I'm sure many of you have been waiting with baited breath for the announcement of Felice Mi Fa's mayoral endorsement. Like most things this fall, Election Day has snuck up on me and I haven't peeped about local politics. Those who know me well know there is something wrong with that.
One reason for my silence is that I have been a little unenthused by the slate that is up, although the dual candidacy of "Floon" certainly makes for some drama. I, like a lot of Boston residents, am mildly uncomfortable with the length of Menino's tenure in office, but am generally happy with his leadership. Maybe it's a sign of the conservativism that can come with age, but I am less distressed by his hold on City Hall this year than I was last time around. I will admit, during the last mayoral election I voted against him even though that meant voting for Hennigan (and going against my beloved unions).
This time around, I am not so sure that kicking out Menino should be priority 1. I understand the criticisms around him: he rules with an iron fist and stifles opposition. The BRA is a mess. He won't let developers do what they want. I think a lot of those criticisms take for granted that the good of Boston depends on attracting big businesses to the newest skyscraper downtown. What Menino has excelled at is building up the neighborhoods. If all politics is local, maybe it should be more important that I can find a parking space and that the empty lot up the corner isn't completely trashed. Skyscrapers don't matter much to me, even though I can see them from the top of the street.
There is nothing about Flaherty that excites me, which is why I voted for Yoon in the run-off. If we are going to do change around here, I thought, why don't we do it right? I knew he wasn't going to win but I wanted to send a message (although after what happened with Nader in 2000 I should have known better). And yes, I am one of the 12% of people who votes in mayoral run-offs.
The announcement that Flaherty and Yoon were teaming up did not impress me. Politics makes strange bedfellows, for sure. I can't foresee real teamwork should they make it together to City Hall.
So there will be no blogtastic endorsement today, and I'm not sure who I will vote for on Tuesday (other than Ayanna Pressley for City Council). Townies, please be sure to vote.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The Helplessness of Love
Today I found myself feeling great affection for a group of people, and I thought "the appropriate response to this is humility". I recognize myself as a vessel of a powerful force I neither create nor control. I am not the first nor the greatest to have cared for people. I am subsumed by a Love far greater than myself, which is both thrilling and humbling. That humility is a great gift.
Like most powerful moments of the last few months, this one led me back into my grief. What is grief if not love made futile against absence? I remember years ago sitting with a friend who lost her entire family in a genocide, and loving her so much, and feeling so helpless because no amount of love could ever undo the trauma she had faced. Perhaps it is not my place to un-do it.
I know better now than to wish away those feelings of affection. And yet, on these gloomy fall days, standing in the dark of the chapel, fighting off tears, the love I feel for anyone is seasoned with the knowledge that it has me rendered helpless. I will care for people forever, against futility and darkness, and deal with the gloomy days as they come.
Like most powerful moments of the last few months, this one led me back into my grief. What is grief if not love made futile against absence? I remember years ago sitting with a friend who lost her entire family in a genocide, and loving her so much, and feeling so helpless because no amount of love could ever undo the trauma she had faced. Perhaps it is not my place to un-do it.
I know better now than to wish away those feelings of affection. And yet, on these gloomy fall days, standing in the dark of the chapel, fighting off tears, the love I feel for anyone is seasoned with the knowledge that it has me rendered helpless. I will care for people forever, against futility and darkness, and deal with the gloomy days as they come.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Here and but the Beholder Wanting
I just found this from about two years ago, before my days of blogging when I used to simply bore BOC-ers with my ramblings in the membership newsletter. Although this was my 'message from the President' in the newsletter, there isn't much in it about opera. There's plenty about poetry and beauty and nature and music - a few of my favorite things.
"Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty…". So begins one of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets. The poet is Gerard Manley Hopkins, whose work I would still love even if he hadn't been a Jesuit. The poem is Hurrahing in Harvest, which always inspires some appreciation for this transition between the seasons. I've never been a big fan of fall, often finding myself "grieving over Goldengrove unleaving" during the month of October, to quote another Hopkins poem addressed to a child with whom I share a name.
So it is good for me to be reminded of the barbarous beauty in this transition into the seriousness of winter from the summer frivolity which consumes cities like ours; cities doomed to months of dismal, short days and soggy, sloppy sidewalks. Hopkins, with his trademark sprung rhythm, describes fall's "silk-sack clouds", and "azurous hung hills" which are "very-violet-sweet!" In the final stanza Hopkins hits us with the punch line: "these things were here and but the beholder wanting".
How much beauty in our lives is just waiting for us to behold it? Who are the people we don't appreciate? What loveliness looks back at us from the mirror every day as our minds race along not noticing? How glorious is it to open our mouths and have beautiful sounds come out, to be able to run scales and match pitches and infuse words with new meaning through music? All of this can be easy to forget when we are in the practice room struggling with a phrase, convinced that all the beauty in the world and all the beauty in us just isn't enough.
Since I am teaching full-time this fall, I leave you all with an assignment: behold something beautiful this month. If you are lucky perhaps you will have the same experience as Hopkins' anonymous beholder: "The heart rears wings bold and bolder/and hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet."
(For extra credit, go read some Hopkins.)
"Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty…". So begins one of my favorite poems by one of my favorite poets. The poet is Gerard Manley Hopkins, whose work I would still love even if he hadn't been a Jesuit. The poem is Hurrahing in Harvest, which always inspires some appreciation for this transition between the seasons. I've never been a big fan of fall, often finding myself "grieving over Goldengrove unleaving" during the month of October, to quote another Hopkins poem addressed to a child with whom I share a name.
So it is good for me to be reminded of the barbarous beauty in this transition into the seriousness of winter from the summer frivolity which consumes cities like ours; cities doomed to months of dismal, short days and soggy, sloppy sidewalks. Hopkins, with his trademark sprung rhythm, describes fall's "silk-sack clouds", and "azurous hung hills" which are "very-violet-sweet!" In the final stanza Hopkins hits us with the punch line: "these things were here and but the beholder wanting".
How much beauty in our lives is just waiting for us to behold it? Who are the people we don't appreciate? What loveliness looks back at us from the mirror every day as our minds race along not noticing? How glorious is it to open our mouths and have beautiful sounds come out, to be able to run scales and match pitches and infuse words with new meaning through music? All of this can be easy to forget when we are in the practice room struggling with a phrase, convinced that all the beauty in the world and all the beauty in us just isn't enough.
Since I am teaching full-time this fall, I leave you all with an assignment: behold something beautiful this month. If you are lucky perhaps you will have the same experience as Hopkins' anonymous beholder: "The heart rears wings bold and bolder/and hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet."
(For extra credit, go read some Hopkins.)
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Exploring Abigail
When I was asked at the last minute to sing Abigail Williams in The Crucible, my major concerns were learning the tricky 20th century music and being off book in a reasonable amount of time. It didn't cross my mind at the time that I should consider how emotionally involved I become in my characters when I was discerning whether or not to take part.
The mysterious artist in me knows better than to give away too many of the insights I have into her character, but I can admit that it has been an interesting ride so far. Most human beings spend their lives reaching toward the light, toward wholeness, toward God. Identifying with Abigail has required some serious regression.
Cruelty, brokenness, unresolved trauma, hunger for power, misplaced priorities: day after day those are conditions I try to avoid. My relentless self-reflection seeks unlimited awareness of my own motivations; it's hard to get to a place where I can be someone who doesn't know what she's doing. It's been an adventure so far, a powerful and dangerous adventure.
Some of my colleagues insist they prefer playing unstable, insane characters. While it's certainly interesting, I take my own mental health too seriously to say I enjoy it.
The mysterious artist in me knows better than to give away too many of the insights I have into her character, but I can admit that it has been an interesting ride so far. Most human beings spend their lives reaching toward the light, toward wholeness, toward God. Identifying with Abigail has required some serious regression.
Cruelty, brokenness, unresolved trauma, hunger for power, misplaced priorities: day after day those are conditions I try to avoid. My relentless self-reflection seeks unlimited awareness of my own motivations; it's hard to get to a place where I can be someone who doesn't know what she's doing. It's been an adventure so far, a powerful and dangerous adventure.
Some of my colleagues insist they prefer playing unstable, insane characters. While it's certainly interesting, I take my own mental health too seriously to say I enjoy it.
Monday, October 19, 2009
preferences
A quick post since I haven't had much time to write lately:
My need for a new tube of toothpaste reached a critical stage the middle of last week. For a few days I jumped up and down on a trial size to squeeze out the remnants, and one morning (the date of which I will keep to myself) I just used water and the minty remains that were on my toothbrush. I had another trial size, but didn't want to use it since it's the one I keep in my bag, and who knows when I will be on the road and need it? I also wanted to wait until Sunday to see if there were any coupons or sales in the paper.
While that is an interesting glimpse into how I can make a huge situation out of something as simple as a tube of toothpaste, that's not the point of the story. Since Colgate tubes were buy one get one free at CVS (see! I knew waiting would pay off), I walked into my apartment yesterday with two huge new tubes of toothpaste, which in retrospect is sort of a big commitment. When I took a close look at the boxes I saw that these tubes feature a "two-way cap" - you can either flip it or unscrew it.
Am I supposed to have a preference about how I open my toothpaste? To be frank, those sorts of features leave me silently pleading "please don't make me care about this". I care about my voice, I care about my classroom, I care about my friends, I care about my family, please don't make me care about the cap on my toothpaste.
This happens to me pretty frequently: someone expects me to have a preference regarding something about which it never even occured to me to be fussy! Someone once asked me if I liked fruit cold or room temperature. I usually eat whatever you put in front of me. At the dentist they check to make sure I like the flavor of polish they are going to use, even though I'm pretty sure when I'm in the chair they have the upper hand.
Do all these choices distract us from the substance of a thing? If I get to pick the temperature of an apple will that distract me from the fact that it's overripe? I don't care what brand or texture the bandage is as long as it covers up my skinned knee. I don't care if the music at mass has organ or piano as long as the person on the bench can play. And when I come up with silly preferences, as if they will help to define who I am or give me some sort of agency, all I am doing is preparing myself for the disappointment of finding that my toothpaste doesn't open "the right way".
My need for a new tube of toothpaste reached a critical stage the middle of last week. For a few days I jumped up and down on a trial size to squeeze out the remnants, and one morning (the date of which I will keep to myself) I just used water and the minty remains that were on my toothbrush. I had another trial size, but didn't want to use it since it's the one I keep in my bag, and who knows when I will be on the road and need it? I also wanted to wait until Sunday to see if there were any coupons or sales in the paper.
While that is an interesting glimpse into how I can make a huge situation out of something as simple as a tube of toothpaste, that's not the point of the story. Since Colgate tubes were buy one get one free at CVS (see! I knew waiting would pay off), I walked into my apartment yesterday with two huge new tubes of toothpaste, which in retrospect is sort of a big commitment. When I took a close look at the boxes I saw that these tubes feature a "two-way cap" - you can either flip it or unscrew it.
Am I supposed to have a preference about how I open my toothpaste? To be frank, those sorts of features leave me silently pleading "please don't make me care about this". I care about my voice, I care about my classroom, I care about my friends, I care about my family, please don't make me care about the cap on my toothpaste.
This happens to me pretty frequently: someone expects me to have a preference regarding something about which it never even occured to me to be fussy! Someone once asked me if I liked fruit cold or room temperature. I usually eat whatever you put in front of me. At the dentist they check to make sure I like the flavor of polish they are going to use, even though I'm pretty sure when I'm in the chair they have the upper hand.
Do all these choices distract us from the substance of a thing? If I get to pick the temperature of an apple will that distract me from the fact that it's overripe? I don't care what brand or texture the bandage is as long as it covers up my skinned knee. I don't care if the music at mass has organ or piano as long as the person on the bench can play. And when I come up with silly preferences, as if they will help to define who I am or give me some sort of agency, all I am doing is preparing myself for the disappointment of finding that my toothpaste doesn't open "the right way".
Sunday, October 11, 2009
What I've learned from running
As I’ve written many times, I started running out of stubbornness. I didn’t turn to the sport for revelation, edification, or other forms of improvement. As tends to be the case, revelation found me without my seeking it. Long runs, both training and racing, have been revelatory for me. I have said countless prayers, cried my eyes out, planned retreats and recitals, written poems and blog posts (ahem) while plugging away on the open road. Yesterday I finished my sixth half-marathon (with a time 35 minutes faster than my first!), and if the good Lord has chosen not to reveal to me how to finish in a respectable time, at least God has taught me a few other lessons in the course of my training.
It is hazardous to my ego for me to compare myself to other people while running, which is why I just put my tunes in my ears and focus on the road in front of me. I’ve learned not to look behind me, although I always want to know for sure I’m not last, and I not to even look in front of me, because it doesn’t matter what everyone else is doing. My body is calibrated to do a certain pace in a certain way, and that has nothing to do with the people around me.
So what have I learned from running? That when you’re exhausted and you think you can’t push any farther, you can always push a little harder – but if you collapse and cry (or vomit) there will still be people who will be nice to you and help you out. That it’s better to push to the top of the hill and then take it easy on the way down. That when it hurts in one place a tiny adjustment can take the edge off – although you’ll just end up hurting in another. That there’s benefit in doing the things which embarrass you the most.
When I was younger I would get jealous of the success of others, especially when I felt it came at my expense: the other singers getting the leads in the school plays, the classmates earning scholarships and accolades, the athletes feted for their skill, the girls with nicer hair and clothes being treated well. Now I see it doesn’t do me any good to size up the people around me or envy their success. I can’t do anything about the way gifts are divvied up, and even if I could I wouldn’t shuffle around the ones I’ve received for any others. When it comes time to work hard and use those gifts, all that counts are me, my feet on the pavement, and the music in my ears.
It is hazardous to my ego for me to compare myself to other people while running, which is why I just put my tunes in my ears and focus on the road in front of me. I’ve learned not to look behind me, although I always want to know for sure I’m not last, and I not to even look in front of me, because it doesn’t matter what everyone else is doing. My body is calibrated to do a certain pace in a certain way, and that has nothing to do with the people around me.
So what have I learned from running? That when you’re exhausted and you think you can’t push any farther, you can always push a little harder – but if you collapse and cry (or vomit) there will still be people who will be nice to you and help you out. That it’s better to push to the top of the hill and then take it easy on the way down. That when it hurts in one place a tiny adjustment can take the edge off – although you’ll just end up hurting in another. That there’s benefit in doing the things which embarrass you the most.
When I was younger I would get jealous of the success of others, especially when I felt it came at my expense: the other singers getting the leads in the school plays, the classmates earning scholarships and accolades, the athletes feted for their skill, the girls with nicer hair and clothes being treated well. Now I see it doesn’t do me any good to size up the people around me or envy their success. I can’t do anything about the way gifts are divvied up, and even if I could I wouldn’t shuffle around the ones I’ve received for any others. When it comes time to work hard and use those gifts, all that counts are me, my feet on the pavement, and the music in my ears.
Friday, October 9, 2009
I had a nice run
It had been over a year since my most recent tumble (which came merely 5 days after another, during the summer of my bi-continental clumsiness). My streak ended yesterday.
I had set the alarm for 5:25 yesterday morning. Since I put my alarm on the other side of the room I don't consider myself in danger of oversleeping, but yesterday was an exception. I have no recollection of getting up, weaving through the maze of furniture crammed in my studio, finding the tiny button on my cell phone to turn the alarm off, and getting back in bed. I must have done all of those things, because I awoke 15 minutes later than I usually rise on mornings when I don't run.
Therefore I had to run at the end of a long day. I got home around sunset, changed quickly and got out on the road as quickly as I could, taking a familiar route that I knew would be well-lit. About three minutes into my run I was suddenly on the ground, somehow ending up on my back even though it was my front that was bleeding. I now have a sweet bandage in the usual place of knee-skinning. I have given up on having legs without scars. There is no real reason for my having fallen.
In addition to banging up myself, I also cracked the face on my watch. I looked at my watch before going running, thought "I need to take this off" and then forgot to do so (NB: In my mind, this is my way of being punished for sleeping through my alarm, because if I had gone running in the morning I wouldn't have been wearing the watch).
To confirm my suspicion that I'm better off not running in the evening, while scaling the last hill on the way home I was passed by a man in street clothes, easily over 200 pounds, wearing flipflops. He was obviously fleeing from someone.
I had set the alarm for 5:25 yesterday morning. Since I put my alarm on the other side of the room I don't consider myself in danger of oversleeping, but yesterday was an exception. I have no recollection of getting up, weaving through the maze of furniture crammed in my studio, finding the tiny button on my cell phone to turn the alarm off, and getting back in bed. I must have done all of those things, because I awoke 15 minutes later than I usually rise on mornings when I don't run.
Therefore I had to run at the end of a long day. I got home around sunset, changed quickly and got out on the road as quickly as I could, taking a familiar route that I knew would be well-lit. About three minutes into my run I was suddenly on the ground, somehow ending up on my back even though it was my front that was bleeding. I now have a sweet bandage in the usual place of knee-skinning. I have given up on having legs without scars. There is no real reason for my having fallen.
In addition to banging up myself, I also cracked the face on my watch. I looked at my watch before going running, thought "I need to take this off" and then forgot to do so (NB: In my mind, this is my way of being punished for sleeping through my alarm, because if I had gone running in the morning I wouldn't have been wearing the watch).
To confirm my suspicion that I'm better off not running in the evening, while scaling the last hill on the way home I was passed by a man in street clothes, easily over 200 pounds, wearing flipflops. He was obviously fleeing from someone.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Working Hard, Making Art
This is really a follow up to my post from last week, and sheds a little light on where my brain is this week.
I work hard, and most of the people in my life who I love and respect work hard too. I don't feel bad about this, and I only rarely feel like my work is 'getting in the way' of my life. My work is my prayer, my work is my life, and I am lucky enough to work doing what I love. Like many people, I want to be excellent in the things that I do (athletic activities being the exception - in that area I'll settle for being competent).
Last week when I was plowing through what was my 2nd or 3rd rehearsal of the day, I heard another singer who was singing a short phrase with great artistry and freshness, and I thought: I want that. I knew that at that moment if I had been asked to sing a phrase on my own I couldn't have been as artistic as that because I was too worn out, and that shamed me. When my diligence gets in the way of making art, all is lost. It's not worth beating myself up in the practice room if it means that I will be fried once it's time to really sing.
To all my fellow pluggers out there: just because our labor threshold is higher than other's doesn't mean that we have a limitless capacity for work. Eventually the scales tip and our hard work stops being an asset to our living well and starts to be a threat.
I work hard, and most of the people in my life who I love and respect work hard too. I don't feel bad about this, and I only rarely feel like my work is 'getting in the way' of my life. My work is my prayer, my work is my life, and I am lucky enough to work doing what I love. Like many people, I want to be excellent in the things that I do (athletic activities being the exception - in that area I'll settle for being competent).
Last week when I was plowing through what was my 2nd or 3rd rehearsal of the day, I heard another singer who was singing a short phrase with great artistry and freshness, and I thought: I want that. I knew that at that moment if I had been asked to sing a phrase on my own I couldn't have been as artistic as that because I was too worn out, and that shamed me. When my diligence gets in the way of making art, all is lost. It's not worth beating myself up in the practice room if it means that I will be fried once it's time to really sing.
To all my fellow pluggers out there: just because our labor threshold is higher than other's doesn't mean that we have a limitless capacity for work. Eventually the scales tip and our hard work stops being an asset to our living well and starts to be a threat.
Friday, October 2, 2009
What We Capture
In the room that we've always called the Great Room (due to it's unclear function in my parents' house rather than it's natural superiority to other rooms) there are some unobtrusive cabinets hiding a large collection of photo albums. Although no one in the family is a particularly gifted photographer, there has always been someone at every event with a camera (usually the disposable kind from the drug store), documenting graduations, picnics, parties, haircuts, soccer games...you name it.
Although many of the photos are of people, there are plenty that are of things. Some are profound - the Grand Canyon, sunset over evergreens, a rose window, an impeccable 1957 Chevy Bel Air. The ones that thrill me the most are mundane, and I am thrilled for this reason: each photo means that someone at some point, found beauty in simplicity.
Tomatoes from the garden, in varying stages of ripening, lined up on the windowsill. Crocuses popping up in the rock garden. A duck swimming in the pool cover. An owl in the window of the barn. A good-looking clock.
There are more than a few photos of car dashboards (I know I took many when I was finally sending the hoopty to the graveyard). Occasionally you will find a pair of pictures of a car odomotor, one showing it at all nines, and then another of it just after it turns over to some new, large, round number.
Two days ago the odomotor on the Jeep turned over to 120000, and I didn't notice until it was at 120011. I almost started to cry for my own preoccupation, for not being able to see that something simply neat was happening right in front of my eyes. There is a place for focus in a life, but there is a point at which focus turns into distraction, and we can't see what's right in front of our noses.
We have choices about what to capture, in our photos and in our hearts. I find it far too easy to capture the frustrations of a day, week, or month. If I'm not careful it can all turn into the frustrations of a life. I want my heart to hold snapshots of what is right in front of me, in all it's thrilling simplicity.
Although many of the photos are of people, there are plenty that are of things. Some are profound - the Grand Canyon, sunset over evergreens, a rose window, an impeccable 1957 Chevy Bel Air. The ones that thrill me the most are mundane, and I am thrilled for this reason: each photo means that someone at some point, found beauty in simplicity.
Tomatoes from the garden, in varying stages of ripening, lined up on the windowsill. Crocuses popping up in the rock garden. A duck swimming in the pool cover. An owl in the window of the barn. A good-looking clock.
There are more than a few photos of car dashboards (I know I took many when I was finally sending the hoopty to the graveyard). Occasionally you will find a pair of pictures of a car odomotor, one showing it at all nines, and then another of it just after it turns over to some new, large, round number.
Two days ago the odomotor on the Jeep turned over to 120000, and I didn't notice until it was at 120011. I almost started to cry for my own preoccupation, for not being able to see that something simply neat was happening right in front of my eyes. There is a place for focus in a life, but there is a point at which focus turns into distraction, and we can't see what's right in front of our noses.
We have choices about what to capture, in our photos and in our hearts. I find it far too easy to capture the frustrations of a day, week, or month. If I'm not careful it can all turn into the frustrations of a life. I want my heart to hold snapshots of what is right in front of me, in all it's thrilling simplicity.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)