The Green Wave

Today I spent a blissful half hour playing every whistle and flute in the music room. Each carries with it a host of memories and connections, so simply blowing a jig on each took much longer than it might have. Here’s the inventory:

~ a zillion tin whistles (and the whole series of Generations in both red and blue, courtesy of my dear friend, Blanche)

~ a fife, which has never liked me enough to produce a note

~ a fancy wooden whistle in forest green with a squeaky upper range

~ a cheap-o Native American flute, purchased in Greenville on a trip to Moosehead for the princely sum of five bucks

~ a couple recorders, one of them discovered upon moving into an apartment; we later learned the previous tenant had died, so it seems doubly important to hold onto this one, though it is rarely played

~ two lovely bamboo flutes bought at a Ren Faire

~ a plastic low-D flute good for playing in the rain which I did once in Derry along the bank of Lough Foyle when for a few marvelous moments, a seal came to the surface and listened

~ and of course the Queen of my flutish Affections: the African blackwood with the silver rings, made in Bray near Dublin by Martin Doyle. That flute was gotten with money from a teaching prize which I’d hoarded for half a year or so with just the dream of a flute in mind. My friend Fintan suggested a good maker and when the call came that it was ready, I rented a car and traveled from Derry down to Co. Dublin, got lost in the winding streets of Bray and finally found Martin in his workshop. He showed me three flutes and asked which I favored. We spent the next hour playing each of them until the differences in tone and personality and possibility became apparent (to me; Martin is superlative as a player and a maker and he knew already, I’m sure). After I’d chosen, Martin sat me down and taught me a few things about breathing – further confirmation that flute masters like Martin and Buddhists are on the same page. Then we went to the pub and talked music over supper. The moon was nearly full that night and I remember driving back to Derry as through an enchanted landscape. I was too excited to drive the whole distance and pulled over in Co. Monahan to take the flute out of its little case, play a clumsy serenade to the moon, and laugh, laugh, laugh with happiness.

Today I emceed a concert that marked the 15th anniversary of the Boston College Irish Fiddle Festival. It also honored Irish composer, musician, and teacher Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin, and it featured a half dozen or so women musicians. Whew! That sounds like rather a lot to keep in orbit, but like so many things, the logic of the constellation became apparent over time.

The whole thing was envisioned by Seamus Connolly who is the heart and soul of Irish music at BC. As it turns out, it was Mícheál that convinced BC in 1992 to hire Seamus to head the music program. And considering the wild success of so much Seamus has organized and inspired (especially the well-loved and now well-missed Gaelic Roots week), not to mention the number and beauty of his recordings, I’m sure it is a decision they’re very proud to have made.

The women were connected by long, lovely ties of music with Seamus. his teaching, and his generous fosterage. There was Laurel Martin, of course, who was once a student of Seamus’ and now teaches fiddle as his colleague at BC. There was Grainne Murphy, another former student, and some of Seamus’ current students. A group of young girls who call themselves “Five AM” were invited when Seamus heard them at a local pub. And there was wonderful Kathleen Collins who was the first American-born player to win the All-Ireland Senior Fiddle Championship in 1966. It’s hard to put into words how much she conveyed in her playing; there was great power and great delicacy, and a mix of experience and hope. I am still moved just thinking of it, and can’t wait to get my hands on her recording, “Traditional Music of Ireland.”

All of these connections through fosterage, encouragement, and musical friendships were touching to witness. I felt honored to be included in the event, perhaps even more so because my own history and life dovetailed so nicely with this celebration. In 1990 when I first went to Ireland on Junior Year Abroad, I attended University College Cork and took a music course from Mícheál. About halfway through the year he left Ireland to go to Boston where he and Seamus dreamed up the first Fiddle Festival and recorded it for posterity (“My Love is in America.”). That year was the first time I heard Irish singing and music, and it marks a watershed in my life. When I came home, people told me I sang differently. And I did, because my ears, my throat and lungs, my heart and brain had all woken up. It was as if in encountering tradition I became more myself.

That is part of the magic and promise of participating in this music. Seeing what Seamus and Mícheál had built at BC, and what so many gifted teachers and students have continued to build, left me exhilarated and hopeful. These are connections truly worth celebrating!