“The Stuff of Life”

I found myself smiling as I felt the mist of the cool air hit my flushed face.  I saw the crowds increase in number and loudness and grow in cheery enthusiastic support as I made my way through the city.

“The stuff of life,” I said under my breath; a term coined by my grandmother who had always been the champion of pointing out all things poignant and meaningful in life from which one could draw for inspiration.

I had arrived at the last half mile; my physical discomfort eclipsed only by the exhilaration and anticipation of what awaited me.  Although my breathing never labored too far out of the norm, my body, and all of its many joints and connective tissue (each keenly felt by mile eight) was starting to beg for mercy.  My mind, my body’s maestro, commanded my feet to keep their pace on the hard pavement, my lungs to pull the air in and out, and my blood to rush energy to my screaming muscles.  Through the pain, I visualized myself crossing the finish line, of receiving the medal, of feeling the euphoric rush of accomplishment.

In that last half mile, I observed how the race was a living metaphor for my life.  Getting close to a goal comes with its own set of challenges.  If I’m not careful, my lack of patience could orchestrate frustration, and possibly resentment.  I must continue to embrace the joy of the process while fighting the longing for the stage under my feet.  I fight the urge to sprint when I should continue my relaxed and resolute stride of audition preparation and craft development.  The allure of stability in the face of financial and job challenges is undeniable.  I feel it, acknowledge it, give it its due and then swiftly push it aside in favor of finding creative solutions that will allow me to continue my pursuit.

When I first saw the finish line ahead of me, with 10 miles of pavement behind me, I laughed out loud, did a fist pump into the air and simply said, “yes!”  Crossing the finish line brought tears to my eyes along with that rush of joy that is unmistakable and leads us to the conclusion that it was all so very worth it.  I wore the medal for the rest of the day simply for the satisfaction of feeling it bump against my sternum as I walked.  I would reach up to touch it on occasion as I was driving.  It served as a timely reminder as to why I strive and work for a dream, no matter how challenging the road.

I will never be ready to turn away from the glory of a dream realized for that is “the stuff of life”.

Peace Meal

The first thing I noticed was the interplay of light and dark with the contrast creating a mood, a slowing, a softening, and a heavy abundance of calm.  As I stood looking at the structure towering over me, I reveled in the greatness of man to envision, design, and construct an edifice of beauty, personifying peace, with their minds and muscle.

I walked along the halls and corridors and watched the flickering lights of loves lost or loves still held dear; each candle a person of value to someone.  I would look up and see the windows come alive; brightening and darkening with the changing light outside as if they were breathing.

The very environment was conducive to powerful introspection in which I could, by the very nature of the building, be allowed to focus on my own breathing, heartbeat, and soon thereafter, my thoughts.

At one point, I sat in the pews and allowed my body to sink into the hard surface, feeling myself become grounded.  A visit to Notre Dame will remind you that there is not only beauty in this world but that man still has the ability to, through the force of their own ideas, create it.  This structure moves all those that move through it and I was no exception.

I’ll always have Paris

Top of the Notre Dame

After climbing the 387 steps up the South Tower of Notre Dame, I saw the light of the bright sky as I finally entered the brilliance of the day once again, breathing hard but full of excitement and anticipation for the view I had only seen on postcards and guidebooks.  Notre Dame was slated for my first day, having just gotten off my 7-hour, red-eye flight across the Atlantic.  True to my Type A nature, I wasn’t about to let several hours of daylight go unattended as I dropped off my luggage, grabbed my guide-book and headed out.  Walking across the square towards the towering building, I was already awestruck.  Entering the building left me speechless and teary eyed as the depth of peace enveloped me along with the visually impactful spance of stained glass, somber reflection, and historical significance.  But my most memorable experience would come later, after waiting in a chilly, 1-hour line outside the building.  Climbing the dark steps, with little visual clues but for the small, narrow windows along the curved wall, I was teased with glimpses of altitude and vision that was about to be served as reward for the exertion.  Finally, as the light hit my face, I heard the sighs and gasps of those entering the summit ahead of me.  The brilliant blue skies and white puffy clouds gave way to my Parisian vista.  I could do no more than look out across the space of building and sky, hosted by the gargoyles at every peripheral, and hold my breath in awe.  The roof of the Notre Dame had served up the perfect introduction to the enchanting city that would win my heart swiftly and without apology.  I grabbed my camera and started snapping photo after photo as we rounded each corner; view after spectacular view invaded us from every angle.

Looking through my photos later, I saw one that made my breath catch in my throat.  It was one of a winged gargoyle,  its wings tucked in to itself, in a relaxed but seemingly contemplative state of observation as it looked out across the teeming life below and beyond.  The bird could choose to spread its wings at any time and enter the pulsing excitement of the world below.  It instantly reminded me of my looking at my own life and my visions and hopes for my future.  I looked at that particular photo long and hard and decided that the bird was me and that my wings were ready.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, blue birds fly

At the time that this blog hits the feeds, I will be jetting across the ocean to Europe for an almost two-week trip to Paris and London.   I have decided that, as part of the journey, I will talk to at least one person ( who can speak English) each day and ask about their dreams and aspirations and blog about it here.  Goals and dreams, risks and rewards, aspirations and fires in the belly knows no bounds and is something that we all share.  I look forward to the journey!

My dream waited for me

My feet hit the pavement as I got off the bus for the first time in months.  The exhilaration of the sights and sounds of Manhattan hit me like a best friend lifting me off the ground in a bear hug.  I walked the few blocks to the studios for my audition, slipped my songbook out of my bag and took a deep breath.  It felt like coming home again after a long absence.  My dream had stepped aside for just a small moment to wait for me to be ready again. There were things I needed to attend to so that I could come back to my goals with more fervor.  And, with open arms, the dream greeted me again wrapped in the thrill of a well-executed audition.  As I sang my last notes and walked out of the room, I knew.  I was finally on the other side of a challenging journey.  I was off and running again; back in the saddle and riding the horse at a full throttled and thrilling run, hands tightly grasping the reins as I looked to the skies and laughed loudly.

Tides

I have been missing because I had to find myself.  There has been a powerful convergence of roads, divergance of paths, turning waves of change, and soul-shaking shifts crashing at my feet and submerging my toes in a speed with which I could hardly keep up.  The only grain of sand that I have, the solid beneath the soles of my feet, is my unwavering dream.  It has been one of only a few precious constants in my life that has kept me grounded and has stood behind me to plant wings on my shoulders so that I can continue to fly.

Two deep breaths….

As I continue to walk ahead with the sun’s warmth on my face and shoulders, I see that the world has changed around me or is it that I have changed and the world was simply waiting for me to arrive with notice?  Nothing is familiar to me because I am not familiar to my old self any longer.  My youth, my vigor, the fire in my belly, and the hope in my heart takes my hand and leads me again across the scapes.

I needed a moment to breathe because nothing remains albeit the passions of my heart that have never left.  So I hold on to those as I begin to build my life again.  I hold the seeds in my fist as I stand over the fresh, toiled and awaiting soil, ripe with promise and I plant, once again, my Spring.

Let it begin again and even better than before.

Owning your Requiem

“One might even say the group sang as if it owned the piece. Such ownership was thoroughly earned.” -  The Philadelphia Inquirer review of the Philadelphia Singers’ performance of Randall Thompson’s Requiem

The serendipitous quality of the harmonies tugged at my heart as we rehearsed that final night before the performance the next day.  It had been a long one for me and I looked forward to drowning myself in movements that were so beautifully in tune with my psyche that I became the piece….or owned it as the review so eerily and accurately stated.  I had my favorite movements; the ones that brought goosebumps up across my forearms and stood the hair up on the back of my neck.  There were others that instantly filled my eyes with tears as the harmonies turned me inside out.  I always revel in music that is so poignant in its composition that it actually sounds like an emotion.  With my recent family death and massive life changes on my mind, I looked to the Requiem as not only a healing balm but a healthy release of past pains.  It was the death mass of sadness giving way to glorious joys; of past fears giving way to courage and strength.  The piece, in essence, was a testament to letting go, like a long overdue goodbye.  It was a gift, a pleasure, and a privilege to sing.  As the standing ovation died down on the night of the performance, I took two deep breaths and stepped into my new and exciting future.

Performance Venue (Holy Trinity)

Paying your dues when you don’t

“This is not hard work,” I thought to myself when reviewing these past months of coaching my voice, taking dance classes, networking, marketing myself, and auditioning.  Part of loving my craft is loving the cultivation of it.  The blood pumps into my limbs and fuels them for action, the sweat pours from the body as I learn a new dance move that will aid in a future audition, the tears release the excitement or the tension or bring forth the emotion of a phrase.  As I play the waiting game again this week after a promising audition,  I have realized that “paying my dues” was having the endurance necessary to keep going and not giving up.   The disappointments can surround you, the discouragement can poison your positive outlook, the very powerful urge to quit, after a particularly hard day, can seduce you to inaction.  Fighting that urge tooth and nail is my hard work, and is fought with true blood, sweat, and tears.  I will gladly pay these dues, no matter how hard it may seem.  My dream is closer than it has ever been before.  It is on the other side of the door that I am leaning against, my head resting on its hard surface; my hand reaching to turn the knob.   When the door opens and I finally walk through, my dues will have been paid in full.

Connective Tissue

All of you were a strong and unbreakable tether that linked me to the other side.  You fed me strength and wisdom when I was swimming in one of my weaker moments.  You, my close friends and family across the miles, unified in your support, turned your radars my way as I hurt, sometimes alone with my pain, in a far off place.  As I was forced to helplessly observe eye-opening dynamics pouring forth from pained loved ones, your gentle words of encouragement trickled in on my phone through messages, emails and calls.  Those little touches kept me focused until I could find my own footing.  Being vulnerable, I selfishly drank in your generosity; lacking any capacity to give back or utter a thank you.  I had to trust that all of you knew of my gratitude.   I commensurated with my family in ways that I had never done so before as life cracked open in front of me, revealing the tormented and sadder elements.

I first felt the profoundness of your connections when I had launched my quest to traverse the next level of my singing career and last week when life delivered one of those unexpected blows, I felt your connections again.  I pulled the only strength that I had from all of you.  I observed your own drives for happiness; reminding me that life goes on and steers us in the direction of the joyous and the ways of the living.

Thank you all for being on the other end of my tether.

Open Letter to Man’s Mind

Inaction is my most uncomfortable state of being; especially when what I want to do most in the world is move. I felt this yesterday when I was notified of my stepfather’s unexpected passing and knowing that over 1700 miles separated me from my grieving family. I completed the task of booking the earliest possible flight home and spent the rest of the evening pacing the floors of my mind. At the gate I watched my flight’s crew check in and walk the ramp to the plane and I thanked every one of them for pursuing what may have been a childhood dream to fly, completing endless hours of flight school, and logging countless hours of flight time; enduring what I’m sure have been pay cuts and furloughs but still forging ahead with hands on the throttle. I thanked the flight attendants walking to the gate with coffee in hand and sleepy eyes, for waking up with the alarm or wake-up call and making it to the crew shuttle and thus, to the airport on time to keep my flight from being delayed. As I sat in my seat, I felt the first shred of peace as the powerful thrusters came to life; finally moving me at a rate of speed I could live with and had been waiting for hours before. The engines continued their roar under my chair; pumping with fuel, the blood of countless years of engineering, design, and testing from those who, as young men and women, may have bent over a desk at MIT, working on a physics problem or calculation. I felt the brains, sweat, and committment of many, driving my body down a runway and eventually into the air, making an enemy of gravity and lifting me swiftly closer to my mother’s grieving arms.