In Praise of Praise

This blog post is prompted by several things.  The fact that, working alone at home, and now, compounded by the dangerous snow and ice conditions outside, I get so little feedback.  The fact that I recently read an article citing a study that showed that happy workers are workers who get regular feedback (which presupposes that at least half of it, or more, will be positive; the rest being instructive).  The fact that when I look at little micro-situations that have made me feel blue and put out, they mostly involve other people getting praise when I got none.

Now praise is very different from a grade or an award.  Praise can be given to each according to her personal accomplishments.

I am not one of those people who think "everyone is a winner".  If a role is being cast, it will only go to one or two people.  Likewise a prize.  Perhaps there will be first, second, third, and honorable mention, but no more.  Think of Olympic medals: gold, silver, and bronze.

But praise is different.  Praise can go to the person who improved the most since the last round of auditions.  Or to the person who sang that particular aria better than she had ever sung it.  Or - and this is the import of this piece - to someone who exceeded expectations of what was possible given the person's age and starting point.

My partner, who occasionally says something really supportive and profound, said she couldn't understand what made me so sad about having this 21 year old conservatory student in the choir.  She said, how can you compare yourself to her?  You're 63!  You can't "do your life over" (which of course made me want to cry).  But it was then that I realize that what I was so envious of was not that this young woman got a solo on Good Friday (which is again approaching; I must fortify myself with lots of planning for my Carmen concert, which will be two weeks after Easter, or - who knows? I may be pleasantly surprised).  It was the fuss that people made over her, all the way from the choir applauding her in rehearsal to the choir director asking people to give her a hand for a solo that she sang that was interpolated into a choir piece.  People have come up to me when I've sung something and said it was "lovely", which is no small thing, as I know.  People don't have to say anything.  But no one has actually said to me "you know it is quite amazing what you have accomplished over these past ten years, considering your age and all the obstacles that entails."  My partner said that to me.  She who almost never compliments me on anything except my cooking and my looks.  She said I should be proud of everything I have accomplished and how hard I have worked.  I laughed and said that I wished I had her in my pocket!  That then I might feel more confident and less despairing.

Actually, I did once get a compliment of that sort, from an unexpected quarter, from a voice teacher, one who is at least as well respected as some of the ones I have had "issues" with over the Internet.  She said I was an "inspiration", sounding like I do at my age not to mention that no one in a million years would guess how old I am.

I just long for some praise, some strokes.  Not instead of constructive criticism.  There have been articles lately about how too much "self esteem" is not good for kids; that if they're told everything is "wonderful" they will never improve or develop any self discipline, which is probably true.  It's important to be told (often) that the wonderful things are wonderful, and also to be told which things need improving and how to improve them.

Lastly, there is a quote that's been circulating, that I would have shared on my Facebook page, but it ends in an obscenity which is so not my style; also it is really not the correct word for my situation.  It reads, more or less:

Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, surrounded by [jerks].

If I substituted "superachievers" for "jerks", I would have it, in a nutshell.

I wish all the superachievers could just clear off, so I could really see myself.