The Forest
a concert film by The Crossing
2020
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The Forest is The Crossing’s response to the pandemic of 2020. We could not sing safely indoors, so we rethought what we do, why, and how, moving outdoors to sing, listen, and connect.
We designed an amplification system we call Echoes Amplification Kits that allows singers to stand 30’ from each other and from the audience. Listeners ‘walk through’ the performance as the speakers of Echoes, positioned close to the path, create an intimate experience, reestablishing the broken relationships between singers and audience members while telling our story – the story of a planet in crisis, its people and its forests in peril. Yet, in that curiously human way, the story is one of hope and of a way forward.
The Forest focuses on the symbiotic relationship between individual trees and the forest – a metaphor for the relationship between each singer and our ensemble. The libretto is formed of our singers’ reflections on their isolation during COVID-Time, overlaid with texts from Scott Russell Sanders’ essay "Mind in the Forest." The music was developed (perhaps it is more accurate to say, “found within the words of the singers") by Donald and Kevin.
The Crossing is grateful to Thomas Kasdorf, who supported the process and technology to bring The Forest to life. Tom passed on just four weeks after the premiere. The Forest exists as just one of a number of legacies left by this generous, inspiring artist.
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Come. Hear. Now.
The Forest (2020)
written for The Crossing
conceived and composed by Kevin Vondrak and Donald Nally
words by members of The Crossing, with additional texts by Donald Nally
dedicated to Thomas Kasdorf
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How can I know a tree’s inwardness?
I am especially drawn to the ancient, battered ones, the survivors.
There is a forest which isn’t a forest
There was all this love and no place to put it; that’s what I remember
Drained of color. Suddenly gone from green to brown; no orange in between.
That’s how it felt There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
a house you can rebuild; a bridge you can restring;
a washed-out road you can fill in, but a tree...
Only a collection of trees
Discovering what I do not know is what I remember
I remember wanting to call old friends, but not doing it
I began weaving; I bought a loom
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
Certainly, there is intelligence here, and in the forest as a whole,
if by that word we mean the capacity for exchanging information
and responding appropriately to circumstances.
Being alive and connected is what I miss
I was so frustrated; we all could have helped each other – that’s what I remember
Watching my father fade away, alone, is what I remember
I remember May was cold, rainy, and dreary
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
Who can bear in mind the swelling catalogue of extinctions without grieving? How can I know a tree’s inwardness?
I remember I was delirious
Kids were struggling with school is what I remember
A house you can rebuild is what I thought
A bridge you can restring is what I thought
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
And yet it’s equally clear that we are capable of feeling sympathy, curiosity,
and even love toward other species and toward the Earth.
I remember the kids were struggling with school
Singing with wind and fully individual is what I miss
I sat staring and staring and lost; that’s what I remember
Suddenly, birds were everywhere, singing with joy; that’s what I remember
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
Where does this impulse come from, this sense of affiliation with rivers and ravens, mountains and mosses?
How might it be nurtured?
I remember I sat staring and lost and strangely calm
Letting it overtake you is what I miss
A very dark time for me; that’s what I remember
Realizing what I do not understand is what I remember
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
Those who fancy that humans are superior to the rest of nature often use “tree-hugger” as a term of ridicule,
as if to feel the allure of trees were a perverted form of sensuality or a throwback to our simian ancestry.
I remember it was a very dark time for me
To be a part of all of this is what I miss
Worthlessness overcame me is what I remember
"What kind of singing matters?" – that’s what I asked
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
While I am drawn to all ages and kinds, from maple sprouts to towering sequoias with their crowns wreathed in fog,
I am especially drawn to the ancient, battered ones, the survivors.
I asked, "what kind of singing matters?"
Struggling with panic attacks is what I remember
Listening to each other is what I miss
Holding each other and weeping is what I remember
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
And yet, it’s equally clear we are capable of feeling sympathy...
But how can I know a tree’s inwardness?
Not touching him seemed inconceivable. But, I didn’t. That is what I remember
Everyone breathing together is what I miss
Being furious at the government; that’s what I remember
I remember a woodpecker moved into our neighborhood
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
Gradually the agitation of travel seeps out of me and calm seeps in.
I miss everyone breathing together
angrier than I’ve ever been; that’s how I felt
a washed-out road you can fill in is what I thought
like a fish in a school of fish; that’s what I miss
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
In Latin, materia means stuff, anything substantial, and in particular it means wood.
Materia in turn derives from mater, which means mother.
I remember being angry, like after my Father died; that’s what I remember
Worry of physical safety is what I remember
Living with what I do not know; that’s what I remember...and peace
I lay awake at 3:30 every night, wondering how to make things better; that’s what I remember
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
Theirs is a sky god, who would be eclipsed by a forest canopy.
In every civilization influenced by these faiths, trees have been cut down... to reveal the heavens.
"Finally, things are boiling over," is what I thought
We all could have worked together; that’s what I regret
I remember the feeling of falling. Weightlessness...and calm
We are just a collection of trees
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
Worship of a sky god has been costly to our planet.
I am especially drawn to the ancient, battered ones, the survivors.
You could burst with the sheer joy of it is what I felt
The intentional divisions that left me so raw is what I remember
My head barely above water; that’s how it felt
I discovered I enjoy making music alone
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
I realize it’s nonsensical to speak of a tree as patient or generous or dignified
merely because it stands there while researchers and children clamber up ropes into its highest limbs.
But how can I know a tree’s inwardness?
Leaning into the sound all around me is what I miss
Someone else's idea of my life is what I fear
There felt like no purpose in doing so; that’s what remember
I remember the feeling of falling and falling...and peace
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
a house you can rebuild; a bridge you can restring;
a washed-out road you can fill in, but a tree...
I miss leaning into the sound all around me
The last thing I had to look forward to is what I remember
The greatest sense of communion; that’s what I miss....and peace
I will always remember when I was sick and my fever was raging
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
In the collective imagination that gave rise to these meanings, trees were understood to epitomize matter,
and matter was understood to be life-giving.
But how can I know a tree’s inwardness?
Sitting with my mother on a dusty floor is what I remember
It hit the hardest once the protests started; that’s what I remember
How it felt to postpone our wedding for a year; that’s what I remember
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
It’s so simple. It’s so simple.
I am especially drawn to the ancient, battered ones, the survivors.
Being a small part of something bigger than myself is what I miss
Wondering if all of the protesting would be in vain; that’s what I remember
I just stopped calling friends. I don’t even remember how that happened
I couldn’t find a way to say I love you. So I didn’t
There is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
It’s so simple.
Falling. Falling.
How can I know your inwardness, or mine?
I remember wondering if all the protesting would be in vain
My anxiety from the battle in my mind; that’s what stays with me
Falling. Just falling; that’s what I remember
I feared I would never be well again
This is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
It derives from mater, which means mother.
How can I know a tree’s inwardness?
I just lay on the bed for an hour crying
I remember it hit the hardest once the protests started
I miss sounds and feelings that cannot be produced alone
Falling and falling; I remember
This is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
Falling and falling.
Of course, many who decry tree-hugging don’t believe we have a simian ancestry.
Not being able to visit my mom in the hospital; that’s what I remember
I realized how much I appreciate my partner
I miss a world of sound, and me living in it
I remember all the birds, and the air smelled clean
This is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
Falling, falling.
a house you can rebuild; a bridge you can restring; a washed-out road you can fill in
I remember you instinctually know to move and turn together
I remember I was just crying, all the time
I cooked every meal. I felt like a mother again. I was happy. That’s what I remember
I hadn’t noticed all the birds singing in our neighborhood before. I don’t think they were there
This is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
A house you can rebuild; a bridge you can restring; a washed-out road you can fill in, but...
But how can I know a tree’s inwardness?
I remember there was all this love and no place to put it
Like falling to the forest floor; that’s how it felt
There is nothing you can do about a tree but mourn
This is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
But there is nothing you can do about a tree but mourn
A forest
A kind of weightlessness – like a falling leaf. Everything and nothing. That’s what I remember
There is nothing you can do about a tree but mourn
This is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
It’s so simple.
Falling.
This is just a collection of trees
Falling, Falling.
This is a forest which isn’t a forest, just a collection of trees
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"just a collection of trees" melody drawn from Lansing McLoskey's "Dear World," a Jeff Quartet, on a text of Paul Borum. Used with kind permission of Lansing McLoskey.
Spoken text excerpted from "Mind in the Forest" © 2010 by Scott Russell Sanders; first published in Orion; collected in the author’s Earth Works: Selected Essays (Indiana University Press, 2012); used by permission of the author.
with additional text of Louise Dickinson Rich
The Crossing
Katy Avery
Nate Barnett
Jessica Beebe
Karen Blanchard
Steven Bradshaw
Colin Dill
Micah Dingler
Ryan Fleming
Joanna Gates
Dimitri German
Steven Hyder
Mike Jones
Anika Kildegaard
Heidi Kurtz
Maren Montalbano
Rebecca Myers
Rebecca Oehlers
James Reese
Dan Schwartz
Becky Siler
Tiana Sorenson
Dan Spratlan
Elisa Sutherland
Jackson Williams
conducted by Donald Nally and Kevin Vondrak
musical assistance from John Grecia
audio designed by Paul Vazquez
with audio assistance from Chaz Devito
project manager Anna Drozdowski
with production assistance from Victoria Baccini, Emily Barth, Bellisant Corcoran Mathe, Marcie Marmura, Cody Hayman, Jenna Horton, Sarah Mannherz, and Lauren Tracy
scenic construction by Flannel and Hammer
with thanks to Libby Glatfelter for extraordinary generosity;
as well as Jonathan Bradley, Shannon McMahon, and the staff and congregation of The Presbyterian Church of Chestnut Hill;
with special appreciation for the staff and volunteers of Bowman’s Hill Wildflower Preserve, Peter Couchman, its executive director, and friends Susan Vigilante and Lori Hoppmann.
The Forest is made possible through a generous gift of Thomas Kasdorf.
There is a forest that isn’t a forest,
Just a collection of trees.