It's noon. I'm lying on my back at the YMCA, holding a barbell over my head. "Focus on your form," the instructor says. "Think of your range of motion. Elbows the width of your shoulders. Narrow your grip. Now lower your bar behind your head. Down, and up. Keep breathing. Think of nothing but your muscle. Imagine your muscle contracting and expanding. Think of your muscle. There is nothing else."
Nothing else but my inbox and voice mail filling up while I'm here over lunch, sweating in a room full of strangers. There is always something else, and my mind races: Spanish verb conjugations, laundry to be done, unanswered letters, how much weight I have to lose, Springsteen lyrics, stray lines of poetry, how to explain the flow of insurance claims, the launch of our new Web site delayed, the to-do list growing by the second.
Now down, and up. Think of the muscle, and nothing else.
I race everywhere these days. Perpetually late. Tired and aching. Frustrated one moment, content and happy the next, then completely overwhelmed.
I have bought a ticket to see the St. Olaf Choir, billed as the premiere a cappella ensemble in the U.S. It is not a cheap ticket, and I bought it because I heard and enjoyed the group on "Prairie Home Companion." Largely I bought it because they are singing at War Memorial Auditorium, which is tucked off a beautiful plaza that is perhaps my favorite spot in Nashville. There are so many favorite spots, I lose track of them all.
I race up the hill to make the 8 p.m. curtain. War Memorial Auditorium is literally a block from my front door, but I'm going to be late. Again. I make it into my third-row seat just as the last chorister is stepping into place.
This is a rarified venue, a one-time home to the Symphony and to the Opry. It's architecturally beautiful and sonically wonderful. The risers are filled with young, striking people. They live and breathe music. Their faces change when they sing, and they are not inhibited. They move through a difficult program with precision and joy. I watch them and my mind fills with questions: How old are they? What brought them to St. Olaf, and to the choir? What will the next five years bring to each of them? The next 10?
The choir director speaks to the audience late in the show. He wants to explain the next piece, "Gospel Mass." It's a contemporary piece, written 26 years ago when the Catholic Church sought a way to bring a modern bent to the ancient text of the Mass. It was also written for the 10th anniversary of the black choir at the University of Illinois, and while a graduate student there, he sang this piece at its debut.
He asks us to refrain from applauding until all of the piece is complete. They will perform it with humbleness, he says, "in the Negro spiritual idiom."
"You will want to clap and to move. Just listen," he implores. "Just listen." "Gospel Mass" is a step out of the box for the audience and for most of the choir, he admits. He is one of the few black faces on the Nordic stage.
They begin with Kyrie Eleison and onto the Gloria. It is reverent and exuberant at the same time. It's not wild and funky -- it's deep and, well, spiritual. The words are familiar and new all at the same time, and the Agnus Dei is incredibly powerful. "Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us."
As his benediction he thanks us for coming, says he knows it's "church night" in these parts, and he is glad we came to church with them. "This was not a performance, it was a worship service," he says, which is exactly what I'm thinking.
It's time for the last song, a kind of signature piece for the group, "Beautiful Savior." You may know it, as I do, as "Fairest Lord Jesus." The choir hums the first verse, then one alto voice rises up to sing the second:
"Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodlands, clothed in the blooming garb of spring.
"Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer, he makes our sorrowing spirit sing."
Technically speaking, it is probably the easiest piece of the night, but to me it is the most profound.
In my chest, a muscle contracts and expands. It expands to the point where it is overflowing out of my eyes, down my cheeks, off my chin. The choir comes to the last note and fades away. For a few seconds there is a perfect silence, then applause. The man next to me says, "What a blessing." It is. I am not the only one whose face is damp.
I walk out across the plaza, past the buses rumbling on Church Street, waiting to take the choir to Memphis for tomorrow's show. A soft wind is blowing off the Cumberland River, pointing the flags on the state capitol toward the west. The Hermitage Hotel glows with white light. The valets from Morton's scurry up the hill as I walk down it.
I feel my muscle contract and expand. There is nothing else.
