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To Make Them Better
I had a lot to look forward to, coming home these holidays. The weeks leading up to my flight home were filled with thoughts of people I miss dearly, snow, Christmas lights, snow, my mum's
pumpkin pie, the tall Douglas fir that gets erected in our living room each year, hunkering down in front of the fireplace in our living room… and, oh yeah, snow. I really felt the 3200 miles standing between Dublin and Uxbridge. So I was especially pleased when I remembered that this was one of the years the Uxbridge Messiah Singers gather together to perform what I think is one of Uxbridge's best kept secrets. As I stood at the back of the church last week, enfolded in the sound of a hundred finely tuned voices swelling together to perform Handel's Messiah, the magnificence of this production struck me. My heart almost skipped a beat as I stood in the aisle during the Hallelujah Chorus, realizing how much a group of individuals are capable of creating. In the few fleeting hours after, in those few precious moments when you feel raw, honest, even somewhat exposed, I thought about Handel, and what it must have been like to create an actual masterpiece.

It's an interesting story. Handel wrote Messiah in his usual fury, finishing the tour de force in 24 short days. His music painted a world for the scripture to live in. He composed mountains, valleys, sun, glory, despair, suffering, escape and salvation. His music transcended the page, rose above the orchestra, beyond the choir.
Because when they all come together, the entirety of this magical piece lifts you over the clouds. The Uxbridge Messiah Singers are truly remarkable. They capture everything I'm sure Handel envisioned as he composed each movement. Handel once said, “…I should be sorry if I only entertained them. I wished to make them better.” Written in 1742, that piece still manages to make me a little bit better each time I hear it, at least in those few moments afterwards with the Amen Chorus still ringing
in my ears.

Handel loved Dublin. I sometimes think about him as I walk through Temple Bar, right through the city centre. I think of him as I stroll down cobblestones that look as if they've been a part of the city forever. I think of his musicianship as I sit at the piano I pay to play twice a week. I think of his assurance as I lose sight of why I'm so far from home, as I sometimes do. Handel left his home in Germany to pursue his dreams as a musician at the arrogant age of 22. He moved to Rome, away from his family, his friends, away from anyone who knew how gifted he was or what he was capable of. He moved to Rome to learn about opera. He went for a reason. He went to further himself as an artist, as a musician. It's encouraging to think that maybe he sat in his little single room, trying desperately hard to stake out his place in the world, and maybe felt a little alone before he shot to greatness. I love being home. I feel like I've been able to touch base with myself in a small corner of the world where I know I belong. But now more than ever, I know I'm in Dublin for a reason. Now don't tell my mother this, but that fair city feels like home. It was never meant to be easy, but I'm s e e k i n g out a dream in a way I know is right for me. I don't want my life to be typical, mundane, predictable or safe. I don't want to look back in 10 or 20 years and think that maybe I could have taken more chances. I want to be brave, crass, daring, fearless. There's no other way to be 21, I don't think. I want to make as many mistakes as possible, learn to fix the ones I can and learn to grow from the ones I can't. I wonder if Handel had the same ambitions, the same insight into art.

I'm meant to touch people, to challenge their views on the world around them. I wish to make people better. I can't do it from my safe little nook here in Ontario. I need to be Far From Home. It's assuring to believe in what I'm doing. But I'll tell you, coming home to go skiing with my brothers and walk through the light
show in Elgin Park, to drink and eat and laugh with people I've not seen in nearly a year - it's a good way to refuel before I jump back into life. Happy Christmas!