“Joan of Arc upon Coronation of Charles VII in the Cathedral of Reims“ (1854)
Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres
____________________
many years ago, while I was volunteering
at our hospital’s palliative care unit, nearby,
recently installed as a response to, among
other pressing preoccupations, but most
urgently then, the AIDS crisis, I was asked
to sit by a lady in profound distress, her
family, Western Buddhists, would go to
lunch while I would sit by her to comfort
her as much as I could
she was dishevelled, of course, completely
disconcerted, all ajitter, lost, and evidently
confused, in her profound isolation, not to
mention in the crumpled state of her
harried bed, unable to communicate, or
reason
I found a chair, sat by her with earnest
concentration, my partner had died
there, only recently, on that very unit,
and I was expressing, to all of those
concerned in his unparalleled care,
my unlimited appreciation
I lay a hand gently upon her arm, to let
her feel, at least, the safety that my
touch could allow, to let it settle on
her, however removed might be her
remaining consciousness, began to
sing quietly a chant I’d been intoning
from a creed I’d turned to for comfort
in my own personal anguish, at the
loss of my own friend, a call, an
invocation, the continuous iteration
of a line that brought solace, Om Nama
Shivaya, I prayed, over and over again,
with the greatest intention, whatever
that phrase might’ve, I’ve forgotten,
meant
she relented, found her space, little by
little she became, as though grace had
descended upon her, calm, by however
infinitesimal degrees, while I continued,
now, my hopeful, helpful, it appeared,
manifestly mystical, intervention
she had become restful, I’d
accomplished essentially, I gathered,
my primary mission, though I
continued, with some sense, perhaps
even a glow, of personal pride, my
soulful incantation
then in a voice not much louder than a
whisper, but much less distraught than
a moan, she began to join in with row,
row, row your boat, tunefully, over and
over again, accommodating herself,
though, naturally, exceedingly weakly,
to my rhythm, I felt I was experiencing,
right there, and then, through the
power of cadence, a miracle
when I looked back, upon hearing
behind me a rustle, standing at the
door was her family, wrapped in
equal consternation
here’s something with someone singing
in several inscrutable languages for
most of us, mostly, words from historical
texts, in Greek, Latin, Olde English,
Japanese, and French, “I Was Born For
This“
that title, of one of the segments of a
longer work, “Journey“, by a contemporary
composer, Austin Wintory, is indeed a
translation of Joan of Arc‘s words on the
cross, “Ne me plaignez pas. C’est pour cela
que je suis née.”, do not pity me, she says,
I was born for this, Joan of Arc, my own
personal Jesus
Shostakovich has an entire symphony,
his 14th, composed of music to
accompany classic poems, all in a
variety of foreign, to him, tongues, but
translated back into Russian for his
purpose in this particular, and not
uncommon, instance, a nevertheless
pointed reference to music as a superior,
more direct, communication – note, here,
the word, communication – it, the 14th,
is profound, extraordinary, read here
first, then listen
R ! chard
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