Finding Each Other in the Music

The applause had faded, a few of the chairs had been stacked. The sound engineer was winding cables, while guitars and drums were snapped into cases. And now at a nearby restaurant closed for our small party, over crab cakes and conversation, we were all settling into the satisfaction. The 7th annual Thresholds Arts Festival to a Culture of Peace had brought together high school artists, children with artistic leanings, a featured composer/arranger named Jim Papoulis, a winsome guest choral clinician named Nick Page, youth and adult choirs, an innovative global music band named World Port, a history making folk singer named Odetta and a contemporary one named Susan Werner coming into her own, a dramatist from the African-American tradition, a reader from the Latin American community, and speakers from the Muslim and Jewish faiths. All these, along with high aspirations for a different way of living together. And, of course, listeners; audiences -- appropriate, since the theme for the weekend was "Listening to Understand." And it was very, very good. Listening, as it turns out, can be profoundly satisfying indeed.

Quieter, now, in the shared afterglow Susan wondered aloud why more people hadn't come. It was a good crowd, to be sure, but twice as many could have comfortably fit into the room. And it was, after all, a wonderful event. But then one never knows how good an experience will be until it is over. Absentees can hear about -- and even lament -- what they missed; but they still missed. Part of the problem, I suppose, is with the very word "Peace," which I'll confess simply baffles me. How in the world can peace be controversial? Sure, we disagree on means, but how can we possibly be conflicted on this desirable end?

We pondered. We affirmed the contributions of each other. We enjoyed the blessing of good food. We shared stories from the panoply of our lives. We became people to each other -- listening, learning, more and more respecting. And then someone found the keyboard and began to play. Two hands, then four. And sing. A serious song. A funny song. And then another. And then the guitar nearby. And we sang along -- at least partly with our laughter, the music of sheer delight. The kids -- and a few of the adults -- gleefully danced. Odetta, ensconced in her chair and gathered inside her blankets, silently nodded with the rhythm, her long and graceful fingers comfortably intertwined. Smiling.

And somehow, in the alchemy of the moment, it became clear why such intentional intersections as had transpired all weekend are valuable and precious. Assembled there in our small celebration from Boston and Austin, New York and Chicago and all over Des Moines -- with roots in who knows how many other places -- we were, there amidst the food and the informal conversation and the music, one.

The music, perhaps, most of all. One.