This morning, after dropping AJ off at school, I went for a brisk and somewhat painful run on the path along the cornfield. The wind was bitterly cold, scattering flocks of birds gleaning what they could from the remainder of the fallen cobs. Although I was dressed warmly enough, the wind made my cheekbones ache, so I didn�t make it all the way down to the highway, my usual turnaround point. Instead I jutted off through the woods where I surprised a family of rabbits who quickly vanished in a flash of fluffy tails.

After a long, hot shower, I made an attempt at finishing my shopping (almost, but not quite � a few small items for the elusive males on my list still remain). As I made my rounds, I on put one of my favorite CDs for any time of year but particularly for this time of year, a disc of Renaissance and 17th c. music, mostly written for Christmas (which I can�t mention by name here due to privacy issues). This is music I know inside out. Why? Because I have listened to and performed these works over and over again for at least a decade and because I helped produce the recording. Despite what could easily be termed over-exposure to this particular repertoire by this particular ensemble, I am not inured to its charms. In fact, I�ve noticed that I�m often moved to tears more than ever by one of the pieces in particular. The motet is a fairly simple one by Palestrina, and is probably one of his best-known works: �Sicut cervus.� I�ve performed it quite literally hundreds of times as both a singer and a conductor (and sometimes both at once). I�ve heard innumerable performances of it by other choirs of many levels or expertise, including a high school choir in a troubled neighborhood on Chicago�s southwest side, a bunch of amateur adults, and professionals like the Hilliard Ensemble and the Tallis Scholars.

But it is my own performances of it that make it a piece close to my heart. Probably my most memorable experience with it was in an impromptu performance in a choir ringing the circular womb-like space inside the Rothko Chapel in Houston. An acoustical anomaly gave way to an almost spiritual connection, where it felt like the piece or the chapel itself was singing us rather than the other way around. The experience left me a little unsteady for several minutes afterwards.

�Sicut cervus� was on the first full-length choral program of the group I founded and conducted for many years. While there were many concerts I was proud of, I poured my heart and soul into that first program. We had been expecting a handful of our friends and family to come but to our surprise, the little chapel we performed in was packed to standing room. I remember thinking afterwards that if I could only do one artistic thing in my life and that concert was it, I would be perfectly satisfied � a miraculous thing for a musician to be able to say. Of course, when it came to choosing music for my wedding, �Sicut cervus� was the first piece I selected. It would have been hard not to join in with the chorus if it had not made me weep.

Why is it that when we love music � or perhaps other beautiful things, although for me it is only music that has this effect � we weep? Is it mere emotional residue, a release of tension? Or is there something painful about it? Is it a realization of something unattainable? Why, for that matter, do I feel compelled to sing along? Why is it not, in these situations, enough for me to listen and enjoy? I seem to crave a physical connection to the sound, a reaction that seems to be intensifying as I age, for some reason. I have spent most of my life thinking about music in some way, trying to explain the inexplicable and articulate the ineffable. But the result is that its effects are as mysterious, baffling and awe-inspiring as ever.

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