Proust had his madeleines; I have my symphonic music. And you..?

So many disparate parts of my life went into the simple act of conducting the overture that would ultimately become my little orchestra’s signature performance piece, the "Zampa" Overture by Ferdinand Hérold.

No one nowadays has heard of it. 

The French writer Marcel Proust understood how memory works. The slightest aroma can arouse the most complex of memories; or a half-heard melody on the radio can instantly whisk us back to layer upon layer of remembrances and feelings that we might have thought were lost and buried forever.
But they never are. 

In many different places, parts or moments of my life, I’ve read about a theory I’ve always believed. Everything we ever do or hear or experience remains forever in our brain, ready to be re-activated, as it was for Proust, by some stimulus — the whiff of fragrance of a buttery madeleine, a melody on the radio, the faint scent of a perfume….

What stirs your soul? What triggers memories you’d thought were lost? Hasn’t happened to you yet? It will. If you let it.

Like Zampa. It only takes a few moments of hearing the stirring music for the tears to form. Everything stops. Whatever I was doing is forgotten. My hands conduct, my eyes pour memories….

“Why does it make you cry?” my good friend asked once, innocently, clearly confused.

My answer to that has so many layers that I never know how to begin. That happens often: a simple question requires an answer so complex, or that has so many languages in it, or so many references to my past, that my brain comes to a complete stop. Knowing that the person who asked it won’t make the same connections, or won’t understand the language my brain wants to reply in, I just don’t answer. My brain is a whirl, but my mouth is silent. I probably seem a bit… simple of mind. Staring stupidly at someone who just asked a very simple question.

Simple to them, maybe — but my answer isn’t simple at all.
 
How hard my first violinist Maurice had to work to make his violin flow through the presto (fast) parts! How intensely he had to concentrate! Some of the members of my volunteer community orchestra were not up to playing the music we attempted. But my job, as their leader, was to get them used to it, to make it so familiar that they would be humming it as they left each rehearsal. To make it a friend they could visit comfortably. 

That memory morphs into the sad memory of how Maurice turned out to be a very different person from the one who sat in my orchestra each week. Which reminds me of the sad tale of his early death. And how much I missed his wife, my friend, when she fell victim to an early death, too.

From there it morphs into how much I miss conducting! How a simple comment from my husband, back then, would have made the whole experience so much more meaningful. But no comment ever came, except negative ones. Which, had I been a weaker person, might have undone me….

Layer upon layer of life. All re-activated by a simple question or piece of music.

Stepping up onto the conductor’s podium is just like stepping up onto the rock, when we go climbing. The first climb of the day is always the hardest, for me, no matter what its difficulty rating is. But I know I can do it — have to do it — to move on to the rest of our climbing day.

No matter how many times my little orchestra has rehearsed a piece, stepping onto the conductor’s podium is always an adventure. They’re the ones playing the music, but I’m the one everyone is watching. I’m the one they congratulate afterwards, or blame.

And just like climbing, you never know how it’s going to go until you start. Control is an illusion. Your rope could get sliced by a sharp rock. Your flute soloist could have a cold. A colony of bees could swarm out of a hole in the rock. That’s what makes my son, Alex Honnold, so different. He can manage most of the things that happen out there. Except, of course, the severed rope. But even that’s no problem, if you climb without a rope….

Pursuing a dream goal — any goal — takes you out of your comfort zone. My oboe player does not want to play the flute part. The flute player can’t play the high notes. We only have 3 violinists. Nothing earth-shattering or life-threatening. But definitely no ease, or comfort, in any of it. You just have to deal. Like on the rock. 

Comfort is overrated. It’s just habit. And we can change our habits. 

I hope that someday — if you haven’t yet — you make a memory that will recur for the rest of your life….

in the meantime, call up the "Zampa" Overture on your computer / phone / YouTube … but don’t chicken out at the beginning; listen to the whole thing. It builds. It surprises. It morphs. Much like Ravel’s "Bolero," its raison d’être, its ikigai, is the crescendo. 

Enjoy!… then go out and create a lifetime memory.