To reach the goal is nothing else but the will to go

“Too late have I loved you, O Beauty of ancient days, yet ever new!” Yesterday was the Memorial of St Augustine, one of Christianity’s most celebrated theologians, who had quite a way with words (who could forget “Lord, make me chaste, but not yet”!). His Confessions is considered the first autobiography, and the honesty with which he writes about his sordid youth and spiritual growth is quite moving.

Just over a year ago I rhapsodized about Ted Kennedy, and how rare it was in modern politics to find someone who was able to reinvent himself and improve while in the public eye. Because I can be such a silly, foolish person, I take great comfort in the examples of people who accomplish great things despite being real dopes sometimes.

Augustine is really my kind of saint. Give me someone messy over somebody neat anyday. Don’t get me wrong, I hold the precocious little saints like Dominic Savio in high regard, but I’m not sure I would have wanted to be friends with him. So many people want saints to be neat and tidy – born with some sort of magic that allows them to be heroic. Does that let us off the hook a bit, if we were born without the magic?

I was greatly disturbed in spirit, angry at myself with a turbulent indignation because I had not entered thy will and covenant, O my God, while all my bones cried out to me to enter, extolling it to the skies. The way therein is not by ships or chariots or feet--indeed it was not as far as I had come from the house to the place where we were seated. For to go along that road and indeed to reach the goal is nothing else but the will to go. But it must be a strong and single will, not staggering and swaying about this way and that--a changeable, twisting, fluctuating will, wrestling with itself while one part falls as another rises. (Confessions, Book VIII.8.19)

You don’t live with a mouth like mine for as long as I have without learning how to apologize. For sure, sometimes my apologies are just words, crafted to get me out of something. But the upside of frequent apologizing is that it causes me to really evaluate my thoughts, words, and actions, and occasionally to do what true conversion requires: to change.

On separate occasions over the last two weeks people described me as “athletic” and “happy all the time”. I was really touched by those observations, because they are both things that I had to work so hard for. (I feel the same way when people say that my top notes are easy – not always so!) More than a magic blessing or earth-shattering conversion, I think that most of our change is as simple as deciding who we want to be, and working on it. I wanted to be athletic because I saw all my friends having fun at races, I wanted to be happy because I knew that negativity was a drain on the people around me. (I wanted to have an easy top because I wanted to get hired). Every time I get on stage I try to improve one thing from a previous performance – making those baby steps is all we can do. I wish I didn’t need so much improvement, but like Augustine (and Ignatius, and both Francises, and Dorothy Day, and...) I’m imperfect. Luckily, like them, I too am graced.

Una sola, ma grande come il mare

When covering Musetta in La Boheme two summers ago, I easily watched Mimi die 40 times. Because the rehearsal process was so intense and private time was so scarce, every time the opening chords of Sono andati sounded I would turn into a total basket case, channeling every emotion that I didn’t have time or space to process, pretending it was grief for a fictional character. To this day I can’t make it through that moment of the fourth act without crying.




In the opening lines of the aria Mimi sings one of my favorite lines in all of opera: Ho tante cose che ti voglio dire, o una sola, ma grande come il mare. (There are many things that I would like to tell you, or one thing, but large as the ocean). Between Puccini’s melody, the way the vocal line descends amid the sparse orchestration, and the beauty of the poetry, that line simply tears me apart every time I hear it.

What is the one thing worth saying, that is as large as the ocean? Maybe it’s because I’m an over-emotional Italian, but I know the feeling of having something to say that is beyond words: a feeling that is deeper than feelings, that comes from our foundation. We long to express it - in art, in poetry, in music, in gesture, in prayer. There is something holy about that infinite expression.

I sometimes wonder if we try to define our God before we decide whether or not we believe in one. Rather that accept that there is something out there that is as large as the ocean, wholly integral to who we are and undeniable, we build a god and then decide if it suits us. One of the most liberating things I was ever told was that when my emotions run away with me, that is prayer. God is in the beautiful yearning that wants to share something too big to express. We don’t learn “about” God, using our reason to build a deity we can worship, but we find God in big beautiful spaces, and then start to name that God as we continue the encounter.

Similarly, I often wonder if we attempt to figure out what it is we want to say before we commit to saying it. As I write those words it seems like a perfectly reasonable thing to do (commonly referred to as “thinking before you speak”, an activity about which I know very little). But if there is truly something that is big as the ocean, and if we truly spend our whole lives exploring it, perhaps we should commit to sharing it even if we don’t know where that path will lead.

Sometimes when we start singing we don’t know what sounds are going to come out of our mouth, but we start anyway. What moves me so about Mimi’s moment in Sono andati is that she is saying what she wants - needs? - to say in her final moments, rather than ruminating on the depth of her emotion privately or keeping her truth under wraps. With her last breath she struggles to express the inexpressible: love. Although Puccini might not have put it there consciously, I find God in that moment, propelling devotion and affection toward our highest goal: sharing love and ourselves with other people.

Where I am, What I miss

I haven't posted much this week, mostly because I hate writing those "today I got up. Then I walked to the window. Then I ate a sandwich" play-by-play posts. We have been working so hard here and been so busy that I haven't had time for any of the Deep Thoughts that I take such pride in sharing on my blog.

In lieu of Deep Thoughts there has been plenty of Little Advances and Hard Work, which is why I am here. Masterclasses and coachings have kept us busy, and I have learned so much from watching my colleagues on stage. We sang a truly lovely concert in a botanic garden a few days ago. The setting was so beautiful it made up for all the challenges of singing outside.

Last night was the mainstage production of Carmen. We had guest artists singing principal roles who had also been the faculty this week, and all of the Young Artists sang in the chorus. Having just done the show a year ago with BOC, I really enjoyed spending more time with the score and the drama. The orchestra was rip-roaring, the principals were to die for, and the audience was thrilled.

There is something nice about getting out of the big cities. Last fall and winter I did a few gigs up in New Hampshire, and it was a completely different world. Everyone was so friendly, our venues fed us, and people said things like "you have the most beautiful voice I've ever heard!" You just don't find that audience warmth in the big cities.

Speaking of big cities I just walked away from my computer and left it unattended. Apparently in Colorado people don't steal things, which has been another bit of culture shock. When I wrote my earlier post entitled "all the doors are unlocked" I didn't realize how much of a theme that would be here.

Despite all its charms, I am ready to leave the middle of the country and head back to my beloved coast. In a few days I will fly out back to the land of fast walkers, rude drivers and blunt neighbors. Steamboat is charming and kind and picturesque, but I will take real over picturesque any day. I am glad there are people who cherish this place the same way that I cherish New England, whose 'real' doesn't include a gritty neighborhood and a can lady, or a Podunk hometown.

What I miss

Working hard

I often joke that as a brunette soprano of average height, the only thing that could every set me apart from the pack is my work ethic. I have never been afraid of hard work, as the saying goes, and I am generally happier when I am being productive than when I am overindulging in leisure.

In a masterclass this afternoon I was worked hard. I sang one of the arias I have been singing forever, and I tried to incorporate all of the notes that I have gotten on it all week - clean up some of the diction, focus the tone, and that perennial bit of wisdom: stand up straight. The opportunity that was pointed out to me today is one I have heard before and not worked hard enough at: to sing through the end of each phrase keeping breath support strong until the very end. The work doesn’t end when I have begun the phrase but when I have finished it.

Even though I love hard work, there is always a part of me that thinks “why can’t it be easier? I already work hard! I sacrifice so much for this, why does it always demand more?” When I reflect honestly on it, however, I can’t imagine not working so hard. In all areas of my life, I can’t imagine not always trying to improve in some way. In singing, in teaching, in being a friend, in virtue - the only sin is not trying to get better.

If I truly believe that what I am doing is good, that it is something I am meant to do and that serves the world, then it’s not work - it’s what I’m wired for. All the work we do to become who we are isn’t work when it is oriented toward our own success and completion. And all that we do, even if it has nothing to do with singing, or teaching, or whatever it is at which we are capable of excelling, makes us more who we are if we are willing to fight for this fundamental orientation toward growth.

Last night we had no rehearsals or coachings, and we all went to the home of a generous trustee who filled us with burgers and salads and snacks. We played volleyball and lay in hammocks, watched the sunset over a lake and sang around a fire pit. Being with others and growing in fellowship is as important an element of artistic growth as diligent practice in a tiny practice room. As the moon rose I was able to relax away from my own work ethic and allow my companions to guide me along in the path to better which I am always seeking.

Seeking Stillness

Understatement alert: I like to be the center of attention.

It’s a big temptation for me, when I’m with new groups of people as I have been this week, to really turn it on, becoming a caricature of myself rather than being my actual self. I get overstimulated by new people and can end up jumpy, restless, and not the person who I am when I am most grounded.

I have always wished I were the kind of person who could sit still, and I imagined stillness to be an act of inhibition, a willing of the self to subdue. I thought it was adding another layer on top of the spastic surface, making sure the layer was thick enough to hold me down.

When singing we often fill our performances with extra, stomping around the stage, gesticulating wildly, allowing our focus to sweep around the room and back, over and over. In the same way I often try to fill my life, making sure no moment is left empty, that I am always accomplishing or impressing or improving. I end up full - but as anyone who has ever eaten too much ice cream cake knows, full is not the same as satisfied.

Last night we sang in Wyoming. As we took the long drive back across Wyoming and Colorado, the stars bright and low on the horizon, I sat back in my seat, rested my head, and was still. It wasn’t an act of will but an act of core - everything about me was placid, and my needs weren’t crying out to be filled with chatter or attention.

The most confident singers are not the most histrionic, but the stillest. What great bravery it takes to strip away the flailing and wailing and just give our simplest offering, confident that what we offer will be enough. I long for that stripped-away stillness, that knows what is enough and is willing to let the rest go.

Day 2: The day I discovered that there are poorly attended concerts all over the country.

I couldn't help but think of my dear BOCers last night when we held an aria concert at the library and the performers outnumbered the singers. I have performed in (and, I add sheepishly, been responsible for promoting) a handful of poorly attended concerts. We set the date, and rehearse, and invite our friends and fans, and then...no one shows up. I can think of at least three BOC concerts that followed that trajectory, and I'm glad that I surround myself with people who can still put on a good show and laugh at how few people are in the audience.

Hearing all of these standard arias from my new colleagues always makes me think of the voices I know best which I have heard sing those arias before. Because I didn't go to music school for undergrad I never really had singer friends, and even when I was at conservatory I kept a lot of people at arms' length. But after 4 years of singing with many of the same people, getting to know their voices and their stories, some of my dearest friends are other opera singers. Even as I make new opera friends, I am still a little territorial on my old friends' behalf, jealously wanting to guard their signature arias from other people.

After the concert we planned some leisure time, so I offered to buy some wine if someone could drive me to the package store. My use of the New England colloquialism was met with blank stares, and someone asked "why would you need to buy boxes?" Once I translated into standard English and was driven to the store, I was relieved to hear that the clerk was from New Hampshire and had family in Boston. All tricked out in my concert dress and prom hair I must have been a sight. He offered a discount if I sang for him and I politely declined.

All the drawers are wide open, all the doors are unlocked

Apparently it is Monday.



My system is so thrown off from travel and change of scenery that I am not entirely sure what day it is, and I don’t think that really matters. The next few weeks involve going where I’m told when I’m told to.


I was surprised at how easily I jumped out of bed this morning when the alarm went off. Despite fears about altitude sickness I wanted to run the first morning I got here, so I drank lots of water, had a banana and tied up my running shoes, heading down the path towards the road in the still-cool morning. Luckily the road we are on isn’t too hilly, and I was able to run down the road and back without having to scale the side of the mountain.

I warmed up in the shower, which I absolutely hate to do because I feels like it bothers people around me. But we were told that our cabins were our warm-up spaces, and I wanted to give myself a proper warm up after last night’s middle-voice-less raggedy aria debacle. I was very relieved to hear that my voice still worked. I had been raspy the previous two days, and I am still paranoid enough to think that my voice is never coming back every time I can’t sing perfectly for an hour or two.


Coaching was exhausting. I have a few coaches back in Boston with whom I work, and they know me very well. To go in and work with a stranger changes the dynamic, because you are trying to reveal yourself to a new artist even as you are trying to work on character and phrasing. Working on something like Steal Me Sweet Thief, I felt like I was exposing everything about my voice - the most personal, sensitive thing about me - and trying to communicate deep need and longing - because that’s what the piece requires, all the while cognizant that we were only about twenty minutes past “Hi, my name is Margaret”. I guess that’s no different than in an audition, but in an audition you have that extra layer of competition (or is it antagonism?) to keep yourself from being so vulnerable.


Afternoon chorus rehearsals were very long, and I was ready for a bowl of soup, a nap, and a Fudgesicle. Unfortunately when I finished my nap and grabbed a Fudgesicle it was completely melted, and I, appropriately, had a meltdown myself. Now at least my roommates know what happens when you come between me and my delicious icy chocolate treats.


Sang Steal Me Sweet Thief one more time in the evening for a dress rehearsal for tomorrow night’s concert. Because people tend to hate Menotti I feel like I really need to sell it, and I get myself all worked up in to a lather about dying alone in order to find an appropriate emotional state. Good times, eh? But the more I sing (and the more I watch others sing) the more convinced I am that if you don’t need to lay down by the time you are done singing, you haven’t left enough out there. Go big or go home.

The will for adventure

Once upon a time there was a woman who loved to stay home. She knew that she should love adventure and sometimes she truly did, but most of the time she wanted access to the familiar, to sleep in her own bed, and to know where all the light switches were.

I inherited this homebody streak from a family member who shall remain nameless, and I also inherited the willpower to beat it when I know I should make an effort. That is why this morning I set out for Colorado for another “opera camp” experience like my trip to Novafeltria (documentation of which was the purpose for starting this blog in the first place).

That was two years ago, and it feels it. These past two years have been really transformative and maturing – but I didn’t start this post to talk about how old I feel. I’m still young enough to have been happy that my flight was out of Hartford this morning so my Mommy could drive me to the airport before dawn.

My enormous pink suitcase was overweight when I finally got to the front of the line (a line which I believe I saw an entire family cut – really?). I already had to pay a fee just to check the bag – and I’m not one to get all “airlines these days”, but I do find that a little annoying. The extra weight was going to result in another fee. They asked if I wanted to take out 7 pounds worth of stuff to get it under the limit. I looked at my already overstuffed shoulder bag I was carrying on, and I looked at the lock on the suitcase, and I thought of the cash back I get on my credit card and responded “No.” (Is that another sign of my age? My willingness to throw money at problems?) The clerk looked shocked. I said “It’s six in the morning, and I just want to get on the plane” as I handed over my Capital One card.

I had the dreaded middle seat on the flight to Dallas. The man on the aisle was very large, and I spent most of my time balancing myself so that I wouldn’t be in his space (which, of course, was my space). A screaming child was behind me and I battled through the early morning exhaustion only to land in the Central Time Zone - and then again in Mountain Time Zone - and have to battle through those same hours all over again.

A few folks on the 10 am flight from Dallas to Denver had brought their Chinese food on the plane. Another moment of ‘really?’ And I thought I was rude for having had an onion bagel in the terminal. The flight was uneventful (a few more screaming babies), and I landed in Denver about an hour before our rides were to pick us up.

I got pretty lucky with my car-mates on the four hour drive up to Steamboat. If there’s anything worse than spending two weeks at a program with people who irritate you, it’s spending four hours trapped in a car. The company was good, and we even enjoyed my family tradition of singing "On the Road Again". Despite a little altitude uneasiness when we were up particularly high, by the time we got to Steamboat I felt fine (despite having been up since 2:30 Mountain Time and only having eaten a bagel).

Check-in, dinner, were all the usual blend of mildly awkward introductions and asking where the towels are kept, and then we got to the best part of the evening: rehearsal for an arias concert. As tough as it is to have to sing on such little rest, it is nice to get that first see-and-be-seen sing-off out of the way. We got a very kind speech about not being nervous, and I sat back and thought “I’m not nervous at all”. I don’t think I would have made it this long if I were still affected by other peoples’ opinions of my voice. In the end, I sang like I was dehydrated and had been up all night - which was pretty much true. But my high notes were nice.

To wrap up the day someone was generous enough to drive to the grocery, where I stocked up on hummus and fudgcicles, the two things that have sustained me most of the summer. We also passed a neon bunny that looks like it’s on drugs.

The picture didn’t’ really come out, but that might actually suit the mood.  Nearly 24 hours after my adventure anxiously began, I am at a picnic table under bright stars in the mountains, and it all seems perfectly normal.

When I went to bed last night and even when I woke up this morning I didn’t really want to go, what with all the uncertainty, meeting new people, unfamiliar beds and light-switch-placements. But I have trained myself to swallow my anxiety and just get on the plane. Inside me there is one person who loves adventure and one who loves consistency, and I’ve learned to let the two battle it out.

I hope to post once a day as I did in Italia due anni fa. I had the same hesitation about sharing my travel plans then as I do now, and I refer back to my warnings to potential thieves that I wrote in my very first post on this blog. I would also add that my upstairs neighbor sent me off with a promise not to let anyone touch my sh*t. So watch yourselves.

The stairs I will fall down in the night.
Note their close proximity to the bedroom door.

When the sun rises

Visiting my parents earlier today I heard of a terrible incident of violence quite close to where they live. All morning and afternoon the area was abuzz with the news of an employee, his co-workers, and the many families who will go to bed tonight in a different world from the one they woke up in this morning.

There’s a tactic with which my singing friends may be familiar, of trying to choose an opening aria in an audition that will result in the panel choosing the second aria that you want them to pick. It’s a hopeless tactic, and it rarely works, but we are all tempted to try to crawl into people’s heads and manipulate them into choosing what we want.

What do starter arias have to do with workplace violence? Not a lot, thankfully. But I thought of that today when pondering that people are not predictable. I become more convinced every day that we are all universes unto ourselves, full of good and evil, impulses and control, and often as likely to break out in unexpected heroism as unexpected malice. At first that’s scary: if people are their own universes, then we cannot predict what they will do or manipulate them into doing what we want. People are not predictable. The more I’ve lived with that scary truth, the more liberating it has become. If we cannot predict what people will do, then we can stop trying to do so.

Even if I’ve lost most of my capacity to be shocked, I haven’t lost my capacity to be moved, and I was deeply moved today – my eyes overflowing with tears today almost before my brain had processed what I was hearing on the news, and long before I realized how closely this would touch my hometown. We have lots of words to describe this sort of feeling-along-with – compassion, empathy, sympathy, etc – and clinicians and linguists parse them all a million ways to be specific to certain reactions. For me though, those terms don’t begin to describe what is truly prayer for me, this spontaneous heart-opening (and often heart-breaking) that I feel in times of sorrow.

Along with this heart-breaking often comes a longing for something else, for a world in which tragedy does not occur, and a readiness to be swept up in God’s presence before we make any more of a mess than we have. There must be a goodness we were made for: we weren’t made for what happened today. If we were made for this, I wouldn’t have felt like I got kicked in the stomach all morning. If we were made for this, the news wouldn’t be exploding with attempts to explain and describe this morning’s perpetrator. If we were made for this, people wouldn’t be shocked or angry or mystified. If we were made for violence and tragedy, everyone would accept this as if it were perfectly natural, an expected closing-of-the-door on the future. If we were made for this, the sun wouldn’t rise tomorrow.

The sun will rise tomorrow, and when the sun rises people will comfort each other, and grieve, and love stronger than ever. People will try to put back together what has been broken and comprehend the incomprehensible. What greater signs of hope than that we naturally move to comfort one another, to heal and to repair? When the sun rises tomorrow we will be brave enough to seek out the universe of others, to find the places our orbits cross and our stars align, with that foolish, blessed hope that in light of each others’ galaxies we can better know ourselves and each other.

That is enough for me.

“There was a rich man whose land produced a bountiful harvest.
He asked himself, ‘What shall I do,
for I do not have space to store my harvest?’
And he said, ‘This is what I shall do:
I shall tear down my barns and build larger ones.
There I shall store all my grain and other goods
and I shall say to myself, “Now as for you,
you have so many good things stored up for many years,
rest, eat, drink, be merry!”’
But God said to him, ‘You fool, this night your life will be demanded of you;
and the things you have prepared, to whom will they belong?’
Thus will it be for all who store up treasure for themselves
but are not rich in what matters to God.” - from Luke 12, today's Gospel

Sometimes I worry that I am a hoarder. You’re probably thinking that there is not a lot of ambiguity in that designation, that it should be pretty easy to know whether I am or not. And anyone who has been to my itty bitty apartment, or seen me on one of my merciless clutter purges, or knows that I only spend money on books, food, and wine, knows that letting crap pile up probably isn’t among my compulsions.

I wish that made me rest easier about today’s Gospel. Even if I don’t accumulate stuff, I am often tempted to store up treasure for myself. The things I hoard are intangible: affection, esteem, opportunity. There is a fear that we all share, an uncertainty that is part of being human, and we all find ways to fight the fear off by building up reserves of what we think we need.

Yesterday was the feast of St Ignatius, whose famous Suscipe concludes “Give me only your love and your grace, that is enough for me.” I wish I were able to mean those words. Would God’s grace been enough for me if I had to do something that caused people to not like me? Would it be enough if I abandoned my self-centered charm? Would I be satisfied by divine love if I made a choice or commitment that closed certain doors to me? Rather than putting all of my eggs in God’s basket, I have spread them out over countless baskets, just in case…

If we are going to hold the saints up as our idols, we need to be realistic enough to acknowledge the cost. One of the most treasured quotes from Pedro Arrupe reads: More than ever I find myself in the hands of God. This is what I have wanted all my life from my youth. But now there is a difference; the initiative is entirely with God. It is indeed a profound spiritual experience to know and feel myself so totally in God's hands. He offered that reflection after a stroke that rendered him unable to speak. Perhaps to truly surrender to God involves a destruction, a shattering. After all, surrender is a war metaphor.

Is that part of the beauty of prayer, that we repeat these phrases, like “that is enough for me” even when our heart isn’t in it? Lots of people call us hypocrites because we pray “Thy will be done” or “peace be with you” and then go off and behave in the silly, destructive ways we always do. I’m not sure it’s hypocrisy – I think it’s hope. We are hopeful that someday we will conquer ourselves, or be conquered, and be able to truly mean the things we pray for. All of our prayer is a plea for transformation. We want nothing more than to arrive at the day when God’s grace is enough for us, even though now we let all our little wants get in the way of that larger goal.

Augustine wrote How shall I call upon my God, my God and my Lord, when by the very act of calling upon him I would be calling him into myself? And still he prayed. Knowing how hard it is should be no excuse for stopping. It is dangerous to offer our memory, our understanding, our will, our freedom as Ignatius did, because someday God might take us up on our offer. When the things we think define us are stripped away, may we find consolation in what we think is desolation. May we understand more fully that our hearts are made for love, restless until they rest in God. May the barns and silos we can’t help but fill with ourselves not come between us and the grace for which we are destined.