I was hungry and you fed me

Today, I spend the day in my kitchen, preparing for a dinner party to welcome a new friend to town.

I think a lot about what it means to feed people.

I remember my own early days in this town, when I was wandering in confusion and brokenness, depressed out of my mind.  Lost in a swirl of voices I couldn't understand, I remember how one consistent and committed friend fed me, time and time again.  How when there were no answers and we'd run out of words, there was--at least--food.

And I remember back to a day earlier this summer, when I walked down a city street and was confronted by a smell more powerful than any I'd smelt before.  It was the smell of four unwashed humans and one unwashed dog, sitting in a circle, in front of a sign that read:

CLEAN, SOBER, & HUNGRY

I looked quickly at my feet, and walked on past.

I walked all the way back to my hotel, battling voices in my head.

Justifying voices of why it was unwise to hand over the hard-earned money that I had budgeted so carefully for this little trip, rationalizing voices regarding the fact that they were white and probably privileged and had probably at some point decided to reject all that had been handed them, getting themselves into their own mess.

"But," one voice in the midst of them all said, "they're hungry, 
they're hungry."

So I imagined myself walking back there and handing them money,
to go and buy themselves food.

And then, I confronted the battle of what other people would say.  Voices of criticism--regarding how handing beggars money just continues the problems--beamed through my mind. Voices of accusation, regarding whether or not I would hand a group of black people money if they were in the same situation.

Voices, voices, voices, just attacking me like crazy.

I sat in the lobby under their weight.  I fought and I fought,
this battle for my mind.

But that voice in the midst of the rest, the one that seemed to be swirling from the pit of my stomach, the voice that was calling out to stand above the rest and be heard--that voice was my voice, and it said:  They're HUNGRY.

And so I stood up, with decision.  I marched myself right back.  I tucked a wad of cash into the hand of the man who seemed to be the one in charge.  And I looked him right in the eye and I said: I can't stand it when people are hungry.  Take this, and be blessed.

And as I looked deeply into his tattooed face, I thought: What are the swirl of voices around your head? The ones that direct you and turn you and keep you in this unwashed state?

But I turned around and walked back, the swirl of voices around me quiet.  Quiet, except for One, still and small: I was hungry.  I was hungry, and you fed me*.

So today, I'll host my dinner party.  I'll welcome my friend to this new place.  And I will remember:  There are many battles we fight, many voices we face.  There are many ways to be hungry. And while I wish I could fight the voices and win the battle of each person I meet,
I can at the very least say:

If you're hungry, I can feed you.  Take this, and be blessed.

*Matthew 25: 35

On Learning how to Play

This morning, I lead three separate groups of pre-school and kindergarten children in making music together.  After each class, I lead three separate groups of college students--who have spent the time either participating with or observing us--in conversation of "what's important here?"

And we observe:  Those little darlings are more inclined than we are to do whatever comes to their mind. They feel free to try out their musical being, they allow themselves to respond to the music around them.  They are blissfully ignorant of any attempt of theirs either making or missing the mark.  And while often it is genius, it is also often 'wrong'.

We talk about how we don't expect them to be "right" yet--they're learning! They're exploring! They're trying it out!

We talk about how one day they will be able to recognize the difference between "right" and "wrong", but that part of the process of recognizing what the mark is is to have permission to blatantly and freely miss it.  Aiming and missing, aiming and missing, until one day they get it, and are secure.

It's the aiming that's important, not the getting it right every time.

And it makes me think about my practicing journey recently, of how anxious I had been about being perfect, of playing every little thing perfectly, and how it ended up just shutting me down.

It makes me think of how, last week, as I practiced, I allowed myself to play wrong notes.  How it struck me that wrong notes occurred far less when they were allowed for, than when they were not. 

And it made me think of how now--after allowing myself to JUST PLAY, wrong notes included--I am playing the score and thinking "gosh, this is easy!"  

Because stepping into the thing I was terrified of caused the thing to lose its power.  

It turns out wrong notes aren't such a big deal; it turns out, wrong notes are the way to doing it right. 

I aimed and I missed, and I learned how to play.   

On being Reliable

I am determined: It is time to conquer all that stands in the way of my being a free piano-playing person.

In my quest for victory, memories begin to stir, begin to float themselves to the surface.

I remember, being a wee little baby baby freshman, swimming in a big big sea with very much larger fish.

I remember that I didn't know what I didn't know, but that I was there to try.

My good friend Patrick, a tenor of some fine quality, asked me if I would accompany him.  I agreed.

I practiced, we practiced.  I did what I knew how to do.  We brought it to his teacher, a woman I will call Dr. N.   Dr. N. considered herself a bit of a pianist, and Patrick a bit of a pet.  Dr. N. did not think I was Patrick material.  

I remember that lesson, that after we showed her what we'd done, she sat down on the bench and showed me what I should do instead.  It was, I suppose, a relatively normal lesson.

But then, I remember a master class, in front of her whole studio.  I once again played for Patrick; she once again sat herself down, showed me what to do.  Nastily.  

I was a student, just as much as Patrick; but Dr. N. felt I should be more accountable, seeing as I was accompanying him.  And she let me know it.  She didn't teach me that day--she obliterated me.

I remember cowering in the library basement afterward, sobbing.

I remember that soon after this, Patrick and I performed for a performance class, for the whole department of music.  I was nervous--who wouldn't be, seeing as I'd never seemed able to play things right for him before?

I didn't yet know that when one is nervous, one's heartbeat picks up, which can significantly effect the tempo one chooses to play in.  I remember that it felt right to me; I remember that Dr. N. chased me down when we were finished, to tell me I'd ruined poor Patrick's moment with my excessive speed.

Is it any surprise that I never really liked her?

And yet, she was a voice of authority.  And, according to her, I was --at the very least-- an unreliable pianist. 

Fast forward, to a rehearsal, today, with some principal cast members.  I find myself questioning my reliability, I assume that I am going to mess them up.  I think ahead to the opera performances, how my piano role will be reduced to just smaller parts within the orchestra, which will feel unfamiliar. Already I see fear in me: I am unreliable, I am not to be trusted with this responsibility.

And then I have a step-back-and-take-a-moment moment:

I am.  The most.  RELIABLE PERSON I KNOW.  

Being reliable is important to me, so no wonder Dr. N.'s tirades felt like attacks against my very core. 

But today, I break her voice, which has hovered over all these years.
I set my mind to:  Free.

I choose to remember: I AM reliable. 

On being lost

On the way to my office this afternoon, I run into the orchestra conductor, who is both brilliant and lovely.  We talk about today's rehearsal.  From out of my mouth I hear the words,
"I was totally lost last time!"

And it hits me: Well, sure.  I am afraid of being lost.

Which is interesting, because just this morning I had a mental image of myself, as a little boat, cut from the side of an ocean liner.  On its own, floating in the water.  Feeling very very [very] vulnerable to?  Being lost.

Except that a little boat cut off of an ocean liner is typically known as a lifeboat.

Which means that I also felt very very [yes, very] free.

What if feeling lost is actually evidence that I am on the water, where I'm supposed to be?

On Fear, Fortitude, Freedom

In the spirit of conquering failure, I have devoted my weekend to my piano.  My rear-end is tired.  My hands are tired.  My mind and every inch of my body, is tired.  

But I am determined.

Boiling around in my head is the realization: I have to walk back in there on Tuesday.  What will they be thinking about me? What have they decided about me?  [What if they find me lacking, now, and always?]

And there is fear in me, in every tired inch of me.  

I have battled this fear my whole life--the simple truth is that, when it comes to playing the piano, I am a total headcase.  The question in my head, as I sit in rehearsals, as I get up on the stage, is "Can I do it?"  

Most of the time, I believe that I can't.  

Even though the truth is: I can. 

One of my favorite conductors looked at me in consternation one day as he stood in front of the choir, and said "Just PLAY."  And I knew what he meant--I was filtering every note through a film of terror, and he could hear it.  And it was getting in the way of the music, free and flowing.  Afraid of what I will find--that I am lacking, that I can't do it, I am not free.  To Just. Play.

It's an idol of perfection--I care too much.  And it's an idol of self, because if I can't do it...what does that mean about me?

The reason it feels so easy as I play my heart out by myself in my living room is because I'm just being me, no evaluative voices to be found.  Put me in a room full of people, and I'm wading through their thoughts between every note.

And listen--That just takes time and energy I don't have to spare.

But this fear has been my long companion.  It feels hopeless, it feels like I have no power to overcome it--it will suck me down, it will  be the one that wins.  

Because, guess what? It has won, time and time again.  

But this time, this time it is different.  This time I am weary of its game.  I am determined, in every tired inch.

It's diligence, isn't it?  It's commitment to the goal and fighting my way toward it, come hell or high water, come failure, come fear.  It's courage in the face of difficulty: It's fortitude.

Recently I woke up from a dream, where I saw myself being stretched between two stakes, holding on to each for dear life. They were stakes I'd placed in the ground--stakes to claim my territory.  But then, over time, I saw myself walking easily back and forth between those two stakes, lifting one and placing it just a bit further out than it had been, walking peacefully to the other, placing it just a bit further away as well.  The word in my head was: Fortitude.

When I'm being stretched thin, will I hold onto those stakes for dear life, until the ground between them becomes the place where the difficult things fall, and I walk among them easily? Expanding my territory?

At the end of the day --and in the early hours of the morning--it's a decision, to not allow fear to be the power that controls me, but to stand up, move forward, seeking the Power that calls me.  To walk straight through the fear, until I find myself in Freedom.

And so, as I prepare for battle on Tuesday [as I prepare for battle in every difficult place], I am determined:

Be present--in the moment.  You don't have time to evaluate each and every note and whether or not you can play it.

No matter what the difficulty is today, you just need to PLAY.

On Failure, and Reaction

Towards the end of last semester, I was asked to join in on an exciting project: to play/coach The School of Music's production of the Adamo opera, Little Women.  I pondered the question, I wondered if I could do it, I rearranged my life, and took on what I knew would be a challenge.  

I spent my summer preparing, as best I knew how.
Meaning, I spent my summer realizing: This thing is a BEAST.  

Yesterday, at our first rehearsal, the beast ate me alive.

The ways I prepared by myself in my living room weren't the right ways.  The stimuli of opera director and orchestra conductor and soloist and understudy-- in the swampland of tempi so fast and notes so bizarre and rhythms that really should-just-be-made-illegal-- were so overwhelming to me that I spent the entire rehearsal completely disoriented.  Completely out of my element. Which meant: Completely a giant mess, in my head and in my hands.

And if I had to tell you what I really thought, I would tell you I had failed.  I would tell you that everyone else in that room was aware of my failure as well, and that I had let them down.  I would tell you: I am in way over my head.

I should probably resign in a cloud of shame from every position I hold here, and move to Wichita.

But today, I go about my life.  I send the emails all over campus with all kinds of details, I proofread the documents, I facilitate the meeting and mediate the discussion, I teach the class.  In all of it I am more than competent, yet over all of it?  The cloud of shame hovers.

On my calendar for this afternoon is a voice department class, where I will sit at the piano and sight-read as students sing.
The cloud of shame whispers: you can't.

The voice of reason says: Girl, you have got to get a grip.

So I take a moment to go for a walk --in the sunshine and the brisker-than-I-was-hoping-for temperatures-- to seek some truth and clear my head.  And here is what I see:

One moment of failure sends me into a pit of the fear of man.  "What are they thinking of me?" rattles through every bone and every neuron.  What if they find me lacking, now, and always?

But one moment of failure does not define me.  Does that 90 minute rehearsal wipe out every thing I haven't failed at?  And will it be the standard for every moment yet to come? Is there no hope that I can recover? No possibility that I can make it even better than it would have been, had I not failed so blatantly in front of my-and-everyone-else's face?

Yesterday night I got home and I practiced; I got up this morning, and I practiced some more.  My one session with failure taught me what I needed to do differently, and differently I am doing it.
I wish that I didn't need to fail in order to learn, but the fact is: 

Sometimes, I do.

And so now, I set my mind in a way I hadn't before.  I want everything to be so easy; almost all of the time I can sit at the piano and not engage my brain hardly at all.  My body, my ears, my eyes---they do the work for me.  I can just enjoy.  But now? 10,000%, I'm engaged.  I'm in.  This beast of an opera requires it.  It will be difficult, and it probably won't be perfect, but it will be everything it can be, given what I have to give.

But of course:

It will at times become apparent that what I have to give is not enough.  What if I can never play the rehearsals the way that I want to? [What if they find me lacking, now, and always?]

And here, here is where the Deep Work comes in.

The Deep Work asks,  Do you believe that ALL THINGS are safely held in the hand of God?  The failed moments, the difficult moments, each-and-every-of-your-innate-limitation moments?   

And so I set my mind to look at my answer to this Deep Work question, because it is a question that will sit at the base of all of my life, for the rest of my life. When there are ugly days in the relationship I hold closest to my heart, does it mean said relationship is not in God's Hand?  When there are ugly relationships that I don't hold dear at all, what about those?  When my day to day requires from me what I do not feel able to give, and when friends suffer loss -- from the simplest to the most heart rending-- is it not safely in His hand?

I set my mind to the question, because the answer that I choose will define every failure I ever face: My own, of others [as effects rain down on top of me], of a world that disappoints at every turn and is completely beyond my control.  When things are not so easy, what will define me? 

And here is when I realize:

It's not the failure that defines me.  It's my reaction.  

Will I dig a hole in the ground and hide, hightail it to Wichita and forget I had ever known anything else?  Such a reaction can never bring freedom; it can only bring captivity, the prison of cherishing of my pain.

So, today, I'll go to the voice class.  Tonight, I'll practice differently, and tomorrow I'll do the same.  And in all of it, I will believe that this one failure is not the end of exposing my limitations.  It is, instead, the beginning of setting my mind to the Deep [deep] Hand of God.  

The Word Is:

fortitude

[Out of suffering comes the serious mind; 

out of salvation, the grateful heart; 

out of endurance, fortitude; 

out of deliverance, faith. 

~J. Ruskin]