Songs of Thankfulness

 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 20^th 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. 

Fall of the Word-Slingers

 I feel like the days of the relevance of Word-Slingers is over.  Days when a writer of conscience could write about the injustices of the world and expect something to happen in response seem to have passed.  The World of Action remains unaffected by so many eloquent pleas for justice. 

 

Is it that our empathy that is gone?  This quality once referred to as “humanity” seems to be absent.  Perhaps the truer definition of humanity is what we are experiencing now.  The behavior of the human race one to another seems to be quite terrible on the whole.  Perhaps the idea of “humanity” being a word to describe empathy and decency was always aspirational rather than a descriptor.   

 

Maybe it is also that words seem to be losing their meanings.  Various agendas use them to arouse feelings and passions regardless of their past meanings.  “Freedom” used as freedom to dominate others.  Equality with no recognition that we all do not start with the same ability to compete.

 

I am a small wrestler with words.  I use them as I seek to express and define my thoughts.  Words used to contain and direct my thoughts, words that help me create tiny pools of clarity in the overwhelmed muck of current events in my mind. 

 

I would suggest that part of the reason for the loss of power by the Word-Slingers is that words become divorced from their meanings.  When a word can mean anything a manipulator says, they have trouble ringing true.  Thoughts of truth or justice get stuck in the muck of a sticky lake of lies that seems to be surrounding us.  How can anything ring true when up has become down and down up?

 

And yet some of us still seek for truth and for stillness that might enable us to perceive more truth.  My political camp or yours; both lie.  We just find the consequences of one side’s lies or their goals more palatable than the other. 

 

And when we wake, what can we find that is actually real?  We see that a tumor in our democracy has metastacized. (My apologies to John Dean.)  Something has grown up in the heart of representative democracy that should not be there.  It has been fed by a system captured by the unaccountable rich.  It has been fed by inequality, and old grudges, and hopelessness, and the easy answers found in lies and partial truths.  It has been nutured with the arrogance and condescension of the educated.  And it has been brought to flower by the greedy and the hateful, those who seek to destroy the good in others because they themselves cannot possess it.  And as it continues, it will surely and inevitably kill what is left of our society, our body politic, and one by one, it will take the individuals that we love and the lives we enjoy.   

 

And I want to write of a solution, but I don’t know what that might be.  Truth.  If only we could see clearly!  Each side has its own version, but there are so many perspectives!  Since we’ve lost the ability to even talk to each other, where is the hope?  Where is the path to reintegration?  Where is the path towards compassion?  Respect?  Love?

 

 

Cancer Detour

 Now I can talk about this, but I couldn't even a month ago.  On August 14th, I was told that I had cancer in my uterus.  This sent me down a rabbit hole that included major surgery, a temporary pause button to my normal life activities, and rampant anexity paired with out-of-control googling.  

Leaving out the many things over a long period of time that eventually led to it's discovery, my abiding obsession upon diagnosis was two-fold: first, to keep my mother from knowing and second, to keep news away from anyone who might make comparisons between myself and the wife of Paul's predecessor in his current job.   This woman died of this very cancer just a few years ago.  

After this obsession, my secondary concern was finding information.  Because uterine cancer isn't normally staged until everything is taken out and sliced up in the lab, I had no idea if it was going to require more treatment after surgery, if it had spread or if this would be all that was necessary.  I did not have an answer to that question for almost 2 months. In fact, October 15th - 2 months and one day - was when the doctor finally said that no further treatment would be needed.  I had finally gotten a pathology report with the words "Stage 1" one week before this, but according to google, this could mean many things about what is next.  I had been strongly warned not to read the pathology report that showed up in the online portal, or if I did, not to jump to conclusions before talking with the doctor.    

There are so many excruciating things about this time.   

Waiting:  

Waiting three weeks from being told it was cancer to having an appointment with an oncologist.  Waiting four more weeks for surgery, but then being slotted in for a cancellation one week earlier.  Waiting at home for some news about something, anything from the doctors for over 2 weeks.  

Secrecy and Cancer Everywhere:

There was driving to Wisconsin to visit my uncle two days after I was told it was cancer, and not mentioning this because of the possible ripple effect.  Going out to watch a morning of Dragon Boat Racing and discovering that along with teams from local businesses and drinking establishments, there is an entire division of cancer survivor boat racers.  Having my uncle then tell me unsolicited things I never knew about my grandmother's ovarian cancer and my grandfather's leukemia.  Going to a baseball game, trying to relax and take my mind off the waiting, and having it be some sort of cancer survivor's day.  

Uncertainty:

Trying to make music plans and start off my piano studio for the year not knowing when everything was just going to stop.  Running more and more because I knew I wouldn't be able to for a while.  Trying to do fucking everything because I didn't know what was coming next.  Buying different styles of underwear because I didn't know what would be comfortable.  Buying loose stretchy pants.  

Losing a friend:

Hearing that a dear friend in California had committed suicide.  We drifted apart when I left LA, and I hadn't spoken to her in over a year.  She also leaves behind a 10 year old son.  Everything else suddenly felt not so important.

There was also grace.  In the weeks before the procedure that showed cancer, two people I knew told me out of the blue about their good experiences dealing with cancer at the same place I was going.  The person I asked to take over my choir for me, said yes without even asking any questions.  Just yes. Then there was one of my oldest friends who dropped everything to come out for the surgery to help out. The night I spent in the hospital, there was the nurse and his aid who were so patient and kind as I got in and out of bed what felt like a million times trying to restart bodily functions and bled all over with an opened incision.  

The hardest part was when my friend left, and I was left feeling so openly and rawly how isolated Paul and I are here.  

The good news continues to be that what they took out was Stage 1A, not requiring further treatment.  It couldn't be better news.  I am not quite to the 4 week point.  My stomach is perforated in many places, with one place being noticably less healed than the others.  Inside is healing slowly, and I am surprised by how much time can elapse with my really doing nothing.  Instead of running, I am walking.  I've made the short walk a few times to the noonday meditation at the Unity Temple.  I've always wanted to learn to meditate, and practicing is easier with others.  I've been playing the piano and singing a bit.  Despite a wicked sore throat for a week, my voice was immediately fine.  My breath was a bit wobbly at first, but it seems to be ok, too.  The plan is to return to work mid-next week.  One day of teaching and then two without before a normal Sunday and full week of teaching.

Beyond that I honestly don't know what is next.  I'm left wondering what it means.  I am very grateful for the outcome.  It could have gone many ways, but why this detour?

Now

There was a funeral today in Paris for someone I went to grad school with.  He was resident at Henry Wood House my first year in London, and I would often greet the day while listening to his early morning Verdi baritone warm-ups a few doors down.  I knew him as a nice guy with an amazing voice.  His wife was an accomplished singer as well.  At the age of 45, he also left behind three younger children.  

Learning about his passing, focuses a light on my current struggles centered around striving for the acceptance of what is now.  At a certain point, I've realized that all those dreams of a career will never come true as I had once imagined, the visions that drove me on a quest ultimately led somewhere other than where I had imagined.  At the same time, I would not change that journey for anything.  As much as I miss what was lost, what I gave away at the beginning without realizing its true value, I now cherish new things.  I have a partner, a husband whom I love dearly. I have a faithful, wonderful, loving dog, a prickly yet endearing cat.  There are many that I consider dear and treasured friends, despite the distance of oceans, borders and time zones.   I have circled back to conducting, and although I’ve discovered its nature to be other than what I thought in my younger days, I find that I do enjoy it.  Though I never would have chosen to stay in this geographical location so long, it has enabled me to watch and enjoy the musical development of many piano students.  Like watching flowers bloom, it is a slow but sometimes astonishingly beautiful process.

And I have sung.  From a distance, I look back and think that I did do some things, and many of them were fulfilling.  Where I live now, there is not much work and it has become clear that what I have to offer as a singer is not welcomed in most situations available here.  And now that I am not aiming to impress others to gain their favor for work or Career, I find that my music making is freed.  I gave a recital in August that I have always dreamed of giving.  And for once, I felt in the moment almost the entire way without my personal garbage muddying the waters.  Now I am working on French Lied (Poulenc and Debussy) and arias.  I do know what I could 'do' with this repertoire, but maybe the point for me will continue to be the process rather than the outcome.  

Election 2022

 All around me the prophets of my side are calling ‘Doom, doom to our system!”  They’ve been crying wolf for a long time now, but I fear that this time might be correct.  I look for political hope, but I see very little.  By doing all it can to kill the Left, the Center (and the Democratic Leadership Council*) has ensured the rise of the Right.  They have unbalanced the system, and now even they can see that it is on the verge of toppling.  They cry, “Democracy!  Democracy!”  But this lament is not for any true love of that system.  They see that their power is ebbing.  Now someone else will take control, and with the safety valves of Democracy broken, they see no way back to power for themselves. 

* An oxymoron at best. 

What Ifs

 Even the faint thoughts of a return to the NY metro area bring me into a great cloud of speculation, into dreams of what I feel I have lost, the prices I have paid for following the enticements of What If.  I have lived my life exploring the potential of following the great What If.  There is a price to the allegiance I have given to this creative and destructive force.  The power of the many What Ifs in my imagination have propelled me to move across the globe.  When I began my devotion to this strange god, I believed I was banishing the possibility of regret.  I did not think of the sadness generated in memories of what I had left behind, my regrets packed into so many heavy suitcases travelling with me from address to address.   

And how can I find that light and happy life, free of backward glances?  

Even my resume is a catalog of wanderlust dedicated to the priniples of What If.  Will I ever be able to lay this down and just live?   Shall I circle the world just to return to where I started and lament the loss of what was once?

2016 / 2020

 

On November 8, 2016, I was living in San Francisco.  My first cue that something might be wrong was that my friend Amanda in Ohio called me around 5:35 as I was starting the walk home from work with Paul.  I let it go to voicemail, and I later learned that she was having a panic attack.  Around 8:35 pm EST, the returns coming in were starting to show that something wasn’t going as expected and that the woman universally touted by the media as the most qualified candidate for president ever might not win. 

 

Child of a political scientist, I’d always wanted to have an election night party.  I’d reached out to a few people, but it hadn’t worked out so we were on our own.  In hindsight, this was a blessing as I am sure it would have been the worst party ever.   Since July, I’d been saving a Build Your Own White House cookie kit for the occasion.   Once home and settled in to watching the returns, I set to work on my project. 

 

When I went to vote that morning, I had filled in every other blank first leaving president for last.  Living in California, the state would go to Clinton, but I stood there for maybe 5 minutes staring at my ballot and internally wrestling with my unresolved political dilemma. Given my political convictions, I was not sure that I could live with myself voting for Clinton and thus implicitly endorsing all of the actions that I was sure she would take that would cause so much harm to those I love and the world I love.   Yet in the back of my mind was the thought that the other guy could win.  I filled in the blank for Clinton rather than Stein and turned in the ballot.   

 

That morning I wore a button from my vintage political collection that said “Nixon Now More Than Ever.”   As I was walking from the polls to work, I had a conversation with a stranger on a corner while waiting to cross the street about the election, and I didn’t need to explain a thing about my accessory.  Living in San Francisco was a politically wonderous thing. 

 

As the evening’s events progressed, my cookie model building project took on the character of the unfolding events on the television.   Around 9:30 PST it looked like we knew the result.  Only in the beginning stages of denial, I said to Paul, “Let’s walk the dog.”  Strangely, our Tenderloin apartment was about 2 ½ blocks from Hilary’s Northern California HQ.  As we walked past with Elsa bouncing along in front, they were just locking up.  There was a circle of people talking on the sidewalk in front.  One looked like he was embracing an overly large coffee pot.  A few were crying.   In this moment Paul said, “It looks like we are in for some interesting times.”  Truer words…

 

In December of 2016, we were married in a small ceremony in Muir Woods, a redwood forest just north of San Francisco.  Of our guests, if I had to wager, I would say that half either voted for the winner of that contest or abstained.  The day after the Inauguration, we loaded cat, dog, inflatable mattress and what was left of our apartment into my Prius and began our move to the Midwest.

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This Summer, we were able to get out of town and visit my uncle in Northern Wisconsin.  It was the week of the Republican Convention, and for as many Biden signs as there now are in our little blue dot of Kansas City, we felt surrounded by Trump flags and expressions of outright hatred towards non-Trump supporters.  (Even while kayaking, we saw lake side Trump flags proclaiming “Make Liberals Cry Again”.)  Watching the Republican Convention and spending time with my increasingly right-wing uncle, I had the long overdue crystallization of the realization that supporters of the two camps are living in opposite perceptions of reality.  What I saw on FOX or in that convention bore no resemblance to the reality of life I live or the lives of those I see around me.  To be fair, when MSNBC or other center-left mouthpieces report on “Trump supporters,” those pictures don’t match those that I love on the other side. 

 

So, I have no wager on what will happen this time.  Both sides are talking as if they have it sewn up, and this is probably because they only associate with those who hold similar views to themselves.  I have so many thoughts, but I will save them for another time when they are more formed.  Even this is just a series of experiences, bits of memory in a life of straddling seemingly different worlds.

 

Love each other.  Try to be kind.  Try to take time.  Work for what is right and resist the urge to give in to hate.  None of us know what the hell will happen from day to day, and right now we are just a bit more aware of that than we used to be.  My friend Amanda died in July of 2019.  When I think of election night almost four years ago, my first thought is that I wish I’d picked up the phone rather than letting it go to voicemail.