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]

Oh, it's just so Grange-y

One way that we here in central PA know that summer is coming to an end is when the Grange Fair comes to town.  And the interesting thing about the Grange Fair is that it's just so....Grange-y.  

There's really no other way to describe it.

You walk around, hopefully with people 

you enjoy walking around with.

You view the animals there to be viewed.

[Do they know they're on display, because come on:
How sweet is this?!]

 You say hello,

 and have a moment of 'huh, I eat you...'

 You wander through the crafts,

 the [blue-ribbon-worthy?] collections.

 You ponder what makes one pepper 

more prize-winning than another,

 you marvel at the things that people do.

 You reflect on the fact that you're really a citizen of this great place when you recognize names of contestants, and wonder if you can request them to share with you their prize recipes.

 If you're me, you get a little giddy about the flowers,

 and focus on the ones 

that have caught your fancy.

And then, of course, there's the typical fair fare, 

 of games and cheesy prizes, 

 of fried food [speaking of cheese...]

and any other treat your heart [but not your arteries] desires.

And you get all grateful to have quality time with dear friends before life gets all blitzed out crazy again.

It's just so Grange-y, but somehow, just so good.

Sleepover, Cottage Style

Since the day I moved in, 

these two darlings have been begging me for a sleepover.

And, since our summer is nearing its end, 

yesterday they came tumbling in with bedding and baggage, 

ready for a night and a day of fun.

We started off with dinner (quesadillas, our tradition) 

and a game (Clue, our obsession).

Then, a treat:

 Meyer Dairy, for ice cream.

 We sat in the cool of the picnic tables to enjoy a pleasant evening, 

which started out well enough.

Then, this happened:

Clearly, it was time to retreat from public.

 Under the glory of the setting sun,

we drove ourselves home, with precious talking underway.

We closed out the night then,

 hanging around,

 singing and playing our little hearts out.

 There were some final games,

and then we climbed into beds and read, and talked, 

and laughed ourselves to sleep.

The next morning unfolded with lazy laying around,

 and a very large investment

  in breakfast.

I thought to myself:

 "what lovely sweet girls."

And then, this happened:

 Clearly, it was time to divert some of that energy elsewhere.

Commence:

Epic Water Balloon Battle.

 We prepared.

Though our progress was slow,

we worked together

 until we could fill enough arsenals for all.

 We headed outside in our bathing suits,

 into the rainstorm we refused to let defeat us.

 We took our places,

 and got ready,

 for action.

[Did I mention it was pouring? Did I mention it was awesome?]

Wet and weary, we headed inside for lunch

 and a few last rounds of Clue,

before declaring our sleepover a success, 

and to be repeated, soon.