Feel Freedom. Love your confidence. Be a joy bomb.
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I have a cereal addiction.
My Noom app, in all its quirky make-you-feel-cozy-about-tracking-calories supportiveness judges me for it. Noom says there are no bad foods, and I whole-grain-heartedly agree. But I know they’re giving me David from Schitt’s Creek side-eye when I log my Life Cereal with Ghirardelli semi sweet chocolate chips and half almond milk half moo cow 2%.
I remember back in my 20s sitting cross-legged, sock feet, pillow hugged to belly, on my analyst’s West End Avenue sofa. I’d finally stopped panic-lying about why I was in therapy, so one day I mustered the courage to blurt, “I think I have a problem with cereal.”
Dr. K leaned back in his Danish leather chair, gave his grey beard a rub, (Oh Dr. K–many things you said make sense now.) and asked me to elaborate.
“Well, you see, I eat several bowls of cereal at night. And I think it might be a problem. I mean, it’s not like I’m eating cake or anything.”
Dr. K replied in his measured baritone, “It’s exactly like you’re eating cake. You’re ingesting simple carbohydrates that give your body a dopamine surge.”
I tried to absorb this. But I was more Corn Pops than Raisin Bran–my emotional sugar armor created an impermeable milk-of-wisdom barrier.
And my cereal desire has gone unabated. It’s a tricky dance partner, and most nights I’m pretty good at doing one foxtrot over to the pantry. If I return for a follow up waltz, I notice what I’m doing and check in with my actual physical stomach to see if he’s hungry.
My brain then says, “But I’m MOUTH hungry!” or “This goes in the cereal stomach! It’s separate!” Or, “We need a carb hug inside!”
All this meditation on serial cereal consumption got me thinking about vocal technique.
You too? Of course. ?
I’ve been cultivating my cereal relationship for a good 38 years now. This is what we do with our habits, our things that we do.
My career coach, Barbara Deutsch, used to tell me to say, “Oh, there’s that thing I do” whenever I saw I was about to sell out on myself. Problem was, I wasn’t conscious enough to recognize the sabotage gremlin when it emerged from the desert junk yard of my self concept.
I thought, “What good is that gonna do, Barbara? Just notice something?…No! hand me that cricket bat with the scratched-off decals, and I’m gonna beat the shit out of this old habit and burn it along with all those bald tires over there. It’s the only way!!”
Barbara was teaching me about being the witness. She was introducing me to that mysterious, ordinary, immortal diamond real me that notices when my body is doing unloving things.
In the cereal evening hour, the wise me observes, “You had a tiring day. You want some sweetened baked wheat squares covered in a mixture of plant based liquid extracted from almonds and fluid that’s meant to addict calves to their mommies’ udders. I understand.”
Vocal technique = same.
Here’s what I mean. You’re singing, and your abdominals lock. Singing feels vulnerable. There’s that thing you do.
You’re belting along invested in your story, and your jaw tightens. Expression and vibration in your throat feels emotional. There’s that thing you do.
You judge the resonance you hear in your head and say, “I sound like that person I swore I would never sound like.” We go high stakes with singing — we tell ourselves stories about jobs, recognition, acceptance, competition, love. There’s that thing you do.
There was a terrific music director I worked with who always smiled, always joked, and always got precisely what he wanted.
He would say, “You always get there, you just have to decide how you’re going to take the trip.”
I had never seen an in-charge-of-the-show person have so much fun. And honestly I was worried. I mean, we have to get READY!
And we were ready. He was right. We got there. And there was no drama making the drama.
It’s the same in how you’re growing in your vocal technique and life. If you can meet it with curiosity rather than a cricket bat, things gently and joyfully change.
I invite you to give some air time to your gentle witness. It’s the part of you that can see yourself the same way you see your friend who struggles with the eating disorder or your sibling who fights anxiety. You meet them with compassion and encouragement when they are in their dark days.
What if you met yourself with those same soft eyes, open ears, and huggy arms?
We all pick up the bludgeon method of self-ass-kickery at some point on the road. Let’s leave the splintered cricket bat in the Mad Max wasteland and take a walk by the cool stream. The water’s flowing like your breath, and we all need to hydrate anyway.
Soon, you’ll be like our one-year-old who knows whats up when you’re near a beautiful stream. ?
Something about hearing a one-year-old say “Amazing!” that reminds you what amazing is all about.
You’ll also notice his left arm is drenched where he tried to become one with the stream.
What’s going on for you right now? What is the thing you do singing or just living that you’d love to have a little more freedom around?
I’d love to hear from you. Email me or share a comment about one of the things you’d like to gently witness on out the door. ?byeeeee.
And remember–there is only one you, and folks need to hear the story only you can share.
You’re mystified by breath support for singing? You think it’s arduous and boring? You just want to open your mouth and sing “24601”?
I’m with you. Breath is the first thing we forget to meditate into when we sing, and you and I both know that sounds don’t happen without it.
Let’s make conscious besties with this miracle we forget to notice every day, and let’s get the actual location of your diaphragm established.
Can you believe Melissa and I are knocking on the door of our eighth anniversary? How was that eight years ago? Google Photo keeps reminding us of things that happened in 2013, and we’re both like, wow, look at all we didn’t know then. Right?
I didn’t know how brilliant I was being when I sat down on Melissa’s corner couch in Highland Park, showed her a picture of the Claddagh rings I’d bought on my iPhone, and said I thought getting married would be the best idea. Has this happened to you? You look back, and you’re like, I had no clue I was being that effing smart.
This year, I invite you to picture our lil home in Greensboro where we’ve locked arms in the pandemic toddler parenting trenches. We’re grateful that we’ve had jobs and enough sanity to keep the undies washed and the boys loved. Aaaand, here’s where I need to tell you what a bad-AHSS my wife is.
She listens. Like, seriously, she is interested in what’s going on in my mind and heart, and when I tell her about it, she meets me with understanding. We know this is a big deal.
She supports and trusts. Yesterday a friend sent me a job posting in a certain city very far from a beach, and I said, “You don’t wanna live there, do you?” And my ocean-loving wife said, “I want to live wherever we can be together.” I mean, come on, right?
We all had COVID in December, and we’re lucky that we came through. But Melissa’s been long hauling with tough symptoms. Her laser-like stubbornness has been this eff-you-COVID-I’m-gonna-take-care-of-my-boys engine. If I were feeling half as rough as she does, I’d be man-cold crying on the couch.
This year has been a time when old hurts have come up—you know, the ones you thought you checked off and are like, seriously, that again? And she’s been here in it with me.
So, she’s my official hero these days. See? Sometimes you don’t know how smart you are.
Which is the very reason why I’m humblebragging to you about my choice in life partner.
Because you are getting it right. If you think you are getting it wrong now, you are getting it right.
You know how I know? Because my choose-your-own-adventure blunders sent me careening into my dear friends’ back yard where I met Melissa. My choices were blind reactions to fear, pain, and wookin pa nub in ALL the wrong places.
You know I’m not suggesting you fling yourself onto life’s highway of dehydration and skinned knees in order to eventually find your true purpose—that interstate has a way of exiting you off at some interesting Shell stations already.
What I am saying is this: If lately the mean part of your brain has said, “I’m shitting the bed on this,” take it from a man who encounters toddler dookie on the daily–there’s soap and water for that.
Take a brisk walk sans-earbuds, listen to some birds doing whistle tones, and ask your in-your-heart-and-body self, “Am I doing the best I can do?”
If you hear a gentle yes, keep walking and go buy an ice cream.
If you get a nudge about a change that could bring satisfaction or relief, then go get that ice cream, and do a little something about that nudge.
A one-degree trajectory change makes the difference between your plane flying to London or Paris. Both are incredible cities, but you might not be feeling pain au chocolat this year.
Here’s the takeaway– God’s got it, and you’re going to come through.
I had no idea when I rolled up to hipster church in Pasadena in 2006 that I would meet ride-or-dies who’d save my life when it crumbled six years later and then introduce me to my wife and the mother of our scrumptious boys. You don’t know these things when you’re doot-da-dooing along.
If one of those nudges on your walk was to get your singular voice making sounds again, that’s what I (and Zoom) are here for!
Email me, and we’ll get you making free, joyful, genuine noises like a kid on the beach with a melt-down-your-wrist soft serve and your don’t-care belly out.
Because there’s only one you, and folks need to hear the story that only you can share.
Grandmother grew tulips, and I learned
They were for outside admiring when I picked
A bouquet of them for her. When the days turned
Warmer, these red and yellow bells in strict
Rows played music inside my stomach. They looked
Like gelato on a stem, if I had known
What that was–like God had gleefully cooked
A pan of custard for a rainbow ice cream cone
Display. I still think they should be edible.
Have you ever felt that? Something so fully
Joy and carbonation that the only credible
Action was just to eat it? Just me?
“Look what I brung, Grandmother!” “Brought brought brought!”
It wasn’t just grammar, but springtime and pound cake you taught. ?
I keep a freezer bag where we put onion skins, garlic peels, the woody parts of asparagus, bell pepper cores, celery stubs, anything that might contribute to good stock.
When the bag fills, time to get out the Instant Pot or just the pot. Either works.
Here’s my bag. And here’s the end of a roast chicken.
Put that in an Instant Pot or a big ole pot of any kind. Add water, salt, bay leaf, and anything else you want your stock to taste like.
For the Instant Pot, High Pressure for an hour and a half. For your regular pot, bring to boil and simmer for a long time until it tastes like you want it to taste.
Pour it out, and you’ve got veggie/chicken/bone broth gold.
And you can use it for all kinds of things. This day, I used it for a rice and beans bowl riff. Using what you got. Another pro tip, broth makes you fuller, so you’ll feel all cozy and ready for your afternoon.
We are theatre artists, and right now there is no theatre.
At the beginning of the pandemic, I watched a documentary called The Actor’s Apprenticeship about the repertory theatre companies in the UK and how they were a safe training ground for many master actors.
Near the end of the film, there was a shot inside a 3/4 thrust space, the seats empty, and I felt my stomach get all achy.
I felt longing, what every good breakup song is about–you don’t know what you had until it’s gone.
Like every theatre artist during this time, I asked myself what I could do in the absence of what I do.
Those days we went on drives.
We loaded up the boys, drove north toward the rolling pastures and hoped nobody pooped.
(Side note, we’d taught our older son to call the diaper genie Mordor. He’d say it in received pronunciation. Ready for the rep company, clearly.)
During one of these drives my brain was on the moon.
Melissa said, “You seem far away today.”
I agreed. I wanted to indicate my mental coordinates, but my mind was a pinball game amid a lot of arcade noise.
I’ve learned some good technologies to corral my brain and direct him in less stress-inducing directions, but this day my tewlz felt out of reach.
This day, as my older son said at the time: “need help.”
Sometimes we get stuck in there, and we need someone to throw us a rope.
Melissa encouraged me to start saying words attached to the images pinging through my headspace, and after much incoherence, I finally arrived at, “I want to add beauty to the world.”
There was a lot of noise surrounding this–ruckus related to achievement, perception, and shoulds. But that was a statement that felt like it came from a real and satisfying place in me.
Since then, it’s been a phrase I’ve returned to many times. What can I share with you that I think has some beauty about it?
And why beauty?
There’s so much dirt flying at us that I want to contribute something that feels like clear water on our faces.
Beauty tells me there’s purpose and design that’s smarter than I am.
And it sets off something vibratey in my guts that feels connected to you and bigger things.
When we look at something beautiful together, we can join in that.
That’s why the theatre is so special. A group of us gather in one space to share a story artfully told.
We witness a story in time together, and when that’s over, we all leave with our own imprint of what happened. There’s nothing like it. I can’t wait to do it again.
In the meantime, what’s beauty to you? Or what’s your equivalent? And how does it feel to share it?
Here’s a list of possibilities that come to mind:
Here’s a flower by our front door. That color, right?
I’m inviting you to join me. Instant Artist: just add beauty.
We had a family picnic last week, and I made this salad out of our end-of-week fridge:
For your own salad brain, these are things that dance well together: good dressing (many possibilities in the pantry), greens, some crunchy things, a protein (beans, meat, egg, etc), other textures (starches, soft things like avocado, sweet potato, goat cheese).
Here’s how this one worked out.
Start the dressing in the bottom of your bowl. You need an acid, an emulsifier, salt, and something sweet if you want that.
This is lemon zest, juice, Dijon mustard, salt, and a little maple syrup;
Then see what kind of greens you have. We had a big ole bag of untouched kale, so that’s what I grabbed. Put it in your dressing and squeeze those greens. Kale needs encouragement.
We had leftover chicken breast, brown rice, and shrooms, so I threw that on there. Leftover starches and proteins are great in sallets.
I added cherry tomato, an orange bell pepper, a leftover sweet potato, and Everything but the Bagel Seasoning from TJ’s.
And there you have picnic deliciousness. Don’t forget the forks.
You were kind to me when I was a frightened
Freshman gripping my backpack straps trying
To disappear into lockers. Your smile lightened
My textbook adolescent load. Lying
Ahead, you showed me, were possibilities such
As studying Mozart in places where other misfit
Toys could gather and make beauty–much
Aloneness relieved witnessing your musical grit.
Today, the Prime driver said, “Dan?”,
Removed his mask, and there was that smile
That made this scared kid feel like the man.
The symphony gig is on hold for a while.
In the meantime, you are being a badass
Making some bucks until you’re back with the brass.
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