We were watching Cats the other day. Love that musical. I think it’s the “perfect” stage musical. The Ol’ Curmudgeon likes it, but prefers Chicago over it. Variety is what makes life go ’round!
But I got to thinking – back when Cats first came out, all of a sudden all the young girls would choose “Memory” as their recital or their competition song. They were picking the wrong song. “Memory” is a song for the older woman who has seen life and is nearing the end. There are just some songs that are for youth and some that definitely are for the mature person. “Memory” fits the latter category.
About 25 years ago, JRR Tolkein approved a Song Cycle written to sing some the poems in the Lord of the Rings. Check Wikipedia for a fairly good discussion of this. I obtained the book when it came out, and the LP when it came out. We very carefully recorded the LP to tape so we could preserve the fidelity of the original recording.
Why do I mention this in conjunction with some words about Cats? Well, there’s a song there that is also for the mature person. It is Bilbo’s lament. It is beautiful, but even more beautiful when sung to the music of Donald Swann. I cannot understand why Howard Shore didn’t avail himself of Swann’s themes for at least some of the music for the movie. I wonder if he even knew of it.
Back to the theme of this essay. Memory begins accumulating when we are children, but does not really become nostalgia until we are older – much older. True nostalgia – a longing for an idealized past – does not usually appear until middle age or older. Both of these songs, “Memory” and “I Sit Beside the Fire and Think,” exemplify nostalgia.
When my mother was dying, I took her “I Sit Beside the Fire,” and she truly appreciated it. She said it summed up what she was feeling – without being too maudlin about it.
I sit beside the fire and think…
by J. R. R. Tolkien
I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
In summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.
For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
Memory
from Cats
Grizabella: Daylight
See the dew on the sunflower
And a rose that is fading
Roses whither away
Like the sunflower
I yearn to turn my face to the dawn
I am waiting for the day . . .
Midnight
Not a sound from the pavement
Has the moon lost her memory?
She is smiling alone
In the lamplight
The withered leaves collect at my feet
And the wind begins to moan
Memory
All alone in the moonlight
I can smile at the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again
Every streetlamp
Seems to beat
A fatalistic warning
Someone mutters
And the streetlamp gutters
And soon it will be morning
Jemima: Moonlight
Turn your face to the moonlight
Let your memory lead you
Open up, enter in
If you find there the meaning of what happiness is
Then a new life will begin
Grizabella: Daylight
I must wait for the sunrise
I must think of a new life
And I musn’t give in
When the dawn comes
Tonight will be a memory too
And a new day will begin
Burnt out ends of smoky days
The stale cold smell of morning
The streetlamp dies, another night is over
Another day is dawning
Touch me
It’s so easy to leave me
All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun
If you touch me
You’ll understand what happiness is
Look
A new day has begun
Both of these are the reminiscences of mature people who are looking back at their life. That life is ending, but they remember earlier days. And they have certain things they need and want at the endings. They need company, conversation, acceptance, caring. They need to know they will not be totally forgotten the minute they are gone.
In one of Jean Paul Sartre’s play, No Exit, the characters are in Hell. They can still see the people they knew, but only as long as they are remembered. There is much more, of course. When I saw it, however, that was the part I remembered and came away with.
The Orthodox Church provides remembrance for all. In the ancient monasteries in Russia, on the Ancestral Saturdays and on the Feast of St. Demetrius, all the people who have ever asked to be remembered at the Liturgy are remembered. Their names are read aloud. Books, and books of them, page after page of names are read. Several monks read them at a time in order to get through all of them. Lists beginning from the 10th century are read. At every monastery all over the world, people who have asked to be remembered are remembered and prayed for. In that way, they will never be forgotten. Long after the memory of the person has faded, after the people who knew that person are long dead, those names are read. They are called to remembrance, and prayers go up to God for them, like the smoke of the incense.
Why is it important to us that we will be remembered? Perhaps it is that attempt to achieve immortality on earth. When we occupy ourselves with ways in which we will be remembered on earth, we are not spending time working toward life immortal – life after death. It is not time spent climbing the Ladder to Christ.
So I reflect and remember my life. Of summers, autumns, winters and springs. And I realize that eventually a winter will come and I won’t see the spring. I my vanity, I remember that once I was beautiful – at least to some people – and realize I am now a fat old woman. As the lament at the Orthodox funeral says, “Where is the beauty of the body, and where its youth? Where are the eyes and the fleshly form? Like the grass all have perished, all have been destroyed. Come ye, therefore, let us prostrate ourselves at the feet of Christ with tears.”
An entire chapter of The Ladder of Divine Ascent by St. John Climacus is devoted to “the remembrance of death.” By this, he means that we should remember death every day. “As of all foods, bread is the most essential, so the thought of death is the most necessary of all works. the remembrance of death amongst those in the midst of society gives birth to distress and meditation, and even more, to despondency. But amongst those who are free from noise, it produces the putting aside of cares and constant prayer and guarding of the mind. But these same virtues both produce the remembrance of death, and are also produced by it.”
When I hear the songs I mentioned earlier, I am brought to the remembrance of death – it comes for all, and even for me. The popular song and the Tolkein poem-song bring me to that remembrance and, hopefully, to repentance. My thoughts turn to the bright Day of Heaven.
“Like the sunflower
I yearn to turn my face to the dawn
I am waiting for the day . . .”
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