The stranger in the mirror

With some reluctance I spent this holiday going down and back to New York for an audition, splitting the trip between the car and a train and a night at my parents’ house. This morning I got into the city with enough time to warm up, and I hustled uptown to the practice room I’d reserved in order to wake up my voice (my audition was before noon) and get myself settled a bit.


I tend to use warm-up rooms as dressing rooms as well, running some scales while I’m layering on more mascara, and sometimes even perching on a piano bench to hoist on some hose. The room I was in today was a little dark, so it is possible I put on way too much makeup, but there was a nice mirror taking up one entire wall that I used to make sure I was presentable.

After sprucing up and warming up, I started running my arias. I took advantage of the mirror, which I don’t always have in my practice spaces, to examine posture, tension, gestures, and the like. I stood across from myself in an expensive dress, fashionable sweater, cute heels, with my hair all fluffy and my face coated in paint. Even as I was singing I heard a voice speak in my ear so clearly that I was surprised not to see my own self saying it in the mirror. It was my own voice in my mind’s ear, and it was looking in the mirror and saying “Who is that?”

My reflection was everything it is supposed to be: pretty, chic, pulled together. I was more than presentable, and yet I’d never felt like more of an imposter in my whole life? I’m wild and spastic and out of touch. I wake up with unimaginably large hair. My clothes are covered with spills and full of tears. I don’t cut an impressive figure. Who was I trying to fool?

Which one of those is the myth? The sloppy spaz who always dressed and acted like a tomboy? The polished performer who has finally figured out how to use eye-makeup? Are neither of them myths? Can I be both?

I’ve written before how easy it is to feel out of place when trying to pass in professional music circles, and what a challenge it is to stay authentic while being your own brand. My guess is this is a challenge for everyone, not just singers or artists - how do we mature without losing who we were?

Is it somehow inauthentic to grow up? How much of a façade can I put up before I lose myself? Why does success make me feel like I am betraying someone?

There’s a photo I keep on my fridge because it reminds me of who I am - silly and wild and intense and honest, with a little food on my face. I need to remember that’s who I always am.

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

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.

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.

Set down this: Making peace with the Magi

If you’re looking for a way to get me riled up, hide one of my favorite books. Two nights ago I couldn’t find my edition of T. S. Eliot. It was Epiphany and I wanted to read “Journey of the Magi”. I had done a ferocious cleaning before I left for the holidays and was terrified I had thrown the book away. I was preparing to dump everything in my apartment onto the floor when I found Selected Poems on a shelf.

Like a good girl I read Journey of the Magi, which to be honest has never been among my favorites. The opening sections on their journey and arrival in Judea are richly descriptive, beginning with the hook that has always reeled me in: A cold coming we had of it. The end of the poem is where the language takes my breath away – the repetition of words and phrases, the stark expression of the Magi’s harsh and bitter agony. As enamored as I am of the language in that section, I always end my reading dissatisfied, wondering “what the hell do they have to be so distressed about?”

In the same pile as my poetry and journals I keep a small photo album that was a Christmas gift years ago. My brother made me the album in grade-school art class, writing my name on the front in puffy paint. Before I returned to Boston that year I filled the album with photos of my family over the years. My toddler self looks up at my father in one of the photos as he makes a face back at me. There are group photos of cousins, my mom yelling at my uncles, my dad hiding behind a cereal box while my brother displays the half chewed contents of his breakfast in an open mouth.

I looked over those photos on Epiphany because they had surfaced in the scramble to find the poems. I wished I had those whiny wise men in front of me so I could shake them, point to a 20+ year-old photo of myself and my grandmother and say “Look, this is the Incarnation! Look how good it is!” Still pretty irked at the wise men, I took a day to think about it. Since I first read Journey of the Magi I have been haunted by that last stanza. I am moved by the beauty of the text but could never get behind the dark conclusion to the adventure of the Magi. What about their journey could make them feel so...Prufrockian?

And then, appropriately, an epiphany.

We returned to our places, those kingdoms, but no longer at ease here. The Magi followed their guts, their instincts, that star, having an adventure, exploring a mystery. And then they went home, having played their part in salvation history.

"Every great getaway has a moment when you want to pack it up and stay. That's how I ended up with a timeshare in Port Arthur, Texas." (Jack Donaghy) Our lives take certain tracks from which significant deviations are not always possible. These tracks are valorous, beneficial. We live in webs of relationships, alliances and dependencies, and when we glimpse another good life that is not ours, we can’t rip ourselves from the fabric into which we are knit. The lives we return to are tainted once we’ve tasted something else. Like the Magi we may be a little less at ease, and perhaps a little less attached to the lives to which we are bound.

Seasons

A few years ago I spent three weeks in Malibu at the beginning of the summer. I returned refreshed to a Boston that had suffered a brutal heat wave in my absence, and was often asked how the weather was. Although I'd never needed a hat or gloves, and I'd never sweat through my clothes, I hadn't been totally satisfied with three weeks of 70 degrees and sunny. I didn't have the nerve to confess this to my friends and family, but I had found that monotonously idyllic weather boring.

Years are funny things. They're long enough that we can't really comprehend their span, but short enough that they can seem to pass quickly, and we give a lot of meaning to this number of 365 days. In New England we get a little of everything in each turn of the earth around the sun - snow & freezing temperatures, humidity and blazing heat. Although the warm weather seems terribly distant each February, we never really go long enough without a particular season to forget what it is all about.

I think that's why I have always liked the liturgical calendar so much. Every element of Christian living is given it's due at least once a year. No matter what the seasons of our lives are we are called to ponder the whole experience during the course of the year. We celebrate new life and the Resurrection even if our own lives feel like an unrelenting penitential season. When life is joyful we still pause for sorrowful remembrance and contrition. We go through it all - and then we cycle around and go through it all again.

This weekend I finally packed up my swimming and biking gear from triathlon training this summer. I went into fall with good intentions for keeping up with those sports, but the demands of work and music have left me no time to even find a gym with a pool, never mind swim in that pool once I've found it. I keep saying "I miss swimming", and I do miss the feel of the water on my body and the rhythm of my arms stroking through the water. But what I really miss is the season: bright mornings leading into days that would be longer than the nights, early breakfasts in my friends' kitchen, running my towel through the dryer in the sunny laundry room before I stuffed it into a backpack and got back on my bike.

Singing notes is easy, singing from your heart is hard.

The first time that I traveled to Italy, in the Summer of 2000, I often went to morning mass and/or evening vespers at one of the local churches in Parma. One evening I arrived at San Giovanni Evangelista and parked myself in a pew just as the church ladies were handing out hymnbooks. One old woman in purple approached me and held the hymnal just out of arms reach as she said something to me in Italian I would never forget. It translated roughly to: “Are you going to sing? Then really sing!”

When I tuned in for Kennedy’s wake last weekend, I did not expect the most memorable quote of the evening to come from Brian Stokes Mitchell. Before he started singing “The Impossible Dream”, he told the group assembled that he would miss Ted Kennedy’s voice because of the joy and intensity he brought to his singing. “Singing notes is easy”, Mitchell stated. “Singing from your heart is hard.”

Anyone who tries to ‘make it’ as a singer knows that is an understatement. Even though we all know that the performances that thrill us are the ones that have something to say, it is so tempting just to play it safe. We don’t want to offend with our passion or our message, we don’t want to wear our heart on our sleeve, so we stick with the somewhat bland interpretations that we think will sell.

One of the common quips that you hear when someone is spending too much time practicing and not enough living is that “they don’t write a lot of operas about the inside of a practice room”. Perfect technique and hours of practice only get us so far, and eventually we have to bring our lives and our message to that technique and figure out how to say what we want to say.

I didn’t really understand that idea of a message until very recently, when I had one that informed my singing and that I finally thought was too important to ignore. Still, it’s scary to take a stand and to say something, especially in our society where opinions are a dime a dozen about things that don’t seem to matter (the quality of Jon and Kate’s parenting, ‘death panels’ in the health care bill that don’t actually exist), but holding fast to a belief in a more serious area (the sanctity of the human body, the importance of a worshipping community) can be like stepping on the third rail.

To go back to Kennedy, listening to reflections on his life I think that was one of his most attractive qualities: he stuck to a politically liberal message that emphasized care for the poor. He happened to be savvy enough to craft that message into something that would get him elected, but just having such a clear message caused him to stand out in contemporary politics.

In music and in life, singing from your heart is hard. I’m convinced it’s the only way to “really sing” as my elderly friend in purple admonished me nine years ago. Life’s too short to be bland, or to hide what we have to say because our message might cause people not to like us. If we are not honest about who we are what does the admiration of people mean? Just that we are crafty enough to fool people, and that we believe the truth is not admirable.

West Virginia report

I have returned triumphant from my West Virginia adventure, with a Creation performance under my belt and only a few near catastrophes.

Friday

I was very lucky to get a ride from a friend to the airport after working all day. When we pulled up to Logan he asked what airline I was flying, and drove to Terminal C after I told him I was flying United. I was running a little late so I dashed to a self-check-in kiosk and swiped my credit card to check in.

“Reservation on US Airways. Unable to process reservation for other airline”

Oops. I guess I thought the U in US Airways stood for United. A quick inquiry revealed that US Airways was in Terminal B, and I hauled myself and my bright pink luggage through the airport to the neighboring terminal. A few minutes later, boarding pass in hand, I went quickly through security and toward Gate 19.

Gate 19 was curiously deserted, and I checked my boarding pass again. As it turned out, 19 was my seat number, not my gate number, and I set off at a sprint again hoping to get to Gate 7 with enough time to board. As I ran through the terminal I passed another runner and shouted “you can do it!” He was not amused.

My late arrival left me in boarding zone 7, so by the time I boarded the plane there was no more space in the overhead compartments. Having been burned over checked baggage before, I felt the panic rise up when I heard my carry-on was going underneath. Sensing that emotion, the flight attendant asked if I had anything valuable in there I wanted to keep with me on the plain.

I did a quick mental inventory. Contact lenses? Already in my bag. Score? I could get another one at the university if necessary. Then it hit me. I needed my gown.

Surrounded by impatient travelers I opened my suitcase, took out my ivory ball gown, left the suitcase at the door of the plane and carried the gown down the aisle before I shoved it in my oversized bag. I can’t imagine what my fellow passengers thought, but if any of them take as great a delight in writing about weird behavior as I do, then I probably showed up on a few blogs over the weekend. Or maybe they were too busy writing about the preponderance of swine-flu masks on our fellow passengers.

After we landed I called the conductor who, with the bass soloist, was picking me up at Charlotte-Douglas. They asked which airline I had flown in on, and I still couldn't keep them straight. So after a two hour flight I turned to the person next to me and asked "What airline are we on?"

The gentlmen pcking me up had a good laugh as I took my gown out of my shoulder bag and put it back in the suitcase that had blessedly arrived with the plane in North Carolina. On the three hour drive to West Virginia I channeled my inner 8-year-old by curling up in the back seat and snoring.

We arrived at the conductor’s house a little after midnight. He set up the coffee machine for the morning, showed me how to turn it on, left to stay elsewhere (leaving us more room) and we all went to bed.

Saturday

Rehearsal Saturday was scheduled from 10-4. I woke around 7:30 and wandered downstairs to turn on the coffee maker which had been so generously set up for me. I pushed the suggested “on” button and nothing happened, so I checked the plug and discovered it was not plugged in. After arranging for some electricity there was still no sign of brewage. My first thought was that maybe the outlet wasn’t working, so I switched the plug to a different one. Still nothing. At that point I was a little concerned. Could I really wake the conductor up before rehearsal because I’m too dopey to figure out the coffee pot? After about 10 minutes of exploration I determined that I had actually plugged in the food processor. That was easily my third ‘soprano-moment’ in 24 hours. A delicious cup of Folgers followed.

Rehearsal was long, as promised. Concord University has a great facility, and the choir we were singing with was extraordinarily well-prepared and so welcoming. There was a chamber orchestra comprised of winds (string parts were played mostly in the organ part). Bostonians take note: There are some great players off the beaten path in West Virginia. We can become so arrogant by our glut of talent that we forget that there are very talented people in all different places, not just in big cities.

After a grueling day of rehearsal (our only rehearsal before the show) we went to a hibachi restaurant. Our conductor, sensitive to the fact that I am a vegetarian, recalled that they have a veggie dinner. The dinner was delicious, but our conductor seemed to have forgotten that by definition our meal would involve raw meat being cooked in front of us. Maybe not so sensitive to my vegetarianism, but as I have often stated, I don’t care what other people eat.

Sunday

Sunday morning I tracked down a Catholic church in that heavily Methodist area and worshipped with the community of Sacred Heart Parish. After Mass I fussed with my hair, changed into my gown, and we hustled over to the performance.

The concert was wonderful. The work that the conductor had done with the choir was so impressive, and the community was amazingly appreciative. I had a blast with the chorus and with the other soloists. I wish there were more to say about the performance. It was really a thrill and I felt so lucky to be there.

Monday

I came home. Not much exciting to report there. Now to getting dug out of all my emails.

NOLA Day 2: 2/6/09

Our first morning there I made sure to rise early enough to have time to figure out how to use the coffee pot without an audience surrounding me. After a quick breakfast we all loaded into the vans and headed over to the offices of the St Bernard Project (located, appropriately, in St Bernard Parish). Da Parish, as it’s called, had quite a bit of damage from Katrina but not the complete devastation that certain areas of New Orleans proper suffered. We were split into two groups and sent to two different houses that the St Bernard Project was in the process of re-constituting.

The biggest obstacle that many homeowners run into is that they have to go through a mold remediation process in order to be allowed back into their homes. One of the houses that we worked on was in the middle of that process, and a part of our group spent hours in protective masks scraping, treating, and priming the studs so that the houses could pass inspection.

My group spent the morning cleaning up roofing tiles from a front yard. This house was in a small neighborhood which, like most of the neighborhoods we saw, had inhabited houses right next to ones that were still in bad shape. As we worked in the sun loading up bags and tossing rubbish onto the back of a truck, at least five people stopped to ask where we were from and how they could apply to have their house worked on. One woman in a school bus pulled over because her brother had been told that he had a month to rehab his house or it would be torn down.

We had two Americorps volunteers who work for the St Bernard Project who supervised and helped us during the day. (They were also the ones who pushed us to lift two sheets of drywall at a time on our last house of the day, but we ended up fond of them anyway). That organization was crawling with Americorps volunteers, which got me thinking back to my idealistic days as a full-time volunteer.

I think I have a pretty good relationship with my “deepest desire”, as Ignatian-speak calls the truest callings of our hearts and souls. I experience the same confusion and bad decisions as anyone else, but in general I have what I want and I do what I want. I have started a life that suits me, and when I do not behave as I want I do my best to alter that which needs to be changed. At the end of most days I can reflect and say “I have done what I want”.

But looking at the young volunteers and the brave choices they have made I was pretty well humbled. I think I am reaching an age of preoccupation with the road not taken. I have to wonder if that is inescapable now – will I always look at other lives and see reflected in them the permanence of my own?

My “real” adult life has arrived and swallowed me up, and I have enjoyed the ride so far. My path is unique and promising, and I treasure it. But I see other people living the lives of sacrifice and radicalism to which I aspired and wish that were my call. I am in a good place, one where I can both do good work and be happy. Still, sadness – no, nostalgia – flares up when I glimpse the widening distance between what I want and what I wish I wanted.

Next up: Day 3 - Urban Immersion

NOLA Day 1: 2/5/09 – The Flight

I sprinted from work to the airport on Thursday afternoon to meet up with everyone for the flight to New Orleans. We were flying through Houston on Continental (which, to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure still existed). The longer leg of the flight was uneventful, but jetting from Houston to New Orleans things became more interesting.

One of the flight attendants asked where we were from and what we were doing down there. I made the comment that some people seemed surprised that there were a bunch of college kids who were going to New Orleans to volunteer rather than to party, and she replied “oh believe me, I know!” A few minutes later she returned to talk to her new do-gooder friends and saw that one of our party was reading from a Bible.

“You’re a Catholic group and you are reading from the Bible? I thought they taught you not to read the Bible.” Oh boy, I thought, as I caught snippets of the conversation from the row behind me. I was too far away to jump in and bail anybody out, but close enough to hear the whole evangelical disaster unfold. “Why do you worship Mary?” she went on to ask. This flight attendant came back with tracts from her church a few times, the last of which was explicitly anti-Catholic and was entitled “Rome vs. the Bible”.

I find that behavior annoying at any time, and I find evangelizing particularly annoying when a person knows that their target is already part of a religious tradition. These tracts compared quotes from the Catechism with quotes from the Bible, a perfect example of the erroneous assumption that Catholics are “Catechism-thumpers” the same way that other groups are “Bible-thumpers”. Catholic theology is all about context. Picking one line out of the 1992 Catechism and ignoring the nearly two millennia of theology that came before it misses the message.

But that’s another homily for another day. It’s enough to mention that airline staff should not be criticizing our religion when we are held captive at 30,000 feet. Another of the attendants was also aggressive, pretending to put my theology textbook in the trash and then demanding to know my age when I told him that the book was “wicked expensive”.

Perhaps most disturbing of the trip was reading an issue of Cosmopolitan that was borrowed from a student. Most magazines are designed to make women crazy – we should gain enough confidence to enjoy the magazine, but enough insecurity to buy another one next month. I can live with that, most of the time, but this issue of Cosmo really took the cake. I knew going into it that Cosmo is filthy, so that wasn’t much of a shock. What perturbed me was that in this issue there was also a long article about all of the different ways women have been killed or hurt while traveling. You can’t on one page encourage young women to get naked and make themselves physically vulnerable to strangers whenever they want and on the next page advocate against driving at night.

I told all of the young women on the trip they weren’t allowed to read that magazine, but I’m not sure they followed my decree. We touched down in New Orleans, rented a few vans, and arrived at Corpus Christi Parish around 11:30.

Next installment…our service day.

Notes from NOLA and the way home

I returned late last night from a service trip to New Orleans. The trip was life-giving and refreshing and I hope to write in detail about it in installments. But lets begin from the end: the thrill of touching down in Boston.

Every time I get back to Boston I am excited, even if I am coming back from something special. After a wonderful weekend away with some BC students, doing service, making music and enjoying the weather, I still got a little rush seeing the snow on the ground and the familiar sights of Boston from the airplane window.

Spending time away gave me a lot of time to reflect on what I do and on the paths I have chosen over the last few years. Time away from my routine is always a blessing because it allows me to evaluate my days and to see other people whose lives I admire (and whose lives are very different from mine). The things that seem inevitable from day to day start to feel more like choices, and the messy wonderful life that waits for me back home seems like the blessed paradoxical mix of a plan and serendipity.

When we touched down yesterday I was heartbroken to leave my new friends in New Orleans, to leave the sun and the quick community that builds on a trip like that. But I was eager to get back to my community at home and to the people I have committed to serving day in and day out. This is where I have hung my hat, despite snow and blunt Bostonians and interminable winters. My people are in New England, not New Orleans, as are my work and my heart.