This year marks the 100th season for the Portland Symphony Orchestra. And to mark that momentous milestone, the PSO is performing some of the greatest pieces of classical music ever composed. One of those masterpieces is Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

I’ll never forget the first time I attended a live performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. It was 1973 at Carnegie Hall. The concert was sold out for months and I wasn’t one of the lucky ticket holders. Yet I was determined to get in. I spent hours in front of that hall trying to buy an extra ticket from anyone who would hear my plea. No luck.

OK, “Plan ‘B.'” I’ll sneak in. After all, it was only Carnegie Hall that I was trying to break into. I patiently waited outside the hall for the intermission that preceded the start of Beethoven’s Ninth. I caught a break. An attendee who decided to leave early opened one of the locked doors. And before you could say “adagio,” I was on the inside – in that fabulous lobby.

Now what? “Just try to blend in,” I told myself. No easy task, given my long hair, T-shirt, worn-out jeans and high-top sneakers.

Suddenly, the lights flashed on and off. People began heading back to their seats. But where was I supposed to go? I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Help!

I headed up the stairs and found myself in a circular hallway with all these closed doors that wound around the balcony. It felt like something out of “Alice in Wonderland.” I could swear I saw a white rabbit rush by, carrying a timepiece, and shouting, “I’m late. I’m late.”

I asked myself, “What would Alice do?” So I nonchalantly opened a door and entered one of those opulent boxes that overlooked the orchestra. Hello, Wonderland! There were six chairs in this box, but only three were occupied. I dared not sit down. I just stood there – frozen – with my back up against the wall.

For all I knew, this could have been the box of the Vanderbilts, the Carnegies or the Rockefellers. Suddenly, they turned around and saw me standing there – in their box. My heart was pounding. I thought I was a goner.

And that’s when the miracle happened.

They didn’t call security and have me carted off in chains. All three simply turned their heads back to the stage, and never looked back at me. Not once. The lights went down. The crowd went silent. The first notes filled the hall. Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. From that moment on, I was utterly transfixed – except for my ears, which were on fire.

During the finale, the Ode To Joy, something very curious happened. For a few minutes, I couldn’t feel the floor beneath my feet. Quite literally! And, no, I wasn’t “on” anything.

Since I’m not what you’d call a spiritual person, I figured there must be a rational reason for this occurrence. Perhaps the blood was no longer rushing to my feet. I kept pushing my feet downward just to be sure. Still, no contact. To this day, that phenomenon remains one of the unexplained mysteries of my life.

But what’s not a mystery is the unbridled hope and joy that Beethoven and his Ninth Symphony have brought to a world that, at times, needs to be reminded that hope and joy are the very sensations that make life worth living.

How fortunate are we that the invincible spirit of a deaf composer would not allow him to just “roll over”? Beethoven’s triumph is an inspiration to us all – and an ode for all time.