Saturday, March 16, 2013
My New World Order
On December 21, 2012, the Mayan Calendar ended. This marked yet another unrealized doomsday scenario foretelling the apocalyptic end of the world. In my lifetime, the world has endured despite scores of similar prophecies put forth by notable, yet controvertible, visionaries including Jean Dixon, Charles Manson, John Gribbin, Nostradamus, The Amazing Criswell and countless religious fanatics. Passage to the 21st century prompted a remarkable convergence of disastrous predictions, where a good number of otherwise reasonable folk prepared for a technological armageddon in anticipation of Y2K.
My personal favorite doomsday scenario was the Rapture, mainly due to the hilarious pictures that "documented" the ascension with carefully arranged clothing and props laid out on lawns, in streets and in homes where the righteous once were. There was something remarkably amusing that immerged from the incredulity that people whole heartedly embraced this divine eventuality that would lift them above all others. The death scene of one such believer in a Six Feet Under episode was priceless.
My friends, Tom and Mer, had it right – if the world is coming to an end, let’s have a solstice party to celebrate! It struck me that the end of the Mayan calendar might offer opportunity for significant growth and change. What if we embraced this as closure to the end of the world as we know it, dispensing with the old and bringing on the new? Erase the slate and redesign. Throw out the script and begin writing a new chapter or perhaps a different story altogether. I imagined a New World order devised from a Rawlsian original position, where we could potentially address vexing social, political and economic issues. While not entirely feasible for the world, this was something I could reasonably implement for myself to recreate my own life.
My focus turned to the countless lists I have made throughout my adult life detailing desired changes to personal habits, professional life, daily routines and life dreams. Some items have persisted for decades. What if I compiled all of these lists and simply drew a line that signified the end of the old world and embarked upon an entirely new way of being? What if instead of perpetuating various resolutions for change, I did a wholesale division of old Jane and new Jane with a hard, solid line between the two? This was not about changing my habits, but about changing my thinking. It was not about maintaining a continuum of my life, but creating an entirely new paradigm that made the old ways of being obsolete.
This notion gained traction as I contemplated my existence as a middle aged woman, which has inadvertently thwarted a new construct upon me that necessitates some personal reconfiguration and planning for the next life phase. This awareness has not exactly elicited any sense of “embrace”, as the most obvious transformations erode perceptions of benefit. Some mode of evolution is clearly required to put this all in a more positive space. Yet, life changes are not entirely comfortable, often resulting in fear and resistance in anticipation of loss and uncertainty. I have never been good with transitions marked by prolonged thresholds. I have resided in this particular passageway for a couple of years.
At the same time, I am aware of ways I have veered off my own chosen path. This has nagged at me for several years, as I find myself living out of synch with some core values. This was not a conscious choice, but a byproduct of decisions opting for more immediate concerns and adjusting to life circumstances – what I call choosing with my feet rather than my heart, head and hands. In some cases, I made some conscious choices that brought me to unintended destinations, where I discovered an absence of fit. I have been reluctant to overcome my own inertia and shift directions to right myself, for various reasons ranging from laziness and avoidance to loss of comfort and security. The dissonance grows louder demanding some mode of adjustment to quiet things.
Given the level of octane fueling change, I decided to bite the bullet - the end of the Mayan calendar would mark the end of my world as I knew it. I would construct my new world order and embark upon my next life phase, fully understanding that this would not be without considerable pain.
What the Mayans failed to provide is a road map. It takes time for the destruction of an old world to fully transpire. The dust must settle before a new world can be constructed in its place. None of this happens over night. Procrastination has taught me that it takes a full season, from solstice to equinox, to allow such a shift to take hold. Spring is required for rebirth and rebuilding. Thus, my journey begins in earnest next week.
Developing a new world order takes time, thought and planning. I give myself this next season to lay the foundation, beginning with personal habits and daily routines. This blog represents one footing. I give myself the full year to put the girders in place to frame up the structure of my future life, and perhaps start putting some primary systems in place. I look forward to finishing, furnishing and, most of all, landscaping.
Here’s to my new world order. It is time to embrace my next life phase.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Music and Me
Piano
One of my earliest memories is my mother playing the Moonlight Sonata for me before I went to bed. At some point, I asked her, "How do you do that?" She showed me the sheet music and explained that each note represented a key on the piano. Over time, I was able to work out the notes by ear to teach myself how to read the sheet music to play this piece. Once I accomplished this feat, playing the piano became my first true love.
Much of my youth was spent listening to classical works then learning to play them on the piano. I soon graduated to the use of sheet music alone, investing in new music books and immersing myself for hours mastering various pieces, including favorites from Beethoven, Chopin, Tchaikovsky, DeBussy, Joplin, Gershwin and the Kuhlau Sonatinas. As a teen, I branched out to include other genres, with special affinity for Elton John, SuperTramp and Billy Joel, and I learned to provide accompaniment for my singing.
My piano playing has always been limited by the absence of proper training and music theory. There were some vain attempts at lessons. While in High School, my brother, the family sanctioned musician, convinced my mother that I should get lessons. The old woman, who was engaged to be my piano teacher, started things off with, "Now this is middle C", to which I responded, "Want to hear me play the Waldstein Sonata?" Not exactly a good fit. In college, I went through about 4 or 5 piano majors, who all reported that they did not know how to teach me because I was missing basic skills, yet in some ways my playing was more advanced than theirs. I have yet to solve this problem, although I was never destined to be a concert pianist, despite early dreams.
Voice
I was blessed with a better than average voice with tonally distinct ranges - a lusty lower range and a clear higher range, with incredible resonance, meaning my voice carries - true for both talking and singing. As a young girl, I loved Barbra Streisand. I bought all of her albums and learned every one of her songs, just as she sang them. I enjoyed popular music at the time, but Babs gave me a challenge and a work out, using the full range of my voice. My other singing preferences included spirituals, standards and show tunes.
What I loved most about singing was the translation of emotion into music using my voice. I could tap into my feeling universe and transform this into meaningful sound. And, I simply love how it feels in my body while I am singing. It is at once emotional release, vocal exercise and soulful meditation. Singing is equally about the music, as it is about the feeling.
I sang in school choirs, singing every part from first soprano to second alto, depending on the song and the need for vocal balance. I ultimately learned control, largely through my embarrassment of being told repeatedly that I sang too loud. In my late teens, I discovered that my singing might be good after securing a few leads in community theatre and landing a gig to sing backup vocals for recording sessions.
The best gift within my musical existence was the offer of private voice lessons in college by Dr. Thoburn, the Music Chair. My singing mates provided the needed push to accept, as I never had any intention of taking voice lessons. They convinced me that Dr. Thoburn was impressed with my vocal abilities and I could not turn him down. He reportedly chose his students, turning down several voice majors, and he NEVER worked with people outside of the music program. This was quite an honor, and an invaluable experience that meant the world to me.
Dr. Thoburn spent a lot of time working with me to forget everything anyone ever told me about singing too loud (a.k.a. releasing my throat) and to convince me that, even though my voice was not soft and sweet, it was a formidable instrument (a.k.a. learning to project and to breathe). I learned about voice as an instrument, not about singing. This was incredibly cool to me. To this day, I retain tremendous appreciation for those who use their voice as an instrument over those who merely sing.
After college, I sang in some women’s groups and for various church events, offering solo performances for the first time in my life. People enjoyed hearing me sing, but I did not like singing solos and being on stage. I could do the plays, the recording studio and the choral groups, but I felt way too exposed singing on my own in front of people. I was big on voice and low in performance ability. I continue to work on this, periodically providing solo performances to friendly audiences and sneaking out to karaoke bars unbeknownst to my friends - the secret singing life of Lax.
Song
Songwriting is where these two loves fuse into something even more inspiring and amazing to me. I cannot explain exactly how songwriting happens, as it is not a trained thing, but a sensing of something within me that needs to get out. This something is based in a feeling, which has music and words attached to it. Sometimes it starts with the music and other times it begins with the words. Sometimes it is free flowing and easy, where I generate full lyrics and/or score in one sitting, and other times it is more of a protracted process, where I struggle to lay vent to a persistent haunting. Sometimes there are germs that persist for months, but are not quite ready to emerge. Then there are the partials that have a tune and lyrics but require an instrument other than the piano or musical abilities greater than mine to bring them to their full life. I have yet to solve this problem, but I have learned to keep a song journal to track the germs and the partials.
When I finish a song, it is wholly satisfying with an absolute sense of relief, usually requiring sleep. The supreme gratification is coming back to the song to simply relax into the playing and singing of a creation that was born from me. If I had to name it, I would call it “deep listening”. And, at this risk of sounding entirely hokey, this truly soothes my soul.
I have no clue if what I write is “good” or if my songs would offer any enjoyment or meaning to anyone outside of me, because I still struggle with that performance thing. Where singing solos left me feeling too exposed, performing my own works feels akin to turning my being inside out for all to see. I am not sure how other singer/songwriters do it. I am clearly missing that diva chromosome, with no desire to be a star.
I keep my love of music and my creations to myself – it’s a private thing. I wonder if this is a coward’s excuse, a missed opportunity. As I get older, this all presses in on me. I would like to muster up the ability to perform my songs. I feel more compelled to share my songs as a means of expression for the many layers of self that remain concealed. The weird part is that I maintain a routine practice of not limiting myself due to fear, yet I realize this particular fear rules me. Perhaps it makes sense to walk through the performance anxiety and just do it. Let the world have its say – risk exposure, risk failure.
Within this blog, I take the first step, announcing to the world that I love music. It lives within my core and throughout every fiber of my being. I play the piano, I sing and I write songs. I am most content and at peace playing music on my own. I will move out of this private music space by sharing music that speaks to me. That’s a start.
I aspire to one day share my songs, in some form. It makes sense to begin by sharing lyrics, so I will create a placeholder called “My Songs”. A few dear friends consistently encourage me with gentle persuasion to record. Once I cross this hurdle, I will use this space to provide links. And, one day, I will perform.
You are invited to help me on this path, with permission to pester me.
One of my earliest memories is my mother playing the Moonlight Sonata for me before I went to bed. At some point, I asked her, "How do you do that?" She showed me the sheet music and explained that each note represented a key on the piano. Over time, I was able to work out the notes by ear to teach myself how to read the sheet music to play this piece. Once I accomplished this feat, playing the piano became my first true love.
Much of my youth was spent listening to classical works then learning to play them on the piano. I soon graduated to the use of sheet music alone, investing in new music books and immersing myself for hours mastering various pieces, including favorites from Beethoven, Chopin, Tchaikovsky, DeBussy, Joplin, Gershwin and the Kuhlau Sonatinas. As a teen, I branched out to include other genres, with special affinity for Elton John, SuperTramp and Billy Joel, and I learned to provide accompaniment for my singing.
My piano playing has always been limited by the absence of proper training and music theory. There were some vain attempts at lessons. While in High School, my brother, the family sanctioned musician, convinced my mother that I should get lessons. The old woman, who was engaged to be my piano teacher, started things off with, "Now this is middle C", to which I responded, "Want to hear me play the Waldstein Sonata?" Not exactly a good fit. In college, I went through about 4 or 5 piano majors, who all reported that they did not know how to teach me because I was missing basic skills, yet in some ways my playing was more advanced than theirs. I have yet to solve this problem, although I was never destined to be a concert pianist, despite early dreams.
Voice
I was blessed with a better than average voice with tonally distinct ranges - a lusty lower range and a clear higher range, with incredible resonance, meaning my voice carries - true for both talking and singing. As a young girl, I loved Barbra Streisand. I bought all of her albums and learned every one of her songs, just as she sang them. I enjoyed popular music at the time, but Babs gave me a challenge and a work out, using the full range of my voice. My other singing preferences included spirituals, standards and show tunes.
What I loved most about singing was the translation of emotion into music using my voice. I could tap into my feeling universe and transform this into meaningful sound. And, I simply love how it feels in my body while I am singing. It is at once emotional release, vocal exercise and soulful meditation. Singing is equally about the music, as it is about the feeling.
I sang in school choirs, singing every part from first soprano to second alto, depending on the song and the need for vocal balance. I ultimately learned control, largely through my embarrassment of being told repeatedly that I sang too loud. In my late teens, I discovered that my singing might be good after securing a few leads in community theatre and landing a gig to sing backup vocals for recording sessions.
The best gift within my musical existence was the offer of private voice lessons in college by Dr. Thoburn, the Music Chair. My singing mates provided the needed push to accept, as I never had any intention of taking voice lessons. They convinced me that Dr. Thoburn was impressed with my vocal abilities and I could not turn him down. He reportedly chose his students, turning down several voice majors, and he NEVER worked with people outside of the music program. This was quite an honor, and an invaluable experience that meant the world to me.
Dr. Thoburn spent a lot of time working with me to forget everything anyone ever told me about singing too loud (a.k.a. releasing my throat) and to convince me that, even though my voice was not soft and sweet, it was a formidable instrument (a.k.a. learning to project and to breathe). I learned about voice as an instrument, not about singing. This was incredibly cool to me. To this day, I retain tremendous appreciation for those who use their voice as an instrument over those who merely sing.
After college, I sang in some women’s groups and for various church events, offering solo performances for the first time in my life. People enjoyed hearing me sing, but I did not like singing solos and being on stage. I could do the plays, the recording studio and the choral groups, but I felt way too exposed singing on my own in front of people. I was big on voice and low in performance ability. I continue to work on this, periodically providing solo performances to friendly audiences and sneaking out to karaoke bars unbeknownst to my friends - the secret singing life of Lax.
Song
Songwriting is where these two loves fuse into something even more inspiring and amazing to me. I cannot explain exactly how songwriting happens, as it is not a trained thing, but a sensing of something within me that needs to get out. This something is based in a feeling, which has music and words attached to it. Sometimes it starts with the music and other times it begins with the words. Sometimes it is free flowing and easy, where I generate full lyrics and/or score in one sitting, and other times it is more of a protracted process, where I struggle to lay vent to a persistent haunting. Sometimes there are germs that persist for months, but are not quite ready to emerge. Then there are the partials that have a tune and lyrics but require an instrument other than the piano or musical abilities greater than mine to bring them to their full life. I have yet to solve this problem, but I have learned to keep a song journal to track the germs and the partials.
When I finish a song, it is wholly satisfying with an absolute sense of relief, usually requiring sleep. The supreme gratification is coming back to the song to simply relax into the playing and singing of a creation that was born from me. If I had to name it, I would call it “deep listening”. And, at this risk of sounding entirely hokey, this truly soothes my soul.
I have no clue if what I write is “good” or if my songs would offer any enjoyment or meaning to anyone outside of me, because I still struggle with that performance thing. Where singing solos left me feeling too exposed, performing my own works feels akin to turning my being inside out for all to see. I am not sure how other singer/songwriters do it. I am clearly missing that diva chromosome, with no desire to be a star.
I keep my love of music and my creations to myself – it’s a private thing. I wonder if this is a coward’s excuse, a missed opportunity. As I get older, this all presses in on me. I would like to muster up the ability to perform my songs. I feel more compelled to share my songs as a means of expression for the many layers of self that remain concealed. The weird part is that I maintain a routine practice of not limiting myself due to fear, yet I realize this particular fear rules me. Perhaps it makes sense to walk through the performance anxiety and just do it. Let the world have its say – risk exposure, risk failure.
Within this blog, I take the first step, announcing to the world that I love music. It lives within my core and throughout every fiber of my being. I play the piano, I sing and I write songs. I am most content and at peace playing music on my own. I will move out of this private music space by sharing music that speaks to me. That’s a start.
I aspire to one day share my songs, in some form. It makes sense to begin by sharing lyrics, so I will create a placeholder called “My Songs”. A few dear friends consistently encourage me with gentle persuasion to record. Once I cross this hurdle, I will use this space to provide links. And, one day, I will perform.
You are invited to help me on this path, with permission to pester me.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Mutable Conviction
Conversation threads sometimes weave unlikely parts of my life together, binding patchwork scraps of thought into a quilt that I am left to stitch into place. Here I stitch the fabric created last Saturday.
I had breakfast with a dear friend, who revealed a moment of self discovery that she has a tendency to reject ideas when initially presented only to later adopt them as good ideas on her own. As we talked this through, it became clear that this pattern was probably more related to her needing time to take in and process an idea than desiring to exert control or put forth ideas on her own. Her resolution was to soften her initial response with a request for time to process - “I’m not feeling that right now and I need some time to process. I will think about it and get back to you.” She also decided to be sure to attribute the original idea back to the true owner once she adopted it.
The confounding part is that my friend speaks with conviction. She is not at all forceful or abrasive, but she does express a level of certainty when offering her thoughts and opinions. She is not emphatic or argumentative in the least, but solid in her truth at that moment, yet her truth may change over time. My dear friend has mutable conviction.
This is a quality I cherish, partly because it resonates with me and my own expression of self and partly because my friend allows herself to evolve in a world of apparent absolutes in opinion and belief. I find the absence of absolutes to be entirely refreshing. She is not firmly entrenched in any script, belief system or party line and she makes no claim of knowing more than anyone else or of being right. My friend speaks her truth at this moment and she is not done yet. I enjoy conversations with her as adventures in discovery. I am always interested in where she is now. And, I am honored to share in her process.
We shared a delightful moment of realization that we were both built similarly in this respect, and this mutable conviction was part of what fueled our cherished time together. We essentially allow each other to speak our truths in a particular moment, with certainty, while using the opportunity to explore and process the full range of thought and feeling attached, sometimes coming to a different resolution together. And, should either of our truths change over time, neither one of us ever says, “Hey! This is not what you told me last time.”
My friend marveled that someone once accused her of lying because she had, in essence, changed her mind. I personally remain consistently amazed that people take me so seriously, when I hold nearly everything in question, so much so that my sister once dropped a full tray of fresh picked strawberries in the middle of picking and shrieked “Oh my God! How do you live?”
While I fully understand that this mutable conviction can be somewhat unnerving for those who require certainty, we truly are not doing this to mess you up. I suppose there might be some sort of human characteristic continuum where one side is more fluid and the other is more solid or concrete. My friend and I are clearly on the fluid end of things and we are somehow okay with that.
We giggled at the notion of speaking our mutable conviction then adding some mode of inflection or question at the end. I have often wondered if I should punctuate everything I say with a tag line of sorts, “And, this could all change over time.” If you drop your strawberries and screech at the thought of this, you may be more on the concrete side of things.
I enjoyed a lovely visit with my oldest and dearest friend and her husband later that Saturday. We had a remarkably similar conversation, but on an entirely different vein. We embarked on a personality comparison of my friend, her husband, her sister and me. We agreed that the sister, husband and I all spoke with conviction, which often stressed my friend out, especially if we were in the same space, as she experienced this as a source of potential conflict. We agreed that while the husband and I both spoke with conviction, we did not require agreement, just expression. Neither of us had to be right or prove the other wrong. Her husband kept saying that I was kind of quirky in my conviction, but wasn’t able to aptly pinpoint what he meant by it, just that I was “different”. I was able to makes sense of this by sharing excerpts from insights discovered earlier in the day.
These two conversations wove together two vastly different parts of my life and seemingly disparate interactions, where the binding thread was mutable conviction. I speak with certainty, but I am willing, able and likely to change my mind. And, while I speak with certainty about my current truth, this could all change in time.
I had breakfast with a dear friend, who revealed a moment of self discovery that she has a tendency to reject ideas when initially presented only to later adopt them as good ideas on her own. As we talked this through, it became clear that this pattern was probably more related to her needing time to take in and process an idea than desiring to exert control or put forth ideas on her own. Her resolution was to soften her initial response with a request for time to process - “I’m not feeling that right now and I need some time to process. I will think about it and get back to you.” She also decided to be sure to attribute the original idea back to the true owner once she adopted it.
The confounding part is that my friend speaks with conviction. She is not at all forceful or abrasive, but she does express a level of certainty when offering her thoughts and opinions. She is not emphatic or argumentative in the least, but solid in her truth at that moment, yet her truth may change over time. My dear friend has mutable conviction.
This is a quality I cherish, partly because it resonates with me and my own expression of self and partly because my friend allows herself to evolve in a world of apparent absolutes in opinion and belief. I find the absence of absolutes to be entirely refreshing. She is not firmly entrenched in any script, belief system or party line and she makes no claim of knowing more than anyone else or of being right. My friend speaks her truth at this moment and she is not done yet. I enjoy conversations with her as adventures in discovery. I am always interested in where she is now. And, I am honored to share in her process.
We shared a delightful moment of realization that we were both built similarly in this respect, and this mutable conviction was part of what fueled our cherished time together. We essentially allow each other to speak our truths in a particular moment, with certainty, while using the opportunity to explore and process the full range of thought and feeling attached, sometimes coming to a different resolution together. And, should either of our truths change over time, neither one of us ever says, “Hey! This is not what you told me last time.”
My friend marveled that someone once accused her of lying because she had, in essence, changed her mind. I personally remain consistently amazed that people take me so seriously, when I hold nearly everything in question, so much so that my sister once dropped a full tray of fresh picked strawberries in the middle of picking and shrieked “Oh my God! How do you live?”
While I fully understand that this mutable conviction can be somewhat unnerving for those who require certainty, we truly are not doing this to mess you up. I suppose there might be some sort of human characteristic continuum where one side is more fluid and the other is more solid or concrete. My friend and I are clearly on the fluid end of things and we are somehow okay with that.
We giggled at the notion of speaking our mutable conviction then adding some mode of inflection or question at the end. I have often wondered if I should punctuate everything I say with a tag line of sorts, “And, this could all change over time.” If you drop your strawberries and screech at the thought of this, you may be more on the concrete side of things.
I enjoyed a lovely visit with my oldest and dearest friend and her husband later that Saturday. We had a remarkably similar conversation, but on an entirely different vein. We embarked on a personality comparison of my friend, her husband, her sister and me. We agreed that the sister, husband and I all spoke with conviction, which often stressed my friend out, especially if we were in the same space, as she experienced this as a source of potential conflict. We agreed that while the husband and I both spoke with conviction, we did not require agreement, just expression. Neither of us had to be right or prove the other wrong. Her husband kept saying that I was kind of quirky in my conviction, but wasn’t able to aptly pinpoint what he meant by it, just that I was “different”. I was able to makes sense of this by sharing excerpts from insights discovered earlier in the day.
These two conversations wove together two vastly different parts of my life and seemingly disparate interactions, where the binding thread was mutable conviction. I speak with certainty, but I am willing, able and likely to change my mind. And, while I speak with certainty about my current truth, this could all change in time.
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