Today I went for a walk. It was a rather long walk, but since I don't have an odometer I cannot be sure just how long. Factoring for three miles an hour the round trip was something like six miles. Why undertake such a trip? To spend half an hour in the music room of Kelvin Thomas. There are many things I could say about my chat with Kelvin. He began by making me a cup of tea. This is one of the things I love about this country. The first thing anyone says when they welcome you to their home is, "Come in. Sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?" I waited in the music room, warming myself by the heater and calling back my answers to the kitchen, "no sugar. Milk please!" Soon a warm mug of tea was in my hands and the conversation began.
While I sipped my tea, he asked how I like Cardiff and how I am "settling in." (This phrase is used universally by new persons I meet. Is this a cultural thing?) He inquired about my program of study, the church I attend, my educational background and my voice part preference. Then he asked if I had brought something to sing for him. Although he had not indicated in our telephone conversation that he would be asking for a piece, I had suspected that he might. Going through the scant sheet music I brought with me, I discovered an Italian aria from Vivaldi's Gloria and an arrangement of an old hymn. Since the arrangement was easier and I had sung it more recently, I put it in my bag in preparation for just such a question. Yes, I brought a hymn arrangement I am fond of. That was satisfactory.
Perhaps I should explain that this visit had been arranged for a specific purpose. Some months previously I had asked a then new acquaintance if it would be possible for me to join the choir of which she was a member. After asking the director, she told me he would be willing, but would first like to meet and hear me sing. At the time I was decidedly unsteady on my feet in my new life and exploring other avenues for social and musical expression. In addition to that circumstance, I dread phoning strangers. Instead I joined a large community choir that was to participate in a Christmas concert on December 1. It was only through the course of the succeeding weeks that I realized the choir I was participating in was a supplement to Cambrensis, the choir of which Helen was a member. The supplementary choir was also partially directed Kelvin, now he was not a completely unknown quantity. I had seen him direct, that says a lot about the director's personality.
So last Thursday I picked up my phone and dialed Kelvin's number. I knew I wanted to sing in the core choir, not just the extra choir. This morning I sat in his music room, asking for a place in Cambrensis. After I had sung my hymn (the accompaniment to which Kelvin sight-read excellently), he put me through a few exercises, and began to ask questions about my voice: range, tessitura (area of comfort), vocal power, previous repertoire. He seemed very intent on his questions, as if he was pursuing something that he knew was there, but couldn't quite put his finger on. In the course of the conversation he dropped as a side comment, "of course I'd be glad to have you in the choir," but it was obvious that the main point on his mind was not my participation in his choir. Rather he seemed preoccupied with my voice, its limits and the possibilities of my vocal development. When he ceased to pursue that topic, I had the impression it was more a matter of politeness than the satisfaction of his curiosity.
I downed the dregs of my tea, indicated my pleasure at the prospect of seeing him at the first 2008 rehearsal of Cambrensis, responded to a few more innocuous conversational queries and started the long walk home. I think I danced for most of the first mile. Although the rest of the day has been good, my conversation with Kelvin this morning has remained in my mind. Somehow it seems fraught with possibility. I am eager to see where it leads.
When I told my mother last week that I had arranged to meet with Kelvin, she made one of her directly insightful comments: yes, those two are your great passions. Those two: Theology and Music. I came to music early. By the age of ten I knew I was good at it. By the age of twelve I had vowed I would use that talent for good. I pursued it through college, but at the age of 21 everything changed. That change eventually steered me into the deep waters of theology. There I discovered an intellectual stimulation I had never known existed, and fell in love with a completely new way of thinking.
That experience lead me here, to the South Wales Baptist College, chipping away at a second Masters degree, but no sooner did I begin to send down my roots in Cardiff than my music began to call to me again. It is my first love, and the center of some of the greatest joy I have ever known in my life. I am ecstatic at the prospect of singing with Cambrensis. I am closer to ambivalent about beginning my second essay in January. If music were the degree and theology the extra-curricular activity, would my feelings be opposite? Possibly. Even likely.
But the thing I wonder about the most is this: I fail to see where my two passions meet. The only place where music enters theological discourse is in the realm of worship, an area where I have no more than a polite academic interest. I have now learned through experience that I cannot ignore one of my great passions to whole-heartedly pursue the other without feeling that some part of me sickens and begins to die in the exchange. How does my Master intend to knit the two together?
