TRANSCRIPT

I’m Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown. 

Recently I was invited to speak at the Chautauqua Institution in New York State; it was actually a conversation event with author Kwame Alexander, which was wonderful. Spending a few days at Chautauqua was a special treat: boating on the lake with friends, going to see Laufey in concert, and just enjoying the energy and spirit of the place and the people there. If you’ve been, you know what I mean. It’s pretty magical.

One of the things I did while there was attend a church service in the amphitheater, which holds more than 4,000 people. I was there to hear Sister Teresa Maya speak, and I’m so glad I went. She spoke about the environment, and about the wonder we experience in nature not being enough on its own—we have to work to protect the world, not just be in awe of its beauty.

But the most surprising thing that happened was that, as soon as the choir sang, I felt a lump in my throat, and my eyes welled up. I was sitting among strangers in the Chautauqua Amphitheater on a Sunday morning with tears rolling down my face…from the choir. 

I was talking to a friend about this the other day, and she understood. “I know!” she said. “Every time I went to one of my kids’ choir concerts, I’d cry!” And then I remembered that I did the same thing!

Going to the elementary school choir concerts and winter music festivals, I got teary every time the kids sang. I told myself it was because of their sweet, little-kid voices, but that’s not the whole story. Something about hearing voices in unison—it’s powerful, and communal, and comforting, and deeply moving. 

I wonder how much of my emotional response is because I grew up in church, singing in choir, and even playing in the bell choir. Singing with others—and listening to others singing together around me—was part of my life growing up. Being away from it for so many years hasn’t dulled me to its power, though. Like so many things we grow up with—it’s in there. Baked in. In fact, I still remembered the melodies and words of most of the hymns we sang that morning at Chautauqua. That recall surprised me.

Today’s poem sang to me, and moved me—like a choir.

What Is This Air Changing, This Warm Aura, These Threads of Air Vibrating Rows of People
by Ariel Yelen

This small effort
Because this little singing
This little sound
Small song
This fathomless effort
This voice which comes from the gut
This soft effort at making song
This effort at song
This effort to make song which birds do effortlessly
What birds do effortlessly
This tiny bird
This tender worthy effort
And sometimes it is no effort
No effort to sing
Sometimes I’ve had a drink or two
Sometimes it’s effortless to make song
If enough people sing in a group
If I’m part of that group, I cry
I’m holding a thing that breathes and makes sound
Where song comes from and goes to

“What Is This Air Changing, This Warm Aura, These Threads of Air Vibrating Rows of People” by Ariel Yelen from I WAS WORKING © 2024 Ariel Yelen. Used by permission of Princeton University Press.