The sun is out, the ground is soft, and the wind is blowing about the scents of springtime: damp earth, new grass, and loss. I think I have a particularly strong scent memory. My daily perfume still smells like writing papers about Jane Eyre and Frankenstein because I started wearing it my junior year at Skidmore. I had to throw out my jasmine perfume because it smells like April 2020 and writing my thesis on the floor of my sister's childhood bedroom. It smells like frantically packing all my belongings and getting a phone-call from my sister where she cried while telling me the FB event for my recital said "cancelled." It's been nearly two years since the Covid-19 pandemic shut down colleges across the nation, and the spring air is a bit like that jasmine perfume only I can't throw out a season.
It's hard to explain the lingering grief of being a 2020 grad; I haven't lost any friends or loved ones, I'm at my top choice grad program, I'm living in a new city with lots of new friends, so why should I still feel sad? There are milestones in our lives that we build so high with anticipation that we can barely fathom not reaching them. I thought celebrating four years of hard work with my peers and professors was a given. I thought giving a recital would culminate the many years spent practicing, programming, and translating repertoire. I thought singing one of my own pieces in my final choir concert would be a fitting start to my future in composition. And yet...I celebrated my last English capstone class on zoom drinking champagne alone in my room.
I sang through tears at a renegade recital to a church sprinkled with strangers the day before my dad picked me up for the last time, thank you forever to Sylvia Stoner and Carol Ann Elze for slapping that together, and I gave a zoom presentation on Benjamin Britten's On This Island song cycle.
The choir ended up singing "Water Night" as a virtual choir. I recorded my part on my phone in the basement so as not to capture the barking of my dog. All the while, it was springtime.
I was lucky enough to be with my family in Maine during most of the pandemic, so we were able to explore beautiful and mossy trails throughout the Midcoast region. However stunning the scenes, though, a piece of me was always thinking: "But I'm not supposed to be here." It was hard to truly appreciate the view when it was the wrong landscape. In April, it was warm enough to wear just a sweatshirt but still cool enough to make my fingers turn red. So sometimes, walking along the tree-lined streets here in Pittsburgh, my chilled fingers remind me of other walks in more beautiful but less happy places. My walk home from choir practice last night actually gave me the idea for this post as I shoved my hands into my pockets to avoid the chill.
I have been able to accept and work through many of the losses from my senior year, but I still find myself mourning my recital. As a true liberal arts student, I had curated my recital to reflect my work with Victorian literature in the English department. I conceptualized the whole recital around the aforementioned Britten song cycle and had planned on writing program notes to show why I chose specific pieces. I was at the top of my singing game, and I was ready for what I thought would be my last performance as a solo vocalist for some time. It turns out that was actually the year prior in my junior recital. As I mentioned earlier, my voice professor and collaborative pianist were able to put on a slapdash renegade recital at a church for my friend Lindsay and myself. I remember getting a call at our "dress rehearsal" from my best friend that he was leaving. I wasn't on campus, so I couldn't say goodbye. We still haven't been able to see each other in person. Lindsay and I had spent the last few nights with our housemates grieving the early loss of each other's company, so we were running on fumes, wine, sushi, and shock- not exactly the ideal circumstances for singing. I barely sang at all after that recital. On April 11, the day I was supposed to give my recital, my family had me put on my dress and sing for them.
After I graduated, I couldn't do anything related to music. I couldn't write music. I couldn't sing. All I did was knit, and run, and read. For several months, I was worried that I'd lost the ability to write music, that I'd somehow used up all my creative brainpower to graduate. However, creativity is not finite. I learned to search for inspiration elsewhere and to let myself do what I felt was nothing, though doing just about anything in the throes of 2020 was a feat. I started writing music again and singing Taylor Swift with my guitar, but I did not sing any of my classical repertoire. I attempted to sing a few pieces on occasion, but I just could not get through them. Granted, my barking dog was partially to blame for that.
I started singing again when I got to Pittsburgh, and I don't think I realized quite how many emotions were tangled up with my voice until I had my first voice lesson and first choir practice. I, a notorious non-crier, often found myself near tears after my voice lessons simply because the act of singing sent me back a year and a half. Just the mention of recitals or performances made my heartbeat sound in my ears. Once, we sang through Schumann's "Liebst du um schoenheit," one of my favorite pieces from my repertoire, but singing it felt like March 17, 2020. I did cry outside afterwards. I cried on the way back from a choir concert dress rehearsal because all I could think about was the old choir that I so adored. And yet, I continue to sing because I do love it and I want it to be fun again. It's been a lot more fun, lately, so I'm hopeful.
Time is a trusty salve, but sensory memories are their own beast. They enmesh themselves in acts that were once joyous, seasons that once meant rejuvenation, words that once caused excitement. The ache has dulled, now, and I think it is fading, but it is not gone. Someday, I'll be able to get through "Liebst du um schoenheit" without digging my fingernails into my palms. Someday, I'll be able to smell jasmine without feeling sick with anxiety. For now, I'll content myself with singing new repertoire, wearing new perfume, and making new springtime memories.
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