I've never been much of a Bob Dylan fan. I know, go ahead and de-friend me now. I was re-reading The Help for the umpteenth time, and Skeeter talks about hearing 'The times they are a-changin' on the radio. Since I'd never taken the time to listen to this song, I dialed up our friend youtube.
Now I won't say that I'm a convert to the cult of Bob Dylan. I'll still take James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, Simon & Garfunkel, and even Neil Young (although Jimmy Fallon doing his Neil Young impersonation is almost as good as the real thing) from time to time, over the raspy songster. But ole Bob was on to something. I keep re-reading the first verse.
Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you
Is worth savin'
Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin'.
Part of keeping sane in this bonkers career involves accepting that you will miss certain holidays with the ones you love, you might not be at home for your anniversary/birthday, you will not always sleep in your own bed, and you may have to cope with illness (yours or someone else's) in a foreign language. You have to readjust your expectations so you're not surprised or disappointed beyond coping at every turn. I don't know if this is also what it means to be an adult, but it feels like I'm going through a growth spurt. In the last six months, my husband lost his job, was hired at one that wasn't supposed to be permanent, and now it's becoming permanent. We're moving to be closer to said job. I was supposed to spend the winter at home, puttering away at my part-time day job, learning one new role in plenty of time, and sleeping in my bed in my house. None of that happened. Instead, I jumped into two productions - one at a pretty major house in the States, another in France, both on short notice. I'm leaving my tidy part-time job, leaving behind the few students I had left, which means, as of some time next month, singing is the only thing I do for a living. I have to go breathe into a paper bag now.
I don't do short notice. I don't really do surprises. I really don't do change. And more than that, I don't do short notice, surprises, and change, all at once, in the span of 6 months, but here we are.
How do we learn to trust that this wave isn't going to take us under? How do we muster enough courage to soldier forward on this unknown path? This is where Bob and the smart comes in.
Those two major a-words (no, not THOSE a-words): "admit" and "accept." You have to admit that change is coming, it's coming at you, and if you try to turn your back or bury your head in the sand you will be SO screwed. You have to accept that life is not going to go back to the way it was, no matter how much you squeeze your eyes shut and wish for it to be so. But that new life, the one that's waiting for you just beyond all of the insanity, it might just be the next stage of something wonderful. At least, that's what I'm hoping.
And in more familiar territory. "Honey, time marches on and eventually you realize it is marchin' across your face."
I'm gonna apply a second coat of night cream and pull the shades over my eyes. The times are changing, with or without my consent. I may as well rest up.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Be a New Orleanian, wherever you are
If you're not familiar with Dirty Coast, do yourself a favor and google it. I have a long wishlist on that website, from the 504ever t-shirt to the Believe in the Trinity poster that will hang in my kitchen as soon as I get back. Little pieces of home that allow me to feel not quite so lonely when I'm far away.
Which brings me to Germany. In the first week of rehearsal, I was taken in by a lovely American who brought me to her friends' home for dinner with their kids. It was so delightfully refreshing to sit at a big table with a 5 year-old clamoring for my attention (because he had serious business with dinosaurs) while his lovely singer parents were trying to persuade him to eat the rest of his green beans. This is something that's usually conspicuously absent from the singer life - normal dinners with kids. I will say, that appears to be a big advantage to the Fest system. It seems that most singers on Fest are able to have a quasi-normal life, bringing their kids to kindergarten, calling in sick when someone has the flu, and no one really bats an eyelash. Second lady is out today- why? - her kid has an ear infection. Oh, poor thing. We'll catch her up tomorrow. And we go on with rehearsal. Basta cosi. There seems to be a very low-drama approach, because it's a job. These lovely people come to work, and they do their job. It's not without faults (cuckoo directors who double-book singers to be in two rehearsals at once), as I'm sure they'd tell me, but everyone seems alarmingly normal.
And then I met a woman from the homeland.
This fierce dramatic soprano is singing in another production that's going on at the opera house right now. I saw the show last weekend and was completely blown away (King Lear + german opera = whoa). She was chilling backstage during our dress rehearsal, introduced herself to me, only to find out we're both from New Orleans. [I want to take this moment to give a shoutout to the Baby Jesus, for knowing that I really needed to talk to someone from home. Thanks, Baby Jesus.] She's about 17 years older than I, but we know all the same haunts - Liuzza's, R&O's by the lake, Sal's snowballs - although I concede that most of my haunts are technically Metairie. She's super nice, sassy, and within about 15 minutes of meeting, we've got a dinner date. We go in search of good food, because it's always about the food, and have a generally fantastic time. We talk about work, her family, my family, our parents, loving and leaving NOLA, and the never-ceasing gravitational pull that tugs at us to come home. She comes to opening night and tells me she'll come back at intermission, just to give me the check-in on how I'm doing, which she does, and she brings me a copy of the New Yorker, which I didn't realize how much I'd missed. [sidebar: having my New Yorker subscription with me on the road might be reason enough to get an iPad....] She tells me I'm kicking ass, and that my costume makes me look smokin hot (both of which were true), and we go out for a beer after.
It's not that this behaviour is unique to someone from New Orleans. I've experienced plenty of kindness and compassion with people from all over. But when you meet someone from your own corner of your home country, it's really special. It's that beautiful moment where you recognize yourself in someone else and you get to touch back and say, "oh right, this is that part of me that's always there," but you probably don't get to express it when you're going through your daily life in German. I'm so very grateful for this, and I only hope that I can do the same for someone else on the road. Life's too short, and this career path is too complicated to travel it alone.
That said, I'm going to put on the Meters and make myself breakfast. It won't be grits (I don't know that the Germans even know what grits are), it won't be a pecan waffle from the Camellia Grill, but at least I can sing along with those voices that call me home. They all ask'd for you, I hear :)
Which brings me to Germany. In the first week of rehearsal, I was taken in by a lovely American who brought me to her friends' home for dinner with their kids. It was so delightfully refreshing to sit at a big table with a 5 year-old clamoring for my attention (because he had serious business with dinosaurs) while his lovely singer parents were trying to persuade him to eat the rest of his green beans. This is something that's usually conspicuously absent from the singer life - normal dinners with kids. I will say, that appears to be a big advantage to the Fest system. It seems that most singers on Fest are able to have a quasi-normal life, bringing their kids to kindergarten, calling in sick when someone has the flu, and no one really bats an eyelash. Second lady is out today- why? - her kid has an ear infection. Oh, poor thing. We'll catch her up tomorrow. And we go on with rehearsal. Basta cosi. There seems to be a very low-drama approach, because it's a job. These lovely people come to work, and they do their job. It's not without faults (cuckoo directors who double-book singers to be in two rehearsals at once), as I'm sure they'd tell me, but everyone seems alarmingly normal.
And then I met a woman from the homeland.
This fierce dramatic soprano is singing in another production that's going on at the opera house right now. I saw the show last weekend and was completely blown away (King Lear + german opera = whoa). She was chilling backstage during our dress rehearsal, introduced herself to me, only to find out we're both from New Orleans. [I want to take this moment to give a shoutout to the Baby Jesus, for knowing that I really needed to talk to someone from home. Thanks, Baby Jesus.] She's about 17 years older than I, but we know all the same haunts - Liuzza's, R&O's by the lake, Sal's snowballs - although I concede that most of my haunts are technically Metairie. She's super nice, sassy, and within about 15 minutes of meeting, we've got a dinner date. We go in search of good food, because it's always about the food, and have a generally fantastic time. We talk about work, her family, my family, our parents, loving and leaving NOLA, and the never-ceasing gravitational pull that tugs at us to come home. She comes to opening night and tells me she'll come back at intermission, just to give me the check-in on how I'm doing, which she does, and she brings me a copy of the New Yorker, which I didn't realize how much I'd missed. [sidebar: having my New Yorker subscription with me on the road might be reason enough to get an iPad....] She tells me I'm kicking ass, and that my costume makes me look smokin hot (both of which were true), and we go out for a beer after.
It's not that this behaviour is unique to someone from New Orleans. I've experienced plenty of kindness and compassion with people from all over. But when you meet someone from your own corner of your home country, it's really special. It's that beautiful moment where you recognize yourself in someone else and you get to touch back and say, "oh right, this is that part of me that's always there," but you probably don't get to express it when you're going through your daily life in German. I'm so very grateful for this, and I only hope that I can do the same for someone else on the road. Life's too short, and this career path is too complicated to travel it alone.
That said, I'm going to put on the Meters and make myself breakfast. It won't be grits (I don't know that the Germans even know what grits are), it won't be a pecan waffle from the Camellia Grill, but at least I can sing along with those voices that call me home. They all ask'd for you, I hear :)
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