Not a B**tch

Nothing much is really happening (other than that we had the second biggest snowstorm on record), but I didn't want the last post I made to be the one people see first if they stumble upon my blog.  I want to let it stand, though, because, first of all, the little meme I created is rather funny (and I am proud of my having been able to design it myself), and second, because the list I enumerated below it reflects how I feel a lot of the time.

I think of myself as a jealous b**tch (let's just say that the older I get, the more I understand Amneris, although the prize is not necessarily a man), but when all is said and done, I'm not.

Saturday there was a traffic ban, everything was closed, including all the Broadway shows, and as a consequence, Little Miss's opera performance was also canceled.  As it was in a rather prestigious venue, that I am sure is booked for the next year, there probably won't be a "rain" - or rather "snow" date, and I really did feel sorry.  I just have to say that however screamingly and sobbingly envious I am, I would never wish another person harm or bad luck, certainly not anyone who has never done anything to harm me or anyone else.  It made me feel relieved to realize that, which means I am a nicer person than I think I am. (As an aside, she did get to perform the role once, the previous weekend, hence all the [professional and press] photos on Facebook.)

To me there is a difference between wishing someone ill, and just wishing you didn't have to see them or hear about what they are doing.

Basically what it boils down to is that I am not aging gracefully.  I can't admit that some things will never be, no matter how hard I work, no matter how much native talent I was given.  I would never lie about my age, and don't care how old anyone thinks I look.  I don't even mind that much having to use a cane to get around in the snow (the only thing that makes me angry is the presumed universality of "snow glee", somehow transporting even the oldest geezer back to childhood, and totally ignoring the fact that there are people for whom the prospect of snow is frightening, not exhilarating).

What I mind are all the closed doors.  The assumed ones (like the opera company that told me I was not a "future investment", which to me is different from telling me I looked to old for a part, or that they worried that I was not physically mobile enough for a part), and then the real ones: no one is interested in someone moving toward the cusp of sounding as good as a professional, when she's 65.  It may be an interesting phenomenon (as my teacher has said, and as some of my age peers, who by their own admission do not sing as well now as they did ten years ago, have been astounded by) but that doesn't translate into offers.

When I was younger, if I was not happy with how something was going, there was always hope.  It might have been false hope, or I might not have achieved or received whatever it was I wanted, but I could enjoy the journey, because who knew where it might take me?

Now, sadly, the answer seems to be nowhere that is not of my own making.

That said, it is almost time to dress and go to my voice lesson, where I can work on Carmen - to be performed on May 2.

Comic Relief

Rather than bore you with another of my awful Faust days (I had to hear a lot about Little Miss yesterday, which spoiled any pleasure I had been taking in getting to wail out a top F and G in a choir piece), here is some comic relief.  Many people have posted these on Facebook from time to time, so I figured out how to make one of my own.  The problem is that there is a typo and I couldn't get the image back into "edit" mode to fix it.

It boils down to:

She gets to sing in numerous real operas with prestigious companies, I produce my own home-made concerts.

She has a boyfriend who is a prestigious musician who posts pictures of her (with much kvelling)  all over Facebook, I have a partner who finally realizes how much it means for me to sing (it only took 10 years - no wait!! don't I mean 40??)

She has a prestigious voice teacher who posts encouragement on Facebook.  My teacher doesn't use Facebook.

She gets to dress up and pretend to be someone else, I'm sitting here cleaning up commas.

She's 23, I'm 65.

This afternoon I have a date with myself to practice before I leave for my eldercare weekend (with my cane, so that I won't fall in the snow tomorrow).

I hope this is good for a laugh anyhow.

Faust Days

I haven't had a really bad day in a while, and I suppose this is not a terribly bad day, in that nothing has really happened, other than that there was a little snow last night, and may be some later today, and tomorrow, which for me means packing my cane, and then going into "snow" mode which for me means walking outside as little as possible, taking buses not subways (because the stairs might be slippery), even a car service if it's windy, worrying constantly about my physical safety when I am outside (and this is reality based, not a groundless fear), and constantly making little micro-choices between my physical safety and my mental health.

I mean I might have stayed in today anyhow because it is a holiday and the after school program I have been helping out with is closed, and I have a lot of work to do and no other appointments.  I haven't spent an entire day at home in a while, which is good, because there is definitely an inverse relationship between my mental health and the number of hours I spend in the apartment alone.

The work I do for a living is deadly boring (and even though once I get Social Security I can do as little of it as I have been doing - about 25 hours a week - without worrying about being out on the street I will probably have to do it until I drop dead) and of course the Devil makes work for idle brains (and for me, anyhow, a brain used to take periods out from between authors' initials or to move the date from the middle of a bibliographic entry to the end is an idle one).

Speaking of the Devil, I have decided to rename these days when I feel hopelessly blue "Faust days" because really what it boils down to is I feel like I would sell my soul to the Devil to be 30 or 40 years younger.  That would solve a lot of problems.  I could be singing as well as I am now and making progress at the same rate, but it would really matter, because there would be a future ahead of me (particularly one that other people would see).  My primary responsibility would probably not be taking care of someone 81.  (Childcare is usually a choice. Eldercare is not.)  I would be young enough that I would be physically mobile, geographically mobile, and not yet weighted down with small blessings that are both blessings, and, yes, small.

How this train of thought got started, of course, was that being bored with nothing to do I decided to look at Little Miss's Facebook page and of course my nose got rubbed in the fact that she is getting endless kudos (from the director, from her prestigious voice teacher) for her latest performance at one of the opera companies that rejected me (this one not only wouldn't grant me an audition, the man who runs it even called me on the phone to yell at me for having the audacity to send a resume to him!!) And I see that she received an award from the opera company that told me I was not a "future investment".  And she now has gorgeous head shots (professional, no doubt).

So it makes me feel how tiny my little crumbs are.  My voice teacher is thrilled with my progress, but for Pete's sake he not only doesn't use Facebook, he doesn't even know how to operate a cell phone camera! I did buy a tripod for my iPad, and made a few videos of myself singing, but they only captured my face, and as they were not made in a real-life situation (like singing in church or even with an accompanist) they are hardly even of the caliber to post on Facebook.

Why do I constantly have to give myself pep talks?  Why is no one doing it for me?  I mean how many 65 year olds suddenly discover an entire high extension they never had (well, I'm talking about three notes, but these are important notes)?

I suppose I should be grateful for small blessings.  Little Miss is too busy with her budding career (who is paying for all this, I wonder? she isn't working) to sing in the choir, so 90% of the time I am the only person with any training in the soprano section and I really do keep it on course (in terms of intonation, etc.) And I may be singing more in the Spanish service.  The Director of Music Ministries wrote a section of the church Annual Report, and one of the things he said was that he was going to try to have more "special music" (meaning solos) at the 9 am service and the Spanish service.  I wrote back to him and said that I would be happy to sing at the Spanish service more often (I would never volunteer to sing at 9 although I will do it if asked) but that I needed some suggestions about repertoire.  So he said we would be in touch.  And I think he means it.  The people at the church like my singing.  And the little girl whom I'm tutoring will be thrilled.  She just loves my singing.

ETA: I had written to a friend about how depressed I was feeling and she sent me a lovely note and an e-card that played the "Habanera".  I was so touched that it brought tears to my eyes.  Now I am practicing.  I just aced a high C sharp.  A few years ago I would have cut off two fingers to be able to do that.

Theological Musings for 2016

It's already the 11th and I have not yet written anything to mark this new year!

First, I want to say that in rereading some of my old posts that were not about singing, particularly the ones about same-sex marriage, sexism, and ageism, I see that they are good pieces of writing that can stand on their own, and that I would be proud to read at any writers' workshop.  So I am going to write more of these.

As for my singing, as the huge endlessly frustrating technical problems that I struggled with for years seem now to be at an end, there is less to write about, unless I have sung something somewhere or am making plans.  Every now and then I will have a "bad day" (my teacher and I had a talk about this at my last lesson) but for the most part I have a reliable technique that will stand me in good stead in most situations I am likely to find myself in.

I have two concerts scheduled for 2016: a reprise of the concert version of Carmen (on May 2), and my birthday concert (on July 31).

I have been able to squelch the envy that can overtake me by simply shutting out the world of all the emerging professionals, semi-pros, and others who flock to my neighborhood (the opera Mecca of the world).  I don't go to their performances or read their blog postings or comments.  Little Miss is mostly gone from the choir.  Yes, I am still, somewhere, seething that she has performed with two of the opera companies that rejected me, and that the choir director forwards her email announcements when he never forwarded mine, but my next concert, at least, will only be open to guests over 60 so there!!

Now, as for the title of this post.  One thing I was pondering recently was why, on the one hand, I always define myself theologically as a Unitarian, when, on the other hand, I don't like attending their services.  I think I finally came up with an answer.  I was reading a piece about Unitarians and Christmas that really resonated with me. This was back when Unitarians celebrated Christmas, which now seems to be one of the many sources of friction at their congregations, along with classical music and Biblical art.  Reading that article made me realize that what I am is a nineteenth-century style "Unitarian" not a contemporary "UU".  Suddenly an image came to mind, an image of a large tree.  Judaism is the roots, because of course Christianity grew out of Judaism, and the trunk is what people think of as "JudeoChristian" culture and values.  The tree now has many branches, some of which are fundamentalist, and some of which more liberal, like Reform Judaism and mainline Protestantism, all of which denominations accept same-sex marriage and tend toward the political Left.  Unitarianism used to be a branch of mainline Protestantism.  One that had been growing away from strict doctrine, yes, but still attached to the tree (for example the Unitarian church in Brooklyn where I grew up featured traditional church music, and the choir wore robes).  Now, however, I feel that "UU-ism" has fallen off the tree and is another plant entirely, and it is that with which I am not comfortable.  Having been raised as an atheist, I certainly don't feel rooted in JudeoChristian doctrine, but I do feel rooted in Western culture, much of which involves JudeoChristian music, art, and stories.  How one interprets the art, music, and stories is another matter.  So for example, I see most Bible stories as myths or parables, not as things that happened.  I do not believe that Jesus was the only Son of God, simply a person who was killed for speaking truth to power, and I do not want to be Baptised.  But if I want to have a "church" experience, I want it to be an authentic one (the kind I remember fondly from reading Anthony Trollope and Agatha Christie).  I don't want to hear African drumming or Buddhist chanting.  I also don't want to hear songs by Bob Dylan or John Lennon.  On the other hand, I do appreciate African-American spirituals, even gospel music, because to me those are part of the rich fabric of Western religious experience, particularly in this country.  And I would be happy to to sing or listen to some of the music that is featured in synagogues.

For the most part, singing and worshiping (the latter in my own fashion, which is what Unitarians do, after all) in a progressive Lutheran church has satisfied that need.  And not just my need as a singer, but also my need as a person who cares about social justice, social outreach, and the life of the mind.

Yesterday, however, I heard a sermon that I found deeply offensive, something that has never happened to me at that church before.  Usually it's simply a question of taking things with a grain of salt, staying in my seat during the procession toward communion (I have now laughingly  named myself the "Shabbas Goy" of the choir because when other people are communing, I sing the communion hymn - sometimes it has been as a solo!!), and not speaking prayers beginning with the words "I believe" if, in fact, I don't.  (If I am speaking, I am BabyD a private person.  If I am singing, I am a church singer doing a job, even if it's  one I don't get paid for.)

But getting back to yesterday's sermon.  The woman preaching was one of the seminarians, but she is not young.  I would guess late 40s early 50s and ministering is obviously a second career for her.  I have always been very fond of her.  She was preaching on Baptism.  I have heard sermons on Baptism before and in fact several years ago the beloved drop dead gorgeous blonde pastor who has moved on to another career, gave a sermon on Baptism, after which I told her that I loved coming to that church but that I did not want to be Baptised because my mother was Jewish and she said that was perfectly OK.

The woman preaching yesterday, however, obviously had another opinion.  She did not just say that Baptism gives you membership in the Body of Christ (something I am very certain I do not belong to), but that Baptism is what makes you a child of God.  I found that outrageous.  I am a child of God (as is everyone) and to be that you do not need to belong to any particular religious group or adhere to their specific doctrines.

But worst of all was how she ended the sermon.  She said "If there's anyone here who is not Baptised, come make an appointment to see me now!"

I really feel that this overstepped a line.  That is the sort of thing that you hear in right-wing fundamentalist churches, not a Lutheran church on the Upper West Side that is a magnet for classical musicians as well as Lutherans.

So when I hear this sort of thing I am reminded of why I call myself a Unitarian.  But not a "UU". I'm still very much a "churchlady" (and yes, I love wearing "Sunday best" to services), just one with a healthy twenty-first century skepticism. But with a love of high art, a lot of which was inspired by Christianity, but exists for the aesthetic appreciation of all.