Retrospectives on races

Two weeks ago I was in a very small hotel room in Chicago, fighting a cold and cursing not-so-softly under my breath about the curious temperature spike that had the city-dwellers shucking their coats and frolicking in short-sleeved shirts. I was nervous as all hell and trying really hard to summon up the excitement that I usually feel before a road race. I didn't sleep well the night before, I could hardly breathe through my nose, and nothing seemed to put down the awful fear that I had trained for six months and would not be able to finish this race. I set out all of my stuff - shoes, socks, shorts, shirt, sunscreen, hat, sunglasses, gu, race bib, bodyglide, slept like absolute crap, and awoke at the crack of dawn with my friend Robin, who promised not to leave my side for the whole race. I ate some cereal and a clif bar and we made our way to the starting line at 6:30am, along with 38,000+ other runners. Richard went off to the seeded start corrals (read: speedy people) and Rob and I went to the open start where we could chill, stretch, and I could contemplate my almost-certain demise over the next 26.2 miles.

I'm not used to preparing for something this long and being so incredibly fearful about the outcome. My other road races were daunting, to be sure, but somehow that word "marathon" inspires a whole new level of fear, reverence, awe and straight-up madness. There are people who put "running a marathon" on their bucket list, and here am I, at the age of 30, crossing that off the list and putting another marathon ON the list. Did I finish? Of course I did. Robin kept her promise and, despite a minor emotional meltdown at mile 23 that had me in tears, we had a pretty good time. The route was fun and flat and shady for the first 17 miles, and then the last 9 were in full sun and I wished for death almost continuously. Yet we had fun. I have two weeks' distance from that race and I feel no regret. Did it hurt like hell? Yes. Did I have blisters? Oddly, no. Why am I training for another one? Why not? I've heard marathoners say, "the pain is temporary, the pride (or glory) is forever." I'm inclined to agree with them.

So to all of the nay-sayers who continue to tell me that I'm a crackhead or that I'm nuts or crazy or suicidal for keeping on with this running thing, I say this to them:

When I exorcise my crazy, I do it in public with thousands of other people and, when it's over, someone puts a medal around my neck. What does your crazy get you?

anniversaries

Five years ago today, I posted this little entry about a big-ass hurricane that was headed toward my homeland. I still get angry when I think about how long it took for FEMA to show up. I still get tight in my chest when I think about my mom holed up in the attic of their house. I still get intensely sad when I think about our family photos drenched in a 15-foot storm surge that was never supposed to make it past their 9-foot driveway of perceived safety. And I still want to write massively hateful letters to anyone who tries to defend the actions or words of the president at that time. But none of that will change what happened, or bring back those days when I didn't know where my mother was.

Tomorrow is five years since landfall. If you don't already know the details, the Times Picayune did up this really great interactive map that shows exactly how the city flooded. I've already watched it twice, until my husband made me close it. There's also this great photo gallery of "before and after." The photo that still turns my stomach is the one of the guys in boats out on Old Spanish Trail in Slidell, because that sign is about 3/4 of a mile from my parents' home.

If you grew up where I grew up, you would never think twice about staying during a hurricane. Chances are, if you chose to evacuate, you would end up stuck on the interstate halfway between Lake Charles and Houston, running out of gas and food like everyone else. You would go to the grocery a few days before, stock up on canned goods and jugs of water, tape your windows if you felt that was necessary, and wait it out. I can't count the number of hurricanes that just blew apart or only brought a little rain before they fizzed out or turned and hit Mexico or Florida. I'm not saying it's logical, I'm saying it's institutional memory. If you never evacuated for your whole damned life, why would you start? This is the way it was.

But that's not the way it is now. It took my parents four years to purchase a dining room set. Mom would say she didn't want to buy anything just to have it destroyed again, so they ate dinner off their patio furniture for four years. When they came to visit my house in Boston for the first time, she was shocked to see photos in my home that she thought had been destroyed. My childhood furniture that had moved out with me, eons ago, safe from that awful storm surge. The bookcase they had made for me when I was five years old. There are houses in their neighborhood people just didn't come home to. Across the main road from their neighborhood and the high school, some are still boarded up and vacant. The grocery store is a lot more crowded - Slidell took a lot of New Orleans refugees when they came home, and the sleepy suburb is no longer sleepy.

When strangers ask where I'm from, I usually tell them I'm from Boston. It's easier than going through the uncomfortable progression of:

"I'm from New Orleans."

*look of recognition dawns*

"Oh, do you still have family there?"

"Yes, almost all of my family lives there."

"Ohhh, did they make it through okay?"

-- at this point, I have to choose how much I want to reveal to these people who have no idea what I'm talking about. I can either say,

"Yeah, they did fine." - this puts an end to it

or

"No, their neighborhood took 14 feet of water and they lost everything."

....and that REALLY puts an end to it.

So I usually say I'm from Boston. Because I don't want to share all that hurt, anger, confusion, frustration, disappointment, fury with someone who doesn't know me, who doesn't know my story, and doesn't know my kin.

My friend Ebi is a psychologist. He says it's important for me to continue to talk through this because it's obviously unresolved. He has no idea how right he is. You need only look through the Katrina archive to see that we are not resolved. We are not all right. We are scarred and hurting and still wondering when we will get our homes back. But we are not down or deterred. We continue to rebuild when people say we are bonkers for ever putting houses on that god-forsaken land. They can stick it.

Happy anniversary, Big Easy. Love to you from a hometown girl in the great white north.

Back to life, back to reality

My suitcases are empty. My dog is under the dining room table, nosing my knee to let me know he's there and would like me to stop typing and pet him. My husband is snoozing softly in the office. His desktop is whirring and sounds like it might take flight at any moment. Otherwise, the house is blissfully quiet. I'm home.

We left on July 30 for a choir tour, came home for a family emergency and flew to DC, came back to Boston, three days later I packed to go down to the Cape for a wedding, and we drove back from the Cape this afternoon and I have NO PLANS of leaving my house, my town, my dog, my bed, my clothes, my shower, my fridge, my sanity until sometime next month when we go to a family wedding in Virginia.

I used to love change and travel, the unexpected and the new. I loved picking up my tent and schlepping my life to a new place. Living in another place for a year, learning new currency, learning new colloquialisms. I don't know if it's turning 30 or just where I'm at right now but I want nothing more than to stay. Stay stay stay. I want to be in this place long enough to develop some kind of a routine again, long enough to put the suitcases away - really away, behind the dresser in the closet, far enough away to know that I don't need them. I want to ditch my travel sizes and my little ziploc bags of foreign currency and international SIM cards. I want to forget a little.

I have a great season coming up. A world premiere in Carnegie Hall, a gala and an opera in the two states I called home for 24 years of my life. A concert tour in my favorite European country and even the joy of taking said concert tour back to my home turf. A return to the opera company that started my career, that took a chance on me as a very young singer, and a return to the city that houses my favorite cupcake bakery of all time. But if you'll permit me, I'm going to put off thinking about that season for just a few more days, until my head stops spinning. I know I have to get cooking on the Rosenkavalier Trio and the dialogue (in English AND German) for Flute and I know I really need to learn the Laudamus Te in a serious fast way but, just for now, I'm going to pet my dog. I'm going to breathe in and out. I'm going to go to jury duty (ick) and bring a book and think about my 15-mile run coming up next weekend. I'm going to go to the gym and lift for the joy of lifting. I'm going to wear my favorite aqua sweatshirt because it makes my eyes pop and it's very soft against my skin. I'm going to enjoy my leftover wedding manicure as long as it lasts. I'm going to go through my closets and make a bag to donate. I'm going to eat dinner with my husband. I'm not going to think about singing or practicing or learning music or even teaching music. Not this week.

So if you want to talk about knitting, give me a call. If you want to talk about running, I'm all over it. If you want to talk about new ways to cook eggplant or a recipe for pie crust that's got you on fire, come find me. But the career counselor's office is shut, the music teacher is out, and the opera singer is on vacation. Whew.

a weekend in the country

(so inactive, that one has to lie down)

I spent the weekend in Atlanta with the other bridesmaids in our friend Ami's wedding. I haven't been to the ATL in years, and never for more than about 18 hours or the occasional layover at the airport. Each time I return to the south, I'm filled with incredible longing for the comfort food of my childhood - fried chicken and biscuits, pie, okra, cornbread. But each time I enter a public place and am confronted with the, "smoking or non?" question, I'm pulled screaming back into 1985, seriously shocked that people are still allowed to smoke in public places and that they actually DO. I haven't gone home with my hair smelling like smoke since I stopped clubbing in grad school, and I was really okay with that.

But enough about smoking.

I had a really fantastic long run while in the ATL. Seven quiet miles in and around Buckhead, up and down some really nice hills and two really ferocious ones that had me begging for mercy. But I think I've really turned a corner. When I got home yesterday, I went straight to work (suitcase in tow) and worked till 5, caught the train, and went to the gym for my cross-training time on the bike. I'm not saying I'm a master at this, but I think I've convinced my body that it's okay to run when on vacation and it's okay to go to the gym even when you were on an airplane for the morning and then put in some hours at work because you will feel better when it's done. That said, I plan to spend this morning in my jammies, go for a late morning run when the humidity is down (sidebar: late morning no longer means 12 noon when your body wakes you up at 6:15 - late morning now means 8 or 9) and stretch plenty before I head in to work. I'm in week 19 of my marathon training (!) and have to do 12 miles this weekend, sandwiched between work, a wedding, and a bridal shower. Get it done. Do your job. The end.

a really good day, in numbers

10 - miles from my neighborhood to the Boston Common

2 - big, fat, happy black labs whose ears perked up when I ran down their street

1 - really generous Wheelock student who, when asked if there was a water fountain nearby, went inside and got me an ice-cold bottle of water

0 - times I was nearly hit by a car

1:56 - my finishing time

8 - people ahead of me in line at the Starbucks, post-run, desperately seeking food

2 - other sweaty runners who were at the same Starbucks

11 - am when my husband's softball game started

1 - new player on my husband's softball team who, when I was introduced as, "this is Emily, she just ran here from Hyde Park," responded "Hi. You're crazy."

6 - of my friends are now referring to me as "Crazy Emily."

12:45 - when my husband knocked in the winning run for his team and the celebration began

1 - shower at the Chinatown YMCA that was so beautiful and sweet I couldn't stop smiling as I washed off 10 miles of funk

5 - tickets for Futures at Fenway, the Sox minor league games

2 - hours we waited at Fenway Park for the rain delay to pass, enjoying the view of the kids running around in the rain

3 - Skehans who kept us company in the rain

0 - pieces of glass that ended up in my foot, although I walked from Kenmore to Fenway Park barefoot in the rain

3 - red sox souvenir cups ganked from Fenway by people who left them behind

2 - historical fiction novels finished this weekend (I heart the Tudors)

1 - loaf of banana bread coming out of the oven (I heart my husband)

8 or 9 - beautiful hours I am sure I will sleep because nothing makes me sleep well like a hard run and a long happy day

ouch

Nine miles today. Thought I was ready. Thought I was just going to trot along with my really good endurance and it was going to be no thang at all. Been following the plan (with the notable exception of cross-training, which I know I just need to get on the horse with that) and doing everything I'm supposed to do, but the legs were just not in it to win it today. Miles 1-5 were pretty normal, miles 6-8 were difficult but manageable, and the last mile, especially leading into the home stretch, were just about intolerable. I have at least two hot spots on my right foot (not the same spot as before, brand new hot spots) and a little bit of chafing under my right arm (but not my left - weird?!) but the biggest ouch came - and this is where it gets a little icky - as soon as I crossed the 9 mile mark, hit the button on my watch, and immediately started to dry heave. Thankfully, there were no cars on the street as I plunged toward the ground not once or twice, but probably five times. Nothing came up, and I managed to get across the street and grab onto a fence to get my balance, but wow y'all.

According to my timer, I averaged just over an 11-minute mile. This is not bad at all, especially for long distance. It's only about a minute over my short run time, which is how it should be. But I finished nearly three hours ago and I'm still just plumb wore out. I did a good stretch (thanks to the fantastic videos on RunnersWorld.com) and cool down. Washing my hair took far too much energy. Eating breakfast took even more, ridiculous. And now, I'm going to curl up in my special living room chair and try to let my muscles rest. Oy gevalt. Do I seriously have to do 10 miles next weekend?? Hal Higdon, why do you torment me so??

slow love

I read a fantastic book today - Slow Love, by Dominique Browning. She came to speak at Trinity a short while ago in the lecture series we've been running. I was trying to explain to my friend Ami what this book is about and I just know I did it a disservice when I said, "it's this really well-written book about how she lost her job, lost her shit, and then found her way back again," but that's basically what it is.

I was in a really bad place after I finished my doctorate. I was confused, flailing, circling the drain and talking to Elvis, ready to fling myself at just about any job that moved in the vain hope that it would give me some kind of security and inner peace. Well first of all, I discovered that security and inner peace don't necessarily go together. I have a few good gigs over the next two years, a part-time day job that lets me arrange books and make window displays, a small studio of students whom I enjoy teaching, and to the average observer, I'm "not pursuing my dream on a full-time basis."

But here's the crazy thing: I am.

I'm getting up every morning, checking my running schedule, and logging my mileage. If I'm too tired to do it one day, I do it the next day. But every week, I meet my schedule so I'm on-track for the Chicago Marathon.

I moved my computer out of the dining room, which moves my work out of the dining room and into the office, where it belongs. As a result, my dining room looks like a dining room and not like a holding ground for procrastination. This means I have to deal with my paperwork as it comes in, deal with my emails in a timely manner, and not put off what really needs to be done. Business is in the office. Life is everywhere else.

I'm taking voice lessons with a new teacher. I'm putting myself out there and seeing where this leads and trying very hard to listen to what my body says in return. Sometimes the signs are clear and my body gets it, sometimes I find myself practically choking on my own tongue (no, that's not a figure of speech) but I'm trying new things instead of clinging to the old ways for comfort's sake.

More than all of these things, I'm living in the present. I'm feeling the whole-body ouch of a six-mile afternoon run the day after a twelve-mile bike ride (keeping in mind that I haven't been on a bicycle since I went over my handlebars at 15). I'm making dates with friends and sending silly phone pictures to my mother and helping my friend finish the plans on her wedding, and I'm LIVING.

Go read Dominque Browning's book. It's really lovely and, in many ways, articulates that journey from the torpor of fear and uncertainty and resistance to change all the way to honest, present-tense living. And with that, I'm going to bed. I have miles to run in the morning.

the alarm clock....

....goes off at 7 and I really wish it didn't have to. The weather channel, which I think might be run by trained monkeys, said that it's supposed to get up to 90 today, 70 before 8am, and that meant I had to get my rear out of bed and on the road before it's too hot. ugh.

I'm a total chicken when it comes to the heat. I like it to be about 55 when I have to do any kind of distance longer than 4 miles, which I'll have to start doing next week when my long run jumps to the 6-mile mark. This is week 11 of 30 in my marathon training and, as they say, slow and steady wins the race. I'm not looking to win the chicago marathon, I just want to finish without injury. At the same time, I do have a few small goals I'd like to accomplish along the way. I'd love to break a 10 minute mile on my shorter training runs. I'd love to be able to train a little later in the morning without wishing for death in the last mile. I'd love to figure out the combination of stretches that will loosen up my very tight calf muscles. But the big goal? Finishing without injury. Period.

I might start doing my cross-training with Team Trinity, the cycling team that does the Rodman Ride every year. Two of their organizers are friends of mine and they've been trying to get me on a bike for a few years now. Maybe this is my opportunity. I enjoy swimming but getting to a pool is problematic for me, and riding the bike or even doing the arc trainer at the gym is not as much fun as being outdoors. Just today, in that last half mile in which I was wishing for death and a cold shower, I saw the cutest little chipmunk dash across my path and I had to smile. Since I started running, I have a much greater appreciation for time spent outdoors and the direct effect it has on my mental health. Just being out there under the trees and smelling the smells of the early morning, before all the cars and buses have been out to foul up the air quality, before the garbage trucks and the street sweepers have swirled all the trash smells and the dust smells together, it's really idyllic. Kind of cool and green and lovely.

Stretching, part 2, coming up.

The heat is on

It's spring training and has been for the last few months already. I'm in week 7 of my 'novice supreme' marathon plan (was it Robin who said 'novice supreme' sounded like a dessert?) and that means I'm following this very carefully laid out plan that takes me all the way from early springtime to my October marathon in Chicago, for which I am very VERY excited. So far, I've done pretty well. Doing my short runs and my long runs on Saturdays, with the occasional exception where my very short (2mile) run turned into a walk because I was dumb enough to bring the dog with me. Sammy is great, for about the first mile. He's bopping along with mom, nose high, ears back, and then he does his business and loses all sense of purpose. After that, he just wants to take it easy and smell everything along the way. Totally ruins my pace, but at least I know better now.

The weather has been really wonky. I had to pull out a sweater the other day because it was ridiculously cold, and I even ran my little 3 miles in TWO long-sleeved shirts to stave off the awful damp yuck. But that's not the case today, nosir. Today, it's lovely and clear and probably going to get HOT. Where am I? Sitting at the computer, being a huge chicken about getting out there in the heat....grrrrr......but it's for sure time to get going. Momma's got three miles to run, Hal Higdon says so, and it's not going to get any cooler before dark. Best be on my way.

Happy springtime to you and yours!

Well isn't that special

Shiksa on the move, Canadian issue: Toronto

Whenever my mom (known to many of you as "Miss Jean") wishes to express her disdain or displeasure at the poor manners/behavior/choices or sartorial catastrophes of others, she is known to say, "Well isn't that special." She says it with this beatific smile on her face that in no way belies what she's actually thinking, thus preserving the Miss Jean mystique.

It takes me by surprise when anyone else says this, because I immediately think of my mother and wonder what they're trying to pull. Day before yesterday, I was on a shopping mission for an audition dress because a minor miracle occurred: my agent was able to get me a last-minute audition with an opera company between my concert performances and, for the first time ever, I had packed for this gig without bringing along a day dress OR my audition binder. Oy gevalt.

So I'm trying on what seems like dress #5999 (but was probably only dress #9) on this search-and-destroy shopping venture and the saleslady (who, I swear, needed to adjust her dosage because she was waaaaaaaaay too enthusiastic about taffeta) is asking my friend Allison about why we're hunting for this dress, what's the occasion, blah blah, and Allison says, "she has an opera audition tomorrow," and miss perky 2010 says "well isn't that SPECIAL!!! How very exciting for you!!!!!" at which point in time I nodded and shut the dressing room door. Exhale.

I'm not good at explaining this part. When I tell people what I do, they get this slightly confused and very enthusiastic look on their faces. Like when I'm talking to a parent of a student and tell him that I need to plan lessons because I'm going to be out of town doing auditions for ten days in Europe. He immediately says, "well isn't that exciting! You get to see all those exotic places!" I really have to resist the urge to say, "It would be exciting, were I going on vacation. Which I'm not. And if I were sight-seeing, which I'm not. I'm auditioning. It's work. It's a work trip. With work." As soon as someone gets even the slightest whiff that this crazy job might actually be a job and not sunshine and rainbows with singing, they look like I've stepped on their very small dog. There are obvious exceptions, and sometimes I just lie and say I'm a music teacher. The glamorous part is what happens on the stage: the pretty dresses, the lovely music, the flowers and applause. But everything leading up to that is straight up hard. For example: I got this amazing last-minute gig filling in with a great symphony and a conductor I adore. I got this amazing last-minute gig approximately eight days before the performance, on a piece I'd never done, and the rehearsal started two days after Easter. This meant I spent most of holy week carrying around a score and studying it like mad, trying to get every bit of detail off the page and into my brain, instead of listening to any of the sermons at the six services I did between Maundy Thursday and Easter Sunday. It was also my birthday weekend. I had 15 minutes with a pianist before we jumped into orchestra rehearsal. The alto soloist was coming straight from the airport so the first time I sang our duets was with her, in front of the orchestra and the conductor, no piano time, no nothing. The next day was orchestra rehearsal 2. I'm trying to swallow my normal fears and just focus on the singing, but there's also this issue of foreign taxes afoot. The symphony isn't allowed to help me, so they point me in the right direction. I become best friends with the concierge at the hotel, who lets me print out copies of all my paperwork and fax it to the tax agency. First they say they have it and will process it within 30 days. Then they say they have to have it 30 days before I get paid, or they take 15% off the top and maybe I'll get it back at tax time next year. WHOA. Maybe? Excuse me? Then I spend the afternoon on the phone with a tax accountant/lawyer person who's a friend of the symphony, he sends me more forms to fill out (print, fill out, fax again, more quality time with the concierge) and then I wait, with the world's worst headache from staring at screens and small print, and oh did I mention this is performance night? Four ibuprofen later, we get through the performance reasonably well, I know it will be better on night 2 because I'll be more relaxed, then the post-show dinner but can I stay late and eat the chocolate mousse? No, because I have an audition the next morning. MORNING. Get up, run my small mileage, shower and make self ready for audition, attempt to look elegant, taxi to audition, wait wait wait sing Fire then Queen then lunch with the pianist, not sure what that was about but fine. And then I spend most of the afternoon in my jammies watching 30 Rock because I'm so incredibly tired.

I love my job. I get to sit in front of an orchestra and listen to some of the most glorious music ever written. And nobody does D major like Bach, nobody. I relish every single moment during which I am so privileged to be a part of this wonderful music-making. I try to soak it in and stay in the moment as long as I can because it's the payoff from all of the practicing packing faxing flying eating food with plastic silverware and spending time away from my husband and dog and house. It's good stuff, and I wouldn't trade it, not for any other job. But it itches my skin like bad starched lace collars when people presume that it's all fun and jet-setting. Sometimes I get to see old friends along the way and sometimes I get to see cool places. But I miss big family anniversary parties and Christmas Eve with my grandmother and usually my birthday and my husband's birthday are spent away from home, celebrating with friends there if I'm really lucky.

I live a pretty great life. I'm healthy, strong, and good at what I do. My husband is supportive like all get-out, my dog is well-socialized and lets me know how happy he is to see my home. And when I'm listening to the Sanctus in the B minor mass, I swear I feel a wave of something very holy and otherworldly come over me and all the hair on my arms stands up and my breath catches in my throat and I'm so SO glad I don't have to sing right after that because I'm overwhelmed. But given the choice between soaking in the hot tub at the hotel in Toronto alone or sitting on the sofa at home watching West Wing with the husby and the dog, we know which one I'd pick.

So with all that off my chest, I'm going to enjoy the rest of this gorgeous afternoon reading a book. I hope this day finds you happy or on the way there, and with the ability to count your blessings. Back to the list.

1. for the runners who wave and smile when they pass me on the sidewalk

2. for the friends in cities who make time to have a meal

3. for baklava from the deli down the road

4. for the beautiful sunshine that showed up today

5. for Bach, still kicking ass centuries after his death

the last day of my 20s

...and boy am I relieved. Tomorrow, I can put the last of that decade behind me and breathe the clean, sweet air of 30. So as not to burn too much emotional capital on the recollection of those years, I'll do the quick and dirty list method.

Things I did between 20 and 29

started and finished two masters' degrees and a doctorate

bought a house

got married

became a dog mom for the first time

ran my first half-marathon

discovered sushi

became an opera singer

learned to knit

discovered my love for pie

learned to speak German

learned to suck less at Italian

fit back into my single-digit jeans

joined Red Sox Nation

To be fair, most of that list was accomplished in the last four years. I remember the first part of my twenties being confusing, tumultuous, and a seemingly never-ending roller-coaster of issues and drama. Except for the pie and the sushi. But I do love baseball....

Things I'd like to do between 30 and 35

run my first marathon, and then some

suck even less at Italian

get a shredder and a bigger filing cabinet (to downsize the paper crap)

take a real vacation (no family, no auditions, no work) with my husband

learn Lulu

reconsider playing softball in the summer

learn to make really good pie crust

add another continent to my passport stamp collection

spend more time with my friends and family who live far away

It's funny to look at this list as well, because only one of those goals has to do with my career. I want to spend more of my 30s living and doing it among the people I love. I want to worry less and sleep better, run longer and harder and enjoy the aches that come with it, and I want to live my life on my terms instead of seeking the approval of my professors/teachers/conductors/agents. And what's more, I think I can do it.

12 hours and 49 minutes left. And with that, I'm going to practice and head to the gym.

Personal commandments

I've been reading Gretchen Rubin's blog for a while now. She's a smart cookie and frequently talks about things to do in order to foster happiness in daily life. Little things, like eating a piece of fruit or making your bed, hugging someone you love, being friendly and gracious. She also has this list of twelve personal commandments:

Be Gretchen.

Let it go.

Act the way I want to feel.

Do it now.

Be polite and fair.

Enjoy the process.

Spend out.

Identify the problem.

Lighten up.

Do what ought to be done.

No calculation.

There is only love.

Of the twelve on this list, I think the hardest is the first. Being yourself, being fully inhabited in the person that you are and convicted in your own individuality and opinions, means that you won't always make everyone happy. And my inner golden retriever really wants to make everyone happy, even when it causes me serious turmoil. It's also about loving yourself for your choices (or in spite of your choices) and not trying to mold yourself to fit the hook on which you have hung yourself.

What the heck am I talking about?

A multitude of things. I've been taking advice on my singing, my appearance, my headshots, how I present in auditions, how much makeup I wear, and what exactly I'm doing with my career. All of this affects my mental clarity. Changing my appearance to become more like an opera singer and less like a doctoral student makes sense - especially when I'm no longer a student and definitely an opera singer. But for some reason, I've been discounting my own knowledge of my instrument. I've been trying to beat myself into this repertoire that doesn't really suit my personality, my tastes, and as it happens, my voice. Roles that people have said to me forever "oh, you'd be a stunning *insert name of major heroine here* and I'd just love to hear you sing *insert name of another major heroine here*," so I've picked up these roles and spent hours of practicing time and lesson time and coaching time trying to stretch my voice into those roles. And why? Because I thought someone else knew better. I thought I was being difficult. Or that I simply didn't have the appreciation.

Is any of that true?

NO.

When did I realize all of this?

Yesterday. (yeesh)

In a coaching, as I'm struggling (and I do mean struggling) to get through this aria that's supposed to be "just perfect for my voice" we end up having this whole serious discussion about why I'm looking at this rep and do I really think I'm going in this direction and do I really want to burn that many daylight hours trying to make myself into that kind of singer or am I doing it for someone else's benefit?

I've always been a good girl, or tried really hard to be. I try to do what I'm supposed to do, and when someone tells me to try something, I usually will. (this goes back to the "why I don't eat oysters" story involving my father and some hot sauce) I don't think it makes me gullible or easily led, I think it usually means I'm open to suggestions. BUT I shouldn't discount my own instincts because someone else might have more experience. When my gut says "that ain't right," I need to listen.

So I took them out of my aria book. I put them in my suitcase, and that's where they will stay until I get home and put them in the recycle bin. I am old enough and smart enough to be able to say, "nope that's not right for me." And as long as I own those choices, I will be contributing to my own happiness. Bam.

And with that said, I have to get ready for the George London Competition and, more importantly, the tea and scones that will follow!

Seeking the process

I've been wrapped up in the vortex of my own agitation since about a month before I finished my doctorate. What should I do next? Does it make sense for me to look for a faculty job? Is this singing thing a waste of my time and education? Is that the fear talking? (the short answer to those last few questions is YES) Every time I'd get close to clarity, something would happen to force my hand. An audition would come into direct conflict with a teaching schedule that I had constructed in order to give my life some "structure." And not just some little crappy audition either. Big, serious auditions.

I was just about at the end of my rope when we went to go see Bill, our priest. He's been down the academic road before, having a phD of his own, and his temperament and love for structure is similar to mine, so I can take all of his words with the full weight of his experience when he says to me, "There is nothing more that you can DO. You planted these seeds deeply, and you don't know when they will bear fruit. But you can try to enjoy the small victories when they come and you can be grateful for the security and support that you have." All true, and mostly difficult for someone who focuses on the DO part of life.

I thought that, if I could just get through January, February would take care of itself. Sure enough, March started yesterday and I barely remember February at all, except for a few days when I was in Colorado. Despite the worst travel karma I have ever EVER had (a four and a half-hour train delay, a flight turned around in mid-air, delayed and then canceled all in the same week) I managed to get to Colorado with my luggage and at least my body intact. And promptly had an allergy attack that made me so stuffy I could barely see straight for the first two days. This meant that I couldn't do as much work as I had intended. Hmmm.....

So in my free time (read: when the altitude caught up to me in the middle of every phrase I tried to sing) I started reading some books and working on some knitting and having conversations about how to approach this point in my career. It's hard to describe - I feel like the plates of the earth are moving, slowly, sometimes imperceptibly, and then I get a big ole jarring movement that shakes the little toothpick sculpture I've been building to give myself structure. Something is happening in my life/my career/my destiny and I have no idea what it is, but I need to have my hands free when the time comes. What does this mean?

During one of my lessons, this phrase came up. Since then, it pops up in many many conversations I have, and almost every time I find myself in a snarl about something.

Are you ready? This is a good one.

"You have to seek the process. You can't seek the result."

Now what the hell is that all about? For me, it meant divesting myself of those fetters that would keep me from being ready to jump at the best opportunities - the class I thought I could teach that would keep me booked up for the next ten weeks. The extra lessons (teaching) I thought I could squeeze in that would completely eat up practice time. This was the hard one: the faculty searches for jobs that would never, not in a million years, even consider letting me jump up to New York for auditions when they come up. Why spend all of my daylight hours preparing my faculty CV and materials and such, when those jobs would effectively put an end to everything I've been working for? Why would anyone sabotage themselves like that?

Fear. Plain and simple. Fear is the voice that creeps in when you're sitting in the hallway for an audition and asks the question, "Do you think she's younger than I am?" Fear tells you that Spanx will not hide your cellulite, that your high notes really are shrill, and that you're still that doctoral student wearing her glasses and sweaters, masquerading as a professional singer.

Fear is the single most powerful enemy you have as a performer because it seeks out your deepest and darkest insecurities and speaks to them in seductive tones, to the point where you're sweating and shaking before you even begin.

And this is where the process comes in. I cannot control what the judges/casting agents are looking for. I could show up with the most beautiful mangos in the world, but if they are looking for blueberries, I'm not getting that job. I can make sure that my languages are well-honed, my legato is secure without being anchored, my coloratura is clean and sparkly, and my acting effective BUT the only way to do all of these things is to be fully present in my own life. I cannot sit in the back seat and pray that someone else will take the wheel. Even if I'm scared, I cannot relinquish the only opportunity I have to be a part of my own life.

So what does this look like in application? Example: I went in to audition for a tour. It was NOT high art. It was NOT serious. Sitting in the hallway, I was thinking to myself, "I have nothing to lose." Which is great, because you're then able to sing without judging every little note that comes out of your mouth. They called me back the next day, worked with me a little, and were so so positive. I went across town to another audition, feeling generally good about what I had done. Not over the moon, but good. Secure. Confident. I sang another really good audition. And then I went home. I just kept thinking, "how is it possible to sing so well when I'm not invested in the outcome?" Well duh. Of course I sing well when I'm not invested in the outcome. Because when I'm thinking about the outcome, I'm not thinking about singing or acting or emoting or anything. I'm judging myself. Which is the surest way to check out.

I'm not saying this works every day. I'm not saying there aren't days when I stand in front of the mirror at the gym and question whether or not I'm competitive against the 22 year-old soubrettes whose metabolisms have not yet succumbed to sluggishness, but those days are slowly being replaced by the days when I stand in front of the mirror at the gym and appreciate the muscles showing up in my arms and my shoulders. There are days when I surprise myself in a really good practice session and think, "Wow, I'm really enjoying this." And as a person who likes tangible proof, there are beautiful days like last Saturday when I step into the dressing room at Gap and put on a pair of size 8 jeans, which I have not done since junior high school. And you bet your sweet bippy I bought those jeans.

So this is me, trying to seek the process. Trying to be ready, hands free, light on my feet, to take whatever crazy pass the fates throw at me when I'm not looking. Ready go.

Paying it forward

It's been a little while since I've posted, so I thought I'd talk a bit about luck and control issues. I have a fair helping of both.

Since I finished my dissertation last spring, I've been chomping at the bit to graduate and get on with the business of "my future." Being who I am, I've had a clear picture of "my future" since I was about 15. That picture included a good teaching job with benefits, a house, a husband, a dog, and (as of 2005) some kind of singing career. I knew it would be hard, but I was convinced I could handle it. And, being who I am, I expected it to come to fruition in just the right way. Immediately.

If you know me, you'll laugh your ass off at that statement and also know it to be entirely honest. I'm a linear thinker, a total type-A personality, and everything about how I approach my work has to do with problem-solving, negotiation, networking, and finding the pathway to what I want or what I think is right for me. Additionally, if you know me, you'll also know that I've been tap dancing since last May to try to figure out what my next move is. I graduated, I take the auditions, I put in the applications, which leaves the ball in the court of providence.
And momma does NOT like that. So I try to prod providence along. I take more auditions, I seek out new rep, I apply for a huge smattering of faculty positions. I accept interviews for jobs that may or may not be appropriate for me. I make large-scale contingency plans that involve dramatic changes in vocation (German teacher, personal trainer, author) and a general slash-n-burn approach to the present. Because hanging out in the present makes me INSANE when there's no visible future.

I say 'visible' because I know there is a future. I know there is a path laid for me and it is but my duty to learn patience ($%^&*&**#$@$%$#@#$) and try to accept where I'm being directed when I'm being directed. This could take forever and, likely, will. Husby and I sat down with a very insightful third party last week who has also walked the long academic walk that leads to the prefix "Dr." and he told me that the seeds one plants when investing in a doctorate are not short-term bloomers. They are long-term, deeply rooted, and may not bear fruit for a while. In a way, it's comforting to hear this from someone who has been there, but it doesn't get me out of the present fix of "what the hell do I do until May 2011 when I have a gig?" The biggest thing I can do is learn to appreciate and rejoice in the little victories. According to our financial adviser, we're on a good track. Score. I'm training for my first marathon (Chicago 10/10/10 baby!). Score. Despite lots and lots of travel, I'm still reasonably healthy and will be home for a little while. Score. Against all odds, the Saints won the Superbowl against the Colts. SUPER score (Geaux Saints!). I have this tendency to focus on the yuck, things I want to change, things that are usually out of my hands. So now, I'm going to try to put into words the things I'm really grateful for, and the incredible luck I've been given.

Ick: I have to travel to New York more often than I'd like.
Luck: The incredible generosity of patrons who have extra bedrooms and let me stay with them instead of a hostel, a sofa, or a hotel I can't afford.

Ick: I don't have any big opera gigs for another 15 months.
Luck: I have seriously big auditions lined up that could lead to some good work. Also, I have lots of rep that needs to get learned in this down time.

Ick: I don't have a job with health insurance benefits and security.
Luck: I do have a great church job where I work with wonderful people who love and support everything I do. They let me come and go when I have auditions and gigs, and always welcome me back with open arms.

Ick: A horrible snowstorm forced me to come to NYC a day early for an audition.
Luck: The horrible snowstorm conceals most of the daily yuck that makes me hate coming here. People are out with their kids, their dogs, their sleds. Everyone helps each other over the snowbanks, and it makes me smile so much that dogs are wearing parkas and little old men take my hand when I offer it to them.

Ick: I have no idea what I'm going to be when I grow up. And I have a sinking feeling I'm very near the "grown up" line.
Luck: I have more options than I can count, a supportive husband, an amazing dog, great friends, and I don't have to figure it out today.

When I look too closely at the ick, I forget how lucky I am. And that's something I can totally fix. The ball is in someone else's court for everything else. Today, I'm going to watch the snow and try to be grateful for the view.

Post #300...or...Haters

Haters. Haters are people who have dissed my home football team since I was a kid. Haters do not even bother to roll their eyes when my team loses, because this is the norm. Haters expect the worst and most of the time, gloat if it comes to pass.

Haters got schooled on Sunday night by my boys, the New Orleans Saints. That's right - the Saints are going to the Superbowl! GEAUX SAINTS!

There are lots of other kinds of haters out there, and I encountered some of them this past Sunday afternoon as well. The people who will try to disrupt your peace (do you see the iPod in my ear? it means I don't want to talk), the people who will try to steal your sunshine (what did you sing? do you think it went well? were you nervous?), the people who will try to rain on your parade (did you think the hall was good? I didn't think the hall was very good. I don't know how anyone could sound good in there), and the people who will fill the air with such garbage so as to divert attention from their own inadequacies (omigosh, did you see what she's wearing? what a nightmare. did he really start with that aria? ugh). Now y'all know that I have my opinions about how people dress for professional occasions (spanx and a full-length mirror are REQUIRED) and whether or not they are ready for certain repertoire (Tosca at 22? I don't think so.) but when I'm in the zone for a competition, I try very VERY hard to keep it all above the line. You never know who is listening or watching, and you don't want someone to mess with your game. Hence the iPod. I plug myself in and read tips about organizing my kitchen to block out the stream of chatter that would otherwise distract me from my business. What is my business? Singing is my business.

Which is why I have decided to give the finger to all the Haters. There was one particular Hater who went so far as to tell me, in great detail, what she did not like about my voice. Not my singing, not my musicianship, not my presentation, my voice. That thing that comes out of my body, just as the good Lord made it. That instrument that cannot be swapped out or exchanged. I have very VERY strong opinions about this. You can tell me about the stuff I can change (my dress, my hair, my shoes, my language skills, my stage presence, my acting, my body movement, my understanding of style and nuance) and you can tell me about the issues you think I might have with my technique (breath control, vibrato, vowel shape, legato, coloratura cleanliness) but when you start giving me your personal opinion of my personal voice, I start to wonder why you're doing what you're doing. Is this about how tough my skin is and whether or not I can take the criticism, no the downright MEAN-SPIRITED sentiment as you tell me that my voice is harsh and strident and monochromatic, a voice you wouldn't want to listen to for extended periods of time. That works out well for you, because it means I won't offer you comp tickets to my next performance.

Constructive criticism. You know it when you hear it because you can feel yourself learning something. You can sense that someone wants you to grow. All I sensed was that this person hates my voice and wanted to let me know. Super. Why don't you get me a nice paper cut and pour some lemon juice on it.

What do we learn from this, you might ask. I learn that my skin is thick, but not yet thick enough. I learn that I should not seek validation from the opinions of others. I learn that I cannot determine my value as a performer based on three judges' disagreement (that's right, the other 2 thought I was good) on my performance. In short - finger to the Haters. GEAUX SAINTS.

The feats of strength

Isn't that from a Seinfeld episode? The one about Festivus? I can never remember - a lot of them do run together. This weekend I was reminded of the Seinfeld episode about the BO in the car that just won't go away and Jerry ends up leaving the car somewhere, with the keys - there was this great call on Car Talk from a young girl who may have infested her mother's car with Madagascar hissing cockroaches. Look it up if you need a seriously good laugh. It was a hilarious story, ending in a prescription for dry ice and praying that the car would 'accidentally' catch on fire.

But I digress.

In my experience, singing competitions are much like a celebration of Festivus. Only without the clever writers of Seinfeld, or the large aluminum pole. There are lots of people gathered together, there is plenty of airing of grievances, and then there are the feats of strength. This takes place in many forms - sometimes you're herded into one large room and called out one by one. Sometimes you're ferried from one room to another - first the waiting room, then the warm-up room, then the green room, then backstage, and back to the waiting room. Sometimes the public are allowed to come and sit among the contestants and vice versa. This I find especially unnerving, as there is always some well-meaning person who really yearns to know more about you and your art in the five minutes before you have to go sing. And, depending on the format, you may really really have to do some singing. Anywhere from three minutes up to fifteen - arias, art songs, oratorio, musical theatre, chamber music, take your pick from the veritable buffet of choices and then prepare for almost all possibilities. Oy gevalt I'm nauseated just thinking about it. And I didn't even have to sing today.

Today I went as an observer and friend to my favorite VeganDiva, who was singing her tush off in the Met regionals in NYC. I couldn't make it for the whole thing, but I was there for the last four or five contestants, the endless deliberation, and the announcement. In rooms like this, I want nothing more than to whisk myself and my friend away to a place where we can talk about running and what we're going to have for dinner and anything ANYTHING but the competition. Because that's ALL people want to talk about. How did you sing how did I sing what did you wear did I wear the right thing how about those shoes don't you think he's too young for that don't you think she's too old to wear that I mean seriously and the judges did they look interested I think they looked interested but how could I know with the lights and all the pressure and was the tempo okay in the allegro I think the largo was a little too slow my breath is all hopped up today I think I should have worn nude hose SHOOT ME IN THE EYBALL AND PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY.

People deal with this situation in a multitude of ways. The VeganD and I are more likely to plug in our iPods and listen to something raucous (she: Ludacris, I: Fergie) and try to tune out all of the twittering and fluttering about. There is no room for hysterical wing-flapping when you're trying to keep your cool. If you win, you don't want to be so overwhelmed you can't thank people. If you don't win, you want to be able to exit the room with enough grace to be known as 'steadfast' and 'level-headed.' No mad scenes here, people. I won't say I agreed with the outcome of today's competition, but I wasn't there for all of it so that's my personal bias talking. It's how we deal with these situations that help define us as people, performers, and citizens of this career.

My Met is this Sunday. I'm not really nervous as all of my rep is well-broken-in and I sing it well. I have a fabulous dress (Carmen Marc Valvo you're my dreamboat) and shiny hair (though I really need to get a pedicure if I'm going to wear those fabulous pewter heels) and I like singing in the hall. A recipe for success. But there are x-factors, to be sure. 15 singers x 5 possible arias each x 1 pianist x 3 judges. Just looking at the math on that gives me vertigo.

I cannot compete with anyone else. I am not in competition with anyone else. I go out there. I sing. I do my business and what I do well. And then, I plug myself back in to Fergie (or perhaps some Lady Gaga for the occasion) and wait. I am the best at what I can do. If they are shopping for my brand of singing on Sunday, I have a chance. And the rest is out of my hands.

It sucks sooooo bad.

But I'll tell you what I can do. I can get good sleep and drink lots of water and hit the gym hard (but not too hard) between now and then. I can practice my languages and my phrasing and those devilish passages that make what I do sound really impressive. And I'm going to start first by drying my hair (a lovely shade of chestnut brown, I might add) and get to work on that beauty sleep. Momma's got some ass-kickin to do. Ready GO.

Comfort ye

Cindy wrote a great blog about thinking habits and eating habits. As someone who didn't really think about what she ate until she was nearly 26 (and at least the last three years leading up to 26 were straight-up denial) and didn't pursue serious fitness until 27, it's always interesting to read about other people's journey with food and exercise, pertaining to weight loss or no. Growing up in the South, food is not just a means of sustenance, it's usually an event.

Classic example: Christmas Eve at my grandfather's house. Every year, we would drive into Metairie, park the car, and walk up to the smell of roast pig. Now I'm not talking about a ham. I'm talking about a pig. An whole pig that had been roasting for a very very long time and then carried into the greenhouse at the back of my grandfather's garden (a garden of bananas and papayas and guava with an errant pen of goats and wandering geese, but a garden nonetheless) to be carved by many of my uncles and aunts, with my grandmother smacking their hands from nibbling while they carved. Tables laid with huge portions of black beans and rice, yucca root (to DIE for), fried plantains, and any number of delicious things brought by relatives. Miss Jean's family is large and enthusiastic, especially when it comes to food, and once you've tasted those black beans and rice, you would cross Lake Pontchartrain in a paddleboat to get to them. Gallons of frozen daiquiris (gotta love New Orleans - drive-thru daiquiri shops) and coolers of beer and bottles of soda for the kids. It's a foodie's fondest dream. Even now, when I go home, my grandmother cooks for a full day and implores me to have another pork chop, another serving of beans and rice, more yucca, and do I want ice cream because she's gotten some creole cream cheese just for me. And then she pinches my arm and tells me I'm getting too skinny.

Part of this is about the deliciousness that is on that plate. Part of it is about reaching back to my childhood with every single bite of creole cream cheese ice cream (it is of the Lord - look into it) that I remember taking from the carton, sitting on my grandfather's knee as he spooned it out for the both of us with a serving spoon. But most of it is about comfort. When people talk about emotional eating, I honestly can't think of any other way one might eat - eating is totally emotional for me. Beignets and cafe au lait say home to me. King cake on Fridays at school during Mardi Gras season says home to me. Fried shrimp po-boys (the best ones are found at the truck stop near my parents' new house) eaten off the paper with a glass bottle of Barq's root beer say home to me. Comfort ye, my people, saith my stomach.

What does this have to do with anything? It has to do with everything. The biggest deterrent to my personal/physical/mental well-being (because they are completely related to one another) is the nasty chain reaction that occurs during audition season. It starts early, in September, when I fill out the paperwork for those last few apprenticeship programs/competitions for which I'm eligible. Write, label, stuff, stamp. The auditions begin in October - I start booking my bus tickets and learning the rep that's requested. I go to the salon and get the hair touched up. New pairs of stockings, shine up the shoes, iron the dress, let the games begin. I go into this season with a good attitude, but when my inbox remains empty of offers (even though I know that most houses won't really make decisions till after Christmas) I start to get dejected. I allow my happiness and mental stability to enter into a relationship with my perceived level of success as pertains to work. I start to sleep later (I'm tired, I'm traveling, I tell myself) I start to exercise less (I don't have the time, it's hard to pack all that extra stuff and the shoes, I tell myself) I eat out more (I'm in New York, I'm visiting friends, I tell myself) and I wrap my hands around beverages that are warm and sweet and...that's right - comforting. (it's 9 freakin degrees outside, of course I want that latte with whole milk!)

The audition season is but one part of my year - an important part, no doubt, but still only one part. And yet, I allow it to take my progress down to a grinding halt. I allow it. I'm still in New York for work right now and it would have been so easy to keep up with this nasty progression of backwards two-stepping. But my husband put his foot down and told me that if I'm going to be there for five days out of every week, it's worth it for me to get the one-month pass to the NYCS and go. I hemmed and hawed, but he's right and it is, so I did. I found the one that's three blocks from where I'm staying (also conveniently one block from the subway stop I use) and I just did it. I bought the one-month pass, I packed my crap into my bag, and I went. And do you know what happened, dear readers?

I felt better. I felt more in control of my own destiny, more responsible for my personal success, and actually more likely to succeed. Singing engagements or no, I felt like I was taking steps to get back on track. I'm on the bus now, going back to NYC for another week of rehearsals which will be long and tedious, but I will pack my bag so I can go to the gym as soon as it's over. I will alternate my cardio and my weights. I will do the freaky Pilates shit that makes my stomach flat and happy. I will up the resistance on the elliptical to get my heart rate out of that very comfortable lazy place into the kicking my own ass place. And really, that's when I'm happiest - when I'm kicking my own ass.

And now, a little sidebar. The Met regionals are in two weeks. I was having this conversation with my dear friend Malinda, who is so incredibly insightful it sometimes makes me forget we've only been friends a year. We were discussing - of course - THE dress. Repertoire is set, I'm not going to mess with it. The venue is an old friend, and the pianist is a coach I've worked with before, so the only x-factor is the dress I'm going to wear. I was saying to her that it's very likely I'm the oldest woman, perhaps even the oldest singer, in the competition. Looking at the list, it seems there are quite a few younger singers, and I was worried that I might skew too "mature" to pique the interest of the judges. A 23 year-old soprano who has her shit together is exceptional, a 29 year-old soprano who has her shit together is expected. And we're talking about how if I wear anything that's too 'classy' it might skew me too conservative and maybe I should try for something a little flashier. And she says to me, "or, you could own your age and maturity and eat the little girls for breakfast."

Doctor, heal thyself. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in the headgame that I forget how I got here. I got here by being good at what I do. And what I do best is at the heart of the matter: I'm the best at being who I am. No one else is like me, no one else can do exactly what I do the way that I do it. And so, for the sake of being at my absolute best in two weeks (and every two weeks thereafter), I'm getting off the bus tonight, getting on the subway, and heading straight to the gym and THEN to the apartment. I'm putting myself first on the priority list instead of fourth or fifth after the needs sitting in my email inbox and after the requests for time or attention or instruction or whatever. It means seeking comfort in my own abilities, rather than in the refrigerator (or those seductive baked goods - Cindy, you are so right) and taking responsibility for what I put in my body and what I do with it afterward. Packing those right snacks (fruit and veggies yes, salt and vinegar chips NO) and planning for meals (delicious grilled fish yes, take-out Indian NO) and making time for exercise (90210 on the elliptical yes, 90210 on the sofa NO) and also making time for self-study. My friend Shirley suggested that I try to meditate to gain clarity. She's a smart cookie, so I'm going to try my best to clear my brain and make room for nothingness.

Here's to 2010. May it be the year we keep the most important promises made: the ones we make to ourselves.