When I think of my childhood mother, I place her squarely in the kitchen - a large room flooded with sunshine. And laced with that sunshine is music. Mother often had the radio on, but beyond that she sang - hymns, popular songs, old nursery tunes from her childhood or school days. We all sang. Coming from a tradition of four-part harmony at church, singing at home was a natural extension. Sometimes we would gather around the piano, or later an organ, and sing together in harmony, but what sticks in my memory most is the extemporaneous singing - just for the joy of it.
And I find myself continuing my mother's tradition of song - nothing approaching high technical quality, but full of a heart at peace.
And from childhood to now, whether it's a popular song, hymn, beloved classical symphonic passage, nothing can bring me to tears quicker than music. Through the years, the layers of flooding emotions riding on those notes engulf me and I am no longer alone.
From my mother's kitchen to the Kennedy Center music brings me home.
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