yes

My phone rang this morning.
And I didn't want to answer it.

I was 1.5 hours into a 7-hour practice day. I have several binders of music to learn. And with 10 practice days left before it all has to be performable, things are just a wee bit stressful.

But, then again, I survived 75 voice finals last week...without the aid of coffee, wine, or really, any amount of practicing...and with the help of 2 bottles of cough syrup, 2 cartons of grapefruit juice and and far too many cough drops.   So, anything is possible, right?

Still, I didn't want to answer the phone.

Somebody probably needs an accompanist, and I don't want it to be me.  I was up late last night, and I've been playing a lot lately, and I'm still trying to get healthy, and I'm attempting to be ready to move out of my apartment next week, and I have to bake a birthday cake for a friend, and I would just like to be home for an evening....and.....a million other things...

So, obviously, I answered the phone.

It was a voice teacher friend of mine. Her student had won a special award at the music festival that took place here this week (Thomas Hampson established the award in honor of his former teacher). And, he had been selected to perform at the honors concert.  Tonight.  And, his accompanist was unavailable.

Usually, I say no to these things.
I don't like doing things last minute.
I have enough music on my plate right now.

But it was a piece I knew and could probably play in my sleep.
And I live five minutes from the theater.
And I do happen to be free this evening.
And, most of all, this kid deserves to sing.  He deserves the chance to tell his story.  He deserves to be celebrated.  He deserves the chance to share his gift.

So, obviously, I said yes.
And, obviously, I'm glad I did.

Because I got to empower someone tonight.  I got to give him the gift of possibility.  And he took it and ran with it.

Sure, if I hadn't said yes, someone else might have played.  So maybe he still would have gotten a chance to sing and tell his story and share his gift and be celebrated.

But I got to be a part of the story-telling.
I got to be a part of the celebration.
I got to enable him to shine.
I got to help him share his gift.
I got to receive some of the blessing.


My phone rang this morning.
And I'm glad it did.

here we are

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know you.

I mean, of course, I can.

I lived 20 years before I met you.   20 full years.

But somehow in your quest to know my story - the days, hours, years - the seasons - I lived before our hearts began their journey together – you have, in fact, in some mysterious way, become part of my whole story – even the parts you weren’t actually present for.

Sometimes I forget how much life we’ve actually lived together.

Sometimes I forget how much you’ve seen me through.

Sometimes I forget how much of me you’ve seen.

It’s true: you have seen me.  

You have seen past my attempts to hide, 
                right straight through my half-answers and avoidance tactics.  
You have seen me through the veil of your tears - you have seen me sitting in a pool of my own - week after week, month after month.
You have seen the passions and longings of my heart,
     and you have echoed them back to me in my seasons of forgetfulness.

You have seen me at my best,
                                            on the mountain top, doing my victory dance.  

You have seen me in the depths,
                                                                in the darkness, in the muck.

And never have you demanded an apology for what you see.

Never have you asked me to be anything I am not.

Not once have you been scared away by my honesty. In fact, you crave it. 
                   I’m pretty sure you have a full-on addiction to truth.

You see fully, and still you ask to know more.

Oh, how you ask.

Oh, how I love how you ask.

The inquisitive kind of questions, born of an insatiable curiousity.

The thumb-tack-on-your-chair kinds of questions.

 Why settle for "how are you" when you can ask "who are you"?

 Why settle for "what do you do" when you can ask "what brings you life"?

The questions that come out of frustration. Why? How long?

How long? 

How long, indeed.

You have taught me to embrace the season,
                                           even if it feels like it will never end.

You have taught me to be present where I am.

You celebrate when it is time to celebrate.

You grieve when it is time to grieve.

And when you have no idea what it is time for, you just keep digging.

It can’t hurt to till the soil, right?

And so we keep on tilling.

We dig our knees into the dirt once more, and with the sun beating down on our backs, we plunge our hands into the soil, and continue the seemingly endless task of sorting out the rocks, breaking up the clumps, one by one.

Sometimes we work in silence.

Sometimes we chatter away.

Sometimes we laugh so hard that we cry.

Sometimes we cry so hard that we laugh.

Sometimes we wonder if it will ever be more than just dirt.
Sometimes it seems impossible to believe that there will be anything
but acres, upon acres of brown.

But, here's to the brown.   Here's to the mud. 
Here's to the hope of green.
Here's to the seeds that will hopefully be planted at some point, and to the sprouts that will maybe, somehow, by some miracle, find their way to the light of day.
Here's to the laughter and the tears.
Here's to the truth that we hold to.     Here's to the truth that holds us.
Here's to living the questions. 
Here's to being seen and known and understood.
Here's to choosing gratitude.
Here's to being together, in all our brokenness.

Here's to being here.               Wherever here is.

Father and Lord,
         most near and most far,

    Listen to our silence before Thee,
              as well as to our prayers,
                             because often it is the silence that speaks better of our need.

Speak Thy joy into our silence.
Breathe Thy life into our less-than-life,
          not for our own sakes only,
                   but for the sake of those to whom, with Thy life in us,
                                                                            we may, ourselves, bring life.

Much as we wish,
           not one of us can bring back yesterday
                                                   or shape tomorrow.
                              ONLY TODAY IS OURS
                                                                        and it will not be ours for long.
     And once it is gone,
                       it will never,     in all time,
                                                               be ours again.

Thou only knowest what it holds in store for us.
Yet even we know something of what it will hold:
            a chance to speak truth,
                to show mercy,
                to ease another's burden
             the chance to resist evil,
                to remember all the good times and good people of our past.
                to be brave
                      to be strong
                               to be glad.

We know that today, as every day,
                 our lives will be touched by Thee.
     and that one way or another,
                                            Thou wilt speak to us before we sleep,
         for the very moments themselves of our lives           are Thy words to us.

Give us ears to hear Thee speak.
                Give us hearts to quicken
                                                       as Thou drawest near.

-Frederick Buechner

thin places

"...music is about as physical as it gets:

your essential rhythm is your heartbeat; your essential sound, the breath.

We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix,

it somehow lets us meet in places we couldn't get to any other way."

- Anne Lamott

I make music. For a living.
Sometimes I forget how great that is.

Because, truth be told, there's a lot that's not so great about it.

There are moments, days, weeks...seasons....when I question what I do. Why don't I just go get an office job that wouldn't demand so much of me...that I wouldn't care so much about...that would actually give me a decent salary, and dare-I-say-it....benefits?

My hours are long...and irregular. It's not uncommon for me to work 12-15 hours a day, 6 days a week. I often wonder what it would be like to work 8-5 and actually leave my work at work and have...a weekend. When I don't have a gig, I have rehearsal for a gig...or I should probably be practicing for said gig.

My work is never done. At this moment in time, I am responsible for roughly 400 pages of music. So really, when I say I make music for a living, what I mean is, I juggle music for a living. I live from one performance to another. I've barely got time to celebrate one recital, before I'm prepping for the next one.

I am constantly being critiqued...by my colleagues, employers...and myself. I struggle to remind myself that while my daily performance is important - and while I should absolutely strive to bring my best to everything I do...my worth is not found in how many right notes I play, or how dazzling my technique is. I struggle to remember that I am more than a musician.

It is not easy to be a musician in today's world. Musicians (and artists of all kinds) are forced to burn the candle at both ends. We juggle full schedules of rehearsals, lessons, performances. And when we're not practicing, rehearsing, performing or teaching - we become advocates...trying to convince our society - and sometimes even ourselves - that what we do matters...that it is necessary.

I make music. For a living.

Sometimes I forget how great that is.

Even as I sit here, I have begun and erased at least 2 dozen sentences, as I attempt to express my wonder, my joy - my sheer delight in the fact that someone actually pays me to do what I love. I honestly don't even know where to start.

I get paid to interact with poetry and melody. 

     To absorb it - let it affect me, change me, become part of me.
I get paid to create. 

     To paint with colors of sound.
I get paid to collaborate. 

     To journey with another - and cultivate something new together
I get paid to tell stories. 

     To give voice to another's, to reveal my own.
I get paid to express. 

     To speak hope, joy, freedom, comfort, truth.

The Celtic mystics use the term "thin place" to refer to a sacred space - one where the veil between the material world and the eternal world is thin. 

Poet Sharlande Sledge describes them this way:

"Thin places," the Celts call this space,

Both seen and unseen,

Where the door between the world 

And the next is cracked open for a moment

And the light is not all on the other side.

God shaped space. Holy.

I think I am beginning to realize that my work is one giant "thin place."

I spend my days on the edge of the divine. Of course, we're always on the edge; the divine is always present - all around us, within us.

But somehow, when there is poetry, when there is music - when they swirl and resonate together - when we add the tenderness of our hearts to the mix - the veil becomes so thin, you forget it's even there.

and the light spills out from the other side. 

I make music.  For a living.

Sometimes I forget how great that is.

the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom

"At the end of the day, people won't remember what you said or did;

they will remember how you made them feel."

- Maya Angelou

I love the rhythm of the seasons.  I love to watch the transformation of the world around me, as the long days become long nights, and the bare branches sprout blossoms once more.  I love that when everything is still and cold and frozen - this is the time we choose to call the "new year."  Of course, in other parts of the world, the new year is ushered in by sunlight and warmth.  But, no matter.  I love that here, in the dead of winter, when all around us is snowy darkness, we turn our face into the icy wind and look forward with expectation into what is to come.

Sometimes I think about how overwhelming life would be if we didn't keep time - if we didn't count the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years, decades.  I can hardly fathom what it would mean to have the moments stretch on and on, without any sort of definition.

No, we are created for rhythm.  Of this I am sure.  We need structure - we need definition.  We need to be able to categorize and compartmentalize things.  We need to be able to leave things behind: "2013 was a hard one - I'm glad it's done."  We need to be able to look ahead: "2014 will be better, I can already tell."


In the last few years, it has become my New Year's tradition to pause for a few hours and reflect on the year.  Sometimes I read through my journal (provided it was a good year for journaling).  Sometimes I re-trace the journey month-by-month.  Sometimes, I just sit, mesmerized by the tree lights or the flickering candles, savoring the sweet stillness.   And I am always surprised at how powerful it can be to take the time and space to actively remember.

365 days ago, I was preparing to tackle my final semester at Peabody, having no idea that 12-mos. later, I would have completed my first semester as a music theory professor.

I am amazed at how much can be crammed into a single year....at how much has changed...and at how much is exactly the same.  I think back on what has transpired - the milestone events - large and small - the ones that happened on a stage, the ones that happened in a practice room, and the ones that happened in my living room.  

I stumbled upon this Maya Angelou quote, as I was flipping through my journal this evening. From what I can gather (I am not always the most detailed in my journaling), it was Denyce Graves who quoted it, when I was playing for one of her students' lessons one afternoon. She framed it within the context of singing - within the world of theater....which makes total sense. We don't necessarily remember how an actor moved his hands or even with what inflection he delivered the line - but we will remember being moved. We will remember a line or a phrase cutting straight to the heart.

Yes, there are specific moments I remember from the last year.  There are words, phrases that people have spoken to me in the last 12 months - and I will continue to replay them for years to come.  There are things people have done for me - small things, and ginormous things - that will remained ingrained in my memory.  

But Maya's right.  I remember them because of how they made me feel.

So then I got to thinking...as is prone to happen when wine and chocolate and candlelit lanterns are involved:       How do people make us feel?

Uneasy.

Awkward.

Small.

Fearful.
Weak.

Stupid.

Alone.

Worthless.

Safe.

Loved.

Heard.

Understood.

Seen.

Important.

Peaceful.

Forgiven.

Empowered.

Thankful..

Free.

Needed.

Alive.

We are not responsible for the feelings of others.  We feel what we feel - and we really have no control over that, at least to an extent.  But at the same time, we must also never forget that our words and our actions carry great weight and power.  The people we brush shoulders with every day are precious, extraordinary, fragile.

I always find it fascinating to read the list of "most influential people of the year" (by somebody's standards) and peruse the catalog of people who have passed on in the last year.  Many of them, I've never heard of. Most of them have had little or no direct impact on my life.

Because the people that matter most to me are the people whose faces now find themselves plastered to my frig.  And as I allow my eyes to drift over those precious faces, the feelings come surging back.  I see the eyes of one who sees me. I see the smile and, in my head, hear the laugh of one who makes me come alive.

For the most part, I cannot tell you what it is exactly that they did or said.  But the feelings run deep.  And the feelings remain.

And so, as I close the book on yet another year, I do so with gratitude.  I marvel at the mystery of human interaction.  I am awed by the glimpses of the divine that I see all around me.  I give thanks for the fingerprints - so divinely human - that have left their mark on my heart.  

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani  -  www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com 

when starbucks gets it wrong and santa gets it right

wonder

noun

a feeling of surprise mingled with admiration,

caused by something beautiful, unexpected, unfamiliar, or inexplicable.

I was walking past Starbucks the other day, and paused for a moment as I took in this year's holiday slogan:    "Create Wonder. Share Joy."

Sharing joy. Now there's something I can absolutely be on board with. There are few things more contagious than a smile - so I make a point to lock eyes with the people I pass on the sidewalk and send a little Christmas cheer their way.  (Note: this is especially delightful to do in crowded shopping malls 4 days before Christmas).

But...creating wonder?   Is wonder really something that can be created?  Can it be manufactured?  Is there a magical recipe - a combination of specific ingredients that will produce a sense of awe?  And can it really be found in a cup of coffee??


Wonder.  It's a word that gets thrown around a lot this time of year.  We hear it in Christmas carols: Star of wonder, star of light....wonders of His love.  We see it in the faces of children, as the anticipation builds and they cannot contain their excitement.  Just last night, my mom and I turned on The Polar Express as we sat wrapping presents by the fire - and I was reminded again of how childlike innocence so often breeds wonder.

I love the moment when the little boy hears the bells ringing for the first time. He has finally crossed the threshold of belief and is free to experience the wonderful and magical world of a Christmas with Santa Claus.  He takes the risk; he makes the choice to believe - to welcome in the wonder.

As we get older, most of us gradually lose our innocence and openness, falling into the clutches of intellectualism and rationalism.  We hold ever-so-fiercely to our illusion of being in control, and life becomes about doing, getting, producing...acquiring the tangibles that will supposedly make us happy. And when those don't satisfy, we attempt to manufacture the intangibles.
Creating them for ourselves is, of course, much, much safer.  

Because the reality is: we're scared. 

We are afraid of being surprised.  We are perturbed by the inexplicable.  We are terrified of the unfamiliar. We are petrified by the unexpected.

And so we close the door to our experience of wonder.  We don't want to feel the vulnerability of being out of control.  We don't want to be reminded of all we do not know or understand.  We don't want to extend an invitation to the unknown, the surprising, the unexpected. We don't want to have to welcome something in that might inspire, even force us to...change.

So I am opening my heart to the unexpected, in this season of Advent.  I am finding comfort in the mystery.  I am seeking beauty in the invisible.  I am creating space for surprises.   I am throwing out my definitions, my explanations, my plans.  I am making the choice to believe, and allowing the believing to have its way in me.  I am welcoming the wonder.

Welcome, all wonders in one sight!

Eternity shut in one span,

Summer in winter, day in night,

Heaven in earth, and God in man,

Great Little One, whose all-embracing birth

Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth.

 - Richard Crashaw

Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani  www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com

of deep breaths and dry-cleaning

It's 6:45pm.

Finally the end of a jam-packed day.

I am exhausted, to say the least.   Worn out from so many hours of being "on" - of being in charge - of people looking to me for leadership - of counting under my breath as I sightread - of mouthing the words to myself and making mental notes of vowels and consonants to correct - of trying to play and listen at the same time, so as to have some sort of constructive feedback to give when all eyes turn to me, as they inevitably will.

I've stayed late to coach 2 more singers, and thankfully, one of them brings some reciprocal energy to give me an added boost to make it in the last hour.

But now I am spent. Ready to go home and crawl in my bed, and feel the heavenly sensation of something softer than the unforgiving wood of a piano bench underneath me.

And then it hits me.

It's Wednesday.

Wednesday.  As in, the day I'm supposed to pick up my dry-cleaning.

Let me pause here to say that it's a miracle I even found the time to TAKE something to the cleaner's - and that when I took it in, I had a voice in the back of my head that said, "It will be Christmas by the time you actually remember that you have something to pick up when you actually have a spare moment to pick it up."

My body protests.  Can't you go to tomorrow?  Nope, I've got coachings until 9pm.  What about Friday?   Nope, headed to Seattle after work, so I'll want to leave as soon as possible so as to hit the pass at a reasonable hour.

It has to be today.  It has to be now.


Suzie is her name.  My dry-cleaner, that is.  She is about my height, and all legs - with a stoop in her shoulder and a long sweater that hangs loosely on her frame.  She is sweeping the floor when I come it, and it takes her a little while to realize that I am standing at the counter.  She's just a wee bit hard of hearing.   I tell (read: "yell") her my name, as her eyes peer up at me over the rims of her glasses.  I spell it 3 more times, and finally, she gets it. She jots down the number and shuffles into the corner.  After a minute or two of searching, she's found my dress.  As she puts it on the rack next to me, she makes sure to remind me to be careful when carrying it. The plastic bag is just about as tall as I am, and she doesn't want me to catch my foot on it and slip.

I wait as she tinkers with the cash register, trying to process my credit card.  It takes her a few tries, but finally, the receipt prints, and she holds it down as I sign it.  As I hand it back to her, she smiles, and with all the sincerity her sweet, gangly self can muster up, she says, "Now you have a lovely evening."

As far as location goes, Suzie's shop is convenient. It's not too terribly far out of my way on my drive home from work.   As far as cost and efficiency go, it's probably not the most competitive.  Meaning, I'm paying more for my dry-cleaning than I ever have in my life.

In fact, the thought of going elsewhere has crossed my mind more than once.


But as I stand there, watching Suzie shuffle around, digging through racks and racks of clothing, I realize that after a day of going, going, going, I am being forced to stop.  Slow my hurried pace.  Just...be.  Breathe.

Sometimes, it takes a full day of rest for me to really breathe deeply.
Sometimes, it takes a morning hike in the wilderness.
Sometimes, it takes an afternoon curled up with my journal by the fire.

And sometimes, it takes 5 minutes in a dry-cleaning shop.

Sometimes it's scary to stop.
Sometimes we're afraid that the load we've been carting around (you know, the one we're in a wee bit of denial about) will slam into us from behind.
Sometimes we're worried that if we don't hurry along, we'll fall behind.

The world around us prizes convenience and efficiency.   The world around us glorifies busy-ness.  The world around us says, "you are what you do."

But as I stand in that little shop at 7:00 on a Wednesday evening, the voice (of truth) inside of me says, "You have a more than a few things to learn from this woman."   
She's not in a hurry, and she assumes you aren't either.

There is time.

There is time to have a real conversation.

There is time to take care with your work. 

There is time for deep breaths. 

There is time for simple kindness.

There is time to look another in the eyes and exchange mercy.

                                         Photo Credit: Chinwe Edeani  www.photosbychinwe.tumblr.com