Harmony And Me

I have always been so impressed by, possibly even a little in awe of, people who can sing harmony. Those who wrap their voices around a bit of melody and embellish it with sound that augments and complements it so beautifully, elevating it from a piece of music to piece of magic.

I, myself, am not possessed of this ability.

Oh, I've tried. Sometimes, I can sort of manage pick out a note or two that sounds right, although more often than not, I pretty much suck at it, I've gotta admit.  As much as I admire born harmonizers like my son Justin, who has a gift for it ... as much as I aspire to be able to do it -- to add even more beauty to an already pretty melody -- I just can't.

This past Friday night, however, I realized something about harmony: it can't exist without melody. I know this seems basic, but I had never thought about it in such terms before. I think I had always felt the lack of my ability to sing harmony instead of my ability to facilitate it.

Fundamental, right? But for me, this was truly a revelation.

On Friday night, I was privileged to be participating in my synagogue's annual Sisterhood Shabbat, during which the women of our South Huntington Jewish Center community lead Friday night and Saturday morning services.  I have done this several times in years past, whether by reading Torah or reciting prayers in either English and Hebrew. This year, I was asked to sing the final prayer of the Friday night service, Yigdal.

Yigdal consists of thirteen lines of Hebrew. Traditionally, the prayer leader (in this case, me) sings the first line solo and the second line with the congregation, the third line solo and the fourth line together, and so on.  It's sung moderately fast and the Hebrew can be a bit challenging in spots, especially for one not quite fluent in it (in this case, again me).

I had never learned this prayer and certainly never led a synagogue full of worshipers in it, so I devoted a fair amount of time and study last week into trying to master it. Every part of a service is important, but this would be our last prayer for the evening, and I wanted to make sure we went out on a good note (no pun intended). Besides, I would never volunteer to do this -- or anything -- unless I was prepared to do it right.

I printed out a copy. I downloaded the mp3 file of my Cantor, Brian Shamash, singing it. (Hazzan Shamash, by the way, is another one of those harmony savants.)  I sounded out the words, I put them to the music, and I practiced until I felt comfortable standing in front of my Rabbi, Cantor and fellow members leading them in song and prayer.

I don't want to make it sound like the biggest challenge in the world; it wasn't. But for someone who learned to read Hebrew late in life, it wasn't the easiest, either. And for someone who may struggle a bit with perfectionism, there is an extra added layer of self-imposed pressure.

That said, I felt fairly comfortable by the time Friday night rolled around. I enjoyed the service without dwelling too much on my small, impending contribution. And I ascended the ramp to the bimah without too much trepidation.

Finally, it was my turn.

Please turn to page 53 for Yigdal.

I was off, my voice ringing clear and true throughout the sanctuary.

The voice in my head, however, was doing something else entirely:

Okay, I got the first line out ... so far not too bad!  

Oh, and listen, the congregation is chiming in with the second line! 

My turn again!  

Whew ... I think I've got this!!

Wait -- what's that?

HARMONY??!

The Cantor is singing harmony with me!

And I'm not losing the melody!  

Oh, wow, I really must not be sucking at this!

He would never do that and risk messing me up if I didn't sound like I actually knew it!

I must not be sucking at this at all!!

Two-and-a-half minutes or so later, we all finished in unison, smiled and wished each other Shabbat Shalom, a peaceful Sabbath, as the service concluded.

I felt good. I had done my part, contributing to a moving and beautiful evening of services conducted entirely by the women of my synagogue. And I didn't disappoint anyone, most especially myself.

We left the sanctuary to enjoy a post-service Oneg Shabbat, a light dessert spread to add even more sweetness to our celebration. We mixed, mingled and exchanged pleasantries and congratulations.

At one point, I was able to thank the Cantor and tell him I knew with certainty I was doing okay when he began to sing with me. He smiled and acknowledged he had thought about it before joining in because he didn't want to throw me off, but when he started, softly at first, and I held steady, he grew bolder. And so it was that we were able to create something even more beautiful together.

And that's when I had my "ah hah" moment: It wasn't that I had taught myself Yigdal, but what learning Yigdal had taught ME. I realized that singing my part -- the melody -- was at least as important as those gorgeous harmonies I had always revered. Had I not provided a strong, stable foundation, there would be nothing to build upon. Hazzan Shamash could not have done his thing had I not done mine.

My thing has always been providing that strong, stable foundation. I am the planner, the detail person. I handle things. I research, I thrive on facts. I am the advice-giver, the solid support system, the one you can count on ... a "Momager", as my son calls me.

In short, I carry the tune. The simple, unadorned melody. I have left it to others in my life to be the harmony, as it is something they do so brilliantly.

My friends are broadcasters, musicians, artists and comedians. Some write, choreograph or direct theater. My daughter crafts beautiful poetry. My son is a talented singer, dancer and actor.

I am their audience.

It is not that I have not felt the worth in that (or loved every minute), but I have often yearned for the ability to create the art that they do.  To be the harmony to their melody for a change, or even to add a fifth to their third.

Friday night, however, it hit home to me in a way it never had before that my role is, indeed, valuable. Vital, in fact. Without that foundation, that base, that strong, solid tune, there can be no harmony. We truly are mutually dependent, as the Cantor showed me during Yigdal.

So, to all my talented friends (and especially my children) I say this: I am privileged to be your audience. Please continue to make your art for me to look at and listen to. Always wrap me in such beauty and song. Surround me with your stirring words and passion. Never stop dancing and writing and painting and designing. For as long as you do, you will continue to remind me that I am doing my part, providing that foundation -- that open, warm, and welcoming environment that just gets more beautiful when we join forces and experience it together.

Harmony. 

I like the sound of that.