion. I was also fortunate enough to have several friends and family with whom I was in contact via email, text, phone, and/or WhatsApp. So it’s fair to say I was on my own, but not alone.

My natural tendency has always been to anticipate things and to use the current moment for planning ahead. But, as the mindfulness movement has demonstrated, we lose much by sacrificing that moment for a future that is hypothetical.

On this trip, I enjoyed not being accountable to anyone else for how my time was spent. It also felt very good not to have a strict schedule to follow so that I could be more aware of each moment. I felt the freedom to make some decisions on the spur of the moment; I also felt free not to do certain things that I had planned to do.

Brahms embraced the concept of “elastische takt” (elastic beat or pulse) in his romantic music. He reportedly walked out on a performance of his own Requiem, complaining about the rigidity in the beat and saying that his heart did not beat like a metronome, but rather honors the flexible push and pull of moments. That describes the approach I tried to take with observing the moment to moment push and pull of time on this journey. I went for “elastic,” not “rigid.”

I soon became aware that my demographic positionality as an older white male afforded me a certain degree of invisibility. I dressed in a fairly generic way and did nothing to call attention to myself; people mostly ignored me. Although ... there was that hot day when a kind woman gave me her seat on the London Underground, and I very gratefully accepted.

Kindnesses Extended and Received

That said, I became aware of a choreography involving kindnesses extended and received. On one level, my first day of air travel was thankfully quite uneventful. But in order for a day of air travel to be considered “uneventful,” many things need to go right... and those don’t happen randomly.

In the Hartford airport, I had some time to kill before boarding my first flight. I was sitting in a rocking chair on the main concourse watching people come and go, when a woman rushed by carrying a little dog. She didn’t notice the piece of paper that fell from her bag. I had to call her twice in order to make sure she saw it, and I’m glad I did because it turned out to be her boarding pass! She smiled and thanked me, commenting that it was good she wasn’t traveling with any children! (Well, she did have that dog...)

At the boarding gate, I noticed a young couple totally weighted down by all the paraphernalia that comes with traveling with young children. I had never seen a young couple quite so heavily burdened. The woman was carrying the baby as well as device that looked like an inner tube ready for shooting the rapids. (She told me it was to support the baby while it was nursing.) Her husband was following behind as sherpa, with carry-ons popping open and ice from his drink spilling on the floor. My heart went out to them.

I took my seat on the aisle in row 26, and guess who had the window and middle seats in my row but this couple and their baby! They had great difficulty getting settled into their seats, and I kept reassuring them that it was OK - that everything would be fine and that I was good with it. (It was only a seven hour flight...) When her husband was trying to lift their suitcases up into the overhead compartment, his wife said that he was recovering from shoulder surgery. Sheesh!

Just before takeoff, the flight attendant approached me and discreetly said that he had a quieter seat for me in the back if I would like it, and of course, that would also benefit the couple by having a seat for their baby. So I gladly took it. It was an aisle seat in the otherwise vacant next-to- last row, so I was very, very grateful for that.

The kind flight attendant made sure that my gluten-free meal transferred to my new seat. I needed to charge my phone, but I did not have a USB-B adapter with me; one of the other flight attendants lent me her personal one.

Because our flight was over an hour late leaving Hartford, many of us on the flight missed our connections in Dublin - all streaming together down the concourse to the connections desk, where there was one agent. Since I was at the back of the plane, I figured I would be one of the last to be able to rebook my connecting flight. But when I joined the line, another agent showed up with a number of boarding passes for people who were going to Heathrow, and they had already scheduled us on the next flight, which was wonderful. So both I and my luggage made that flight, just one hour late.

When I got out of the baggage claim and customs area in London, I decided to try the new-ish (opened 2022) Elizabeth Line (London Underground) to Tottenham Court Road, which ChatGPT had suggested as optimal for a traveler with luggage. It worked beautifully. I’m not saying it was easy, because there was a lot of walking involved, but it absolutely worked.

The Elizabeth Line was efficient, clean, and not crowded. When I finally emerged at street level at Tottenham Court Road, I tried to summon an Uber in order to get the rest of the way to the hotel, but my phone couldn’t make the connection. I flagged down a taxi driving by, and he brought me to the hotel.

The front desk clerk, Bianca, was very kind and had me sit in the posh lounge area while my room was being readied. I was able to get into my room shortly after noon local time. Although check-in time was not until 3 PM, she said she would waive any additional fee as a gesture of goodwill because I had had such a long travel day.

The bottom line of all of this rambling is that my first 24 hours were filled with new experiences, but also many kindnesses.

All those things, taken together, made an “uneventful travel day” possible.

The City of Improv Human Choreography

As I stand back and observe the hustle-bustle of London, all I can call it is elaborate improv human choreography. I marveled at the flow of humans around Trafalgar Square, crossing streets; dodging cars, buses, bicycles, and scooters; rushing back-and-forth; it’s all tightly choreographed in an improvisational way. There’s that second sense of when you’re supposed to come or go or approach or avoid.

I could see evidence of how well it worked when I unwittingly violated the terms of the tacit agreement. In the UK, folks drive on the left-hand side of the road, but they also walk on the left-hand side of the sidewalk and go up the left-hand side of the staircase. Before reacquainting myself with that norm, I was regularly bumping into people on sidewalks and had to keep apologizing. After a few days, I was in the correct groove.

In general, being in that environment, which was a mix of the familiar and the new, contributed to my becoming much more aware of the moment I was in rather than planning ahead for what was to come next. I ate slowly and tried to savor each bite. I was aware of the people and the conversations going on around me and happy to be lost in my own bubble for that moment. Not only did I not mind my solitude, I rather enjoyed it.

Yes, I liked it. And I liked that I liked it.

This is just the first of a series of reports from my recent trip. I hope you enjoy them, and I look forward to your comments.

My last essay introduced you to my series of new encounters with J.S. Bach and his music. In that piece (linked HERE), I reflected on our choir’s recent performance of Bach’s Magnificat --- and its wonderfully subversive message.

Which brings me to my second rich Bach experience - a week-long intensive course through Yale Divinity School: “Johann Sebastian Bach’s Oratorios: The Life of Christ from a Composer’s Perspective.” The instructor, Prof. Markus Rathey, was the author of the book I mentioned in association with the Magnificat (reference below).

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Last summer, I took a course on Requiems and Music of Mourning from the same instructor; and when I saw that he was offering the Bach course, I signed up immediately. As with last summer, I found it to be an excellent source of information and insight on the topic. But Markus also offered a master class in how to facilitate a graduate-level seminar with students who had widely varied backgrounds, while sharing a passionate interest in the topic. He was happy to be teaching, and we were happy to be learning. No grades were assigned, and no credits granted -- it was all for the love of music and learning.

Daily in-person (e.g., cameras on) participation was expected in this online course for the full week. We attended class in the morning and had reading and listening assignments for each afternoon. The 17 students included folks with various combinations of backgrounds in theology, music, art, dance, history, and humanities. I was the only self-identified psychologist. We all shared deep interest in Bach’s music and wanted to use the week to go even deeper.

The main pieces we discussed were the Christmas, Easter, and Ascension Oratorios (I didn’t even know Bach has written an Ascension Oratorio!) as well as the St. Matthew Passion and the St. John Passion.

As a psychologist, I was interested in Bach’s family, his childhood, and his career path. Bach was born into a musical family heavily steeped in the Lutheran tradition. It is likely that all of the children in the family participated in the “family business” in some way suited for their age -- perhaps carrying visitors’ musical instruments, or copying music manuscripts. He was surrounded by music from an early age. His parents died when he was about 10 years of age, and he was raised by an older brother, a church organist. Although he did not attend university, he went to excellent high schools and gained good knowledge of Latin, math, science, and history. By the age of 17, he was already composing music and took his first position as organist at New Church, Arnstadt.

The music he composed was shaped by opportunities provided by his employment contexts. During his years as a court musician, he wrote secular pieces for the aristocrats for whom he worked. Once he received major appointments to St. Thomas and St. Nicholas Churches in Leipzig, his energies were invested in his larger sacred works, such as the oratorios and passions. (It’s not that straightforward, but it is clear that he used his employment posts to good advantage, composing and performing music appropriate to the posts and incorporating it in his body of work.)

Bach seemed to have had the good fortune of considerable musical talent nurtured in a musical family environment, as well as being in the right place at the right time for high profile positions that allowed him to fully develop his creativity. We have little in the way of his reflections on his own life - he left no diaries or journals. But we do have his music, and that is enough.

Class participants were very engaged in the discussion of how Bach (and other composers of the day) often used the same composition in multiple ways over time -- perhaps a piece initially composed to celebrate a birthday of someone in the royal court was later “recycled” to become the subject of a sacred cantata, using the same or very similar music set to entirely different text. This phenomenon, “parody,” has a different meaning that the way we use the word today to indicate a spoof. Parody as musical recycling was common practice in Bach’s day.

From our 21st century perspective, students in the class raised questions about intellectual property (IP). If he wrote a piece while under the employ of the royal court, did he own the IP rights to it which would allow him to use the same music set as a hymn? Or were those rights owned by the royals who hired him? We were gently informed that IP rights were not a concern in the early 1700s -- composers regularly used parody to re-use their own music, and no one gave it a thought. Printed music was not available then -- everything was handwritten - and so comparing musical scores to check for re-use was just not a “thing.”

It was eye-opening to consider the pitfalls in bringing our 21st century lens concerned with IP rights to bear on creative work 300 years ago.

If you are interested in learning more about this topic, let me refer you to Prof Rathey’s book once again:

Rathey, Markus (2016). Bach’s Major Vocal Works: Music, Drama, Liturgy. New Haven: Yale University Press.

The book covers the St. Matthew and St. John Passions as well as the Christmas, Easter, and Ascension Oratorios and the Magnificat. Next year (2027) marks the 300th anniversary of the publication of the St. Matthew Passion, one of Bach’s greatest masterpieces. There will be many performances all around the world, perhaps one not far from you. Slightly jumping the gun, the Yale Schola Cantorum will be performing the Passion on November 1, 2026 at 4:00 pm in Woolsey Hall at Yale in New Haven. Prof Rathey will give the pre-concert talk. It’s on my calendar.

During the class, Prof Rathey shared many YouTube videos of Bach performances contributed by the Netherlands Bach Society, through their project “All of Bach.” From their website:

All of Bach is a project of the Netherlands Bach Society with the aim to perform and record all of Bach’s works and share them online with the world for free. With the finest recordings, performed at special locations and with great attention to image and sound.

Such a gift to all of us!!! Do take a look at some of their videos — the performance quality and the videography are both outstanding; they allow Bach’s music to shine.

https://www.bachvereniging.nl/en/allofbach

https://www.youtube.com/@bach

Believe me, if Prof. Rathey is teaching again next summer, I will be at the head of the line! (He affectionately called us his “repeat offenders.”)

I hope you have enjoyed hearing about this second adventure in my post-retirement education. The next adventure will take us to England.

During my working days as Professor, I often told my students that the best part of my job was that I could always be a student. Turns out, that’s true in my retirement too. But now I can stretch the range of my exploration to any topics I want.

Lately, it’s been all about music. That won’t surprise any of you who regularly read my Substack.

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In this series that begins today, I’d like to highlight not one or two, but three musical adventures I’ve had relating to J. S. Bach in as many months.

Why should Bach figure so prominently for me? Well, he is one of the world’s greatest composers of all time. I am fascinated by his music; it is precise - some would say mathematical - and always takes one’s mind and heart on fascinating journeys. The more I learn about him and his music, the more deeply I love it all and want to learn more.

Today I share with you my first adventure. I’m happy to expand on any of it in response to comments.

Performing the Bach Magnificat in D major (BMV 243) on May 30

I sing with the Hampshire Choral Society, based in Amherst. We perform twice a year, usually in the fall just before Thanksgiving and in the spring, around Memorial Day. This spring’s concert included Bach’s Magnificat -- a mighty work. It was composed over 300 years ago (1723) and is most commonly performed around Christmastime. Unlike Bach’s oratorios, passions, or cantatas, it has a distinctive form: 12 movements, alternating between chorus; solos (S1, S2, A, T, B); a duet (A & T) and a trio (S1, S2, A).

The text is from the Gospel according to St. Luke (vss. 46-55), in which Mary acknowledges that she will become the mother of Jesus. (”My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit has rejoiced in God my Savior.”)

Although one could interpret the text as being quite patriarchal, portraying Mary as totally submissive, our director shared a fascinating article which pointed out the revolutionary nature of the text.

The author, Welsh poet Rebecca Lowe, pointed us to the text that comes later in the piece, in movements 5 - 9.

‘For He that is mighty has magnified me: and holy is His Name. And His mercy is on them that fear Him: throughout all generations. He has shown strength with His arm; He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He has put down the mighty from their seat and has exalted the humble and weak. He has filled the hungry with good things and the rich He has sent empty away.’

Lowe continued, “This is a very different version of Mary than that associated with the traditional Nativity. No longer meek nor mild, this version of Mary is empowered and impassioned, a radical advocate for social justice, and the embodiment of revolutionary zeal.”

The article is a fascinating read, and here is a link in case you care to explore it.

https://www.culturematters.org.uk/a-revolutionary-message-for-our-times-marys-magnificat/

For me and for others in the choir, the thought of singing a religious text with such a revolutionary message provided just the inspiration we needed during these dark political times.

He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts. He has put down the mighty from their seat and has exalted the humble and weak. He has filled the hungry with good things and the rich He has sent empty away.’

What a balm, during the shameful political mess in our country that currently worships greed and power.

And now to the music.

Magnificat is a tour de force, weaving together an orchestral underlay with solos, small ensembles, and full chorus. Five of the movements are for chorus and orchestra, and two of them in particular can be taken at lightning speed (”Omnes Generationes” and “Fecit Potentiam.”) I’ve listened to quite a few recordings, and they vary widely in tempi. But these two movements in particular tend to be fast, faster, or fastest. The technical challenges of these movements lie in their melismas -- “the singing of a single syllable of text while moving between several different notes in succession” (Wikipedia). In these two movements, the melismas are fast sixteenth notes, plenty arduous for the best of singers. It’s challenging enough to master them for oneself -- but the individual contributions of the choristers must be brought together in a coherent and uniform way. That’s a heavy lift for any conductor.

Our May 30th performance (to a full, appreciative audience) was special for me, because I was in the front row of the chorus; and the soloists, as they came and went, stood just a foot or two away from me. It was a real treat to experience their artistry so close at hand. Singing Magnificat deepened my appreciation for and understanding of Bach’s work and its message.

Here’s an excellent recording from the Netherlands Bach Society. I will say more about this series of recordings in my next essay in this series.

My favorite movement is one that does not include the full chorus: “Et Misericordia.” It is scored for tenor and alto (or countertenor) soloists and orchestra. The interplay between the two soloists is breathtaking, with occasional “crunchy” dissonances resolved in beautiful harmony. The 12/8 time signature suggests a lullaby to me. Think of 12/8 as four groups of eighth-note triplets. ONE-two-three, TWO-two-three, THREE-two-three, FOUR-two-three ... a gentle waltz or lullaby, in keeping with its theme of mercy (misericordia). Even though I didn’t sing it on stage (only the soloists), I am practicing it with a friend -- just for fun. We enjoy singing this marvelous piece together.

For a scholarly reference on Magnificat, see Rathey, Markus (2016). Bach’s Major Vocal Works: Music, Drama, Liturgy. New Haven: Yale University Press. (Chapter 2)

Today’s essay gives you a taste of my first adventure. It has been such a joy to revel in these topics as an integral part of my retirement. Never stop learning.

The next adventures will be hitting your inbox shortly. I hope you enjoy. Feel free to leave comments and share your experiences with other readers.

Dear Friends,

This seems to be another appropriate meditation, as we approach July 4 and our nation’s 250th anniversary.

Citizen of the PLANET - yes. I was a blogger back in the 2000s, and on July 4, 2005 posted a brief entry titled “Happy Interdependence Day.”

Here’s a snip from what I wrote: “One thing has stuck in my mind from the Live 8 concert Saturday. Will Smith (in Philadelphia), said that we needed a “Declaration of Interdependence.” He got that right! If we want a planet to pass on to our children’s children’s children, we’d better figure it out. We can.”

[According to Wikipedia, the Live 8 concerts were staged to help wipe out global poverty. Over 3 million people in the U.S. watched on TV, and the global audience was placed at 1.5 to 2 billion people. “On 7 July, the G8 leaders pledged to double 2004 levels of aid to poor nations from US$25 billion to US$50 billion by 2010. Half of the money was to go to Africa. More than 1,000 musicians performed at the concerts, which were broadcast on 182 television networks and 2,000 radio networks.”]

The world DID come together. It is possible.

From where I stand today, all of that seems simultaneously wonderful and naive.

Nevertheless, we are all connected, and I daresay we would all benefit by acknowledging and living that reality.

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Enjoy this Simon and Garfunkel piece, “Citizen of the Planet,” distributed on their recording, Old Friends, Live on Stage (2004), from their Old Friends tour. According to Google, this piece was added to the album as a “new” studio duo song -- as best I can tell, it was not sung by them together at that concert. It had originally been recorded during sessions for a 1983 reunion project which had been rejected. In 2004, it was dusted off, and Art Garfunkel’s vocals were added to the old studio recording.

(from https://ultimatepopculture.fandom.com/wiki/Simon_%26_Garfunkel )

Happy Interdependence Day to all of you. Enjoy “Citizen of the Planet,” and sing along — words below.

by Paul Simon

[chorus]

I am a citizen of the planet

I was born here

I’m going to die here

Come what may

I am entitled by my birth

To the treasures of the earth

No one must be denied these

No one must be denied

Easy dreams

At the end of a chain-smokin’ day

Easy dreams at the end of the day.

[verse]

Who am I to believe

That the future we perceive

Lies in danger and the dangers increase

Who are we to demand

That the leaders of the land

Hear the voices of reason and peace.

[chorus]

We are the citizens of the planet

We were born here

We’re going to die here

Come what may

We are entitled by our birth

To the treasures of the earth

No one must be denied these

No one must be denied

Easy dreams at the end of a chain-smokin’ day

Easy dreams at the end of the day.

[verse]

Who am I to deny

What my eyes can clearly see

And raise a child with a flame in his heart

Who are we to believe

That these dreams are just naive

When we’ve all disagreed from the start?

[chorus]

We are the citizens of the planet

We were born here

We’re going to die here

Come what may.

We are entitled by our birth

To the treasures of the earth

No one must be denied these

No one must be denied

Easy dreams at the end of a chain-smokin’ day

Easy dreams at the end of the day.

America’s 250th is coming up in just a few days. Somehow, I don’t have much taste for burgers, hot dogs, and watermelon this year. Although I celebrate many things about this country, I am profoundly saddened by what we have become. We thought that the Constitution, its Bill of Rights, and its ideas about separation of powers would be sufficient guardrails to protect against a tyrannical ruler and his regime. Well, they have proven not to be.

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At a recent performance of Novi Cantori (see link to “Music for Justice and Peace,” below), the chorus and audience joined together in singing a version of “Beautiful for Spacious Skies,” with text by Sarah Metcalf. It was set to the hymn tune “Aberystwyth,” for which the organ accompaniment is also linked on that prior post.

“America the Beautiful,” in which we traditionally sing the words “beautiful for spacious skies” is written in a major key -- with associations of pride, joy, and positivity. “Aberystwyth” presents in a decidedly minor key, suggesting sadness, anxiety, and perhaps foreboding.

Today, I offer the text of all four verses of the piece (see photo above) as a meditation on who we were, who we have become, and who we would like to be as a nation.

Although I find the piece in its entirety speaks deeply to me, I’d like to highlight two passages:

from verse 3:

Who will be the heroes now?

Rising up to meet this hour,

Dreaming for America

Greater dreams than wealth and power?

When I ponder this passage, I recall my years on active and reserve duty in the U.S. Navy as well as my father’s service in the Navy during World War II. I wonder about today’s servicemen and women -- How are they feeling about the chaos surrounding them? What and who do they feel they are defending? I suspect that if they hold opinions contrary to what is expected by the Department of “War,” they will be keeping them to themselves.

Last week, I heard a program on NPR about the Black service members, especially officers, who have largely been silenced and pushed out of the military. Many of them have served for years, honorably and effectively, wanting to do the right thing for the country they care for. Now they are collateral damage. As the text asks, “Who will be the heroes now?”

Here is a link to the excellent podcast on Radio 1A, “Politics: What Donald Trump’s Defense Policy Means for Black Service Members.” (duration 34:03)

https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510316/1a

and from verse 4:

Let the history we write

Ge one of honor, not of shame.

It is often said that the victors write the history. The current regime is working hard to change the record of our history to conform to its false and sanitized view of America -- one that doesn’t acknowledge our realities that include good things, but also wrongdoings and shortcomings.

My children and grandchildren have already completed their required history courses, but I hope that my great-grandchildren and yours will be exposed to a full and accurate record of this country’s story. I have thought more deeply about history in the past 10 years than I did in all the preceding decades. I view America as a country of struggle and dynamic tension between different approaches to the respective roles of government and individuals, among other things. The political process has allowed for open discussion of these differences and their implications, ultimately letting American citizens decide, through fair and free elections, who they want to lead them. Now it is all upside down, with the executive branch running roughshod over the legislative and judicial branches, which have in turn rolled over and relinquished their power. The regime is doing everything possible to insure that election results get their desired results.

I am grateful that brave American journalists have held out against intimidation to report the truth in real time. A free press seems to be one of the last bastions of protection. But as the song asks, Will the history of our era be one of honor or shame?

That remains to be seen, and that is up to We The People.

I’m not sure whether I will be indulging in burgers, hot dogs, and watermelon this 4th of July, but I can assure you that the words of this song will frame the thoughts that I ponder. I am actually singing it each day this week, and it gives me goosebumps. Heavy, heavy times.

PS: I wrote all of this before reading Robert Reich’s June 28 column, “Sunday Thought: Mourning in America.” I highly recommend it, and take a look at the many comments too. Here is a link:

Robert Reich

Sunday thought: Mourning in America

Friends…

Read more

2 months ago · 2839 likes · 480 comments · Robert Reich

Some pilgrims travel to Lourdes, France, to visit the grotto where Bernadette Soubirous discovered the spring of healing waters.

Last night, I, along with thousands of others, made a pilgrimage to the Cathedral called Tanglewood, where the evening service was officiated by the high priest, Paul Simon.

The pews held 5,000 people, and another 20,000 or so reclined on the spacious green lawn. There were plenty of loaves and fishes to go around.

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The pilgrims were there to take the healing powers of that potent medicine, music. Despite the large numbers, people were generally patient and kind. Many pilgrims arrived despite infirmities -- just as they would at Lourdes. The man a few seats down told me this was his first outing since back surgery - he could barely walk, but he was determined to show up. Another man told me he was being treated for cancer and could barely walk. (I showed him where the staff could provide wheelchair assistance.) Many pilgrims displayed their badges of honor -- from life and its insults. Lots of wheel chairs, walkers, canes, and other assistive devices were in use. Despite needing them, it was clear that people badly wanted and needed the healing powers of Paul Simon’s music enough to endure the discomfort to be there.

The program ... well, the program wasn’t exactly what I expected. My sense was that the audience wanted to come and revel in the sacred Simon & Garfunkel canon, dancing and singing along. Only a few songs came from there. (That makes sense, since S&G were a duo -- and they split up over 50 years ago.)

By the Simon & Garfunkel canon, I am referring to their albums from the mid to late 1960s:

• Wednesday Morning, 4 a.m.

• Sounds of Silence

• Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme

• Bookends

• Bridge Over Troubled Waters

I listen to them frequently on my LPs, CDs, and Spotify playlists. Thankfully, Alexa never tires of me saying, “Alexa, Shuffle songs by Simon and Garfunkel.”

The first set last night was Simon’s 2023 composition “Seven Psalms.” I have listened to it many times -- it intrigues me and always feels a bit like a puzzle I have not yet quite cracked. I find the lyrics quite enigmatic. Each time I ponder them, I have new ah-ha moments. I do like the piece a great deal; it haunts me. I think many in the audience were a bit puzzled and perhaps surprised by it. It’s certainly not as well known as his S&G canon, for sure. Opening the show this way set an introspective and somewhat somber tone, not what I think many people were looking for on that summer night in the Berkshires. (I was thrilled to be hearing it.)

One of the psalms, the song “Wait,” struck me as quite poignant, given the age profile of the pilgrims. I’d estimate that over 75% of the pilgrims were age 70 or older. The high priest himself is 84.

Here are the lyrics:

[”Wait”]

Wait

I’m not ready

I’m just packing my gear

Wait

My hand’s steady

My mind is still clear

I hear the ghost songs I own

Jumpin’, jivin’, and moanin’

Through a heartbroken microphone

Wait

Life is a meteor

Let your eyes roam

Heaven is beautiful

It’s almost like home

Children! Get ready

It’s time to come home

I want to

Believe in

A dreamless transition

Wait

I don’t want

To be near

My dark intuition

I need you here by my side

My beautiful mystery guide

Wait

Life is a meteor

Let your eyes roam

Heaven is beautiful

It’s almost like home

Children! Get ready

It’s time to come home

Amen

Click HERE for the lyrics to the entire piece.

After the break, we received a variety of offerings from the post-S&G era -- some familiar to me and others not. Some dealt with themes of loss or mortality.

The pilgrims came to life for “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes” -- much dancing and jiggling around ensued. The penultimate encore, “The Boxer,” had everyone up and singing along. But the powerful ending was Paul Simon, alone on the stage with his guitar, offering a version of the Sounds of Silence that took my breath away. The first verse was guitar only. Assertive — maybe even a bit angry — like, LISTEN UP, PEOPLE. Just wow. Even though his voice showed its age, his guitar playing did not. That closing 5 minutes was definitely the highlight for me.

The last verse, in particular, had the audience up and joining in … and then taking a collective deep breath:

And the people bowed and prayed

To the neon god they made

And the sign flashed out its warning

In the words that it was forming

And the sign said, “The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls

And tenement halls

And whispered in the sound of silence”

The crowd of 25,000 left the cathedral as peacefully as they entered -- no pushing or shoving, no honking horns. Just a congregation that had received the healing sacrament of music from the high priest himself. I’m glad I partook. I won’t forget it.

Music is medicine.

On the same day that the current occupant of THE PEOPLE’S HOUSE staged a human cockfighting spectacle on its front lawn, music lovers in my little corner of New England gathered to appreciate not one, but two, meaningful concerts -- both proclaiming the desire for peace and justice, and both benefiting agencies serving immigrants.

The concert I attended was superb -- it warmed my heart and brought a few tears. When I read the account of the human cockfighting match this morning, I wanted to throw up my breakfast. A friend commented the other day, “I thought that (cockfighting) was illegal.” It is ... when the participants are actual chickens. (The federal Animal Welfare Act prohibits such activities.)

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But back to the music.

Novi Cantori, A Choir of Chamber Singers, presented a concert benefiting The Center for New Americans, a Western Mass. organization welcoming and serving immigrants. The Leverett Community Chorus and Caravan Chorus concert benefited the LUCE Immigrant Justice Network, a grassroots Massachusetts coalition that tracks ICE activity and provides rapid-response support.

I attended the Novi Cantori concert, which completely filled the Unitarian Meetinghouse; and I have it on good authority that the Leverett Chorus concert filled the hall at the Jewish Community of Amherst. It’s gratifying to see such enthusiastic response to this justice-informed choral music.

Today, I’m sharing with you one piece that particularly moved me, “Beautiful for Spacious Skies,” with text by Sarah Metcalf (reprinted here with the author’s permission), set to the hymn tune “Aberystwyth” by Joseph Parry (1879). Some of you may recognize it as the tune to the hymn, “Watchman, tell us of the night” or the hymn, “Jesus, Lover of My Soul.”

When I saw the title, “Beautiful for Spacious Skies,” I of course thought of “America the Beautiful.”

O beautiful for spacious skies, For amber waves of grain...

But Metcalf’s version challenges us to take a close look at who we are and where we aspire to go, even if it’s difficult to look in that mirror.

The last verse brought a tear to my eye, and when we (the whole audience) finished singing it in 4-part harmony, all I could do was put my hand on my heart. There was a poignant pause ... a sacred moment ... before the applause began.

Here is the last verse; you can see it also on the sheet music below:

Dream of beloved community

Freed at least from cruel control,

Where the truth shall make us free,

And compassion make us whole.

May we all at last unite

In democracy’s great name!

Let the history we write

Be one of honor, not of shame.

If you want to sing along at home, here is an organ accompaniment track. Just follow the sheet music below as you sing to the tune played by the organist.

Here is the sheet music to “Beautiful for Spacious Skies,” reproduced with the lyricist’s permission. She hopes it will be performed widely.

I love living here in the Pioneer Valley. Even on a hot afternoon in mid-June, when all the students have gone home for the summer, two choruses, singing at the same time in different houses of worship, can pack their respective spaces with citizens caring for the community and the future of our country. This is my kind of Independence Day celebration. Not human cockfighting. Peace and justice; not dominance and greed.

Special thanks to Todd Fruth, Artistic Director of Novi Cantori; and Anne Louise White, Director of the Leverett Community Chorus, for their dedicated work -- and to all the wonderful singers in both groups who contributed their time and talent on behalf of the broader community.

When I started this Substack two years ago, I said I would never be charging a subscription fee (still true), but that from time to time, I might commend an organization to you for support. Today, let me recommend the two organizations being benefited by the concerts. In my view, both are doing critically important work to impact the lives of people in our community. I have contributed to both, and I invite you to join me.

Here are links to their donation pages:

Center for New Americans https://cnam.org/support-us/

LUCE Immigrant Justice Network of Massachusetts https://www.lucemass.org/donate

If you do donate, please share your story. I would love to hear it.

June 13 marks the completion of my second year publishing on Substack. So far, I’ve posted 88 essays and occasional Notes. The topical coverage of my essays is somewhat varied, but keeps returning to the central themes and commitments of my current life: writing, music (especially choral), relationships with friends and family, and community. In this anniversary piece, I reflect on four of my essays that highlight major themes from the past year.

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In contrast to the essays posted during my first year, many of this year’s pieces focus on the ongoing dynamic tension I am experiencing between building a new life around specific commitments following several years of significant challenge, on the one hand; and dealing with the political context in my country, which is wreaking havoc with the norms of decency and the rule of law I had always counted on. How does one build a meaningful and -- dare I say it -- happy life, while feeling powerless to change the significant damage being done to the rights of U. S. residents (especially anyone who is not a straight white Christian male born in the US), to the application of science for the promotion of health and well-being, and to the education of our populace? It’s tricky business, and I continue to struggle with it.

Some of my essays in the past year addressed this tension directly, especially “Holding Contradiction,” published 8-30-2025. The essay still rings very true for me; I encourage you to read (or re-read). Interestingly, it had the most views of any of my posts this past year (873), suggesting to me that the challenge of holding contradiction is being felt by many of you as well.

LINK

Last year, I continued to talk about the healing power of music. I posted “Moments of Transcendence” on 11-25-2025, just after I had sung the Fauré Requiem with Hampshire Choral Society. The essay began, “Music continues to be my passion and my refuge during these turbulent days.” That’s still very true.

The post includes a YouTube link to a wonderful recording of the Requiem, sung by one of my favorite groups, UK-based VOCES8 (duration 35 minutes). For a bit of transcendent beauty, I encourage you to take a listen. (I’m going to get to see VOCES8 again in person this October, and can’t wait.) This essay also includes a mention of fried pickles, in case you’re interested in something completely different.

LINK

I’m very fond of the piece I wrote about relationships, “31 Flavors of Friendship” (3-2-2026). Writing it gave me the opportunity to reflect on the ways my relationship world is changing in light of retirement, the passing of my spouse, geographical distance, and the use of technology. I developed the idea that there are many different kinds of friendships -- “flavors” -- that defy simple labels. In fact, I argued against trying to label specific types of friendships, instead treating each relationship as unique and special ... and dynamically changing over time. I concluded with the following:

“Dear Readers, I wish for you some of the joy and liberation I have experienced in this new phase of life, connecting in new and deeper ways with different types of friends. Each relationship has its own rhythm and flavor. Each is grounded in distinctive shared interests or commitments. And each is valuable in its uniqueness.”

I invite you to take a look and consider your own relationships.

LINK

Participating in community has been a fourth important theme this year. I wrote “Belonging” as Christmas was approaching (12-18-25), reflecting on an experience of the preceding Christmas at Trinity Cathedral in Portland. From the text, “ ... we all need to feel we belong. And his story’s point was simply to say that we all belong here on this earth; we all deserve to be seen and to feel at home. My extension of this point is that one of the greatest gifts we can give is to facilitate a sense of belonging for each other. It doesn’t require a credit card or a coupon code -- it is worth most when it is freely given.” I encourage you to take a look at the story I’m referencing. It might bring a tear to your eye.

LINK

I deeply appreciate you, my readers, who provide me with the opportunity to share my thoughts on these very personal topics. Special thanks to all 253 of you who subscribe and those of you who take the time to comment. I try to reply to every comment I receive -- and I’m touched when one of my essays resonates with one of you. Did you have a favorite essay last year -- perhaps one that brought you joy or moved you to tears? I’d love to know. Feel free to comment below or contact me directly through Substack chat or email to halsubstack@gmail.com. Please share my writing with folks you think might be interested and encourage them to subscribe too. Thank you for being alongside me on my journey; I’m pleased to be alongside you as well. On we go into year three!

My wise professor for undergrad Abnormal Psychology (Prof. Ira Iscoe, 1968) said the following to the 500 students seated elbow-to-elbow in the Batts Auditorium lecture hall: “Mental health is competent coping.”

So simple, so memorable, and yet so many-layered.

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These days, competent coping requires me to be nimble. Otherwise, I find it easy to feel crushed by the weight of the world’s horrors being pushed in front of me every minute I allow it to be.

Music keeps me nimble - and for me, that’s a form of competent coping.

A few weeks ago, I heard a fascinating segment on the NPR program “Here and Now” (LINK HERE).

https://www.wbur.org/hereandnow/2026/05/25/new-york-train-music

Designer and engineer Joshua Wolk described how he created a perpetual jazz symphony by assigning different musical instruments to every train in New York City. For example, the B line on the subway is a tenor sax, the A is a jazz trombone, and the No. 3 train is a string bass. The site uses live GPS data from the MTA to create jazz in real time from the trains that are actively running at that moment. When you enter the site (and I highly recommend it), you’ll hear that music and see a map of where it’s coming from. You can click on the dots representing individual trains to hear their distinctive voices.

It’s easy to think of each train grinding its way along the tracks ... but when you can lift your head up and look at it from above, it can make inspiring music. I find it quite engaging and relaxing to listen to -- and I love it that the music of every moment is unique, never to be repeated.

Here’s the site: https://www.trainjazz.com/

Just like the jazz created by the trains in New York, every moment of our lives is unique -- never to have been lived before, and never to be experienced again.

That got me thinking about improv.

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Here’s another example from NYC, thanks to M.

Ari Miller (artist name AriAtHome) walks the streets of New York with a crazy-looking rig that includes keyboard, speakers, headphones, microphones, a smartphone strapped to his wrist -- all kinds of stuff. And as he walks along making music, people come up to him and join in the improv - singing, dancing, whatever. He attracts some really good musicians. He has lots of videos on YouTube -- here’s one, just for fun (1:31 duration).

LINK HERE

and Here’s a feature about him in the New York Times (5-3-2025)

https://www.nytimes.com/2025/05/03/arts/music/ariathome-interview.html

The article describes him as a “wayfaring musician.” “Donning a get-up that looks like a cross between a Ghostbusters proton pack and a ballpark-vendor tray, he dishes out on-the-spot hip-hop, neo-soul, funk and house beats throughout the city’s streets, all created entirely from scratch without breaking stride.”

Why am I thinking about improv at this time in my life?

Back in the day, my life was highly structured by work and family commitments. It felt like there was little time for improv in daily life -- only in cases of emergency, like the time that water spewed uncontrollably all over the kitchen from a broken pipe (yes, that happened).

Today, those firm structures have given way. I am leaning into that flexibility as one of the real joys of retirement.

Sure, things need to happen most days, but the timing is up to me. If I’m moved to get up at 4:00 am and draft my next Substack essay, I can do that. If I want to bop over to Atkins Market for a soft-serv vanilla dipped in chocolate, I can do that. If I want to practice my singing while most people are eating dinner, I can do that, and so on.

I also realize that this flexibility is a great privilege, and so I do feel some responsibility to be a good steward of the time I have. That structure pf responsibility remains.

I look forward to the summer ahead as a time for great music-making, a time for writing, a time for friends and family, and a time to be still and listen. And enough time and space for improv.

However, it will necessarily also be a time to pay attention to what’s happening in the world and to find antidotes to the toxic news of the day. I don’t know about you, but I’m finding it easy to feel powerless in the face of the evils being perpetuated by our own government, with our tax dollars - your hard-earned money and mine. “Thoughts and prayers” aren’t enough to bring back those killed in mass shootings, nor are they enough to change the playbook our officials seem to be following. The optimism of “things will change after the mid-terms” has lost its glow, as the regime works hard to rig things in its favor.

But action, fueled by rage, inspired by music, and powered by improv, has great potential. We each need to find our own path toward competent coping. I’m working at it.

As always, I welcome your thoughts on these matters.

I’ve been wanting to write about A.I. for almost two years; but every time I started, I ran into a credible argument countering my initial thoughts on the matter. I’m glad I didn’t write anything prematurely. All that to-ing and fro-ing over time has helped me clarify my thinking. However, anything written in 2026 will likely be viewed as “premature” through the lens of succeeding years. It’s all moving very fast.

I knew it was time to write today, when I received news of Pope Leo XIV’s encyclical, “Magnifica Humanitas: On Safeguarding the Human Person in the Time of Artificial Intelligence,” dated May 15, 2026.

I will return to that document in a moment, but I first wanted to mention a few of my encounters with A.I. platforms, some positive and others sketchy at best.

**My interest was first seriously piqued when I read in the New York Times about ElliQ, an AI robot (made by Intuition Robotics) used as a care companion for older adults living alone.

https://www.intuitionrobotics.com

Their website makes the following claims:

• 95% reduction in loneliness

• 90% improvement in health and wellness

• 79% improvement in social connectedness

What’s not to like about that?

However, soon after learning about it, other stories revealed ways in which A.I. (in general) tells people what they want to hear, even if it might be harmful. There were also data privacy issues to reckon with. So my enthusiasm was dampened a bit. Nevertheless, the idea of a digital companion to reduce loneliness among older people living alone and to provide a direct way to seek help still seemed worth pursuing.

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Since then, the NYT reported (4-28-26) that South Korea is using an A.l. chatbot named “Talking Buddy” to place calls to elders who live alone, checking on their well-being. According to the article, Talking Buddy “holds tailored conversations that are two to five minutes long and designed to ease loneliness, detect emergencies and stimulate cognitive function to stave off dementia.” Although there are occasional glitches, the article reports its usefulness to elders and its success as an adjunct to traditional medical treatment.

https://www.nytimes.com/2026/04/28/world/asia/korea-ai-seniors-dementia.html?smid=nytcore-ios-share

Although these applications are works in progress, I am keeping a close eye on them. (I have been known to have occasional conversations with Alexa, just to see how far they might go. I’ve found a version with a very enthusiastic male voice -- sometimes too cheery, but other times welcome. Stay tuned.)

**I bought a few books about A.I. (ridiculously analog, I know) in order to learn how to write effective prompts. Then I tried ChatGPT, asking it to enumerate the 10 most important points made in my longitudinal program of research on adoptive families. Interestingly, the number one point it made was a conclusion made by SOME studies of adoptive families, but not by mine. The design of our study did not allow that conclusion to be drawn. The summary was written with great confidence, but it was flat wrong.

**About a year ago, I had an online appointment with my financial advisor, and one of the participants in the room for the zoom call was the new A.I. assistant, whose job it was to listen, take notes, and summarize the session. To the firm’s credit, they asked my permission. I hesitated (due to my earlier experiences), but gave permission for that specific session as long as I could review a transcript of the notes before they were archived. I did review them, and they were accurate, but I still felt queasy about it. By the next morning, I realized why. I had censored some of my own comments in the meeting, not knowing how A.I. would interpret them. Apparently, enough other clients expressed concern that they stopped including it in sessions. Good.

**Most recently, I used ChatGPT to compile a list of articles in which someone’s work was cited by others. Many of the references were completely fake. They looked legitimate, but they did not actually appear in the journals mentioned. Digital Object Identifiers (DOIs) which looked quite official led to dead ends. A.I. was hallucinating (yes, that’s the technical term) -- giving responses that are completely false, yet confidently presented as real.

So I have to say that my track record with A.I. does not inspire confidence, but I do see promise. I’ve also read many A.I.-generated posts on social media and find them bland and boring. I tire easily of their bullet points and don’t trust the contents. I retired from teaching before I had to deal with students’ use of A.I. - and I am grateful for that. My colleagues are struggling with it, as are students.

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So - back to the Pope.

Although I am not Catholic, I have come to admire Pope Leo’s stances on social justice and world peace. His writings have helped counteract my cynicism about the primary factors seeming to motivate many of today’s leaders: greed and dominance, undergirded by hubris.

The title of the recent encyclical, Magnifica Humanitas (in English, Magnificent Humanity), elevates humans above machines and lays out a framework for how we can think about the use of artificial intelligence.

It provides a rationale that is based on the common good rather than business interests and profit motives. As might be expected, the document grounds its arguments in theological concepts. But I think Leo’s principled, humanistic approach provides important guidance for religious and non-religious people alike. The approach can be embraced without resort to theological underpinnings, and that is my intent here. We can use these principles to inform decision-making about the use of artificial intelligence in very concrete ways.

HERE is a link to the document in English.

Numerous commentaries and analyses are appearing in real time, and I will not attempt to reference or summarize them. Nevertheless, I would like to highlight a few points in the original document that jumped out at me. Leo cites five “principles of social doctrine,” which, in my view, provide useful lenses for the evaluation of A.I. applications. The principles also showcase his ability to think systemically -- not simply transactionally. Complex problems must be addressed by complex thinking.

The Principle of the Common Good (paragraphs 59-64 of the document) recognizes the interdependence of all members of the human family and acknowledges ways in which the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. The common good is the “social expression [emphasis mine] of the dignity recognized in every person” (para. 59). Further, “it is an illusion to think that simply pursuing one’s own progress without caring for others is sufficient for contributing to the good of all” (p. 61).

The Principle of the Universal Destination of Goods (para. 65-67) acknowledges that “the earth’s goods -- soil, water, air, and natural resources -- are given ... to the entire human family to sustain the lives of all” (65); and that today, this list must include “new forms of property, such as patents, algorithms, digital platforms, technological infrastructure and data” (67). He argues that “care for our common home and our responsibility toward the poor and future generations require that the use of the goods of creation and the new possibilities offered by technology be regulated in such as way as to respect the environment, avoid waste and prevent new forms of exploitation” (67).

The Principle of Subsidiarity (para. 68-72) holds that “higher-level institutions” such as governments “must recognize, protect and promote the freedom and creativity of lower-level entities” (such as individuals, families, and local communities), “coordinating their contributions so that they can cooperate effectively for the common good” (68). “It is the responsibility of the political community to create the conditions that allow individuals, families, associations and intermediary organizations to fulfil their mission in society, without being replaced or reduced to mere facilitators” (69).

The Principle of Solidarity (para. 73-76) acknowledges “the concrete recognition that the future of each individual is connected to the future of all” (73). “Solidarity is expressed when each person, both individually and collectively, takes part in the life of the community -- by staying informed, engaging with others, making their voice heard and contributing to public decisions and choices -- whille also assuming real responsibility so that the common good is achieved through shared decision-making” (73). More specifically, “Solidarity demands that decisions regarding data, algorithms, platforms and artificial intelligence take into account not only the immediate benefit for a few, but also the impact on all peoples and on future generations” (76).

The Principle of Social Justice (para. 77-81) calls for society to be “characterized by the capacity of a social, economic and political order to allow everyone — particularly the weakest — to live a truly dignified life, without leaving anyone behind” (77). He further notes that injustices are not only the result of choices of individuals, “but also from structures, mechanisms and economic and cultural systems that produce inequality almost automatically” (79).

Each of these principles invites us to consider whether applications of A.I. measure up to those ideals. If not, how does the document guide our next steps?

Pope Leo calls A.I. “a valuable tool that requires vigilance” (para. 100), one that is not morally neutral (104).

“In reality, every technical tool embodies choices and priorities through what it measures, ignores and optimizes, and how it classifies people and situations. If a system is designed or used in a way that treats some lives as less worthy, or excludes them without the possibility of appeal, then it is not merely a tool “to be used well,” since it has already introduced criteria that contradict the inalienable dignity of the human person. For this reason, ethical discernment cannot be limited to asking whether we are using a system for good or bad purposes; it must also examine how that system is designed and what vision of the human person and society is embedded in the data and models that guide it” (104).

Case in point: On recent travels, I had a spirited conversation with my Uber driver, whose day job involved evaluating applications for a federal benefit program. He noted that there was already a 91.1% initial rejection rate for the benefit (yes, you read that correctly) — but that all their documentation is now being fed into A.I., which will take over their jobs sooner rather than later. At that point, the algorithms will make decisions about eligibility, and it will be the applicant’s responsibility to challenge negative decisions. Of course, the people left behind will be those applicants who don’t understand the appeals process or can’t afford to obtain professional help. In the end, the poor will become poorer, a clear violation of the principles laid out in Magnifica Humanitas.

The encyclical addresses other important topics, such as “truth as a common good,” the dignity of work and the dilemma of unemployment caused by A.I., and the exploitation of vulnerable children and women in A.I. work.

“This reality deeply challenges the moral conscience of our time. It is not enough to invoke efficiency, nor to celebrate the benefits of innovation, if they are built on a chain of exploitation that remains deliberately hidden. If technology promises emancipation, yet produces new forms of global subordination, it stands in contradiction to the fundamental principle of human dignity” (para 173).

We are already aware of many technology issues that demand careful consideration. New ones we haven’t even dreamed of will surely present themselves in the future. Magnifica Humanitas provides principles through which we can evaluate new and proposed policies and practices. My view is that, if its principles were adhered to more broadly, the world would be a much better place. I’m not terribly optimistic about such radical change, but I also know that a growing number of us are fed up with leadership that governs by power and greed with little regard for the common good ... and that leadership based on moral principles such as those described above would be most welcome.

I was recently talking with a colleague about the Advisory Board for an organization we are both involved with, and how important it is to have members with different backgrounds and experiences who also share a deep commitment to the organization and its well-being.

Over the years, I’ve served on numerous Advisory Boards and Boards of Directors. Each has a distinctive role in its respective organization. Boards of Directors (for non-profits, for example) have important legal responsibilities for the financial conduct of the organization. Advisory Boards for other programs often function as sounding boards for the director and sources of diverse viewpoints for consideration. When I was organizing my first Advisory Board for an organization, a senior colleague gave me some important advice: Don’t ask for advice unless you are willing to take it. In other words, don’t form an Advisory Board simply to affirm what you are already going to do. That wastes everyone’s time and results in sycophantic leader-advisor relationships that look creepily like a certain president’s cabinet.

I am very fortunate to have friends near and far, from different walks of life, who comprise my personal Advisory Board. It has neither financial nor legal responsibilities, and its members have never been formally appointed to the Board -- it exists in my mind rather than on paper. It has evolved over time as our relationships have evolved. I’ve never spoken with the members about this as a role -- it really doesn’t need a label. It is a verb, not a noun. Think of this special role as one of the 31 flavors of friendship I wrote about HERE. It’s a very important flavor in my menu of ice creams these days.

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I’m not looking for people to tell me what to do. I work best when an Advisor, through our interaction, grants me the space to discuss and debate and consider pros and cons before finalizing a decision. Sometimes my decision is clear by the end of one conversation. Other times, that conversation is just the starting point. Sometimes Advisors affirm a decision I am considering and encourage me to go for it. Other times, they ask key questions that invite me to ponder the issue either aloud with them, or internally in the succeeding days.

You may ask why I find such a thing useful at my stage of life.

Well, the life I am crafting right now is different in many ways from the life I led for most of my adulthood. My life then was organized around primary commitments to my partner and to my work. Now, both are gone.

I have written HERE about how this sea change, while challenging, has opened up new vistas for me --- and I am happily embracing my commitments to choral singing, writing on Substack, relationships, and community (see HERE for further details). I am always asking myself how I can best invest my time and energy in the things I care about most -- for myself, for others, and for the world. This phase of my life is very deliberate, because I am constructing the road map as I go. The full map will only be evident in retrospect.

In accord with my mantra borrowed from Henri Nouwen, We don’t know the full path ahead of us... but there is usually enough light to take the next step.

I have many ideas and no difficulty enacting most of them. But occasionally, there’s something I’m ready to move on -- and a conversation with a trusted Advisor gives me pause. I really value that feedback.

I especially need the views of those who have no vested interest in any particular outcome, except for my own welfare. But I welcome and consider all feedback. It makes for better decisions, AND it builds deeper relationships with my Advisors. I especially prize serving on the Advisory Boards of others who are on my Board -- mutual mentoring.

Enough about me! What about YOU?

Do you find this a useful concept?

Do you have your own Advisory Board? Who is on it?

How do you interact with them? Do they help you move forward in life?

Do you find that sometimes you need to back away from someone’s advice? Perhaps it is too intrusive, too prescriptive, not trustworthy, or not in keeping with your core values. Who do you turn to then?

I’d be interested in your thoughts.

Last week, I shared with you the draft text of a talk I would be giving at the annual Memorial Service for the hospice program that served our family during Susan’s last weeks. Many of you sent me comments or suggestions, either here in the app, or via text or email or in person. I appreciated the affirmations as well. Your comments helped me strengthen my presentation, and I am very grateful for your suggestions as well as for your connection to me.

Thank you!

Fifty to 75 people attended the service; many were close family members and friends of a loved one who had passed in the preceding year. A harp prelude set the tone of the gathering as a time to reflect and exhale. In addition to my talk, there was a ceremony in which the hospice staff lit candles in memory of those who had passed. A slide show of family photos made it very personal and showed the loved ones in their early vital years as well as more recently. A favorite of mine included pictures of a man who had a great white beard and loved to dress up for holidays -- a leprechaun for St. Patrick’s Day, and of course, Santa Claus. He was real, and he was loved dearly by his family and friends. Gone, but fondly remembered and honored.

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I’d say my talk was well-received, and I felt pleased with it. A number of people approached me afterwards not only to thank me, but to mention specific points that resonated to them. With one man, I talked about my mantra borrowed from Henri Nouwen (”We never know the full path ahead of us, but there is usually enough light to take the next step.”) He wanted to make sure he had it memorized, and we recited it together a few times until he felt he had it.

With another man, I discussed the difficulty of asking for help. He is no longer able to drive, and therefore must rely on others for transportation. He hates to ask his kids. But when he does, they say, “Dad -- remember all those times you took us to school and work and shopping and doctors and practice ...??? Well, now it’s our turn to help you!” Lovely.

I stopped by the book table and was excited to see Atul Gawande’s brilliant book, “Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End.” I wrote about the book in my essay “Seeing the Whole Person” (6-24-24):

I recently re-read a brilliant book by Atul Gawande, Professor of Health Policy and Management at the Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health and a surgeon based at Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston. In Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End, Gawande argues that medicine, as it is currently practiced in the US, is poorly prepared to meet the needs of elders and patients nearing the end of their lives -- because it doesn’t focus on what matters most TO THEM. He lays out his ideas in a compelling way, through stories about patients carefully chosen to help readers see them as whole people in need of much more than just a fix for a discrete complaint.

The book’s pithy chapter titles provide clear signposts for the journey he takes us on: The Independent Self; Things Fall Apart (essential reading, but not for the faint of heart); Dependence; Assistance; A Better Life; Letting Go; Hard Conversations; and Courage.

I was so pleased to see that the hospice staff are recommending this book. I’ve actually recommended it to a few of my doctors. And I recommend it to YOU as well, regardless of your age or family circumstance. It’s an engaging read.

A woman I met on the way out is a volunteer at the hospice shop where I had donated many of Susan’s clothes. She told me how much working there meant to her and how much they appreciate all donations.

All in all, it was a very positive event - I left with a very warm feeling. I was very pleased that I had the opportunity to share my experiences with those in attendance. I also appreciated the event personally, because it gave me space to consider my personal growth as well.

Thanks once again to all of you who provided feedback. If you want to read the text again, here it is.

During Susan’s last weeks, she and our family were served by the competent and caring staff of Cooley Dickinson Hospice -- this included nurses, social workers, and chaplains, as well as staff contacts for direct and immediate communication. A number of months after Susan died, I participated in their 8-week grief support group with six others who had experienced the death of a life partner. The CDH hospice services helped our family immensely.

So when I received a request to share a few of my thoughts with others who had more recently experienced the passing of a loved one, I did not hesitate to accept. My talk will be part of their annual Memorial Service for families who had experienced a loss in the past year. They asked me to keep my comments to approximately five minutes -- that’s quite a challenge, because I have so much I COULD say. But it also gives me the opportunity to hone in on a few key points I hope might stay with those in attendance after the service ends.

Here is a draft of what I plan to say. I offer it here for two reasons --- to share with you a bit more of my journey and how I have navigated it, and to invite any feedback you’d like to provide. Feel free to add comments below, or DM me through substack or email me at halsubstack@gmail.com

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Dear Friends,

My wife Susan passed away almost three years ago at the age of 75 following a neurodegenerative illness that was never fully diagnosed. When she was in her last weeks, we had the great fortune of being served by the capable staff of Cooley Dickinson Hospice. We experienced the competent care of their nurses, social workers, and chaplains -- and I subsequently participated in their 8-week support group, along with six others who had experienced the death of a spouse a few months prior.

So let me begin by saying: I’ve been where you are, and I see you.

Even though each person’s experience is unique, we all share the experience that a loved one is gone and our lives have been permanently changed.

For me, things were additionally complicated, because Susan’s death co-occurred with my retirement from a career that had been very central in my life and my confrontation with my own mortality.

I had to re-think everything -- living arrangements, relationships, my own medical care, and how to invest my time and energy --- but it also gave me a chance to gradually construct a new life. I’m thankful to friends and family who gave me the space and support I needed. I do miss Susan and the life we shared for 56 years. I also feel I’ve received an opportunity to build a new life -- I continue to be a work very much in progress at the age of 77.

Because each of our situations is unique, I do not presume to stand here today and give you advice.

However, what I can do is share with you a few things that have been helpful to me in navigating this past three years. Feel free to take or adapt what might work for you, and let the rest go. You are the best expert on you.

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First, the mantra that helped keep me going during Susan’s illness and to this day came from the writings of Henri Nouwen, a Dutch theologian and prolific author. He said, We never know the full path ahead of us, but there is usually enough light to take the next step. Let me repeat that: We never know the full path ahead of us, but there is usually enough light to take the next step.

Some days, I felt paralyzed. So many things needed to be done, and it was impossible to know where to begin. So I let this statement guide me. Sometimes, the next step was simple -- like “make some breakfast.” That’s all. And then after breakfast, “Take a shower.” And after that, “Brush your teeth.” and so on. Usually there was enough light to take one more step.

Again, We never know the full path ahead of us, but there is usually enough light to take the next step.

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The second idea that has been useful, but also difficult for me, is to be willing to ask for help. You see, I am much more comfortable offering help than asking for it. That works fine when you have it to offer, but I am now in the position more frequently of needing help. For example, a little over a year ago, I had to have cataract surgery, and my preferred opthalmologist is in Boston. I don’t have any family nearby, so I needed to seek help from friends. And guess what? They were happy to help!

It helped me to think this through by putting myself in their shoes. What if they asked me for help? I would be happy to do so, if I could. Rather than feeling put-upon, it made me feel useful to help in this way. Generally speaking, people want to help. Turning away their offers deprives them of something positive for them -- their experience of helping someone else. I often still have to think this through when my independent streak tells me not to ask for help, but I am growing in this area.

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The third watchword that helped me was advice of my therapist, “Be open.” I found it much easier to do the opposite -- and close down, shut out invitations, and turn inward. But every time I allowed myself to be open to an invitation, to a new opportunity, or to just following through with routine life maintenance, it built social strength that endures - almost like building muscle.

In the spirit of being open, I joined an 8-week support group offered by CDH Hospice -- this brought me together with 6 others who had experienced the death of a spouse in past months. Through opportunities to listen, to talk, and to share, we gained respect and affection for one another -- to the point that when the 8 weeks ended, we all wanted to continue getting together. For the past two years, we have continued to meet almost monthly at one another’s homes for potluck dinners and socializing, just on our own. We range in age from early 60s to early 90s, and we have differing family configurations -- some with family nearby, others not -- but we understand that primary experience that brought us together in the first place. We “get it.” It is truly a beautiful thing -- one member calls us her “second family.” I call us “The Magnificent Seven.” We are all grateful that Cooley offered this supportive service to us.

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In one way or another, all three of my points touch on the idea of reaching outside outselves and staying connected to others. It sometimes feels difficult, but it’s probably one of the most important things we can all do along our own journeys -- and we can also be connecting points for others.

Thank you for allowing me to share a bit of my experience with you today. I do see you, and wish each of you the very best on your journey forward.

My sons are incredibly special to me -- I am so proud of both of them, and I really value who they have become and who they are becoming. I’m continually exchanging stuff with each of them -- messages, links to videos and audio tracks, recommendations on books and movies, and life hacks.

We have especially bonded over music. Although each of us has our own preferred musical comfort zones, we each have very eclectic tastes and appreciate a broad range of musical styles and cultural influences. We are open.

You, my dear readers, know that I feel strongly about the power of music to delight, to inspire, and to heal. At the bottom of this essay, I’ve included links to several essays I’ve written about music, each of which includes links for listening. ( hope you visit or re-visit them!

With the conflict raging in the Middle East, each of us has been exploring music from outside our own hemisphere. I thank them both for various links they have shared with me.

Today, I would like to share two playlists featuring music of that part of the world.

The first is the latest playlist on David Byrne Radio Presents:

davidbyrne.com/radio

The title, “Who Are We Bombing?” really says it all.

Here is the intro from Byrne’s website:

I met Yasmine a number of years ago thanks to the folks from Coco Rosie. I heard some of the tracks from her then upcoming album and loved them and have kept track of her work ever since. She’s Lebanese (Israel and the US are bombing Lebanon) and is married to a wonderful Palestinian filmmaker Elia Suleiman (I’ve seen some of his films) who is sometimes compared to Jacques Tati (funny films). This playlist includes artists from all over the Arabic diaspora- Googoosh is a Persian (Iranian) singer who has filled the Hollywood Bowl. On and on. Some great artists and sounds and tracks you might not expect.

The Spotify playlist has 72 tracks -- I hope you’ll sample a few.

Music humanizes those who create and perform. We need that now.

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While I was looking around for other interesting music, I came across the music of Anouar Brahem, a Tunisian Oud player.

Here is a link to his YouTube page

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCKEjAugI4JDPUMJQ5tqfWlQ

and here is a video of a piece I particularly liked, “After the Last Sky” (duration 5:50). The title is from a 1986 poem by Mahmoud Darwish, “Where should the birds fly after the last sky?”

If music can help make “the other” more human, I am thrilled to share it.

A number of my prior essays have focused on the power of music to delight, to inspire, and to heal. Here are several links:

“Music That Moves Me: On the Power of Music” 8-8-2024 LINK

“I’m Alive: Music is My Multivitamin” 10-7-2024 LINK

“Keep on Keeping On” 11-4-2024 LINK

“On Singing: From ‘Hallelujah’ to ‘Coraggio’ “ 12-30-2024 LINK

“Multivitamin Time: Music for the Soul” 3-28-2025

I’d love to hear about the music you have discovered that has helped you to put a human face on others who might seem quite different from us.

When I was growing up, I remember two sayings that my parents and their contemporaries lived by: “No news is good news.” and “Bad news travels fast.”

Kind of strange, when you think of it --- implying that the only type of news you would care about is “bad news,” and that you’d learn that quickly enough. Otherwise, just assume that everything is fine, and go about your business.

In trying to understand the rationale for such a strategy, I must note that communication outside of one’s local area was neither easy nor fast nor inexpensive. You couldn’t just tap the WhatsApp icon and initiate an instant free video call to your friend in France.

Long distance phone calls were billed by the minute. I remember times when a family member who had been visiting was returning home, they were told to “call on the signal” so that we would know they had returned safely.

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Here’s how that worked. If one person called another long-distance, but the other person did not pick up the phone, there was no charge. So “the signal” was that the person calling would let it ring twice and then hang up -- and the person on the receiving end would have agreed in advance not to pick it up during those first two rings. This little ruse communicated that the person made it home safely, and neither party paid for a call.

There were many other ways to sneak messages under the wire. One person could call another person “collect” (meaning that the receiving party would agree to pay for the call), but ask for a person who did not live there and whose name contained an agreed-upon coded message. For example, if I had the operator tell my friend that I was placing a collect call to Bill Turner (not a real person), that meant that I had made it home safely. But if I asked for Sam Turner, that had a different meaning that had been agreed to in advance. In both cases, the receiving party would decline the collect call, so a message was communicated but no charge was paid to the phone company. (Nobody liked “Ma Bell” any more than we love today’s tech companies.)

But nowadays, fortunately, it’s easy to check in with people -- texts, emails, audio & video calls, social media posts, etc. etc. Most all of them are free, or unlimited use has been rolled into the service plans we are already paying for.

That said, I have come to conclude that “no news is good news” is not a winning strategy. Not if you really care about the other person.

I am still mourning the loss of my dear friend, whose death a few weeks ago came as a big surprise to me. It’s not that I hadn’t thought about her -- she had retired in 2017, and I had often thought about calling her to get together for coffee, or inviting her and her husband over for dinner. I occasionally asked colleagues if they had been in touch with her. Most replied that they had not, but they assumed she and her husband were fine.

“Assume.”

What’s that saying? “Assume” can make an ass out of u and me.

Anyway, this experience has made me want to be a much better friend and communicator, especially to those people I consider closest.

Recall that a few weeks ago, I wrote about “31 Flavors of Friendship.” Not all friendships are the same in terms of commitment or closeness, and that is absolutely fine --- but for those with whom I do feel significant closeness and commitment, I want to be a good friend. And that means checking in, not just in times of crisis, but during ordinary time. It only takes a moment, but it can make a person’s day. And it might provide an opportunity to learn something about your friend that would merit your action.

My favorite essay on friendship was written by the Anglo-Irish-American poet David Whyte. He wouldn’t subscribe to “No News is Good News” either.

But no matter the medicinal virtues of being a true friend or sustaining a long, close relationship with another, the ultimate touchstone of friendship is not improvement, neither of the other nor of the self: the ultimate touchstone is witness, the privilege of having been seen by someone and the equal privilege of being granted the sight of the essence of another, to have walked with them and to have believed in them, and sometimes just to have accompanied them for however brief a span, on a journey impossible to accomplish alone.

—David Whyte, “Friendship,” Consolations: The Solace, Nourishment, and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words (2020)

I’m very interested in your thoughts about maintaining friendships across miles and years -- and finding just the right way of connecting that works both for you and your friend.

I am always looking for an excuse to write about music, and this week (Holy Week in the Christian calendar, between Palm Sunday and Easter) is filled with some of the most sublime music in the western sacred music canon.

Today, I’d like to share several videos of some of my favorite groups singing the pieces that our church choir is doing at services this week. It’s been a very full week, both physically and emotionally demanding. But it’s been worth every moment. I feel very fortunate to be singing these pieces with this group.

Here are videos of 5 pieces, one for each day from Wednesday through Easter Sunday. My purpose here is to share the music. If you’d like more information about the liturgies, readings, etc., please DM me.

WEDNESDAY TENEBRAE SERVICE

“Tenebrae” is Latin for “shadows” or “darkness.” Tenebrae services go back to the 8th century. In our service, readings were also included from notable 20th century figures: Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and Bishop Oscar Romero.

The musical climax of the service was “Miserere Mei, Deus,” by Allegri. It is a setting of Psalm 51, “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your loving-kindness...” It was sung in the darkened church; we had small LED lights clipped on to our folders so we could read the music.

This piece has a fascinating backstory. According to Google summary, it was composed in the 1630s for use in the Sistine Chapel during Holy Week. It was sung in total darkness, and the Vatican forbade anyone from transcribing or performing the piece outside the Sistine Chapel. They wanted it all to themselves. As the story goes, Mozart heard the piece in 1770 when he attended a service with his father (at the age of 14) and went back to his lodgings and transcribed it note-for- note by memory.

During several verses, the soprano hits a high “C:, and you can imagine how powerful that would be to hear in a resonant setting. This recording, by London-based VOCES8, features soprano Andrea Haines -- Just close your eyes and let the sound wash over you. This version (duration 8:08) omits a few verses toward the end, but you will get the idea. Many other versions can be found online.

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MAUNDY THURSDAY SERVICE

Key themes of the Thursday service include love for others and commitment to service - helping one another. Here I include Maurice Duruflé’s setting of “Ubi Caritas.”

This recording is by Maîtrise Notre-Dame de Paris, under the direction of Henri Chalet (2:30). I really appreciate the clarity of the singing, despite being in such a resonant space.

The Latin text begins (translated into English): Where charity and love are, there God is...

GOOD FRIDAY SERVICE

Good Friday is arguably the saddest and most solemn day of the church year. All adornments have been removed from the church, and all ministers are wearing simple black. Lights are dimmed.

Our special piece for Good Friday was Claudio Monteverdi’s (1567-1623) setting of “Adoramus te Christe.”

Latin text into English: We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you. For by your precious blood you have redeemed the world. Have mercy upon us.

This version (3:23) was sung by VOCES8.

EASTER VIGIL SERVICE (SATURDAY NIGHT)

After all the darkness and gloom of the past several days, this service celebrates the return of the light.

The piece we are singing tonight is Sicut Cervus, by Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina. The version here was sung by VOCES8 (duration 3:14)

The text is from Psalm 42: As a deer longs for streams of water, so I long for you, O God….

EASTER SUNDAY MORNING

Bring out the bells, the trumpets, and sing!

Tomorrow morning’s anthem will be (of course), the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s Messiah. I have it on good authority that the children’s chorus will sing the first page and we will take it on to the end. They will mainly be thinking about the Easter egg hunt on the lawn after the service. (Let’s hope the rain stops.)

Here is a great rendition from the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra (duration 3:48), recorded in 2018 at the Ordway Concert Hall. (Big shout out to the SPCO!! I miss them...)

Well, there you have it. Whatever your religious orientation, I hope you can experience some beauty in these five sublime pieces. For me, it’s been a humbling experience to sing them and offer my voice and the other voices in our choir as consolation and hope to others.

Music heals. And we need that now.