We get on with rehearsing our upcoming scheduled concerts. As an auditioned choral group, we meet weekly for three hours, rehearsing music in (at least) four parts. Each of us reads music from a score-a copy of the music. By concert time, that score will be filled with pencil notations, reminders of nuance to perform. Memorizing music? Ah, youth.

Two weeks later: the details have been figured out. We will be a flash mob: Amidst 700 people, the fact that a few more are present won't be noticed-until we start singing. And oh yes, we'll have memorized our song.

In and amidst our rehearsal, we run through the song that's been chosen. It's a popular song known to some of us, utterly unfamiliar to others-including me.

The song is melodic and nostalgic. It should be easy to perform in part because soloist members of the chorus carry the bulk of the singing, while the rest of the chorus provides more of the underlying harmony.

Back home, I look for information about the song on the net. I find out about its history, and watch various groups singing it on YouTube.

I write out the words.

I sing along to the videos.

At odd moments of the day, I think the words and melody in my head.

The start of the song is in some ways most challenging: A soloist sings, and then the chorus joins him, humming a chord that is not immediately obvious from the soloist's notes.

I go into the next week's rehearsal feeling pretty prepared. When we sing the song I am startled. All this repetition and preparation on my own hasn't moved me forward a whole lot. Yes, I now know the melody. (Of course, my part is mostly harmony.) But I'm still fumbling for words. I'm not sure of transition points. How will I-how will we-negotiate a beat of silence toward the end of the piece?

The EVENT is now eight days away. We receive an email with detailed instructions about the venue and timing of our 3 minutes of fame-to-be. Time to get cracking.

It's now full bore practice time. The swan is definitely paddling-furiously. I need to memorize this music. Now.

The whole issue of memorization is a fascinating one. Three minutes? What's three minutes for a concert pianist? In Practicing Perfection, a pianist and two psychologists describe the process, from different perspectives and in engaging detail. (And this book comes with a CD of the pianist performing the Bach concerto that you read about.)

Or how about an entire two hour classical concert, fully memorized and performed with verve and delight? Tafelmusik Baroque Orchestra has done just that, to wild and justifiable acclaim. A DVD of their "Galileo Project" will be coming in a couple of months-but meanwhile, you can see and listen to a YouTube snapshot of part of this world-touring concert.

Now is a time of straightforward woodshedding (going off to some imagined woodshed to practice, practice, practice): I break the sections down and work on them individually. I break them into smaller parts. I re-constitute them...and break them down again. Some of the time, I work on learning the words. Sometimes, the musical line.

Some of the time, I'm just standing there, looking at the music and then looking up from it, trying out small sections, taking tentative "steps."

The more I work it, the more I realize that the intervals are pretty straightforward.

These practices are spread over days rather than bunched. Fifteen minutes or ½ hour at a time helps me stay focused; in between, my mind has time to absorb what I am learning.

Practice, practice, practice. Want a sports illustration of this repetitive work? Read Angie Abdou's novel, The Bone Cage.

Now, I realize that I only occasionally need to check my accuracy with the piano.

I sing to the video of the song.

I begin making use of those mental skills that I teach others. I develop some affirmations to give me confidence and pleasure, reminding me why I am putting in this effort: "I feel so privileged to know how to read music." "The lyrics are lovely." "The tune is worth sharing." "This will be fun."

I develop personal imagery, tied in to my own family, to "picture" the lyrics.

Although I won't use these gestures during performance, I create exaggerated movements to illustrate the words, further incorporating (literally) the lyrics.

I find that moving, walking in rhythm to the song, additionally helps me bring the music into my being.

And now, as the memorization becomes stronger, a new challenge appears. I lose concentration. Words become meaningless. Some of what I am doing is now routine-that's the good news. The bad news is that my mind feels free to wander. I need to haul it back into the practice session.

Now, I'm doing the tidying up on the small details: Is that an eighth note there? When does the musical line move? Oh-that's the word I stumble over.

At our final choral rehearsal before The EVENT, we are all singing "off book." No music sheets (our always-present safety blanket) allowed.

For me, the music is about 95% there. I feel greatly relieved.

And of course, it's not just singing the song. We now add in relevant physical gestures, get assigned to clusters of choristers with whom we'll sing. The small details are yet to be figured out. Some can be planned ahead. Some will emerge unexpectedly. My job is to over-learn my part, so that it's there, regardless of any changes, regardless of anything untoward that might happen.

I do a few more practices on my own. Now I am doing full run-throughs of the music. Any last little bits get directed attention, and then it's full run-throughs again. In non-practice times, I find myself just humming the song in my head; I mentally "see" the page of music; I "hear" the YouTube video or our soloists singing their parts.

The music is now in my self, completely: I don't need to think about the words in order to produce them: They emerge, present in the same way that a sentence forms of its own accord.

I recognize that at this point, too much rehearsal would be a kind of "Russian roulette," an anticipation of error that will only increase anxiety. (This concept comes from a great book on musical performance preparation and delivery, Richard Provost's The Art & Technique of Performance.)

The day arrives. My pre-performance plans work well. We do our final on-site rehearsal. And then comes the moment: The music starts; I know just what the "choreography" will be-though now, the 700 people are all around us, so in fact we each need to adapt to the live bodies surrounding us.

And here's the wonderful part, the part that I'd not thought of, not anticipated: the audience reaction. As we begin singing, there's a brief moment of puzzlement. Then, I can see the light dawning, the grins from ear to ear, the sparkles in eyes: "We're being flash mobbed!" I move through the seated crowd. I'm not on a stage, protected by distance and a musical score. I am a foot, two feet away from people. I'm looking at each one directly, singing these lovely lyrics to these people. I experience the immediacy of their absorption in this moment. It is exhilarating and soul satisfying!