Hey, it's Maggie.

This week, we are revisiting some of our favorite poems and reflections from the season so far.

I'm Maggie Smith, and this is The slowdown.

Recently, I was invited to speak at the Chautauqua institution in New York State.

It was actually a conversation event with author Kwame Alexander, which was wonderful.

Spending a few days at Chautauqua was a special treat, boating on the lake with friends,

going to see Levei in concert, and just enjoying the energy and spirit of the place and the people there.

If you've been, you know what I mean. It's pretty magical.

One of the things I did while there was attend a church service in the amphitheater, which holds more than 4,000 people. I was there to hear Sister Teresa

Maya speak, and I'm so glad I went. She spoke about the environment and about the wonder we

experience in nature not being enough on its own. We have to work to protect the world, not just be in awe of its

beauty. But the most surprising thing that happened was that as soon as the choir sang, I felt a lump in my

throat and my eyes welled up.

I was sitting among strangers in the Chautauqua Amphitheater on a Sunday morning with tears rolling down my face, from the choir.

I was talking to a friend about this the other day, and she understood.

I know, she said, every time I went to one of my kids' choir concerts, I'd cry.

And then I remembered that I did the same thing.

Going to the elementary school choir concerts and winter music festivals, I got teary every time the kids sang.

I told myself it was because of their sweet little kid voices, but that's not the whole story.

Something about hearing voices in unison. It's powerful and communal and comforting and deeply moving. I wonder how much of my emotional response is because I grew up in church,

singing in choir, and even playing in the bell choir.

Singing with others and listening to others singing together around me was part of my life

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