What I've done with my winter break

A few people suggested that I post while on my little break so that they could be kept up to date on what I am doing. Please don't take my silence as a sign of my ignoring your request, take it as a sign that I haven't been doing much of anything. Auditions start up again the first weekend of January; all I've been doing is working on some new rep, starting my training for my next race, and lying on the couch.

I did have a church gig today, and even though they read the shorter option for the Gospel, I've still got Anna and Simeon on the brain. In honor of our boy Simeon, here's some T.S. Eliot:

A Song for Simeon
T.S. Eliot

Lord, the Roman hyacinths are blooming in bowls and
The winter sun creeps by the snow hills;
The stubborn season has made stand.
My life is light, waiting for the death wind,
Like a feather on the back of my hand.
Dust in sunlight and memory in corners
Wait for the wind that chills towards the dead land.

Grant us thy peace.
I have walked many years in this city,
Kept faith and fast, provided for the poor,
Have taken and given honour and ease.
There went never any rejected from my door.

Who shall remember my house, where shall live my children’s children
When the time of sorrow is come ?
They will take to the goat’s path, and the fox’s home,
Fleeing from the foreign faces and the foreign swords.

Before the time of cords and scourges and lamentation
Grant us thy peace.
Before the stations of the mountain of desolation,
Before the certain hour of maternal sorrow,
Now at this birth season of decease,
Let the Infant, the still unspeaking and unspoken Word,
Grant Israel’s consolation
To one who has eighty years and no to-morrow.

According to thy word,
They shall praise Thee and suffer in every generation
With glory and derision,
Light upon light, mounting the saints’ stair.
Not for me the martyrdom, the ecstasy of thought and prayer,
Not for me the ultimate vision.
Grant me thy peace.

(And a sword shall pierce thy heart,
Thine also).

I am tired with my own life and the lives of those after me,
I am dying in my own death and the deaths of those after me.
Let thy servant depart,
Having seen thy salvation.

I suppose one of the reasons I so enjoy ol' Thomas Stearns is that he and I are equally fascinated with the liturgical calendar. See you on Ash Wednesday, T.S.

Ecce ancilla domini - the Fourth Sunday of Advent

Yesterday's Gospel was the story of the Annunciation. I taught a lesson on it last week which had me pretty well Annunciated out, and when I heard the familiar opening yesterday I groaned a little inside. But if you have to choose one pericope to spend the better part of a week with, that's a pretty good one to choose.

No matter how many times I hear the story, no matter how many times I make the point that Mary said yes to God, no matter how many times I pray the Angelus, there's never an answer there to the big question: Why did she say yes? There was no reason for her to suspend disbelief. Why in the world would she have believed that God had chosen her for something? There's nothing in the text that tells us why should would have believed - or maybe, more appropriately, there's nothing that would convince most of us if we were in her shoes.

Faith is a habit. My guess is that most of us have been in a position before to say "screw it. I'm saying yes. I'm diving in." to whatever has been asked of us. When there is no reason to say yes and the evidence is piling up against taking the risk, we put doubt on hold and decide to try against better judgment. Maybe we have made a habit of believing God's promises of good for us. Maybe we have made a habit of trusting the people around us to catch us when we fall. Maybe we have stopped caring about the consequences and decided to value the potential good above the potential disaster. Our boldest decisions can be illogical and unreasonable, and if we're lucky they are the daring choices that change our lives or change the world.



- Henry Ossawa Tanner's The Annunciation

My Christmas Tree

I don't have a lot of holiday decorations. [There are a lot of things that could go in the blank of the sentence "I don't have a lot of ____________", mostly becuase I don't have a lot of space .]I told myself this year that I couldn't put anything out until I cleaned up a little, which is exactly what I did on the snow day.

When I lived in New Bedford my cousin sent me a little tree that lights up and that has been the centerpiece of any holiday decor for the last 5 years. Last year as I was plugging it in a fuse blew and it stopped lighting up. I had some unresolved anxiety that day because I flipped out, crying in the kitchen about not even being able to keep a fake, foot-tall tree, with the end point of my tearful musings being the usual one: dying alone.

I kept the tree in the box of seasonal stuff and took it out again Friday, finding a bag with replacement fuses and bulbs. I replaced the fuses, jiggled all the bulbs in their sockets, and plugged it in again. Nothing.

When I walked into my kitchen this morning it was lit. I don't know why it started working now, but I'm not looking this gift horse in the mouth. It's a Christmas miracle.

SNOW DAY!!!

Is there anything more precious in all the world than a snow day? Coming as they do in the thick of the school year (it's no longer 'the beginning' of the year, and the end isn't even close to in sight), these random free days are license to be lazy. The state is shut down, there's nothing much to do other than sit around.

I speak, obviously, on behalf of teachers. Students have a completely different experience, one which doesn't really concern me on a day when I am not required to be in school.

This extra day begins our Christmas break. Another blessing of 2008: the holidays fall in the middle of the week, which means that we get two full weeks off.

I have been going flat out since the first of December. Sleeping until 7:45 this morning was the highest of luxuries.

Everybody stay safe today!

Last Audition of the Month

Tonight I will have my last audition of December - the fourth, by my count. After this audition (and a subsequent rehearsal - no rest for the weary) I will buy a bottle of wine. Then I will drink some of it, reflux be dashed. I haven't had any since the beginning of the month, fearing the vocal issues that can come with a glass of red wine. Tonight, I live it up.

NYC auditions, December 2008

Yesterday was my third trip to NYC in as many weeks for summer Young Artist Program auditions. Last weekend I spent the whole weekend down there, staying with old friends from Nativity, watching the ACC Championship game at a crowded BC bar on the lower east side, and somehow ending up in Hoboken on Saturday night playing Rock Band.

I have been so busy that I didn’t want to spend much time away from Boston this weekend, so I decided to go down and back in one day. I have been riding Bolt Bus, the new discount Greyhound line that has wireless and outlets for computers. By the time I had my schedule figured out many of the buses were sold out for yesterday, so I got stuck with a 7am bus down and a 7:30pm bus back. Luckily for me my lovely brother agreed to come into midtown and goof off with me between my noon-time arrival and 3:30, when I had to be at the audition site.

Our bus got in a little early, and my brother wasn’t off the train yet. I left him a message and decided to head over to Penn Station to use a bathroom after the long ride. The only thing standing between Penn and me? A parade of hundreds of Santa Clauses.

I love Boston because it is an active city but it’s manageable. When I am there, I always feel like I am in control. There is nothing to make you feel like you are out of control like swimming upstream on 8th Avenue through a crowd of Santas while having to use the bathroom.

I made it into the station and into the line for the ladies’ room. It’s always disheartening to have to wait in line for a bathroom you know will be disgusting. It’s like waiting in line for a portable john. As I was in line my brother called as we went through the normal “Where are you? Where are you?” “I’m in line for the bathroom at Penn Station!” I said. My brother’s reply “I’m stuck in the middle of a Santa Claus parade!”

The rest of the goofing off went relatively well. Manhattan was ridiculously crowded, even more than usual, because of the various holiday festivities. We swung by Rockefeller Center because we had heard rumors of a tuba festival, and we were still seeing wandering Santas hours after the parade began on the steps of the post office. I spent an hour warming up, sang well, changed back into my sneakers and hauled to the bus stop, hoping to get on an earlier bus. I was successful, getting an open seat on a 5:30 bus and walking back into my apartment at 10:10.

So I did it. I had colleagues in grad school who would go down for NYC auditions and I just wasn’t ready for that. Making demos and sending them to these programs that only audition in New York was just too much for me (and in retrospect, I wasn’t even close to ready vocally). It took me until I was 25 to start doing summer programs, which many singers start doing around 19 – first I did one in Boston, then one in California, and finally one abroad, where half of my fellow singers were 6 or 7 years younger than I am.

I’m finally ready for a challenge as small as going down to New York to audition. Another thing I thought I could never do, that would be way too much for me and my routines and anxiety and neuroticism, I just got on the bus and did. I was lamenting to my mother a few weeks ago how far ‘behind’ I felt in that I am just now doing the things that many of my friends have been doing for years, and she simply said to me “you’re not done yet”. So I’ll keep plugging away at my own pace.

Congrats to all friends and readers who have completed their December auditions as well. You all inspire me.

My double life

Last night I heard auditions for BOC all night, but I had to hide my hands from everyone because they were covered in dye from making a gingerbread Nativity in the morning.

Church Police

During the communion procession at Immaculate Conception Mass I saw someone drop the host and start to walk off with it in his hand. I managed to turn to him on his way back to his seat and whisper during two beats of rest "you need to eat that!"

He did. Multi-tasking at it's finest.

Hidden Treasures

To my great dismay, I knocked a can of Static Guard behind the dryer before 7 am this morning. Convinced that an aerosol can was more likely than other detritus to explode when exposed to the heat of the appliance, I took an excursion into the dusty corner before sunrise.

I found a pad of star-shaped post-its (now tragically warped beyond the point of usefulness) and a bottle of stain remover. Most surprisingly I found a large baking pan which I had not noticed was missing. I'm happy to have all of these items back on the radar.

Living Single

I had hoped this post would lead with the clip from 30 Rock of the Red Cross nurse saying to Liz "35 years old, 3 sexual partners in the last 10 years? Maybe it's time to settle."

It only irks me mildly when people call me "Mrs". It's inaccurate, but I usually don't make a big stink about it although occasionally I will say to students "It's Ms! Mrs. F was my grandma!" Yesterday I said that to a student and we went on to make more small talk about his classes. While talking about French class we flipped into French, so when the conversation was over I said "Au revoir" and he responsed "Au revoir Madame!". I gently corrected him again with a "Mademoiselle!"

He looked at me confused, and then shouted at me as I walked out the door "Wait - you're not married yet!?!!"

BomBomBomBomWooooo

Little Luxuries

I was dreaming out loud about a particular appliance that I would purchase if I lived a more extravagant lifestyle, and my mother decided she would buy it for me for my birthday.

So on Saturday, after church, we went down to CVS and spent $20 on a coffee pot that will turn itself on before I get out of bed.

I felt a little guilty because I already have a perfectly good coffee pot, but I can bring the old one to my parents' and shove it under the counter so that I don't have to buy Dunkin' every time I visit. Normally I put the coffee on and get in the shower, but my apartment is so cold that I can't get in the shower until the heat has been on for at least 10 minutes, so this will give me something to drink while waiting for the place to warm up.

What can I say? I'm easy to please.

I should also add that my darling cousin sent me socks to replace the ones stolen in the burglary. My birthday gifts tend to be cold-weather themed.

Thanksgiving

Today I am thankful that someone at church asked me if I was done with undergrad yet. I feel bad that I looked at her like she was crazy since I graduated 7 years ago. But at least I look good.

Seriously, I'm thankful for a warm house and warm meal. I'm thankful that my brother has a job at school that he loves, even if it means that he has to be away this weekend. I'm thankful I have 6 or 7 jobs I love up in Boston.

I leave you with one of my favorite poems. It's been described as trite and corny and I don't care:


Thank you for love, no matter what its outcome,
that leads us to the window in the dark,
that adds another otherness to others,
that holds out stars as if they were first diamonds
found in a mine that had been long closed down,
that hands out suns and makes us ask each morning:
What else do we need, picnickers in time?
Thank you for love that does not hang on answers,
that says, 'Enough's enough, to love is plenty...'
--- by such signs do we know the world exists,
amo ergo sum, thank you for that.
The miles, the years, the lives that lie between
--- they always lay there, and they always will,
but look, the loved one spans the dizzy distance
by the act of being, and we lovers turn
our faces steadily thou -wards as a field
of sunflowers like a tracking station turns,
charting its meaning by the westering sun.

- Bruce Dawe

you can't make this stuff up

Driving down the hill from my parents house, having forgotten a key and needing to drive up to the shop to get one, I saw that the neighbors' pigs had gotten out and were running around the driveway.

Frugalistas

A friend and I got joking the other night about the old Onion article about William Safire going to BK and ordering two "Whoppers Junior". In the course of the conversation he mentioned to me that Safire's word of the year this year is Frugalista. My guess is that the meaning is obvious, but it's someone who is a fashionista on a budget (which, I would imagine, is even more time consuming than just being a fashionista).

The whole concept bugged me, and it was all I could do not to go off on a total rant. Instead I just went off on a partial rant about lifestyles and money, with the thought in the back of my mind that I would end up writing about it here. These are dangerous topics because they are so personal, and I know that often my preaching can make it sound like I think my lifestyle is the best out there. That mindset sounds terrible, but think about this: If you don't think your lifestyle is the best, why are you living that way?

Having been ruined for life by the Jesuits, I have an odd relationship with money. Like I tell my students, we all know that Jesus said "give away all you have and follow me", and we can make whatever choices we want about money but we can't ever pretend that he didn't say it. Dance around it, interpret it, parse it within an inch of it's life, but it's there and if we take the Evangelists seriously we can't ignore it.

When I got back from Mexico after the first time I traveled on an international service trip, I couldn't bring myself to buy anything for month and a half. A cup of coffee filled me with guilt, and little luxuries felt superfluous. After a while I realized that I couldn't control the world I was born into any more than my friends on the outskirts of Tijuana, and decided that sometimes I had to buy a new pair of jeans. That said, to this day I don't think I've ever spent more than $35 on a pair.

I still spent the next 3 years doing "the voluntary poverty thing" as I called it, living in community for 4 years, sacrificing privacy and autonomy in an attempt not to consume more than my fair share. After a while it started to get to me, and I was lucky enough to be able to choose between two jobs: one at a wealthy school and one at a less affluent school. The decision was a struggle, but I was tired of not knowing how I was going to afford groceries, and I sold out. I don't regret it.

What does this have to do with being a Frugalista? Despite being able to afford my own place and new shoes, I am still annoyed by nation's emphasis on style and consumption. This will only become more apparent as we plow forward toward Christmas. Even as people are forced to consume less because of the economy, I still am perturbed that so much of what I hear about are the extraneous things people can't afford. Did it never occur to them when things were flush that maybe they didn't need that extra piece of technology, that fancy vacation, the second, or third, or fourth home? Did they really see no value in consuming less simply for the sake of consuming less? I own very little of significant monetary value and it makes me feel free. Have we become shackled to our own consumer aspirations? Has Madison Avenue made it impossible for America to know the joy and liberation of letting those consumerist dreams go?

Tempo markings

Yesterday I sang Westendorf's O Blessed Savior at three morning masses, which is a song that I have always really liked even though it constantly changes meter. Needless to say I got all emotional, but since this blog is running the risk of turning into Felice Mi Fa's Emotional Jamboree, I'll leave that to your imagination.

This is what intrigued me: in place of a tempo marking, the score read "With Great Reverence". Has there ever been a church piece that was not intended that way? That has had the marking "With Blazing Disrespect?" It irks me when composers give marks like that: "somewhat funky, not too fast", "peppy!".

I am teetering on the edge of a liturgical music rant, but I think I will restrain myself.

on a lighter note...

after two weepily emo posts in a row, let's switch gears a bit.

I am trying to decide when to leave town for CT. When do you think traffic will be least bad getting out of the city?

a. Tuesday evening at 7pm
b. Wednesday morning at 8am
c. Wednesday morning at 10am


In other news, BOC is planning another event with the Italian Consulate, and the Consul and I have been corresponding about the details. I try to do most of our correspondence in Italian (because I think he gets tired of English all the time, and for my own benefit) only switching into English when I am concerned I won't be clear or won't understand something.

Writing in Italian is something I become less neurotic about with time (and with frequency - sometimes I'm too rushed to check my conjugations 8 times). I just hastily hit send on an email that probably contained a dozen mistakes.

Wir wandelten, wir zwei zusammen

The first major chill of the season has settled on Boston. Ever since high school I have struggled with neck tension and back pain at this time of year as my shoulders creep up against the cold. The weather and a long week had me tense and tired by Thursday afternoon, the day of my voice lesson. I wasn’t at the top of my game when I walked into my teacher’s studio. My larynx was creeping up, I couldn’t get on top of the pitch, and I was making the same mistakes I always make, becoming more and more annoyed with myself. I finally got warmed up enough to make music, and we began to work on repertoire.

Brahms was the order of the day, and we began Wir Wandelten, a stunning Romantic art song with a piano part that is just as beautiful as the melody (click to listen here). At one point my teacher offered the image of a pine forest as interpretive advice, suggesting the image and experience of walking over soft pine needles in green stillness.

You know what I mean? She asked me. I did. I grew up spending afternoons wandering our big backyard, through aisles of trees that define the perimeter of the lawn. I know what pine needles are like, how they feel, how they smell, what they mean.

With my brain back at my parents’ house we sang on. All Brahms is beautiful, Wir Wandelten is more so, and once again I was overwhelmed with the wonder of being part of something transcendently gorgeous. My emotional eyes teared up all the way home: I wasn’t sure if I was crying out of sadness or of happiness. Being moved is like that sometimes, inhabiting some space above happy and sad.

Occasionally in the studio or the practice room, something so magical happens that I think “this is it. This is the whole point.” But then I remember pine needles and wandering the woods and pulling my baby brother in the wagon with the tractor, and then I think that all of this is ‘it’ – every memory and imagining, every stressed out voice lesson, freezing afternoon, hectic class. On my very best days, straining to read someone else’s words and music over my pianist’s shoulder, I catch sight of the wonder of God for a second and am convinced that really none of this is ‘it’. There’s so much more waiting for us, but on this side of eternity, in every practice room, classroom, studio apartment, dusty old farmhouse – there’s more than enough shadows and reflections of ‘it’ to make the whole trip worthwhile.


Wir wandelten, wir zwei zusammen,
ich war so still und du so stille,
ich gäbe viel, um zu erfahren,
was du gedacht in jenem Fall.

Was ich gedacht, unausgesprochen verbleibe das!
Nur Eines sag' ich:
So schön war alles, was ich dachte,
so himmlisch heiter war es all'.

In meinem Haupte die Gedanken,
sie läuteten wie gold'ne Glöckchen:
so wundersüß, so wunderlieblich
ist in der Welt kein and'rer Hall.

We wandered together, the two of us,
I was so quiet and you so still,
I would give much to know
What you were thinking at that moment.

What I was thinking, let it remain unuttered!
Only one thing will I say:
So lovely was all that I thought -
So heavenly and fine was it all.

The thoughts in my head
Rang like little golden bells:
So marvellously sweet and lovely
That in the world there is no other echo.
Translation from German to English copyright © by Emily Ezust

Gifts

In case any of you worry that I don't have anyone looking out for me in Boston, you should know that last night my landlady knocked on my door around 6pm holding two boxes. She told me she had gone through her jewelry and found a few things she never wore and wanted to give them to me because she felt bad about the burglary and wanted to help me start refilling my jewelry box. A coworker of mine had also gotten me a few bracelets when she heard that mine had been taken.

I envy those people who can just accept gifts without a second thought. I think for most of us (and especially for the particularly neurotic, like myself) there's always that tiny feeling of unworthiness, even guilt, that someone should think of you and offer you something you haven't earned.

Her visit last night reminded me of a gift she gave me when I first moved in. I had made the mistake of moving while I was in the middle of a two-week intensive summer course on The Church of the Poor with none other than Gustavo Gutierrez (SQUEE!). When she came down with a gift for me while I was writing my final paper in my haphazardly decorated new kitchen, it made such an impact on me that I included the incident in my paper. This is what I wrote at the time:

Related to our need to be open to receiving God’s assistance is our need to accept God’s gratuitous gift. Discussing the preferential option for the poor and spiritual poverty, Gutiérrez states “God first loved us. Our lives should respond to this gratuitous initiative of God” (EW 146). God loves us – and all humans – because God is good, not because we are good.

To accept gifts freely can be a challenge. As I was writing this, my landlady unexpectedly knocked on my door. I opened the door to find her bearing two sets of curtains. She told me her daughter had left them with her, they matched my kitchen, I had two kitchen windows, and I didn’t have curtains yet, so she was giving them to me. Her action was so unexpected that my thank-yous felt inadequate, and I shut the door unsettled. If it is difficult to accept free curtains, no wonder it is a challenge to accept divine love and the gift of eternal life.

But I don’t physically need curtains any more than poor Andean girls need dolls, or an adolescent Gustavo needed ice cream, or Jesus needed three hundred denarii of oil poured on his head. Yet in the Markan account of Jesus anointing by an anonymous woman (Mk 14: 3-9) Jesus chastises those who would criticize her gratuitous act. In fact, he links the proclamation of the gospel with her act.

To receive God’s love gratuitously and to know that love is not conditional upon our striving, is an act of submission, of giving up control. We find validation of this acceptance in the pericope of Jesus’ anointing, and also in the story of Creation. According to Gutiérrez, we were made in gratuity, and “to be loved gratuitously is the greatest human aspiration”.

Forgive this soprano's detour into her other life of preaching and pontificating. Can't hurt to be reminded of the free gift of love once in a while, though.

A weekend away, with thoughts on singing for people you love.

In case any of you were considering teaching the first five periods on a Friday and then getting on an airplane, I don't recommend it.

This weekend was the long awaited wedding of the brother of a dear friend, whose family I have known since childhood. I took a cab from work to the airport and arrived about an hour before my flight. The flight was delayed, so I wasn't heartbroken by the long lines at security. As soon as I sat down at the gate they announced that my flight was cancelled, and I sprinted to the agent counter to try to get on another flight. Lucky for me a different airline had a flight heading out and I got a ticket on that one. All I had to do was go through security again...

When the agent at security checked my boarding pass and license, she looked up at me with a pleasant smile and said "I'm randomly selecting you to get an extra security check after you go through the metal detectors". Here tone of voice made it sound like I was getting some sort of prize, and my first inclination was to reply with such deep sarcasm that I could have gotten in a bit of trouble.

The security agents were polite and almost apologetic about having to pat me down out in front of everyone and go through all of my stuff. No matter how kind they are, that doesn't change the fact that my underwear is being rifled through in the middle of the airport.

I made it to Philly just in time for rehearsal dinner (although not in time for the actual rehearsal, which was fine because I was singing rather than being a part of the wedding party, but I still felt a little guilty just eating, not churching). The families of both the bride and the groom are of that fabulously warm variety, the kind that almost make you feel guilty for not being more like them.

The details of the weekend are pretty standard stuff that could send this post down the road of "today I got up. then I looked out the window. then I ate a sandwich.", so I'll spare you that. I will say that it was an honor, as usual to sing at the wedding of people I care about.

Most of the music was your usual Catholic stuff - midrange, needing amplification, etc. I did sing Ave Maria, which is always a treat because it is actually in my tessitura.

We train for years to get everything just right: open your throat in the passagio, raise the soft palate on that F#, maintain a consistent voice throughout the registers, make each note expressive, keep the breath spinning. There are times when that work seems horribly selfish, all done just so that we can win a few competitions, or depict on stage some selfish woman who you won't feel terribly bad for when she dies in the end. Once in a while I have the opportunity to use those skills for the right reasons and to really give a gift to people I care about. This weekend was one of those times. As much as I love adulation and applause and being approached by strangers after shows seeking to laud me, if the people I loved were my only fans, that would be enough for me.

For the Anniversary of the Jesuit Martyrs of El Salvador

Yesterday was actually the anniversary, but I was away from my computer. Someone sent these out and I thought they hit the nail on the head:

A gospel that doesn't unsettle,
a Word of God that doesn't get under anyone's skin,
a Word of God that doesn't touch the real sin of the
society in which it is being proclaimed,
what Gospel is that?
~ Oscar Romero


We need to work for peace from the perspective
of the suffering of orphans and widows and the
tragedy of the assassinated and the disappeared.
We must keep our eyes on the God of life, the
God of the poor, and not the idols, or the gods
of death that devour everything.
~ Ignacio Ellacuria, SJ
Martyred 11/16/89

Happy Birthday, Pedro!

Nothing is more practical than finding God,
that is, than falling in love
in a quite absolute, final way.
What you are in love with,
what seizes your imagination,
will affect everything.
It will decide what will get you
out of bed in the morning,
what you will do with your evenings,
how you will spend your weekends
what you read, who you know,
what breaks your heart,
and what amazes you
with joy and gratitude.
Fall in love, stay in love,
and it will decide everything.

~ attributed to Pedro Arrupe, SJ

Goal setting and listening to the promptings of the Spirit

Now that this has been 'published' in the BOC newsletter I feel like I can share it here too. This is my way of letting you in on some of the recent musings that I don't anticipate having time to type out this week. Sorry if I am selling my cabbage twice.

Where do you see yourself in 5 years? The gravity of that question can be terrifying, and it's a question that has always baffled me and to which I rarely have a good answer. At the risk of sounding aimless, I will admit that I am not much of a goal setter. I have never attached myself to a particular vision of what my future would look like, instead trying to live with integrity every day and be guided by my principles as I navigate my path.

Of course my life plan always included a few major goals ("I would like to go to college", "I would like to not be homeless", "I would like to stay in close contact with my family"), but like many people I find that the best things in my life are the results of incidents I could never have planned. Response to the world around me, rather than driving initiative, is what led me to Americorps, to BOC, to the Board of Directors, to most of this life which in retrospect seems inevitable. It can be difficult, though, not to feel shiftless for not having a plan in place for the rest of my life.

Planning – or not – for the future can be a tough balancing act, and its one that BOC is going to struggle with as we continue to grow and move into our post-fledgling stage. How do we maintain direction while also being open to serendipity? How do we keep from being so locked into goals (which doubtless need to be set) that we can't respond to our environment and to each other? I have great trust in the membership of BOC that we will move forward guided by a mission of lifting up our colleagues and by the values which brought us all together. If any group can meet this challenge, it's us.

Rejection

Well, I just got what will surely be the first of many PFOs for this season. For those of you not in the business, a PFO stands for Please Eff Off and is opera lingo for a rejection letter. This was for a summer apprenticeship that I knew was a real stretch, but at least I didn't have to travel or pay exorbitant fees for it. Even though I never really believed I would be accepted, it still hurts, like it hurts every time.

Rejections come a lot in this business, and we all know that fact going in to it. In what other profession are being constantly evaluated, fighting for jobs once a week or so, and being rejected at least 75% of the time? Imagine if every Wednesday you had to do your work in front of your boss, and he or she decided every week who got to come back on Thursday and Friday (and no, you wouldn't get paid to stay home). Then next week you would go back and do it again.

And every time you got sent home, even if it was only because there wasn't enough work that week or they were looking for a blonde rather than a brunette, it would feel like a sweeping indictment on your existence and vocation, and you would convince yourself that you had backed the wrong horse and that you were ruining your life, and at some point you'd end up in tears about the whole thing. Doesn't that sound like fun?

We singers are crazy. Part of it is that we are crazy to go into this line of work in the first place, and then we live it for a while and we get crazier. I repeat my suggestion from previous posts: Be patient with us. We're nuts.

From USCCB.org

Bishops Congratulate Barack Obama on Historic Election;Urge Him to Defend the Weak, Heal Divisions

WASHINGTON—The U.S. bishops congratulated President-elect Barack Obama, the first African-American elected President of the United States, and called the event "historic" and coming at a difficult time.

"Our country is confronting many uncertainties," the bishops said. "We pray that you will use the powers of your office to meet them with a special concern to defend the most vulnerable among us and heal the divisions in our country and our world. We stand ready to work with you in defense and support of the life and dignity of every human person."

They bishops offered their remarks in a November 4 letter to President-elect Obama from Cardinal Francis George of Chicago, president of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops.The letter follows.

Dear President-elect Obama,

I write to you, in my capacity as President of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, to express our congratulations on your historic election as President of the United States. The people of our country have entrusted you with a great responsibility. As Catholic Bishops, we offer our prayers that God give you strength and wisdom to meet the coming challenges.

Our country is confronting many uncertainties. We pray that you will use the powers of your office to meet them with a special concern to defend the most vulnerable among us and heal the divisions in our country and our world. We stand ready to work with you in defense and support of the life and dignity of every human person.

May God bless you and Vice President-elect Biden as you prepare to assume your duties in service to our country and its citizens.

Sincerely yours,
Francis Cardinal George,
OMI
Archbishop of Chicago

President

I'm happy

This is rambly, and on a topic I have deliberately tried to avoid all fall.

This is the first time in a long time that everything I voted for ended up going with the majority (including the ballot questions). I know there are a lot of folks out there looking to rain on our parade by criticizing the system, the candidates, the electoral college, etc. Yes, the system is broken, and no, I don’t think Barack Obama is somehow going to magically fix it, but I am choosing to deal with the brokenness and simply be happy with the results.

Dear friends had a party last night to watch the polls come in, but a combination of fatigue, avoidance of loud crowds, and desire to scream at the television kept me from staying very long up in Somerville. I went home and watched the rest of the polls come in on the futon, by myself, in the quiet. What can I say? It was nice.

I have wanted to see a female president for a long time, and supported Hillary Clinton in the primaries for that reason and because I simply thought she had more experience. I can say that it is thrilling to see an African-American President, the child of an immigrant, someone of humble beginnings. It’s easy to forgot that most of the country looks at our long list of white male presidents (like the one that is on my “Presidents of the United States” coffee mug) and sees people who they can’t relate to. There are people who poo-poo that sentiment, implying that it shouldn’t matter to people whether there leaders are white or black, male or female. Still, who we look at, who we look up to – those things matter.

And it matters that people of competence are allowed to shine. Yes, when I see Sarah Palin I see someone who looks like me (a hotter, older version of me), but I don’t get the sense that her values, or her idea of competence, is the same as mine. It’s not simply enough to have leaders who are of women, or who are different races. Speaking of my own experience, in my life I have wanted to be excellent in thinking, speaking, reading and writing. I have wanted to have knowledge. I have wanted to have morals that I could articulate and have wanted to be a leader who would encourage other people to live lives that are good. And who were the leaders I could look up to who had done that? George Washington, Martin Luther King Jr, Pope John XXIII. Good men, all, but men. With each election I see more women who I can look at and think “Wow, maybe I can do that. Maybe I can be the type of leader I want to be,” which is not to say I necessarily seek elected office. But every year, despite the setbacks, it becomes more and more OK for women to be strong, to be fighters, to be opinionated. That is hopeful for me.

Barack Obama’s election gives that same hope to other people. Here is a good man, who seems to want to do the right thing, who ‘works hard and plays by the rules’ as they say. And he looks like a large group of people who have never been represented in that way before. Like I said, it’s not perfect, but at least it’s above average.

They say it's your birthday!

Guess who has a birthday today! Happy birthday to my favorite brother.

Disappointment on Thursday night

After weeks of waiting, I was thrilled that 30 Rock was coming back this week. Even though we had to wait until deep into the season for the premiere, it happened to come out on the first Thursday after Schicchi closed. It seemed things were coming together for ol' Felice Mi Fa.

I laughed out loud about 5 times. Still, I was disappointed with the episode for two reasons:

1. It was obviously trying to wrap up a number of storylines from Season 2 that just weren't working. Devin Banks running into a town car, Liz choosing work over adoption, Dongslayer selling 61 million copies...somehow getting into these messes was more fun than getting out of them.

2. Dealing with guest stars can ruin anything. Megan Mulally is fab, but her guest spot was not genius. I worry that the rest of the season is going to be stiff, unfunny story lines meant to wrap themselves around whichever famous person agreed to come on board for this week.

I'll catch you next week after Oprah.

adventures in liturgical music

So everyone else booked it out of work on this Friday afternoon, and I stayed an extra 45 minutes because I couldn't find a piece of music. The piano part to the Mass of Light Kyrie, to be exact, because at mass with the Cardinal on Sunday I really really really wanted to be able to sing the Kyrie with tropes. Why am I like this?

I found it.

boys becoming men, men becoming wolves!

I don't have time to find the link myself, but go watch "Werewolf Bar Mitzvah" to celebrate Halloween. That's your only homework.

Last night at the Green Dragon

Out with friends last night, they insisted that they were not important enough to make the blog. I'm here to prove them wrong.

At one point Brian turned to me and said "can we be cocky for a second?" I thought to myself, he's going to want to play 'who'll be in Barack's cabinet'. I was right.

Keith announced that if he had a website it would be a picture of a bird and a politician (as opposed to my glamorous site).

Alison made the mistake of disagreeing with us on one of the ballot questions for next week. We made her pay for that. Sorry about that, Alison.

And speaking of the Green Dragon, did you know that Paul Revere was a drunk who fell off of his horse in Arlington and never made it to Lexington and Concord?

On dating an opera singer

Leah's husband wrote the perfect guide to dating an opera singer here. I'm not sure if any of you were planning to do so any time soon, but if you were, this would be the guide for you.

Awkwardness with undergrads

Most people have some appreciation for the limitless awkwardness of the teenage boy, and although my experience is mainly with teenagers on the younger end of the spectrum, once in a while I again become aware of the nervousness of the older variety.

This first came to mind yesterday in the elevator in the Comm Ave garage. I was taking the elevator up from 3 (where my car was) to 7, and when I got in there were two undergrads who appeared to be bypassing the stairs by taking the elevator from 1 to 7.

Elevators are awkward for everyone, regardless of age, regardless of gender. Think of all the times you have been standing very close to someone and just stared at the floor, to scared to make eye contact. Or worse (and this is more often the case for me), you said something that landed with a thud on the ears of your elevatormates, and the only thing you could hear in your ears for the rest of the ride was your own voice saying something dumb.

The three of us survived the elevator ride and exited onto the roof of the garage into bright sunlight and spitting rain. I read enough Rainbow Brite books in my day to know what was coming next, and I looked around for the inevitable rainbow. I found it over my right shoulder, a perfect half-circle shooting brightly across the sky.

I had booked out of the elevator in a hurry, so my two elevator friends were still behind me. When I saw the rainbow and saw that they were still right behind me I shouted "Look!" They wouldn't look, and this was when I started to get a little perturbed. What can I say? I'm used to being obeyed. So I shouted again, even louder "LOOK!!!"

They did, and one of them started talking to me -a lot - about how great the rainbow was. Then he blew it, saying "Did you just happen to be looking around and saw the rainbow?" Then I blew it, by responding, incredulous at his not knowing the fundamentals of rainbows, "No...It was sunny...and raining...so I knew there would be a rainbow."

A blog post can not adequately communicate my terribly dismissive tone-of-voice, but trust me when I tell you that we went awkward for awkward yesterday afternoon.

The Desire for Hermitage

Something got me thinking about this song today. I love Samuel Barber.

still looking for something to do this weekend?

Tickets are still available for the Saturday night performance of Gianni Schicchi and Suor Angelica. I sing Saturday, but if you can't make it then come tonight to see the other cast!

www.bostonoperacollaborative.org

on guilt

Yesterday I paid for a $5 drink with a $10 bill. The bartender gave me back $15 in change. So I gave the ten back.

I have been thinking recently about 'guilt', particularly of the "Catholic guilt" variety. I generally am annoyed when people make jokes about "Catholic guilt", because overall I don't find guilt to be a terrible thing. It tells us when we have done something wrong. It ensures altruistic behavior. I think people often imagine Catholic guilt as just enough guilt to feel bad about having done something, but not enough to not do it in the first place. Still, for most people I know, guilt (or the prospect of it) is what keeps us on the straight and narrow, doing the right thing for the people around us.

I will admit, sometimes I can take the idea a little too far. I had a professor once who said "I hope this generation has guilt about justice the way my generation had guilt about sex", and I fall prey to extensive scrupulosity when issues of finances and divvying up of resources come up. In short: I feel guilty about having too much.

Many of you know the saga of the cellphone. Broken, then replaced, then I was given a hand-me-down, then charger stolen, etc. Yesterday the gift-phone started acting up, and my first thought was "this is what I deserve for using a phone that I didn't pay for". That is quite obviously hogwash, but I know for sure that if I had kept that $10 last night I would now be blaming any number of mishaps on some post-modern amalgam of karma and divine punishment (neither of which I believe in - consciously).

A few weeks ago I went to a wedding and shared a room with two female friends. They went up to bed about an hour before I did, so they decided to share one of the full-sized beds so that I wouldn't wake either up them up when I came up. This meant, of course, that I had the other bed to myself. When I woke up in the morning I still had slept as if I were sharing the bed, crammed all the way over to one side with the other side barely disturbed. That is the essence of Catholic guilt, at least for me: Feeling so wrong about having more than my share that I won't indulge in all of it, even though no one else benefits from my sacrifice and I did nothing wrong.

Trying to be careful

In my line of work, it's really easy to talk about God like God is not in the room with me. I need to be careful about that.

More brilliance in the blogosphere

I am thrilled to announce that my brother has launched a sports blog: felicesports.blogspot.com

Tom and I are similar, to say the least. If you ever wondered what it would be like if I went off on a rant about sportscasting or the Steve Harvey show, now you can find out.

Go forth and read.

On today's first reading, from Isaiah 45

I am the LORD and there is no other,there is no God besides me.

It is I who arm you, though you know me not,

so that toward the rising and the setting of the sun

people may know that there is none besides me.

I am the LORD, there is no other.

I’m always pleased with the way that “ordinary time” offers us readings that are anything by ordinary. This week’s first reading in particular struck me (more the second time I heard it than the first), and shamed me in the way that reflection on the Scriptures sometimes can.

I don’t know how any one can hear the phrase “I am the Lord, there is no other” and not be at least a little ashamed. It’s human nature to become distracted, to raise other gods up because we are briefly deluded that in them we may find salvation. Just this weekend I can think of multiple gods I served: my esteem in the eyes of others, the pompous freneticism of my schedule, the frustration with other people that I want to scratch like an itch.

But to say that the Lord is God alone means little without at least a sense of who God is, despite our inability to ever fully comprehend God. For tonight I know this: God is the one whose command to me, given to the prophets and repeated through Jesus, is to love: love mom and dad, family, friends, people on the bus, co-workers, God, and myself. Just love. So why bother with any of the other nonsense?

Sunday morning in the city

I am a big proponent of living in a city during your twenties: there is nothing better than having a group of friends just a train ride away, having access to arts and restaurants and good times. I have to take issue, though, with the depiction of this lifestyle of TV. Young people always have apartments that are way too nice to be affordable, your best friends just show up at your door , and you all go down to Central Perk to talk about your day. That’s not really how it works.

Until today.

I was dozing around 8am when I heard my phone buzzing. I got up and saw it was a friend calling, and I immediately assumed it was an emergency (most likely that our other friend, who is visiting from NY, needed a ride somewhere quickly). So I called back and was told “be out front in 5 minutes”.

I dashed around the apartment brushing my teeth and getting the sleep out of my eyes. I threw on a pair of jeans and my fleece and went out front, where they were waiting for me in a zipcar and the BC shirts they had worn to the game last night.

They had gotten a Zipcar in order to go to McDonalds, and Max had seen a documentary on the ICA so he wanted to go down to the Seaport District and see it. Since my apartment was between those two points, they picked me up. After cruising the parking lot of the museum, we stopped at Dunkin’ for refills and drove out to Castle Island to sit behind Fort Independence, eat some Mickey D’s and complain about the cold.

We were going to watch a little Pop Warner, but we had to get the car back.

So it’s 9:30 on a Sunday and I’ve already had an adventure. Plus I had all the fun we used to have after staying up all night, but I got to have a good night’s sleep.

Today I went to the pawn unit to see if there were any records of the stolen items being sold or pawned. Since it has been almost 30 days since the burglary I had a bit of a time crunch because secondhand shops are only required to hold items for 30 days. So after a long day at the end of a long week, I left work early to head over to Tremont St.

The had told me on the phone that they were at 1199 Tremont St, near the Reggie Lewis Center. It occurred to me on the way over there that they were probably in the Boston Police Headquarters, but naturally there weren't any numbers on the buildings so I drove up and down the street a few times, then found a spot, passed through the metal detectors and asked if I was in the right place. Lucky for me I was.

Everyone in licensing was very pleasant, and they sat me down in a comfortable chair with piles and piles of records starting with 9/27. I pulled out my list of stolen pieces, lowered the chair so that my feet touched the floor, and started skimming. The experience was just about as miserable as I had expected (think Erin Brockovich at the water board, minus the sycophant in the plaid pants). In addition to the charts and descriptions swimming in front of my eyes, a woman was trying to change the life of one of the officers with a nearby cubicle ("you should come to church! you should eat fruit! you should pack a lunch!"). As all of my senses reached a breaking point, my neck started to hurt from hovering over the sheets of records.

There were a few redeeming moments. None of them involved finding any of my lost things, but there were some wild items listed. Some were amusing in themselves- a Patriots helmet gold necklace for instance - and some were purely the result of transcription. These included a Hairing Bone chain, a Cladder ring, and a Bango bracelet.

Lest you think my experience was all mocking superiority and bad posture, I will add that I got a little emotional when I got deep into October's records and accepted that nothing was going to show up. I had been trying so hard to remember my jewelry in order to describe it, and the pieces were all very present in my mind. Letting them go again this afternoon I found myself crying over those long sheets of white paper, wondering if it would be better to catch the tears in my glasses or let them drip onto the BPD's records.

Another half-marathon for the books

I started long-distance running about 3 years ago purely out of stubbornness. I was sick of watching my friends push themselves in these races and always watching from the sidelines, so I decided to train for the New Bedford Half-Marathon with a bunch of friends despite the fact that I am the opposite of a natural athlete (an unnatural athlete? maybe).

Today I completed the Hartford Half-Marathon for the third time, with a time 25 minutes faster than my time in March of 2006. I'm still slow, and running is still hard, but I am walking (limping) proof that you can do most things if you set your mind to it.

My Fall fall into irritability

Being back at work since September, things have gone pretty well: vocal fatigue is at a minimum, I don't dread getting out of bed in the morning, and I don't find myself getting testy at work as easily as I have in years past.

But as Columbus Day sneaks up on us, the results of early mornings at work and long nights at rehearsal, of early morning Sunday church gigs and late nights at the theater, are starting to show. Twice in the last two days I have become irrationally annoyed at store employees who only exhibited minimal signs of culpability regarding my annoyance. Yesterday's story is almost too shameful to repeat, but I will admit that it culminated in my sniping across the Finagle-a-Bagel counter "Next time get it right the first time, Daryl", repeating the name on his name tag like it was a curse word.

Now that the summer is over, Fridays no longer feel like any other day. Rather, on Fridays I feel so tired I can't see straight, and if I spend another second around a human being I will lose my mind. So maybe it wasn't a great idea to hit up Bed Bath & Beyond at 5pm looking for a wedding gift for a wedding this weekend.

As it turns out, a number of things for which a person can register at Bed Bath & Beyond are not available in stores. I had already decided exactly what I would get; the fun, quirky items I would pair it with; the beautiful wrappings with which I would adorn it. And then a nice, bearded man (who, lucky for him was not wearing a name tag) told me I couldn't buy what I want.

I grabbed the pages of the registry which contained the things I could get in store and paced the aisles, but I was so shaken and perturbed about not being able to get my way that I couldn't even function (see also: Being a Felice). I ended up leaving and going next door to the craft store to formulate plan B.

It's inevitable for most New Englanders this time of year - as the days get darker so do we. Then suddenly it's June and we realize that we have been down-in-the-dumps for 8 months without noticing. The business of my fall schedule do little to help with that, so I beg you all to bear with me as I begin the fall's slow decline into lunacy. Give me a few months and I'll be back.

Wildlife in the 'hood

Yesterday morning I opened my back door and turned on the light to see an opossum staring me in the face. I have to admit, it freaked me out a bit. Growing up on a busy road in an area full of wildlife, I saw my share of critters, both living and dead. But when I moved to the city, sacrificing the grass and trees of my home for asphalt and walk-ups, one thing I thought I would be rid of would be gross animals like oppossums.

Not so, apparently. After seeing Critter #1 I set out for an early morning run. Around mile 2 I saw Critter #2, small and soft and black, creeping out of the edge of Dorchester Bay with an ominous white streak down it's back. Nothing helps me with my speedwork like the prospect of taking a tomato sauce shower before work, so I swung as far to the left as I could and sprinted past Stinky back toward Dorchester Heights.

Sock it to me!

I promise that soon this blog will stop being all woe-is-me-I-got-burgled and start being about all the different ways I make a mess of my life, like usual.

This post falls somewhere in between, because it’s really not the burglar’s fault that I can’t find my toenail clippers. Regardless of any culpability, this missing item resulted in my toes finally poking through a pair of favorite striped socks which are at least 10 years old. This, of course, happened at rehearsal when I really couldn’t put my shoes back on.

I try to repair socks because I hate being a “Waste-e-roo”, but with how busy my life is these days, I’m not too inclined to add anything to my darning pile. Unfortunately I don’t see much of a choice in the matter because apparently when thieves steal jewelry they put it in your socks to take it out.

When the detectives were here, marveling at how my apartment had been ransacked (I had to fess up that it had been that messy when I left in the morning) they asked if anything else was gone. I said “I must be imagining this, but I think they took my socks”. They were the ones who filled me in on the thievery technique.

This post brought to you by Mark Twain

N O T I C E.
To the next burglar‒‒‒‒

There is nothing but plated ware in this house, now and henceforth. You will find it in that brass thing in the dining room over in the corner by the basket of kittens. If you want the basket, put the kittens in the brass thing. Do not make a noise—it disturbs the family. You will find rubbers in the front hall, by that thing which has the umbrellas in it, chiffonier, I think they call it, or pergola, or something like that.

Please close the door when you go away.

Very truly yours,
S. L. Clemens.

******************************************

Not only is it appropriate, it gives me a chance to brag about famous people from Connecticut.

more news from the crime scene

The first time that I went to Europe was in the summer of 2000 when I spent three weeks in Parma studying Italian. I returned shortly after that to go to Rome, and kept lira in my wallet for a long time after that as a reminder that I wanted to go back to Europe as soon as possible. In a biting instance of dramatic irony, you all know that lira are worthless now as Italy has switched to the Euro, so I had put my pretty little lira in a tin that read “Baseball: America’s Favorite Pastime” into which I also tossed pennies and Euros. I discovered yesterday that was taken in the theft also. Did the thief know that my brother gave me that tin?

Everyone keeps saying “You are handling this so well!”, but I don’t really know how I am supposed to handle it, or how they expected me to handle it. I cry about once a day over losing my Add-A-Pearl necklace, and I was a little creeped out to discover that all of my clean cloth rags had been put in the bin labeled ‘dirty’ and vice versa. Other than that, I haven’t had much emotional turbulence about the whole thing. Until yesterday that is…

Just before I was about to embark on my training run I realized that the radio I use when I run had been taken. That’s right, I listen to a Sony Walkman radio when I go running, and I hope the fact that it attaches to an armband makes other runners think it’s an Ipod. It cost about $40, and that creep who broke into my house took it. Congratulations, you’re just a jerk for stealing something that is worth next to nothing, the theft of which only serves to inconvenience me, not benefit you. That, combined with my recent discovery that my chapstick was also stolen because it was in the top of my jewelry box, set me off, and I screamed and shouted alone in my apartment. Then I went to Target and bought a new radio and chapstick.

last night

Usually I can think of a clever zinger or hook to start these things, but for some reason today one is eluding me. So let’s start with the headline: Religion Teacher’s Apartment Burglarized: Only Losses are Gifts from Dead People.

I can only imagine how disappointed our intrepid thief was as he or she rifled through old shoeboxes filled with cards from my mom, old pairs of glasses, stacks of headshots, useless keys. Searching for ipods and flatscreens, what he or she found were an old “boom box” and a 15 year old TV with bunny ears.

So what do you take from the girl who has very little? The handful of jewelry she keeps on top of her dresser. They’re just things, I keep telling myself. But there are reasons we become attached to things. They remind us of people who gave them to us, of times in our lives, of memories. The only jewelry I had were items that had been with me for what feels like forever.

That silly red box (on top of a piece of furniture which is worth more money than anything else in the house) held the Christmas morning I got my cross in my stocking and the 10 years that I wore it every day. It held my high school ring dance, and the weeks of having classmates turn my ring 98 times. It held a student’s parent telling me that graduation mass was the most beautiful mass she had ever attended and that she wanted to give me a thank you. It held singing at the wedding of friends (and laughing over the fact that they also gave me earrings even though my ears aren’t pierced). It held birthday after birthday of little gold boxes from Lux Bond & Green and trips to the jeweler to have the pearls added to my necklace. It held a high school friend telling me that a rosary ring had made him think of me, just before he told me it only cost a dime.

They took my camera, off of which I had already downloaded the pictures from Italy. They took an old wallet (which they probably thought was a big score – hope they enjoy my DSW Rewards Card).

What initially tipped me off that the unlocked door wasn’t a random thing was that I couldn’t find my phone charger. I have been using a hand-me-down phone with a weak battery, so I knew I would have to go back to using the cheap Best Buy phone I had been using before. Except they took that phone (which explains why they took the charger). Way to go dummy, now you have a $15 phone and a charger that doesn’t go with it. Thanks for ruining my day.

The officers who came were very nice and told me where the local pawn shops are. When I told them that I had renters insurance they were astonished. Apparently no one they ask ever has it. I called the family to commiserate (sorry to upset you guys so late at night!) At that point I needed to hit the hay. I don’t know what made me think that I would just be able to go to sleep, but half an hour later I was still wide-eyed and shaking. I’ll blame it on the cold.

So I got up and watched Conan. And rifled through all of my drawers to make sure my passport and old credit card were still there. They were.

Keeping our priorities straight

This morning on the news they mentioned that people don't like the new Facebook. This is not news! And although I respect peoples' right to protest the new Facebook, let's be clear about where this should rank on our list of priorities: they have revamped a social networking site, not the US Tax Code.

I miss The West Wing

Maureen Dowd's column occasionally makes me a bit uncomfortable, but I think today's is brilliant.

Aaron Sorkin conjures a meeting of Obama and Bartlet

I particularly liked this observation:

If you excelled academically and are able to casually use 690 SAT words then you might as well have the press shoot video of you giving the finger to the Statue of Liberty while the Dixie Chicks sing the University of the Taliban fight song.

WBZ disappoints me in the morning

They are running a segment titled "Hurricane Hipocracy". Yes, that's how they spelled it

"By some chance, here we are, all on this earth"...notes on gratitude

Last week in Godschool our teacher modeled a particular pedagogical method by doing a lesson on gratitude. She made a very interesting point: that part of gratitude is living in the moment. I had never thought of it quite that way, but all my experience points in that direction. Although I am capable of being indescribably ungracious, I often find myself having my breath taken away by gratitude in spite of myself.

Despite what seems like my constant lamenting (usually for comic effect…but often to score cheap pity points), I do have a lot to be grateful for. Excuse me, ‘for which to be grateful’. My family is healthy and fun and we all get along. I have considerable musical skills. I was able to get into a good college and then get a great job. I live in an apartment by myself in a wonderful city. I go running in the morning and watch the sunrise over the water, which is pretty darn gorgeous.

I have always suspected that my family is as good at receiving gifts as we are at getting them. That came out wrong – when we receive gifts that excite us we often go nuts and come about as close as you can to barfing up gratitude all over the floor. One year my brother got a fabulously fuzzy Red Sox blanket from some dear family members and he immediately tore it open, wrapped himself up in it, and lay down on the floor.

Last night at rehearsal for Schicchi we were rehearsing one of the lovely parts (Addio, Firenze… for those of you who are into this sort of thing). The lovely parts of Schicchi tend to sneak up on me. We will be expostulating and shrieking for ten pages and then sing some of the most beautiful, lyric lines imaginable. I was looking around the room (because this is one of the few spots I have memorized) and was absolutely bowled over with gratitude. So many of my best friends were in that room, and even the people who I wouldn’t consider best friends are wonderful colleagues who I have known so long that they are almost like family to me. We know each other in and out, have had marvelously good times together and have had knock-down, drag-out fights. By some sort of magic or Providence we were all brought together, and on a random Thursday night in Somerville we made something heavenly, together.

I woke up this morning with a serious case of cooties, brought on no doubt by the recent return to work (and the change in seasons). I decided to treat the sniffles with this course of action I had only heard about before. It's called "taking it easy".

So I ditched/postponed my long run (10 miles with a fever? I'm too old for that) and lay on the couch for most of the morning. I had to go out in the afternoon, but came back and napped on the couch before going out this evening.

I had a pretty typical Meg moment out at the pub. I had ordered a drink and given my name to the waitress to open a tab. A very handsome bartender came over and started chatting, and I asked him for a water as well. He asked me my name, and my first thought, which, thank heavens did not come out of my mouth, was "Are you seriously going to charge a tap water to my tab?" Then I noticed he had stuck his hand out. To shake mine. Like normal men and women do when they are meeting each other.

Don't yell at people when they ask your name, don't shout "what the hell is that?" when someone puts his arm around you. BE COOL!



Refer to minute 1:00.

The Cleanliness Chronicles

As soon as I put on a white shirt I knew I would spill my coffee on it at some point. Ignoring my premonition, I left the house with my morning Joe in a “Connecticut River Community Bank” travel mug and was on my way…without a back up shirt.

I was all the way to JFK/UMass when I missed my mouth with the mug (or the mug with my mouth?) and splashed coffee on my shirt. I pulled my sweater tight, but it wasn’t tight enough to cover the splash. Tide StainStick-less, I walked to work.

When I got to work I headed straight to a women’s bathroom. Leaning over the sink wasn’t doing the trick, so off the shirt came (it was a private bathroom) and I did my best to rinse only the soiled part. Those of you familiar with “my best” when it comes to cleanliness know that it is not very good. I soaked the entire front of my white T-shirt. And for what it’s worth, I still don’t think I got the coffee out.

So right now I have my t-shirt on backwards with my sweater tied as tight around me as it can be. I’ll let you know when it dries.

Anniversaries and more bus madness

I have very particular ideas of the best ways to commemorate things like 9/11. Like most particular aims, they fail to be met by the vast majority. All I will say is that the memory that sticks out the most is of an Arab Muslim friend who told me her mother suggested that she not leave her apartment because it wouldn't be safe.

Yesterday I taught 5 in a row, had 2 meetings, and had 2 rehearsals, and by 10 pm I was still able to speak and sing comfortably. Maybe I have turned a corner. Thank heavens.

The movie that is being filmed across the street is called "Edge of Darkness" with Mel Gibson, DeNiro (who reportedly backed out recently) and Cameron Diaz (who a bus driver described as 'very laid back', having seen her on the route). That same driver went on to tell me how "none of these Boston movies has told the real story" and to describe what growing up in Southie was like under Whitey. He then took issue with The Departed; his major criticism seemed to be that the movie depicted them using the telephone.

How city living has me jaded, in two parts

I. Today they were setting up a film shoot across the street. Rather than trying to sneak a peek at Mel Gibson or whoever was out there, all I could think was "I hope this doesn't mess up my bus route".

II. I accidentally ran 12.5 miles on Saturday (should have been 9 - don't ask). At about mile 12 I was running around the park and an old senile woman in the busstop shouted out to me. I turned down my music and she screamed "Can you wait with me to make sure the bus picks me up?"

Those of you who don't have these encounters often are imagining your virtue right now. I know, I know, you would stop and wait. You would make sure she had bus fare. You would keep her company. Not me. I told her I had to get home and kept running.

Both of these have to do with buses.

Tough crowd in Southie

Last night's adventures included a trip to the pharmacy. While in line the woman behind me began commenting loudly about the various inefficiencies she perceived in the running of the CVS pharmacy. After lamenting that there was only one register open and commending the cashier for her frequent good work, she gestured to the head pharmacist and shouted "and that guy back there: he's a lazy piece of sh*t! he doesn't do anything! he's a f*cking a**hole too!"

Fulfillment

Yesterday I started this semester's "God-school" class. During introductions I noticed a lot of people who ran businesses, had MBAs, worked lucrative jobs, but who "just weren't fulfilled". When it came my turn I told them I had plenty of fulfillment to go around, but if anyone could lend me twenty bucks, that would be great.

Executive Experience

So Sarah Palin is going to be McCain's running mate. Whoopideedoo.

It has always bugged me that governors are put on a pedestal when it comes to running for President. Yes, they have "executive experience". But as far as I can tell, Senators get a fair amount of experience in government as well.

Today I heard John McCain highlight all of Palin's "executive experience" and he included her time on the PTA. Give me a break. By that standard, I am already building my Vice-Presidential résumé. When I am Chelsea Clinton's running mate in 2028 she can tout that I was Governor of Connecticut & Rhode Island, Archbishop of Boston, shift manager at an Arby's franchise and President of Boston Opera Collaborative.

The video below has Tom thinking that he has a shot in 2028 as well.



Listen closely for a Whalers reference.

Don't stop thinking about tomorrow

I have no recollection of why we were there, but when Bill Clinton spoke during convention four years ago the whole gang was watching in the Paraclete dining room. As soon as we heard the beautiful sounds of "Don't stop thinking about tomorrow" as he walked out, we all had a moment of silence for the President we loved.

Maybe it's a function of my age, my susceptibility to good oratory, or my progressive tendencies, but I long ago drank the Kool-Aid on the Clinton Administration. Don't get me wrong: I love marital fidelity and honesty, but the faults of the man in those regards couldn't outweigh how much I agreed with the work done during his Presidency (his inaction in Rwanda being the notable exception).

When his introducer yesterday was rambling off the positive economic statistics that went along with his Presidency, I couldn't help but feel like I was watching one of those episodes of The West Wing in which President Bartlet gives himself a pep-talk by reminding himself how many jobs he created and how many kids have health insurance. (I'm thinking particularly of the scene when he's talking to himself just before the press conference at the end of Season 2. RIP Mrs. Landingham.)

I thought Beau Biden's intro had the perfect "gotcha" moment when he revealed his father's speech impediment. The subtext was definitely "Remember all those times you made fun of my dad for his gaffes? WELL HE HAS A STUTTER! Don't you all feel like jerks". Regardless of whether anyone felt like a jerk, Biden the elder went on to give a pretty impressive speech that got 'em all weeping. His mom looks like a real pistol too.

Tuesday night of the convention

Bill Clinton finds limitless ways to draw attention to himself (crying? Really?), Rahm Emanuel may have been a little drunk, and Mark Warner puts a lot of faith in the success of the Chevy Volt.

I know Hillary was the big story last night, but I was excited to hear Deval Patrick. Even though he was in the hot spot between Warner and Clinton, the only station that ran his speech was the Fox network station, because they ran it live during the 10 pm news. I think that Patrick is an extraordinary speaker, although I have to wonder if he quoted Barney Frank on a dare. The first time I heard him speak live, he happened to be speaking with another “skinny guy with a funny name from Chicago” (his words).

Not only did most of the networks (including PBS!) ditch Deval, CBS actually interviewed Mitt Romney during Patrick’s speech. Offensive!

I can’t help but remember the fun we had when the DNC was in Boston four years ago. We joked at the time that it was like Spring Break for Democrats. We were out late every night, scoping out famous wonks and trying to crash delegate parties and watching speeches at bars. Most of my friends have that peculiarly New England mentality that seems moderate around here but is phenomenally liberal to the rest of the country. Because I fancy myself open-minded I try to pretend I could at some point in a million years vote Republican, but for that one week I could get excited and say “screw it, I'm partisan!”

I think I’m having that week again.

Let the Ritual Alone

Two disclaimers:
1. This is going to be about liturgy
2. I do not believe there is such a thing as a 'bad' mass. (That does not mean I can't question certain liturgical principles.)

I went to Mass in western Massachusetts this morning. Around communion time I finally pinpointed the feeling that had plagued me since the opening rite: I felt rushed. Here is a pet peeve of mine: when presiders rush through the ritual and then take their sweet time with their tropes and announcements and remarks. I do not go to church to hear you ramble! I know you told all the visitors how welcome we were about 4 or 5 times, but what would really have made me feel welcome would have been to have had time to breathe during the speed-spoken Gloria.

I just want a little time to process! I just want a little space to absorb. I remember going to a mass out in Ohio, where the pace is much different from in New England, and they put a LOT of space in the mass. I remember thinking how brave it was, to allow stillness and silence to be a part of the 'music' of the mass. You can't have music without rests, right?

So once again I betray my liturgical bias when I beg all you celebrants out there to Let the Ritual Alone. It works on its own. It doesn't need constant comment. Just slow it down, give us space to breathe, and preside without being domineering.

Thoughts on Beethoven

We had an orchestra rehearsal this morning for Beethoven's 9th. It should be a crime to make people sing that music before noon.

Last night was the Mass in C. I have sung that piece a number of times before, and its one of my favorites. Unlike most Beethoven, it's a pleasant sing.

Tomorrow we sing the 9th, after which I should need vocal rest for a few days. The fourth movement's redeeming quality? Its voicing includes triangle.

the secret life of cleaning persons

The sun is setting on the second day of our Tanglewood residency. I sing the Mass in C tomorrow, and then the 9th Symphony on Sunday. All Beethoven, all the time.

I was thrilled to discover that they are finally implementing a good recycling program at work in September, after years of having to take my white paper and soda cans home to recycle. Once, my first year, when I was still overindulging due to the thrill of having free soda all day, I had a pile of soda cans on my desk waiting to be taken home. Because deep down I am a high schooler, I had made them into a pyramid, using the Sierra Mist and Diet Pepsi colors to make a nice design with the cans. I came in one day and all of the cans were still in the pyramid, but they were in a completely different order, which led me to believe that someone, when cleaning up, had rearranged them.

Similarly, I came back to the hotel today to find a delightfully clean room: the trash was empty, the shower was clean, the beds were made. The only thing that was different was that clock was set an hour faster than it had been set when I left in the morning. How peculiar...

a trip to Providence

Last night I drove down to Providence for an audition. Two nights ago I couldn’t sleep, with what I thought was nervousness over the audition. That was odd to me, since I very rarely am nervous before I’m going to sing for someone (why should I be nervous? I sing all the time. And I’m not terrible at it. So why stress?) Last night I couldn’t sleep either, so apparently it wasn’t the audition, but it does mean that I am anxious about something else and haven’t figured out what it is yet. Going back to work in a few weeks may be the instigator.

Anyway, this audition was contingent upon two things:

1. Finding a dress that would cover my knees, which are completely shredded from my recent bout of vertigo/clumsiness

2. Finding a way to roll up my passenger side window, which had been stuck since last Thursday.

I am getting spoiled since I have been driving the Jeep. When I was driving the old heap, I was never shocked when something went wrong. You didn’t know when you would snap a belt, or leak oil, or have a wheel fall off. For the sake of nostalgia, let’s look at the old rustbucket.

So I buy a “new” car (hey! 1999 is really new for me!)

I will admit, it’s nice to drive a car and know that it will start every time. But I’ll admit, when my window started clicking and wouldn’t roll up, I thought to myself “These blasted E-lectronic cars! They make everything electronic so they get you coming and going!!” All I’m saying is this wouldn’t have happened with my old crank windows.

Yesterday morning I took the car down to my mechanic, since I needed an oil change anyway. I have the best mechanic in the world (other than you, Dad!) here in Southie. If the world can be divided into people who do what they can get away with, and people who do what is right, my guy falls squarely into the second camp. It also doesn’t hurt that we think similarly: when I explained the situation to him, he mentioned that he could easily get the window up, and I could just not use it. I said “oh yeah that’s fine. You just need to close it. You don’t need to fix it.”

And now it’s closed. Life is good. And the audition went pretty well too.

I hope these cuts and bruises make me look tough

I am not a gifted athlete. Those who know me will recognize that as an understatement. I only started running half-marathons out of stubbornness. I’m not good, and I don’t plan to ever be good. One of the few things that make it easier for me to run is that I have such an active imagination, so I can daydream for miles and not realize how hard I’m working. It’s the running equivalent of when you are on the highway and realize you can’t remember the last 40 miles.

Unfortunately it appears I have to start paying closer attention, because I fell again today. I landed on the same spot on my knee that I tore up last week, so the scab was ripped off and blood shot everywhere (GROSSOUT!! My students would love that). I did not go down fingers first this time, but have a brand-new nickel-sized cut on my right palm.

There was a lot of blood, so I had to go over to Sullivan’s and get a few napkins to mop up before I started running again. That was hardly my proudest moment.

I had been looking forward to the dingification of my new running shoes which are still dorkishly gleaming. I didn’t expect to have it come from a spattering of blood.

dinner with a kindred spirit

Tonight I had dinner with a good friend. Over dinner we talked quite a bit about both local and national politics, and were discussing the possibility of going to hear speakers who, as J put it "know more about this stuff than us".

Me: Can you believe they even exist? But it is thrilling to hear them speak.
J. Yeah. Both of them.

We went on to watch Best of Will Ferrell volume 2. We had tried to watch this a number of times in the past and had been foiled by reasons that seem really amusing to us and are not amusing to anyone else. There was a sketch which included Alec Baldwin which, being near the end of Best of...Volume 2, was not terribly funny, but it did get me thinking about some of ABs better work. I present to you what I find the best work he has ever done:



Now that takes practice.

on crying in the practice room

I think that I have finally found an English-language aria that will work for me. I have been working on “Have Peace, Jo”, from Mark Adamo’s Little Women. This is Beth’s big aria, and those of you who have read the book (which should be all of you!) will remember that Beth is The One Who Dies. (Before you even ask, I can’t play Meg because Meg is a mezzo. All of the good Meg’s are mezzos – Falstaff, Little Women…that’s really it). Beth sings her aria on her deathbed, to her sister. Needless to say it is emotional stuff, and today I got a little weepy in the practice room when I got to her “I love you, Jo, so much…”. By a little weepy I mean I sobbed and couldn’t practice anymore.

It’s a singer cliché that “you have to go over the line in the practice room so that you don’t go over the line in performance”, and while that sounds nice, don’t be surprised if you see me vaulting over the line someday on the stage. There is a fair amount of music that I have a hard time singing. Most of it is in English, most of it is 20th or 21st century, and all of it is disgustingly beautiful. “Ain’t it a pretty night” and Knoxville: Summer of 1915 are the two biggest culprits.

I finally set out to learn Knoxville…for a competition last spring. The text is from A Death in the Family, by James Agee, and describes a summer evening spent with family. I find Barber to be so relentlessly gorgeous, and the text so moving, that I am moved to tears every few measures. When it came time to sing in competition, I held it together and sang well. I went immediately to the grocery store to pick up a few things after the competition, and found myself in the ‘Pastene’ aisle. I should know better to admit this, but everyone in my family loves Pastene products, and you can often find our kitchen table littered with yellow-labeled jars. Lupini beans in particular make me think of my father. Pretty bizarre, I know, but after holding it together for that competition, I sobbed in front of the lupini beans, wearing an audition dress, too much eyeliner, and a sparkly barrette.

Guess who i ran into today!

She goes back to Rwanda in 4 months. And Sister Augusta isn't the only former roommate I saw out and about (yes, you read that right) - I also ran into a girl who lived in the mods with us, who I hadn't seen since BC.

I fell again

On my run today I think I brought my summer 08 tumble count up to my winter 08 number. The combination of momentum and lack of attention resulted in this being significantly less funny than other recent falls have been. I skinned or otherwise damaged almost my entire right side (with the blessed exception of my face), which combined with the bites all over my right leg from running through the brush yesterday gives me some smoking hot legs. I also jammed two of my fingers in a way that leads me to believe that I subconsciously thought I could break my fall solely with my ring and middle fingers. After shaking it off I proceeded to cry for at least a half mile.

What I have noticed, in my extensive experience of falling, is that the whole time I am going down, right up until I skid to a stop, is that I really believe that I am going to right myself and avoid a tumble. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, but I'm going to ice my hand and let you figure it out.

Another conversation

The Greenpeace guys were out in full force by the Conservatory yesterday. I feel about Greenpeace much the same way I feel about door-to-door evangelists: I appreciate their fervor, and support many of the same ideals, but I can't understand why they can't understand how annoying they are and that no one likes what they do.

Greenpeace: Hey hey hey!
Me: Sorry, I hate the environment
GP: Well, that's ok, because I love you! (walks beside me and touches my arm)
Me: Please, don't touch
GP: Help us out! I love you!
Me: I love you, too. Good luck. Bye.
GP: (giggles)

cars and Connecticut

Me: Did I see an exhaust pipe in the garbage?
Dad: Yeah, that was from the blue Chevy - wait, no, maybe green.
Brother: No, Dad, the green Chevy was last weekend

A trip back home always yields a memorable exchange or two, usually over the dinner table. This was featured last night when I took everyone out for my mother’s birthday. I made an impromptu trip back to CT in honor of her birthday, which in the spirit of discretion I will merely describe as ‘a big one’. We’ve never been big on birthdays in my family (case in point: For my 25th birthday my parents got me…an Entertainment Book), but I didn’t have anything on my calendar so Sunday afternoon I hopped in the car.

Speaking of cars, my parents don’t drink coffee.

That last sentence will make sense in a moment. Because my parents don’t have a coffee maker, I “have” to go to Dunkin’ every morning while I am here. The closest Dunkins (yes, there are more than one that can be considered close - this is New England after all) are both in Rockville, which has, shall we say, a unique sensibility.

So yesterday morning I rolled out of bed chatted with the brother for a bit, and got in the Jeep for a trip down the road. When I pulled into the parking lot I saw a rusted out ‘91 Camaro with its hood up. Selfishly I thought to myself “I really don’t want to get involved”.

And yet… as I was opening the door a woman came over to me and asked if I had jumper cables. I opened the back of the car and pulled out the Penzoil Box, which rather than holding oil holds all of my supplies. I found myself hoping that for some reason they wouldn’t be in there so that I wouldn’t have to hang around, but I knew better. I’m a Felice, after all, and since the year we came downstairs Christmas morning to jumper cables all lined up around the tree, none of us has gone very far without them.

The woman then pulled her car around to help her friend, as they both commented that neither of them knew how to use the cables. As I brought them over a man approached, and I just handed them over and went in to get my breakfast. I have learned that when there is a guy around who wants to work on a car, I should just get out of the way and let him. They get really bothered by chick gear heads.

They were still working on it when I came back out. The jump-er started making small talk, while I admired the fact that her bra was entirely visible out the back of her lime green tank top, and that she had immortalized someone named “Scott” on her lower-back tattoo (or “Tramp Stamp” as certain people like to say). She liked my sandals because they were purple, she liked my dress, she liked my car. Meanwhile, the car still isn’t taking a charge. The guy is now under the car and is asking the driver for some tool, which she doesn’t have, but she pulls out a metal pipe that he somehow manages to put to use. I ask what he needs (because I probably have it in the back of the car), but he doesn’t respond. The woman in green says to me “I think it’s so funny when girls have tools in their cars”.

How funny would it have been if I hadn’t had the jumper cables when she asked for them?

Anyway, the car never took the charge, they gave me back my cables, and we all parted pleasantly. Later in the day I went on a run through some of the nearby small towns, enjoying the smells of tobacco drying in barns and of manure at the local farms.

I head back to the city in a few hours.

My recent adventures at the Boston Public Library

Despite its name, Ordinary Time tends to yield some of the most moving (and most familiar) readings in the lectionary. This weekend we read about Elijah’s ‘small whispering sound’ and later the calming of the storm. I am not sure that I had noticed this detail before: Jesus makes the disciples all get in a boat, and then goes somewhere else! And I thought that I would do anything to have private time…

Today I did my long run (I’m only a few weeks into training, so my long run still isn’t very long) by South Station and up to the Common, then home through Chinatown. Something about the Common always makes me feel like I am visiting the city for the first time. When I realize I am not, then I get all excited again about the fact that I actually live in a great city, with tall buildings, brownstones, and beautiful parks. Maybe it’s all those years of reading “Make Way for Ducklings”.

I paid for an August T-pass which has given me more incentive to go into other parts of the city since I have been back. Most days involve a trip to the Conservatory to practice and later a stop at the library. I can probably blame my mother for my love of cities, and I can definitely blame my mother for my love of libraries. I have been poking through the DVD collection recently looking for whatever opera I can find. Somewhere in the mess that is their AV department I found the Glyndebourne Figaro with Renée Fleming, which I will have to watch before the end of the week-long loan period.

Armed with my library card, I’m trying to read some novels that I wouldn’t normally read (I’m in the middle of one right now) but am also indulging my sociology-dork side. I find that when I am sick of music and theology, I end up taking refuge in policy or history books and magazines. For that reason, I just read E.J. Dionne Jr.’s Souled Out: Reclaiming Faith and Politics after the Religious Right. I can’t take great credit for reading books by authors with whom I know I will agree. Dionne is a progressive Catholic from New England – sound like anyone we know?

One book that Dionne referenced in his book was Urban Exodus: Why the Jews left Boston and the Catholics Stayed. That tome is now on my nightstand, ready to be read next.