LiveStrong.

Yesterday, I was given the cosmic and delightful (sarcasm) opportunity to put that day’s blog message into action: I was asked if I was coming out to spend time with folks. … But I really had to go home and watch Netflix, you know. Not that I have anything I’m particularly watching at the moment, not that you can put that on my tombstone (“Excellent t.v. watcher, Achiever of many episodes”). But the alternative was to spend an hour with people. Blech.

But, health won out. (Damned health.) I went, I smiled, I listened, I shared, I had conversations with people. Netflix won’t really converse with me. It’s selfish that way.

I got the chance to hear what was going on with a friend and offer some suggestions, and she got to hear me share what’s going on with me and offered me some help, too.

Again, Netflix is really loathe to help me out. The bastard.

I also got to notice that I’ve gained a few readers in the past week who’ve gotten to read things about me that some of my closest friends don’t know about, and that … well, that’s okay. It’s what this, the blog, is here for. Not to “connect” with people in a complete way, but to offer something. To offer a catharsis, a container, a mirror into their own experience. To hear someone say – or read someone write – about what have been issues or concerns or triumphs in your own life is to get to feel you’re/we’re not alone. Our experience as humans is not isolated; we’re not as different as we think we are when trapped alone in our heads.

I’m grateful for that, for this opportunity. And I know it can be intense. For anyone who’s joined us this week, it’s not always so dark. But, it is likely always as honest. Don’t worry, I don’t tell you everything. You don’t in fact get the all of me by reading me, and we both know that. But it’s a good thread between us. And I get to feel cathartized, too. Not that this is therapy or anything, but that I’m putting my voice out there in a way that feels relatively safe, but also authentic.

On voice, I emailed an old voice teacher yesterday to ask if she still gives private lessons. I was in her voice class when I was at Mills, and earlier in the week, I got the message from Theater Bay Area that applications for the General Auditions for the South Bay are open. And, you have to note on the application if you think you might sing. You don’t have to sing if you check that box, but you have to indicate if you might so they can group you with the other singers in that day.

I applied to the Generals last year, and didn’t get in. But I have real headshots this time, and two more credits, and possibly a third that I can add before I send off my resume. I certainly have enough gumption and the substance to try this time, especially if I had even less to my name last year!

I was talking yesterday with a friend about singing. About how I know the voice is there, but I hide it all the time. Even when I was in the band, I hid it. I didn’t sing to the best and fullest of my ability, and I also don’t even know what the limits of my ability are. I want to sing. I’ve always said it. Or thought it, so most of you didn’t know anyway.

It’s secret. Private. It’s tender, is what it is. It's the most tender dream I have, honestly. And I think that’s what makes it the most protected and least acknowledged one. For me, singing has no place to hide, and it’s an outpouring of your soul – or it can be. As I know well, it can not be that very easily, and no one would know the difference but me. They’ll just think that’s what I’ve got.

It’s like when I work at 80% most of the time at my job. They don’t know. They just think that’s what I have to offer, but the reality is that I hold back, in that case because I’m resentful, entitled and begrudging. But I digress!

Or I don’t. It’s the same side of the coin of not participating in life fully, of not offering myself fully. They’re different angles toward that, but they’re both about self-protection and -preservation.

Tender shoots of hope always need a little more room and space and care. For me, they’ve needed to be hidden so as not to be trampled by the onslaught of life. But by keeping this thing small, myself small, by harboring it and mentally reinforcing it as a tender and sensitive and fragile thing, it will always remain that way.

A redwood starts out the same way, you know. As tender as a sprig. But if you take the cage off of the plant, allow it air and sunshine and nourishment. Soon it won’t be a small and tender, fragile thing anymore. Soon it will be able to weather the strokes of life. By letting what I’ve carried as a secret and a calling out of its confinement … I can allow it to become what it’s always needed to be: Strong.