Today my choir, the West Village Chorale, was reviewed in the music section of the New York Times. We had no idea that we would be reviewed - or, if perhaps anyone among us suspected that we might be, they had the decency to keep it to themselves so we wouldn't all panic.
It's unusual for an amateur choir to be reviewed at all, let alone with such positivity, so this is an almost unimaginable honor. Read the review here.
If you're a performer of any kind, perhaps you know this feeling - when all of the nervousness fades away, and the show changes from something careful, and perhaps tentative, into something deeply joyous and confident and smooth. Every once in a great while something just clicks into place, and feels both flawless and infinite, and you reach a level higher than you realized you were capable of.
This unusual scenario happened to us last night, even though we were exhausted, and it was an almost unbearably hot, sweaty, endless kind of day. When you're pretty much depleted and sweat is actually dripping down your back and you're squashed like sardines under hot lights for hours, it's hard to produce anything decent, let alone "proficient". But if the NYT says we did, then hey, that's enough for me.
The fact that I am able to be a part of this is astonishing, and wondrous, and a blessing.
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