![\"NaBloPoMo](\"http:\/\/www.silkentent.com\/Images\/NaBlo07.jpg\" "\\"NaBloPoMo")
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November 3, 2007 She was already late for school. She was late a lot. Her mother told her to go straight back after lunch, but she dawdled. . . Today she\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d taken a detour two blocks down Woodbine to the church. She\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d heard that Stacey Fried, who lived across the street, had fallen off her new two-wheeler and had a concussion. Helen lit a candle for Stacey, even though Stacey wasn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t Catholic. She prayed that this would not keep her parents from getting her a two-wheeler, and also that Stacey would be all right. \u00e2\u20ac\u201d <\/em>from Perpetual Light,<\/em> my novel in progress<\/p>\n Yesterday was All\u00c2\u00a0 Souls’\u00c2\u00a0 Day in the Roman church calendar. It follows All Saints’ Day, which itself follows All Hallows’ Eve, or\u00c2\u00a0Halloween. Whereas All Saints’ Day is a\u00c2\u00a0celebration of those officially recognized by the church as saints, All Souls’ Day commemorates all the rest of the faithful departed \u00e2\u20ac\u201d our parents, our siblings, our children, our friends.<\/p>\n Last night I went to Solemn Vespers at the Catholic cathedral downtown, a prayer service that was followed by a concert of sacred music chosen for All Souls’ Day. Ron is a member of that parish and sings in the choir, although he did not sing last night. The musicians last night were\u00c2\u00a0a special group, the Schola Cantorum<\/em> (“School of Singing”), conducted by the cathedral’s choir director and made up of twenty-five of the best voices in the diocese.<\/p>\n I hadn’t been planning to go. In fact, when we left, I wasn’t exactly clear about what it was I was going to. I spent most of yesterday worrying about my cholesterol, my bone density, and my ability to do any meaningful work in Wyoming, since I’d been\u00c2\u00a0trying for two days to expand on the passage quoted above, without\u00c2\u00a0much success.\u00c2\u00a0By late afternoon I needed a break, something to clear my head. I hadn’t left the house all day, and going to this event\u00c2\u00a0gave me a reason to fix my hair and wear something besides sweat pants and a stained hoodie.<\/p>\n The music for the vespers portion of the evening was traditional Gregorian chant. I sang it as a schoolgirl, and even learned to read the neumes<\/em>, the transcription system by which chant is represented on the page. I was part of the girls’ choir at Our Lady of the Blessed Sacrament school and church from the time I was in fifth grade through my eighth grade year. In high school I progressed through the choral groups until as a senior I sang with both the general chorus and the Schola Cantorum,<\/em>\u00c2\u00a0the special group that\u00c2\u00a0provided music for our\u00c2\u00a0weekly Friday Mass.<\/p>\n Most of the liturgy last night was sung in English, except for the lugubrious but magnificent Dies Irae<\/em> (“Day of Wrath”), a long (18 stanzas)\u00c2\u00a0hymn dating from the thirteenth century that describes the final judgment. The text emphasizes fear and despair but it’s easy to overlook that when it’s sung in Latin. The familiar melody (which I have not sung nor even heard in more than forty years), delivered in the hypnotic, unaccompanied chant, washed over me and I felt myself relax. I closed my eyes and let myself become twelve, fifteen, seventeen years old again, standing with my friends, singing.<\/p>\n When I opened my eyes I saw the rows of votive candles that had been placed along the chancel rail. Those in attendance were invited to light one in memory of a loved one. It was then that I remembered that we are coming up on the first anniversary of the death of my great good friend, Michael Vergot<\/a>, who came to me (and to others) in dreams about this time last year. He was saying goodbye, I thought then, and believe it even more so now. I learned of Michael’s death the day after I had walked a landscape that had brought him to mind, although it was not a place we ever shared. But it was the day I now mark as the beginning of my annus mirabilis<\/em>, this year in my life that has so changed me.<\/p>\n I walked to the front of the church and lit a candle for Michael. And I remembered that I already have the last line of my novel. I’ve had it for six years, since the incident<\/a> that gave me the charged image that was the spark for the work: “And let perpetual light shine upon her.” That’s what the liturgy said. But looking up at the full moon, she knew. The dead become stardust, they become energy. It is their perpetual light that shines on us.<\/em><\/p>\n I left the church last night knowing I can go to Wyoming and write toward that line.<\/p>\n To be included on the notify list, e-mail me:
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