The Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary

"The rod of Jesse hath blossomed; a virgin hath brought forth God and man: God hath given peace, reconciling the lowest with the highest in Himself. "

--Numbers 17. 8

To a phantom

What is there behind the mask?
I think I know; you've shown me
more than eyes can see, much more.
My heart cries out to yours; I know
that you can hear it. And the song
I long to sing for you echoes in
the distance that's between us.

Orotava, Part I

Orotava. That was the name of the house, it's name serving as its address since it had no number assigned to it. Manor houses are never given numbers, you know, as they are much too far above such pedestrian things. I gasped in amazement the first time that I saw it, and many times thereafter, truth be told. The imposing stone structure was one of the best examples of Scottish baronial grandeur that one could hope to see, all four stories of it rising above the trees into the cloudy Lowlands sky; it was to be my new home. By some twist of fate, which is really the hand of God, of course, I was sent to this breathtakingly beautiful place which loftily loomed like an illustration from an English fairy tale book. I thought then how improbable it was to find myself there. Thinking back on it now, it seems even more unlikely a thing to have happened than it did at the time. But I am here to tell the tale, and so I shall.


So it was to Orotava that I came at age twenty, with all of the promise and hope of the future ahead of me. I was to be the nanny to an eight year old girl named Martha who, at home, went by the pet name of Mattie. She was a sweet-tempered but very active girl with a very rich imagination, and we became fast friends. She often referred to me in conversation as her nanny, though I preferred to think of myself as a governess: Jane Eyre journeying in Scotland, though Mr. Rochester was nowhere to be found. But one could always hope, couldn't one?

Mattie's parents were a happily-enough-married couple who happened to be a well-known "pop" musician and his wife. They were very easy-going and good-natured, and they made me feel as though I were part of the family. This was certainly not the typical treatment which nannies in novels received, of course, but was much more pleasant after all. The family dog, an enormous Saint Bernard who looked for all the world like Nana of Peter Pan fame, rounded out the household. As luck would have it, the dog and I had the same name, an unfortunate state of affairs which required the family members to call me "Kim, the lady" to differentiate me from "Kim, the dog." A decidedly unromantic detail, I know, but it must be told for the sake of completeness.

Imagine that!

"It's not right for a woman to read. Soon she starts getting "ideas," and "thinking"...

--Gaston in Disney's Beauty and the Beast

Funny

Funny.
I can be.
Serious.
I would agree.
Mysterious.
That's me!

Sing joyfully!

"Sing joyfully to God all the earth, serve ye the Lord with gladness: come in before His presence with exceeding great joy: for the Lord, He is God."

--Psalm 99, v. 1, 2

To sing's the thing...

I remember it well. I was seven years old the first time I sang before a group of music critics, a very tough bunch which consisted of my two younger sisters and our best friends. The performance took place in our living room; at least that's where I stood. Since our home lacked a stage, my audience humored me and listened from the dining room nearby. My debut! Such an important event, but what to sing? My repertoire was quite extensive, consisting mainly of songs from musicals, but I wanted to make just the right impression with a particularly dramatic piece. And I knew just the one: the romantic "Love Is A Many Splendored Thing" from the equally romantic movie of the same name.

I had seen snippets of the film late one night when my parents were watching it on television; I should have been asleep in my room, but the haunting strains of the melody called to me. Not long after that, I discovered a 45 in my parents' collection with the title song, and I quickly memorized it. Over and over again, I sang it in front of the long mirror in my room so that I could be sure that my facial expressions conveyed all the emotion of the lyrics. It was quite a project, this self-directed musical theater, the perfect outlet for my dramatic inclinations.

So it was with this song-- the one I had practiced so many times in my best imitation of a coloratura soprano at the Met--that I would delight the assembled crowd of five. I was ready. This was it: the moment when the world, or at least a representative sampling of it, would gasp in amazement at "the voice". I opened my mouth and sang the first line. Before I could begin the second, the sound of hysterical laughter and snickering filled my ears. This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. I continued singing; the laughter grew louder and the sound of running feet accompanied it. Before I could sing another note, the die was cast: the unappreciative audience stared at me between guffaws, and I quickly exited stage--uh, living room-- left. The discordant laughter continued for another several minutes until, mercifully, I heard the front door slam and the house was quiet.

Dejectedly, I sat on my bed and relived the entire performance, all thirty seconds of it. There was only one conclusion to be made; the fault was mine. I had chosen an uncultured and uncouth audience, and I would not make that mistake again. Only aficianados of good music would be invited for my second concert. I had no idea where to find such a group, but I promised myself that, next time, I would only sing for those who were polished enough to know good singing when they heard it. Now, how to get to Carnegie Hall? :-)