Last summer I had the opportunity to sing in Spain with my choir. I drank sangria, got lost in multiple cities, and shared some of the most beautiful music I've ever made in breathtaking cathedrals. Now, with nearly a year passed since then, it's incredible how quick time flies and how lucky we were to go.
Travel in some form is typically a staple part of my summers. Now, in this period of history, I doubt I'll even go out of the state.
When I look back on pictures from Spain in quarantine, I don't feel mournful or jealous of my past. Even if the world were healthy, I wouldn't feel the urge to go back. Never again can such a joyful trip be recreated. Sure, I'd love to sing in a Spanish cathedral again someday, perhaps even just sit in a pew and listen to the swelling of stained-glass silence. But the audiences we cried with will never come together again. The chance occurrences cannot realign. Even that choir exists only in spirit, never again in flesh.
But I am satisfied. The past did well by me. No matter how long I end up staying home, every experience in my 2019 trip to Spain has its place within my soul, defying space and time to resound there. I am those moments.
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