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We’re moving to a new house in two weeks. Mid-November, you know, prime moving time.

We’ve made some good headway with the packing, and, of course, I’m mildly astounded at the amount of things we’ve managed to accumulate. Very, very luckily, we have a couple of friends here who have access to dumpsters. Seriously, disposing of anything that doesn’t fit into a collection bin in Massachusetts seems to require an edict of the Commonwealth and 72 minutes of “Please hold” music.

I think moving poses an especially stressful set of conditions: you’re upending a familiar routine, your living space becomes decidedly uncozy for several weeks, and the amount of things you have to safely categorize and pack is a whole pile of ongoing decision fatigue.

We’re using a system I’m grateful to know when it comes to overwhelming tasks: we’ve broken down our categories and individual jobs onto index cards. And I’ve rubber-banded them according to the week. So far, so good.

The essence of overwhelm is truly telling myself the story: I should be able to accomplish the 17 tasks my brain notices within a 15-minute span. Then, I notice that’s not possible. Then my brain offers up some helpful story like, “Well, what’s wrong with you anyway?” or “You’ll never get it done.”

From getting to teach singers most days, I notice a very similar thought cascade in most of us. No wonder so many people are worn out. Just managing that kind of chatter at yourself would be exhausting.

But moving offers an instructive image for all humans, especially ones who want to create, tell stories, and sing: the convergence of overwhelm and categories.

In these first couple of weeks of packing, categories have been rather straightforward. Boys’ books. The Lenox china we promise to use more in the new house. Summer clothes (that have become surprisingly needed this week).

But then you find yourself labeling boxes like “Upstairs?”

Categories are useful until they stop being useful. I’ve been thinking about how we do the same thing to each other and ourselves.

Last week I was in a curriculum meeting for the Conservatory. I’ve been noticing something. A lot of schools feel a deep pressure to prepare students with career skills, and of course they’re important. I wouldn’t have my job if I didn’t know how to write a decent cover letter.

But there’s this underlying assumption that this oboist is only going to be successful in the eyes of our culture if they land this ongoing gig at this orchestra by this age. This dancer had better land a spot in this renowned dance company and get to it, because that shelf life is short, right?

I didn’t make that up. I’ve heard dancers refer to their careers with those two words: “shelf life.”

We don’t even realize it, but we’ve turned ourselves into boxes of Cheerios or Reese’s Pieces.

Then we hear performing artist consultants say, “Let’s not worry about type anymore, but what’s your brand?”

That word comes directly from marking cattle and livestock.

So, without even questioning what’s going on, artists play the Final Jeopardy song on their window of viability, assume they’re sitting on a shelf hoping to be picked, and think really, really hard about how to differentiate themselves by choosing the most memorable symbol that can be burned into their flesh for immediate recognition.

And we wonder why these conservatory students are stressed.

Could you imagine if a college or conservatory’s alumni magazine had a cover feature with headlines like “Cleaning Up! How Janet Jones started a thriving home cleaning company and shares dance with children all over the Five Boroughs.” Or “Cracking the Code: How alum Fred McNeil pays his rent with his STEM job while touring Wisconsin with his jazz combo.”

Wow, these alums figured out how to pay their bills and share their art. I suppose that doesn’t light up the eyeball-stars and get 18-year-olds to sign on the dotted line for variable-interest, six-figure debt.

But if you’re an artist at any stage, if you have a dream to share your art in a particular way, the gap between where you are and where you perceive you want to go can feel much more overwhelming than making sure you got enough bubble wrap. (Shout out to Melissa-Lee for sourcing all our packing materials for free from online neighbors 🙌 👏)

We were in luck, though, because I found a very helpful question. I share this with the grad students in the spring during their leadership and transformation class. Not that I’m an expert on leadership and transformation, but I find there are questions that help us when we ask them together.

Here’s one. And this is the one I really want you to take away.

“What is my nature?”

I got this from the Quaker writer Parker Palmer’s wonderful book, Let Your Life Speak.

“What is my nature?” What is natural to me? What is native to me? What lives effortlessly in me?

Doesn’t that just bring a sigh of relief? It transcends all the categorization and all the branding BS.

Janet Jones up there knew that she loved to administrate things, valued cleanliness and organization, and noticed she was always at the helm of group projects. “So boom, I’ll start a cleaning company, and I’ll bring contemporary dance to the Bronx.”

Fred McNeil loves his introverted work-at-home job and loves the community of his combo, and finds satisfaction with his saxophone.

Lives like this are paying attention to their natures. They’re not trying to shoehorn themselves into a package someone told them the industry was looking for. In fact, they’re not even all-in on this thing called an industry.

And I wonder how much of what we call the industry is a big collection of wounded humans trying to get their childhood needs met through creative differentiation, recognition, applause, awards, and maybe making something that will live beyond them.

I know those were some of my reasons. For me personally, I was unable to allow love to flow into me, so I was hoping that if people clapped loud enough, something that I called approval might penetrate.

I’m really grateful life broke me in a way that allowed it to truly flow in. And I’m learning, as William Blake so beautifully wrote:

“And we are put on earth a little space,

That we may learn to bear the beams of love”

So here’s your invitation. Categories are wonderful for kitchen organization, libraries, and shoe stores. Brands are useful for identifying which trick-or-treat candy contains significant levels of arsenic and cadmium.

But they’re pretty terrible ways to define human beings. We don’t have to look far to see how categorizing one another has led to some of the most horrible things we’re capable of.

So no wonder when we try to force ourselves into categories that don’t fit, we feel a kind of violence.

Rather than letting our head brain go to work on trying to differentiate ourselves in a marketplace, why don’t we invite it down to the heart and gut party and just say, “I wonder” a whole lot.

“I wonder.” What a wonderful statement. It opens the heart, and it doesn’t require an answer. In that space, a very surprising clarity comes.

What is your nature? If you get any hits on what yours is, I’d love to hear about it. Let me know.

Most of all, remember this one thing that I know is true: there’s only one you, and somebody would love to hear the story only you can sing.

Love much,

Dan

P.S. One of my favorite things about our Voice Map community is that we’re a collection of wholehearted singers who are also writers, programmers, teachers, constant gig players, students, and even a retired community dentist who keeps me updated on current vocal pedagogy :). And most of all, objective sweetie pies.

Nobody has to fit into a category; you belong here. We’re people who love singing, want to understand our voices, and want to help each other grow.

If that sounds like you, join us.

You get full access to the Voice Map course, where you’ll learn how the systems of your voice work together, all the exercises and tools in the Resource Library, and three live Q&A sessions with me each month, where you can bring your questions, confusions, discoveries, and wins.

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