Great compliments are wordless. This has happened twice in my life. The first time it happened, I was a freshman organ major at the University of Alabama. Whilst playing in a masterclass, I performed the first movement of Bach’s famous Trio Sonata No. 1 in E-flat major. It’s the piece that I’m playing this morning.

The six, great trio sonatas for organ were written in the late 1720s when Bach was in Leipzig. Most of them are reworkings of already-composed music – cantatas, other organ pieces, and chamber music. The sixth sonata is the only one where all three movements were newly composed. The collection of sonatas is generally considered some of Bach’s most magnificent works, and amongst his most difficult compositions for the instrument. They were composed for Bach’s eldest son, Wilhelm Friedmann. They were likely written as a tool to help one to master organ technique. I can tell you; they can also drive you mad! There are three independent, constantly-moving lines, not something for the faint of heart.

My organ teacher, Warren Hutton celebrated his 40^th year of organ teaching at UA in 1994, and there was a huge celebration for the organ department that year. It was a mini-conference, and people from all over the country came. I was selected to play in a masterclass for a rather well-known organ teacher from Michigan. After I played, the visiting professor turned to the audience and said, “Every clinician fears having a student play so well that she has nothing to say about the student’s playing. Today, I encountered such a nightmare.” The audience roared in laughter. I erroneously thought they were laughing at me, but I realized that they were laughing for me. I suppose I did play well, but I haven’t a recollection of it. I was a nervous mess. A similar experience happened after my junior recital, where Mr. Hutton was at a loss for words – a rarity! With no words, teary eyes, and big embrace, his love said it all.

Words are woeful skeletons of reality. What music is, what good music-making is, or what God is for that matter is ineffable. I am reminded of a time I took my high school choir to Italy. Many of those students had never been out of the state of South Carolina, much less the country. When they would walk into opulent spaces, like the Duomo in Florence, I loved to go in ahead of them and watch their bewilderment unfold. Slack-jawed and eyes gazing up like infants, pure wonderment would befall their countenance – what wordless rapture!

Playing a trio sonata well is rapturous, but there is a fine line between rapture and catastrophe! It’s a complete trust in your body. When I contemplate my own ability, I sometimes wonder. Surely, I’m not doing this, am I? It feels like it’s being done through me. I forget 99% of what I write in my Music Notes each week. I forget the amount of organ repertoire I play. When I write, or when I play the organ, it flows right through me, and I think back and wonder – was that me? I think I’m more of an empty vessel than the doer. That emptiness or speechlessness might be the very foundation of the flow of creation itself. Who knows? Maybe wordlessness is the very best thing on earth, and I should let the music speak for itself. But then again, what would I have to write about? Soli Deo Gloria!