The Soul’s Code

The Soul’s Code: In Search of Character and Calling, 2017, by James Hillman.

No, this is not a book review; it is more like a meditation.

I don’t remember where or when I purchased Hillman’s book—it was after 2017, obviously, but I do remember its effect: It made me think and remember.

We’re talking about the idea that we are all born with a Daemon or guarding angel. That’s the premise Hillman lays out for the reader. It’s an ancient Roman idea. Whether a reality or a matter of psychology is not the point. It’s how we respond and what we do with the idea.

Why is Hillman’s book on my mind?

I suggested that a young student read it.

Why?

The student gave all the indications of being a moth to a flame.

How does this happen?

I’ve no idea, of course, but I do observe that some desire to sing when singing isn’t the real object of their desire. What do they desire exactly? They may not know more than they must express themselves.

Their desire lies elsewhere, but they don’t know this—not yet, at least. In the meantime, they must find their voice, a worthy endeavor if there ever was one—singing, opening the floodgates, unstopping the damn, and unleashing a great deal of energy.

Finding their voice enables them to speak their truth, first to themselves, then to others. Then, they can get to the business of their business.

What business would that be?

Knowing why they are alive and what they are going to do and be while they are here.

Hence, Hillman’s book.

He posits that we each have experiences when we are young that foretell our future.

My own experience. Meeting my Daemon?

It happened when my mother took me and my siblings to see Mary Poppins. I was no older than 5 or 6, and I remember staring at the movie screen—smitten. Julie Andrews was a huge presence; her voice was a calling.

I am you. You are me. You must sing and teach.

I could hardly verbalize it then, but that was my experience. I remember sitting in the back of the car on the way home and singing snatches of “Feed the Birds” over and over. I was captivated and captured by singing and felt a preternatural pathos. What was running through my mind?

How did she do it? How can I do it?

Singing appeared in force in 9th grade when my choir teacher observed I had a voice. He suggested I sing “Misty” as a solo during a concert. So I did, my knees shaking the whole time. I began studying voice when I was 17—and there was no looking back, even when a voice teacher post-college told me I would make a great conductor and should look into that instead. She set up an audition with Fiora Contino, who asked me what I wanted to do. I said, “I want to sing.” “So go do that,” she said, suggesting I go to Westminster Choir College in Princeton, New Jersey. So I did—where I pursued a graduate degree in Performance and Vocal Pedagogy.

I'm sorry I didn’t learn much from my teacher at Westminster. I was introduced to Margaret Harshaw, who taught there during the summers, and I sang for her—a life-changing experience that continued during subsequent summers.

One thing led to another (I practiced my ass off), and I found my way to the New York City Opera, the Metropolitan Opera, and the Performing Arts Library at Lincoln Center.

It wasn’t a straight shot—it never really is—but it all began in a movie theatre when I was a kid, listening to Julie Andrews.

I listened to that Voice.