I love singing, but I really don't like parties. "You're a character," one close friend used to tell me. But parties make me uncomfortable. I hear everything and nothing simultaneously. Given the choice, I'd rather be looking at scores or writing or reading.
And yet I sing with others. My favorite nights of the week are nights where I direct bell choirs and the chorale. I come home so excited that I have trouble falling asleep. My cup is filled for a long time. Why is this, and what is so powerful about music that it brings great excitement?
In my fourth book, we're going to talk about it. What is it about music - and the arts - that unites us in a way that nothing else can? Why is it that I can sit down in a choir with a bunch of strangers and as soon as the first note is uttered I have a place? If I sightread incorrectly the first time, generally noone gasps or calls me a fool, instead we look at the errant passage together. We become one as an ensemble. You may not know anything about my faults, my insecurities, or my left-handedness, but we belong next to one another in that moment. Is this a solution to the loneliness epidemic that has swept across our globe? Should we be looking to one another instead of our phones? Should we be receiving energy from our choirs? Do we, as directors, need to rethink the purpose of music not as an end to itself, but as a necessary and important part of connecting with other human beings?
We're going to look at some of the history of the loneliness epidemic, how our work benefits the connectedness of others, what we can do to facilitate that connection, and methods to bring about that change.
Coming in 2026.
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