United We Stand, Divided.....

I'm in the midst of a dilemma....you could say I'm being impaled on its horns....I don't know if this is a genuine conflict, or if I'm just being a whiney-puss (again...still...). This requires some background.

This issue of my voice, and its unwillingness to behave over the last 8-10 weeks...there are lots of reasons it's bothersome, and many of them go waaaaaayyyyy back. And that background may hold the answer to my dilemma, but I'm not sure.

When I was 13 (a thoroughly foul and miserable age, I might add), God finally decided to cut me a break, and stop making my life a human misery.  I found these friends...who sang...and played instruments, mostly guitar...and they "let me in". Somewhat begrudgingly at times, but I was desperate, so I swallowed it and took what I could get.  As the months went by, we melded into a real "group" - we sang at 9 am Mass every Sunday, and practiced from 7 pm - 9 pm every Tuesday at our local Catholic Church. The longer we were together, the closer we became. We were essentially divided between the only two high schools in town, so we saw a LOT of each other. And we were good...and I do mean DAMN good.  It took a while, maybe a solid year (they'd been together almost a year before I appeared on the scene), but there was some kind of magic - and that is the only word that describes it - that happened when we were all together. We could ad lib, jam, harmonize, without any training (which, of course, would have cramped our teenage style big-time). We sizzled with energy, and nothing intimidated us. I think now that would be characterized as arrogance, but as the saying goes, "It ain't braggin' if you can do it".

At our peak, there were 12 of us (get it?). Six girls, and six guys, three of whom happened to be brothers (that's another whole story in itself). We had a pianist, a drummer, four guitars (give or take) and assorted hand-held percussion. The dear, somewhat docile priest who ran our parish was so thrilled that we kept bringing people through the doors on Sunday that he pretty much gave us carte blanche to do what we wanted, as long as we were respectful. I was part of a phenomenon that had no explanation, defied all logic, and would likely never come along again.

The music we made, while in retrospect not terribly liturgically correct, was the best we could come up with at the time.  This was a few years before the St. Louis Jesuits and their ilk, unfortunately, so we took songs that we loved and applied them to our own brand of theology, and sang them with all our heart and soul. "Here Comes the Sun", "My Sweet Lord", "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother", "Oh Happy Day" and the one that became our theme song, "United We Stand". When we got going, we rocked the house, and judging from the response we saw on the faces of the congregation, we rocked spirits as well. All it took was one note, one bar, one riff, and we could read one another's minds...our spontaneous version of "Brown Eyed Girl" prior to a rehearsal one night is a classic example. Funny thing is, we can still do that.  Being part of that incredible experience has forever colored my vision of what constitutes good music, cohesive performing, and eternal friendship. Although at the time it seemed like forever, in fact we were only together a total of about four years. The older ones began to graduate and go off to college (we were decimated after summer 1972), staff changed, and what replaced those who departed just couldn't measure up.  We were awesome, we knew it, and it broke our collective hearts when it ended.(Note: for some, it didn't end - two wound up marrying each other, we all sang at many of each other's weddings, and continue to be in touch, if not joined at the hip.)

Luckily for me, I happened to stumble into a very similar situation in college, only far more sophisticated liturgically. A very talented group of freshman who, like me, arrived in fall of 1974, saved my soul musically and personally. God was really being ever so much more generous than I deserved. This gift, too, lasted four years, until life - and graduation - kicked us out the door into the real world.  Having come from what could only be viewed as a pretty sweet pedigree, I stuck around in liturgical music, always thinking that if I tried hard enough, I could create in any run of the mill parish a version of what I experienced in high school or college. And for about thirty five years, I've been beating my head against brick church walls and marble floors, trying to do just that, and wondering why it wasn't happening.

That bias, which is really what it is, is not very fair to the people who with all good intentions have joined with me at various places along the journey. Nirvana is not meant to exist in perpetuity, at least in this case. And yet I persist. Until now. I think it's time to stop. But I don't know how.

So much of who I am is bound up in music, the thought that it might at some point disappear is slowly but surely beginning to terrify me. Who am I, if not the person who leads the music at Mass? Who am I, if not the person who plays a 12 string guitar (once a Yamaha, now a Martin - thanks, God!)? Who am I, if not the person called on to sing at family weddings, baptisms, and funerals? The self-imposed pressure of always being "on", of not making mistakes, of being able to wing it at a moment's notice without sheet music, sans rehearsals, has begun to take a toll on me, and it's not fair to the people who join with me, nor to those to whom we are supposed to minister. And yet I'm scared to let go. I think of how freeing it would be to relinquish this particular commitment/obligation, and it feels wonderful.  For about 47 seconds. Then I'm afraid I will become the bad person, who quit when it got tough, who bailed on a responsibility. The fact that I've been doing it virtually non-stop (save a couple years of time out for babies) for almost 43 years doesn't seem to matter to my perverted sense of responsibility.

But something's gotta give.....stay tuned.....

I want My Mommy....or a Good, Stiff Drink....

This was one of those days that you can see coming, and can do nothing about. The combination of a late night at a choral rehearsal that wasn't much fun, with Snowpocalypse in a place that doesn't deal with it well,  an unforgiving employer, and a real crapola day at work once I got there, has made me one cranky mama.

I love snow; love to watch it falling, love to look at it undisturbed, love to play in it.  I DO NOT love to commute in it. The Portland/Vancouver metropolitan area is a lot hillier than most outside folks would suspect, so a commute that's a no-brainer in Kenosha, Chicago, or Podunk is a hellatious obstacle course here. Fine. I've always loved a little adventure, but what galls me is that most workplaces (mine included) have absolutely no sympathy for those who must negotiate minefields of snow, ice, and birdbrain drivers in order to arrive at work in one piece. You're late? You eat it. 'Scuse me? I'm on time the other 22 days of the month, but one Snowmageddon day, and I get docked? Thanks so very much.  Grrrrrrr.

Once I arrived at work, not only was there no sympathy, but I had a boatload of voice mail messages wondering where the hell I was, why I hadn't done XYZ yet, and oh by the way, could you please order 15 dozen widgets by noon? (I arrived at 10:45 am.) Somehow, I had always presumed, not overtly but in the back of my mind, that by the time I was 55 years old, most of these picayune issues would be behind me, a thing of the distant past, and I would be valued and appreciated for the particular talents and experience which I bring to my position.  And I have an appointment with the Easter Bunny next week, too.

Luckily, I am married to a man who, while certainly not perfect, is about as close to perfect as one can get in a marital relationship.  Whether through habit or serendipity, we have managed to create a rhythm where we are never both in a foul mood at the same time.  And Lord knows, that's a real trick, because the opposite would be ever so easy.  When confronted by any one of a zillion annoying or serious situations generating worry or angst, one of us is always able to yank the other one along (kicking and screaming, usually) until they are safely out of their funk. Which is what Tim did for me today.  He shoveled not only the driveway, but an alley alongside the curb so that the rapidly growing snowmelt would run down to the storm drains instead of up everyone's lawn; got me safely to the bus; called to let me know when HE got to work safely (I'm a worry-wort), and promised me - and I actually believed him - that things would get better, that we would get through it together, and that the two of us together would prevail against the world. He was waiting at the park & ride when I arrived, and proceeded to fix me one of his world-famous bourbon & '7's - he stirs it with his index finger, and I'm convinced that's why no one else's tastes as good.  Babies love their thumbs or binkies, some folks crave their cigs, booze, or worse; I crave Tim & his bartending abilities.

I can be a world-class whiney puss; a complainer, a negative windbag.  But with this amazing, patient, dry-witted man, who would make George Clooney cower in self-doubt, I feel like Julie Andrews, yelling on a mountaintop.

A Note in Search of a Song

I KNEW my doctor was the best diagnostician since Greg House! The man is brilliant!  When I think of how many physicians out there have no imagination and even less bedside manner, I am ever grateful for my PCP. Stumbled on him by chance; he was subbing for my regular doc once when I got sick, and I realized I liked him a WHOLE lot more than the first guy.  Since then, he has seen me, Tim and eventually both boys (as adults), and I wouldn't switch if you paid me.  And since I work in a medical center, that's saying a lot.

Anyway, the next chapter in the breathing/coughing/singing - or not - story.....I do not have asthma, but we'd pretty much figured that out anyway.  What he suspects, and what would make sense, is that a sneaky case of acid reflux (diagnosed by my GI Guy during an endoscopy) is creating havoc with my vocal chords. Hmmmm.... the weird thing, as I told Dr. J, is that I have no symptoms.  To which he responded, yes, you do:  your voice is your symptom. Duh.....so, we're back on Prilosec to calm things down, and I'm being referred to an ENT/voice specialist to see what's up.  Never in a million years would I have come up with that kind of connection...yet another reason I'm so grateful for his talent and care.

It still kind up catches me up short.....over the past several years, I've been wondering what would happen to my voice as I continued to age.  My voice at 15 was not my voice at 30, nor was it my voice at 45.  I know that voices mature and that can be a good thing (Lord knows it was for me), but it's not endless, nor without limit.  I admit that I have taken that gift for granted.  I don't know what it would be like NOT to sing, since I've been doing it as long as I can remember. But I'm pretty sure it is a gift that will not always be with me; most elderly singers don't open their mouths and sound like they did when they were 40.  How sad that must be!  Will I hear it? Will I know? Will it mortify me to the point where I no longer try to sing? It's such an intrinsic piece of my persona that I really can't imagine losing it....it would be one step shy of losing sight, or hearing, or speech, or mobility.  I think I will pray that I don't live long enough, or that I lose my awareness before I realize that I can no longer generate music with my voice.  Stay tuned....

Breathe Deeply

I suppose that if this writing endeavor is going to have any appeal, I'll need to follow up on the "hanging chads" remaining when I say "stay tuned".  Nothing like leaving things hanging, unresolved....don't you hate it when a book does that? You're expecting all the loose ends to be neatly tied up at the end, and then....wait a minute! What about what'shisname?  OK, I'll try not to do that.

I mentioned that just before New Year's I was referred for a Pulmonary Function test in an attempt to get to the bottom of my coughing fits. I really wasn't thinking much about it; I had a vague idea of what was involved, and it didn't sound too sinister.  So, I went for the test, which luckily was in an office directly above mine (I work in the Center for Hematologic Malignancies in the Knight Cancer Institute at Oregon Health & Science University - say THAT 3 times real fast!), and was quite convenient.  Figured it would be 15 minutes, and I'd be back at my desk.  An hour later, when I stumbled out the door with a new inhaler, I felt a new, humbling respect for all those with chronic asthma, COPD, or cystic fibrosis, who face challenges to breathing every single day.  What I was asked to do just about knocked me flat, and I consider myself to be relatively healthy with a good respiratory system.  I'll spare you the details, but oy, that was exhausting!  And at the end of it, there's STILL no definitive answer to my problem.  The coughing wouldn't be so bad if it was the only symptom.  What really bothers me is that it's monkeying with my voice.  I'm a singer, and when my range is cut in half, it's pretty significant for me.  My first thought was to just shut up for a week, but that is neither possible nor practical. I have been doing my best to be as compliant as possible with my inhaler, complete with its spiffy new spacer, which allows only one-way airflow. But I'm told that results, if there any at all, will be slow in coming, and not terribly remarkable.  Oh, goody - so tell me again why I'm doing this?  That's the question I'll be asking my doctor tomorrow.  Stay tuned.

And you think YOUR kid's a handful......

Yes, I know Christmas was 12 days ago....(darling son took both trees down today, put one at the curb, one in a box), but since today is the Feast of the Epiphany (aren't Theology majors annoying?), it's still Christmas.  Every year, there seems to be one holiday song on which I get fixated; either lyrics, melody, or both continue to ring through my head relentlessly. And I have to assume that it's for a reason.  God is trying to tell me something, and I can be really tough to get through to when I'm distracted. So, perpetual music running through my brain is probably as good a method as any to capture my attention, and hopefully teach me whatever it is I need to learn.

This year, the song is "Mary, Did You Know?"; it's a contemporary ballad from the '90's, performed by lots of good singers, but none better than by Kathy Mattea.  If you've never heard of the song (or of her), get on YouTube, search for the song and choose her live version done in the mid-'90's.  It will give you chills. And, with any luck, make you think: "Mary, did you know your baby Boy would one day walk on water?" Now, there's an image....not what one normally thinks about when looking at a newborn. "...This child that you've delivered, will soon deliver you..."  Whoa.

Those who know me well know that I am a Roman Catholic rebel. Despite the fact I continue to be a practicing member of the church (although lately, they're really pushing their luck...), there is no end to the number of tenets with which I disagree, either somewhat or vehemently.  One in particular is this Mary business.  I'm not a huge fan of the Rosary; nothing against it, I'd just rather go straight to the top.  And all that Immaculate Conception jazz - which refers to her being born without original sin, NOT how Jesus was conceived; will folks EVER get that one straight? - it just never meant much to me one way or the other.

And then I read a book, which you should do everything in your power to find, by Martha Manning, called "Chasing Grace". My older sister gave it to me as a birthday present years ago, and I'm still laughing.  I think it's safe to say it's one of my top five favorite books ever. If  I could write half as well as Ms. Manning does, I would consider myself honored. It helps that we are both Catholics who grew up in the '60's in the midwest, but I digress. She writes chapters that are stories in themselves, and one involves an experience she had (and to which so many of us can relate) when she thought she lost her toddler daughter in a huge department store. OK, let's see a show of hands - how many of us have had that momentary lurch in the pit of the stomach when we can't find our munchkin? I've lost count of the number of times, I'm embarrassed to say. She describes the myriad of emotions engulfing her as she tries to compose herself enough to find her little girl. Of course, there's a happy ending, but that's not the point.  She, like I, remembers the scripture passage where Mary and Joseph realize they have lost Jesus on a long journey back to Nazareth, and race (as much as camels can race) back to Jerusalem to find him. When they locate him preaching in the temple, and Jesus basically says, "What, you thought I was gonna hang around doing nothing all day? I've got things to do!" Mary nearly has apoplexy.....smart mouth kid.....which is when it dawns on her: This is no ordinary child. And I have no choice but to accept it.

"Mary, did you know that your baby Boy would one day rule the nations? Did you know that your baby Boy has walked where angels trod, and when you kiss your little baby, you've kissed the face of God?"  Perhaps, even for this Roman Catholic rebel, there is something to be learned about patience, trust, and surrendering to the will of God from this poor, unsuspecting teenager who never asked for all this....Can you imagine being in her shoes? She's married to this guy she barely knows, many years her senior, she's pregnant and can't explain how or why, which is a billion times more of a disgrace then than it has ever been since, and she's supposed to put up and shut up when she sees her Son placed in danger, ridiculed, threatened, and eventually murdered....sure, sign me up....

So, I find myself slapping myself upside the head (metaphorically speaking, of course) when I whine and moan because Child #1 is underemployed and Child #2 has never been employed full time since college graduation...I have to remember that as challenging as they may have been these last 29 years, I will likely never have to endure the agony and heartbreak (please, God, I'm not daring you) that was Mary's lot in life.

I wonder if Martha Manning has ever heard that song......stay tuned.....

Happier New Year?

Evening on the first day of 2012.  I suppose it would be almost sacriligious, not to mention extremely out of character, for me to neglect making an entry on the first day of a new year.  The incurable optimist in me still believes that there are always new beginnings, opportunities to start afresh, regardless of what day it happens to be.  So why should this year be any different than the last 55?

Most of today was spent avoiding the dust storm that is our front hallway.  At last year's parish/school auction, we purchased quite a few hours of remodeling labor from a family-owned company, who are members of our parish, and delightful people. Not to mention awesome contractors. This seemed at the outset like a fairly simple project - removal and replacement of the flooring in our front entryway and powder room. Not a huge amount of space; less than 180 square feet. So we thought we'd help the process along by doing the demolition work prior to our master remodeler's arrival next weekend. Silly me - I always assume that projects are as simple as they appear to the untrained eye. Oy. This floor was installed with industrial strength, super powered adhesive that would likely survive Armageddon. I figured a couple of good hammer swings and we'd be on our way.  Not so fast, bucko. It took my two able-bodied and determined menfolk the better part of 3 days to get rid of the stuff that's been there for 25 years. The Pyramids were not built as securely! Perhaps the dust will completely settle in time for installation of the new floor. All of which does wonders for the barking seal.....

Just as I arrived home from an escape to the grocery store (which shows you just how desperate I was to avoid the demolition), eldest son Brian was on the phone from chilly Kenosha.  Nothing unusual about that; Sunday afternoon or evening, depending on his work schedule, is our usual weekly chat time. But this time, the lilt in his voice suggested that something was afoot.  And in fact, it appears that Brian and Liz have decided to throw back the covers under which they've been hiding the last couple of years, and once again set a date and begin planning for their long-awaited nuptials. Well, it's about bloody damn time! Actually, I totally understand their reluctance after initially announcing a date of May 29, 2009. First and foremost, the economy took a nosedive the likes of which haven't been seen since the 1930's. Then came a series of personal circumstances and events which we'll save for another time, but which had devastating effects on their ability to make any plans, or save any money. Both were determined that they would pay for this wedding themselves, without help from us. Liz's mom is not in a position to help financially. Although I had misgivings about this well-intentioned but dubious approach, I kept my mouth mostly shut. Surviving the debacle of the last almost-four years has finally convinced them that their noble and altruistic plan doesn't have a snowball's chance in hell of working. So, here we go again, on what is one of my all-time favorite activities - wedding planning!  2012 just might have some potential after all!  Stay tuned.....