on Stockpiling & an Elephant

... Do I write songs?  Why yes, yes I do.  Only a gabillion of them.

But here is the thing, if a great song is written, and it sits in a journal, tucked in a pile of blank-page books, scribbled into with purple black pink pens, on airplanes, in hallways, in beds, backstage, in places all over the country, in times of good and bad and inspiration.. does that song exist? Does singing it out loud alone make it more alive? Singing it to others? To a room full of people? What makes it real? What happens when your art is no longer enough being just for you? What happens when it's about serving, sharing, giving? Is that where real art lives? Born in those books, but alive in the world.

I'm working on these questions, but what I know for certain so far, is that it doesn't matter if you write the most amazing songs in the world, if no one ever hears them.

And the refrain of 'someday, someday, someday' keeps playing on.

ON Friday Night & Using Your Voice

This past Friday, I had been looking forward to a good night in. My life has been slightly crazy lately and the week had been heavy for everyone. A good night of bad TV and writing emails. De-licious, I thought. But here's the thing about the Universe: it throws me the most incredible curveballs. And instead, I wound up in a small room with Michael Arden, Jennifer Cody, Carrie Manolakos, Andy Mientus, Nikki M. James, Jeremy Jordan, Laura Michelle Kelly, Josh Young, and Sutton Foster.

How did that happen? Let's back it up. My Friday night started with my most favorite boy person and a quick catch up at a bar. This already would have been a great night, but then, a friend posted that he had an extra ticket to a concert that night. A concert that included a handful of the most incredible talent on Broadway (and TV, too! holler musical theatre stars on TV! you know I love me some Bunheads!) singing songs from one of my most favorite writing teams. In a penthouse. Over looking the Manhattan skyline. Um, yes, I would like the extra ticket, thanks.

I (literally) ran home, stopped at the bank, threw on a dress and heels in my kitchen, and (literally) ran out and to the concert. And after that week, with its sadness and fear and disaster, I sat in a room and listened to these voices sing from the places in their being that so few allow to be seen, and I felt magnificently alive and grateful.

Sometimes I forget what our voices can do. We can ban together to collectively support, we can yell, we can speak up for what we believe in. And we can sing, uplifting ourselves and those around us with nothing more than breath support and vocal cords vibrating together. And if we are incredibly lucky, we get the chance to do this on stage, to sing for others. I was so moved that I went back to boy I'd started my night with and told him all about it, my head not even fully wrapped around what I had just experienced but my mouth needing to talk about it.

Recently, someone told me the story of a woman rescued in Haiti, after spending several days buried under the wreckage. When she was pulled out, she started to sing. Arms up, full voice, singing. SING.ING. What an image. Let us be so lucky to sing for those who are still buried underneath the weight of their world, and let us rise up out of our own turmoil, reach our hands up, and sing.

Boston, we Love you. Texas, we Love you. The midwest and the south and the west coast and the everywhere and everyone else's, we Love you.

"This will be our reply to violence: to make music more intensely, more beautifully, more devotedly than ever before." - Leornard Bernstein

truthFULL: tuesday's thoughts

class had just started when a warm-up was announced. i settled back in my seat as the actors around me headed up to the front of the room. then his voice rang out:

"everyone here to audit class can participate in the warm-up, too!"


my heart fell into my stomach as i felt myself stand up and walk over to join the circle. the warm-up was explained: a particular combination of sound and movement. it went fast, woosh woosh woosh, out, out, out. i found myself in the final few participants. what's more, i found myself laughing. enjoying it. since there were so few people left when i made my next move, everyone else could hear what i had heard all along: the meek, barely audible sound that came out of my mouth.

it was as though we were instructed to be lions, to roar with all our might, and what i came up with was the squeak of a tiny mouse.

i laughed as i sat back down, having enjoyed those few minutes of participating in an acting class. not being able to use my voice was nothing new to me and yet, in the safe/terrifying environment that is an acting class, suddenly it hit me like a punch to my gut: i wanted my voice back.
__

i was speeding down a back road toward my high school. the windows were rolled down to let the wind whip into my little red car, drowning out everything except the soundtrack blaring through my speakers: Wicked. Defying Gravity, to be specific. i was nearing the run of the last show of my high school career and had so many mixed feelings about it that i chose to just sing louder and louder the more i felt. i had reached the point where i was done with the place i'd spent the last four years. actually, i'd hit it months ago, and endured the last rounds of 'best friends forever' talk with an understanding that i was already so far gone.

she had advised us to watch our voices, not scream or sing too much outside of the show. after all, 'joseph & the amazing technicolor dreamcoat' is no easy beast to tame. i played the female lead, the Narrator of the show, and sang almost the entire three hours. any sane person would have absolutely watched their voice. instead, i belted my lungs out every time i got in my car and driving to the show was no exception.
__

we sat on the couch, my knees tucked under me as i told him about the class and the lack of sound from my mouth:

"it's almost like.. i spent these past few years... gutting myself, ripping it all up and out of me and then slowly putting it back together, you know? and now, like, i'm there, right? i've got it all together-- well, no, i mean, no one ever totally has it all together but, like, i'm there.."

i was rambling. naturally, finding my words was proving to be difficult. he stayed with me, his eyes following mine as i danced them up to the ceiling, over to the wall, floating around, searching for what i was trying to say.

"it's like i've worked on everything up to here," i set the side of my hand against the line of my collar bone, "and now i've reached this place and i get to work on this next thing."
__

she walked over to me with a big smile on her face, "you do know that i drove by you on the way here and totally heard you singing 'defying gravity', right?"

i smiled and started laughing. of course i'd been caught. she laughed, too.
"be careful, okay? can't have you losing that voice."
"i will be, i promise."
__


it was a couple of days later, as i drove to the beach, with the radio blaring and the windows down, when i felt the truth rush into the car with the wind: it isn't something that can be lost. simple as that.

and with the ease of a single breath, i opened my mouth and sang as loud and as full as i could, letting the sound fill up the car and ring in my ears.

there's something to be said for being introspective. for being a person who can sit still and be alone with their own thoughts, with themselves. the kind of person who lets their truths drip out slowly, one by one, until it's all revealed. and yet, there is something undeniably grand about hollering as loud as you can. barreling into a room, full speed ahead. laughing from the place in your gut that you don't venture into very often.

and bravely, loudly, wildly, freely singing at the top of your lungs.