This past weekend I had the opportunity to sing solos for RVW’s Dona Nobis Pacem. This was with a neat little community choir in Magnolia, a beautiful part of Seattle. When the piece was done, and I was back sitting and listening to the group sing “Racing the Moon,” the tears of thankfulness just started leaking out.
I do not know if more will come of this, or if I will ever
do more solo gigs like this, but the experience of this was a gift, practically
a rebirth for me. I am so thankful. Let me explain.
A year ago, I was visiting the what I might call the
battered remnant of my alma matter with my friend Elizabeth. We saw old
friends, we heard what remained of a once amazing choral program, we sang in
the alumni choir for the ghost of what had once been a very meaningful annual commencement
ceremony, and we cried a bit. In the
midst of this, I was having major anxiety singing as a soprano in the alumni
choir. At the age of 48, I had vibrato
and no longer sounded like I had when I left at 21, or even when I left the
east coast at 29. I felt so discouraged by
experiences living in Kansas City where I was hired not for the voice I had then but for the voice
I had at those earlier ages so that I truly felt that what I had to offer vocally was – if not worthless – not desired. I hadn’t sung a professional gig (where I was
actually paid to sing and not singing with my husband) since before the
pandemic. I believed
that other than the occasional recital I could put together myself, that my
singing life was over.
Fast forward to the August recital I put together with
Paul. In this program of 20th Century
pieces, I sang the last piece from Lili Boulanger’s Clariers Dans le Ciel. An old friend from Guildhall had recorded
the cycle and told me at some point that I would love them. Mental note recalled, and yes, I did love
them. And they suited my voice. My voice, undesirable and full with vibrato
and color. Yes, I could sing these with
the voice I have now, and it felt connected and amazing.
I love to sing.
Really, in this world, it is one of the only things I think is intrinsically
worth doing. A harpsichordist I used to
work with once summed me up fairly well by saying that I am a singer with a
pianist personality. I love singing. I love the now it can create. I love the beauty and the potential for
connection with what is behind, inside and beyond the sound. That is when music happens. All of the posturing and puffery and judging
and ridiculousness, and sometimes back stabbing, that is a part of the singers’
world is something that I have never really wanted any part of.
What I see in retrospect with regard to my singing is that
in many ways I had given up.
Nine days after that recital, what I might call Change descended
upon our lives. Purposely skipping
details here, but I came out of a health crisis with still having my voice and having been saved
from a potential terminal issue. About
24 hours after good news, Paul’s job went to hell yet again. This next crisis and personal attack gave him
the impetus to apply for an interim position near his family in the Pacific
Northwest. It would give us at least 6
months of health insurance and income while we cut ties with KC and tried to
figure out how to move on with our lives in a hopefully less toxic soup. He got the job and was gone less than a month
later. I stayed to work, sell the house
and figure out how to close up shop on our lives there.
Two months later, I am in Seattle and working to start over
yet again. With time to practice and
nothing to lose, I start auditioning for anyone that will hear me. Through this process I find myself hired for
a gig singing Vaughan Williams. Midway
through the rehearsal week it is confirmed that I should indeed “dress like a soloist.”
Nothing I see in my closet fits, as I
lost about 20 pounds through the summer and early fall. Plus, what I do see there isn’t for this type
of gig. When I am out shopping, I
remember that I never got rid of a few dresses from earlier times, but where are
they? Square necklines are back, and my old red dress from 2001 had a square neck. I loved that dress and would have remembered
getting rid of it. I found it high up in
a box in the entry closet for our apartment underneath a stack of old VHS
recordings from former performances that I couldn’t quite part with as
well.
And here I laugh. I
don’t know what is coming next for my life.
I feel like I’m living in a strange limbo while staring at a giant scary
blank slate of possibilities. The one
thing this weekend tells me is that since my heart of hearts still loves to
sing more than about anything, maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to close the
door.