A weekend of concerts, anniversaries, and the emotions music can awaken
The first weekend of May has always carried meaning for me.
If I had my choice, I would spend that Saturday quietly at home with the television tuned to the Kentucky Derby—listening to the stories behind the horses, the trainers, and the jockeys. For me, the Derby has never just been about the race. It’s about tradition, memories, and the familiar rhythm of something that returns every spring.
In recent years, though, the first weekend of May has belonged to choir concerts.
Since joining the Lawrence Civic Choir, concerts have often landed on Derby weekend. This year, it felt like the music took over the entire calendar.
A Weekend Filled with Music
Our concert schedule was full.
Friday night brought rehearsal in Topeka. Saturday afternoon we performed in Topeka alongside a choir from Kansas City. Then on Sunday afternoon we traveled to Kansas City for another concert with the same choir.
By the end of it all, my feet hurt, my back ached, and exhaustion settled deep into my bones.
Still, there was something bigger moving underneath the physical tiredness.
Mike and I were married on Kentucky Derby Day 40 years ago. That meant the Sunday concert fell on what would have been our 40th wedding anniversary.
Some anniversaries arrive quietly. Others seem to echo through every moment.
This one arrived through music.
The Song I Could Barely Sing
The Best Man’s toast at our wedding. Notice Mike’s hat. Photo courtesy Richard Ohmart
Our concert program included four sections: Bach, Kansas-themed music, mixed selections, and a section called Memories.
One of the songs in that section was Wanting Memories.
From the first rehearsals, the song affected me deeply. Every time we sang it, emotion rose up unexpectedly. Sometimes I would tear up before we were even halfway through. At one point, I realized I wasn’t really singing anymore. I was simply trying to hold myself together.
During rehearsal in Kansas City, I was standing in the front row. As soon as we began working on that piece, I could feel the emotions building again. Standing in front felt far too vulnerable.
I quietly asked one of the women behind me if she would switch places with me.
I didn’t want an overflow of emotions in the middle of the concert.
I certainly didn’t want to lose control of my voice in front of everyone.
When Grief Lives in the Body
Grief has a way of showing up unexpectedly.
Sometimes it appears in silence. Sometimes in anniversaries. Sometimes in songs you never anticipated would touch something tender inside you.
I made it through the first concert.
Then came the second. It was harder. On our 40th wedding anniversary.
Our final Lawrence Civic Choir concert was on Saturday, May 9. By then, I could get a little farther into the song before emotion caught in my throat. I still worried that if I fully sang, my voice would crack and come out sounding more like a barking dog than music.
And maybe that’s part of grief too—the fear of what happens when we stop trying to contain it.
Creating Memories While Holding Old Ones
In the middle of all the concerts and rehearsals, I drove back to western Kansas during the week to attend my grandchildren’s spring program.
They performed songs from Mary Poppins, and I sat there smiling as they confidently sang every word. I found myself amazed at how quickly children absorb music, joy, and confidence.
Watching them felt like a reminder that life continues creating new memories, even while we carry old ones.
There was something healing in that.
The weekend held anniversaries, music, exhaustion, tears, grandchildren, and quiet moments of reflection. It held both ache and beauty at the same time.
The Gift of Quiet
By the time Mother’s Day arrived, I needed stillness.
After nine straight days of rehearsals, performances, driving, emotions, and activity, I stayed home alone in the quiet.
No crowds. No schedule. No expectations.
Just silence.
And honestly, it felt blissful.
Sometimes healing doesn’t come through fixing anything. Sometimes it comes through allowing ourselves to feel what rises up, creating space for memories, and giving ourselves permission to rest afterward.
Music has a way of opening doors we didn’t realize were closed.
The question becomes whether we allow ourselves to walk through them gently.
If you’re carrying memories, grief, transitions, or emotions that feel difficult to name, you don’t have to navigate them alone. Through Equine Gestalt Coaching, I help people create space for healing, reflection, and deeper connection with themselves.
If you’re curious whether this work might be a fit for you, I invite you to schedule a Zoom conversation and explore what support could look like for your journey.
Every story needs a soundtrack.
This is the one I’ve chosen for this post—sometimes because of the title, sometimes the lyrics, sometimes simply the feeling it stirs in me.
