Sarah Motes Ashley

Where have we been?

2011-09-20T08:02:00.000-05:00

"indecision's bugging me / if you don't want me set me free"
The Clash, 1981

This is for my friends and acquaintances at church.

Our church has recently hired a new pastor, and the process of selecting and hiring him was fraught with conflict. While my husband and I were surprised and saddened by some of the ways that disagreement was approached during that process, that's not why we have left. This new pastor seems not to be our cup of tea in terms of his personal and preaching styles, but that is also not why.

We also haven't exactly left; as the lyric above suggests, we're fumbling into a transition period and we're not sure what's next.

The reason we are entering this transition is because of the music pastor. If you've ever heard me onstage at our church, you know that singing in worship is my passion and my gift. If you have only seen me rarely, that is the problem. I have not sung in our contemporary service since December of '10, and I have only sung at all in our traditional service twice this past summer. These two Sundays were to fill space while our choir was on hiatus. While I was happy to sing those days, it doesn't address the problem.

I tried to address the problem. I complained bitterly. As you know, this pastor chose someone close to him to be a kind of co-leader, and admitted to me that advancing that person's career was his priority. I wrote long, long emails and had long meetings with people I thought could at least get the pastor to moderate his position. Maybe he could advance that person's career 95% of the time, and throw me a bone once a quarter? No, apparently he would not. I tried hard to stay in conversation with this music pastor but it's my belief that he was not honest with me, and may not have been honest with us as a body about his intentions. In our last talk he told me something designed to hurt, and I found out it was an unambiguous lie.

There was so much more to it. Far more musicians and singers left than stayed, and any of them will agree that there was arrogance, unprofessional choices, hostility, condescension, and a culling of the less skilled singers that was needlessly ruthless and insulting. It was my belief that this pastor was operating out of his brokenness and inexperience, and with ten years' more experience and age, I hoped I could make a difference. Somewhere.

I could not. I tried to tell the discarded singers that the "professional world" is not this harsh, as this pastor would have them believe. (I have been to Broadway auditions kinder than the auditions this pastor set up). But they were (still are) so hurt by their demotions that I don't think I helped much. I told this pastor as gently as I could the effect that some of his less-than-worshipful choices were having, and the hurts caused by his less-than-friendly demeanor. He seemed to listen at first, but grew impatient as the months went by. I don't blame him - it's not fun to be disagreed with and challenged.

I tried to get people in leadership positions to get him to change, and I was told this pastor had been talked to, and then this pastor told me he would change. He asked if I wanted to "come back" to our contemporary service to solo and lead worship. I said I would.

Nearly two months later, I realize that I was suckered. Very little has changed.

So, yes, I am sulky and disappointed and offended that I don't have the spotlight as much as someone else. You can see it that way if you like. But what lies beneath is what really hurts, like a punch in the gut every Sunday I sit in that service. What's beneath is a church that doesn't seem to care.

When I was single, and a new Christian, my church at that time had very strict rules of conduct for singers and anyone who appeared on stage. Ours was a largely single congregation during that season and sexual purity was a big consideration. We were not allowed to allow even an appearance of impropriety because of how it would conflict with what we said onstage, with our songs and our presence. It made sense at the time, sort of; that my brother or my male cousin could not stay at my house seemed kind of strict. But the idea was that an observer who knew I was Christian but did not know anything else would see a man leaving my house in the morning and could easily decide I am a hypocrite. Observers like that don't ask, and so appearance in this case is crucial.

Now I get it. Because each week I sat in our service and saw a man who has acted in so many unkind, dishonest, self-seeking, and un-Christlike ways offer prayers and words of praise, I felt sicker. The church in which he makes these hollow statements and untrustworthy prayers echoes them back and the people in the pews smile and applaud. The blessing of God on our church, our efforts, our very selves, is called for and accepted. What can I believe? Who can I trust?

Trust God, you are saying. I get that. But I need to trust my church. I need to trust leaders, and search committees, and members of my "church family." If I do this, now, at our church, there is only one way I can go on, and that is to submit to a leader who has made deeply sinful choices, and to other leaders who choose to turn a blind eye, or who don't find me trustworthy or worth the trouble.

I have tried this, by the way. It works really well, if crying my guts out during the worship and drifting farther from God each week are what you'd call effective.

There is another answer to this situation, and it's what my husband and I have chosen to tell ourselves when we keep asking the same sad questions. This answer says that God has a path for me and for you and for everyone. Sometimes two different people will walk wildly different paths, even down the same aisle into the same sanctuary. It's a thing I call "stink." I am pretty much the same person, but in some church environments I have been welcomed, put to work, loved and accepted. In some other places I have been rejected or singled out for exclusion in ways that are just plain bizarre. Sometimes these two experiences have happened at the same church, but in different time periods. Sometimes I come up smelling like a rose, and sometimes it's the opposite. Is it about me? Maybe. I'm sure I can be annoying or grasping or arrogant or many other unflattering adjectives.

But I think it's God, saying no, sweetie. Walk this way. Find My path, it's over here. Maybe God has to put a powerful stink on me before I finally realize I need to move on.

This should be obvious now, since I was offered a singing job at another church, a church my family could someday join. It's clear we have at least a place to land for a while. I'd like to think it's a pretty obvious, two-boats-and-a-helicopter kind of rescue.

But my trust is shattered. Sure, this job is great, but when will it all change? When will the pastor who believes in me be fired and replaced by someone who wants polkas or Gregorian chant or goth metal worship? The church extends its arms now, and it's all sunshine and puppy dogs and potlucks and fellowship and praying for each other, and it will be wonderful. For a little while.

My heart tells me that somewhere it will be different. My broken heart says "seriously?" Somewhere ... where? over the rainbow? There will always be humans and pride and someone grabbing power from another person the way a toddler will grab the best toy - because he can. That sucks, but then it will all be coated with the sickly sweet frosting of "God's will" and 'God's leading" and that's when it really hurts. My broken heart tells me I'd better grow a thick lizard skin of cynicism and mistrust if I'm to survive being a Christian.

So that's my story. We have left, because we're not there on Sunday mornings. I'm tired of crying when I should be loving God. But I'm not ready to formally leave. This is partly because we don't have any place to formally go. But I am also feeling stubborn about it. I am not leaving my church. My church has left me and I'm trying to figure out how to pick up the pieces.

Bait and Switch

2011-09-01T07:42:00.019-05:00

On New Year's Day of 1998 I wasn't a Christian. I was hung over, and I had to sing a gig that day, and I was feeling very scared. I had met a cute man the night before and it had been a relatively innocent, nonphysical encounter, but I still felt confused and ashamed. On January 4th I went to church for the first time, and the next week I went again. This was an evangelical church in the middle of Chicago, a vibrant church where the arts were valued and used brilliantly. The arts reached me immediately. I was in my thirties and my life was just starting to look better on the outside, but inside I felt battered and deflated and scared. I must have been desperate to go to church.

I remember a woman singing a simple song about how "Jesus doesn't care what you've done before." I remember a skit where a couple of men talked about how they were afraid a Christian woman would judge them. On Good Friday there was a video slide show of paintings of Jesus' final day and crucifixion, set to the Barber "Adagio for Strings" and I was washed away by the historical weight of those events. This stuff really happened. This is the saddest piece of music ever written and this is what it's about.

By the time that Easter had come and gone, I was in. Saved. I dove into that community and was happier than I had ever been. All the creativity I could ask for, and all for a higher purpose. I was a fish in water, finally.

I had the distinct experience of being the flavor of the month, for a while. Not so much to the community, but to the church itself. The evangelical congregation can be so seductive, so welcoming, so deeply and fervently interested in my salvation, my well-being, my "getting plugged in." I felt that this community truly cared about me as a person, and that they cared because God cares. I heard Bill Hybels thunder from his pulpit "Lost people matter to God!" I was a lost person who had been found, and then I had the joy of being a part of the team.

But after about two years, our pastor resigned... or was fired... or forced out. There was uproar. People left. A new pastor came, and we were told that the arts were too "self-focused." That we were putting on a show, and that the "younger people" preferred a simpler service. The old worship leaders quit and were replaced about every 18 months. I hung on as long as I could but gave up when the 29-year-old worship leader told me that "The Lord is telling me that we shouldn't have choir in our services."

Choir. The 3,000 year experiment that failed. With a little bit of supervision, this 29-year-old might have been able to orchestrate a kinder transition from one style of worship to another, but our church made the common mistake of thinking that hiring a young person to "draw in" young people was more important than having a wise leader to minister to the ninety-nine.

We fell off the top of the charts, we who had just been baptized 2-3 years before, and it was hard, because I have experienced that so many times in my life. Haven't we all? The frat boy who pursued me with such charm and seemed so caring - until he caught me, and then couldn't even look me in the eye. The new department head at work, who interrupts you in meetings and isn't sure the company needs you after all. The friends who suddenly start doing things without you. Isn't that why we went to church? That's why I did. I needed something I could count on.

Now that I'm something of a seasoned Christian, I get it. God is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow... but church is just people. Church is just like the rest of the world, except we keep hoping it'll be a teeny tiny bit better. More trustworthy. But no. Church is full of politics and I should stop expecting anything better.

Really? Have we all just given up?

At my present church, we have just concluded the seeking and hiring of a new pastor. There was upheaval, and a process that was just barely democratic but stank of a coup. I was appalled until I attended the meetings and felt the seething resentment and realized that there is conflict and division that goes back more than 10 years, and that some kind of political momentum was in play that was going to change our church's direction. Possibly radically. I knew I could only get out of the way.

The rallying cry in so many churches is that we must reach more believers. We must find the lost and lead them to God. Everything that we do in church, good, bad, and ugly, is centered around this great commission, and obviously that's a crucial goal.

But churches, I gotta ask you: is it right to find us, and love us, and then elbow us aside in search of newer converts? I am not Barna, but I have a feeling he might tell us that one of the top reasons people leave church - forever - is politics. I'm not talking about leaving church A and going down the road to church B. I'm talking about leaving church, and in many cases leaving God. I know that God doesn't leave us, but we can certainly leave Him, and live decades if not the entire rest of our lives separated from Him. What happens after that I do not know, but I don't have to tell you that I have had God in my life and I have had no God in my life and the with-God life is better.

Maybe we should also ask Mr. Barna to give us the full truth about "church growth." How many of the "new faces" we think we're seeing are just old faces from a different church? How many will actually sign on the dotted line, only to leave two years from now, with hearts that may mend, but trust that is broken forever? We often turn to sobering statistics about the decline of committed Christians in this world, but are we contributing to that decline by ignoring the revolving door?

The people bringing in the new regime in my church are convinced that our church will now get down to the business of telling a truer truth, and reaching more people for God. But there are quite a few of us who chose our church because of the way it was. The pastor who included more seasoned Christians, the music that included those of us over 35, the leadership that included and encouraged women in leadership. We can stay, and we really want to, but this isn't the church we joined. It's hard, and you know what? It hurts. Because everything that happens in the church reflects our love for God and our desire to know how He loves us. When the church opens its arms to me, and then chews me up and spits me out a few years later, it's hard not to wonder if that's how God feels, just a little bit.

So, churches. Do me a favor. If you really want to reach the lost, stay the same. I know that the one lost sheep matters more than the ninety-nine, and I get that. But I have friends, and I can't bring them anymore. My non-Christian friends see me go through this agony and all of their anti-Christian observations are made true. At the end of this process, I'm lost too. Lost all over again.

Churches, if you want to reach all the peoples of the world for God, stop. Think. Don't offer me a spiritual home that really is just an overnight shelter. I might decide to stay out in the cold.

Plea for Unity

2011-08-26T07:31:00.000-05:00

Here's what I wrote about the church thing. I don't know if anyone will end up seeing it but it clarified things for me. I kept my name out of it, and if you see it here, then you'll know it's me. But almost nobody reads this blog so I'll probably stay anonymous, at least for a while.

Open Letter to my Church: a Plea for Unity
At the town hall meeting to discuss our pastor candidate last night, there was a lot of anger. Some are upset that the search team’s work was not universally applauded. Some are unhappy with the church’s stated position on the role of women, and some are afraid that position might be changed. Some weren’t happy with earlier committee decisions and have lost faith in how our church is governed.

We are deeply divided. Our conversations about a pastor candidate are an expression of our division, not the cause. Here’s a thought: maybe we’re not arguing about the pastor candidate. Maybe we’re arguing because we don’t know each other, we don’t trust each other, and we don’t know how to disagree.

Our church has a special diversity and I think we want to preserve it. Romans 14 acknowledges that there are disputable matters. I wish we could dispute and discuss among ourselves with love.
In order to do so, can we consider three things? First, we need to talk to each other more. I’m not trained in techniques for conflict resolution, but I’m pretty sure “not talking about it” isn’t one of them. It seems like the only time the whole church is called together, it’s because we have to decide something important. By then it’s too late for just talking and listening, don’t you think? By then it’s about us, and them, and who’s going to “win.”

Second, while unanimous consent to something is nice, we don’t need it to be unified. There are many who absolutely trust a committee or a person’s complete submission to God, but still hear a different answer from Him. We all pray. We all hear from God.

This means that there will be some among us who vote “no” on Sunday. But if this candidate is called, most of the “no” voters will put their hand to the plow on Monday and go forward with hope, just as the “yes” voters will. Can we trust each other that this is so?
Furthermore, the more comfortable we become with the idea that we can disagree and still be united, the stronger our unity will be. We know this from our marriages. God often puts opposites together, knowing that we will be united in love and a common purpose, even if we disagree on a million other things.
Finally, can we agree that “going to the Scriptures” about a certain issue doesn’t bring us to consensus? Most of us who feel strongly about the issue of women in leadership know every relevant passage by heart, along with the commentaries and sermons that we have encountered as we agonize over this question. Obviously Scripture is what we depend on, but we don’t all interpret Scripture the same way. This is difficult, frustrating, and sometimes scary. But if simply looking at a passage of Scripture answered a question universally, we would not have these disagreements.
Please, [church leaders]. Help us love each other better. Make us talk to each other. A lot. Maybe it’s town hall meetings, maybe there is another way to facilitate reconciliation and listening. There are people out there who do this kind of facilitating for a living and we need one of them. I think talking hasn’t always helped in the past because in the past we might have talked to change each other’s minds or to vote up or down on things.
What if we talked just to know the faces and the hearts behind the opinions, just to hear others’ stories? I think that would show respect and commitment to Christ’s bride, the church, and to each other. It may take a lot of conversations to help us remember that we are all brothers and sisters in Christ, and that we agree on the most important things. But our mission depends on it. Our community sees our bickering, and God does too, and I don’t know how we can bring joy to His heart, nor Christ to our county, if we don’t come together.

“so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.” (Rom. 12:5)
signed with love,
a church member

So many elephants

2011-08-25T06:26:00.001-05:00

In addition to my own personal church drama, our church is looking for a new pastor. The ways that churches make decisions like this can be byzantine and fall into grooves of tradition that I don't begin to understand.

Fast forward to a meeting last night, where discussion about a new pastor candidate was tense. To say the least. There were several elephants in the room, some of which got talked about ... sort of directly. Some not.

I was amazed and saddened and also fascinated. The biggest and baddest elephant is the one that trumpets loudly inside or outside so many churches, and that's the question of whether it's okay for women to lead in various positions. Our church has maintained an incredibly tenuous position that is (I think) a compromise. There are others who think it's intolerable.

This is an elephant that sort of got talked about. I am on the side of women being able to do things like preach and teach in church, but I have learned that having a woman as a senior pastor is the final frontier and a lot of people just can't handle it. I have had a woman pastor and she just about saved my life, and that's another story. But I respect that final frontier, and as far as I'm concerned, if women can do everything else but just don't happen to be senior pastor in this particular church, I can live with it.

I forget, until nights like last night, that there is anger about this issue. Deep anger.

And here's where it gets interesting. Here is where the fork in the road lies. When confronted by someone who is usually a man, usually older than me, and angry that I want to be able to have the same opportunities to minister and live out my faith just like anyone else does, I have a choice. I don't always remember that I have a choice, but I do.

I can decide that this man has a conscious desire to take from me and keep for himself. That he wants to take my rights or my opportunities, even though he has plenty for himself. That he believes a version of God who favors men over women like a parent favoring a child. That he has contempt for me because he thinks I'm not as smart or deserving, based on complete lies. These beliefs lead me to an angry dead-end, because a person who wants to do and believe these things is not a likable person. He's wrong, he's mean, and he's my enemy.

That's what's behind door number one, and isn't that where we almost always go? It just seems to make sense, because otherwise I don't get it. So there I go charging down that blind alley, bumping into the wall like the marching band in "Animal House," and then I'm stuck.

But I don't have to. What's behind door number two is a completely different story.

Here's someone who is angry. Just like me. He's angry because his belief in the way things should be, which comes from what he believes God has told us to do, is being challenged. Just like I do. Of course, I'm angry because I'm scared and hurt.

Maybe he is too. On the rare occasions where I push door number two open, behind it is a mirror. It takes time and thinking and some kind of refuge from the anger that makes me stupid, but when I can get there, I see the mirror. My opponent in this debate is scared. Being disagreed with on a fundamental level is scary, and while I can't exactly understand why, I can try.

Trying to figure out why someone has done something that seems terrible to me is hard. Here's what I do: I make up a story. Maybe he's scared because he doesn't know how much we would change, we who want equal rights for women. Maybe he's been told all his life that people like me are man-haters who want to abolish marriage and have an all-female Cabinet and a lesbian president and we won't stop until there is a woman in the pulpit in every church in America. I know, I know, that's infuriating, but stay with me. If he's been told that or something like it, he's scared because he doesn't know how much change there will be.

Bottom line is, he doesn't know what he's fighting against, and he's scared. I am too.

So here I am behind door number two, and I have told myself this story, and suddenly the man gets smaller and older. He's not powerful. He hears Bob Dylan and he knows the times they are a-changin' even though he has fought that change his whole life. I understand his fear.

Here's how I experience this fear. I get angry, really angry, about names. If you have chosen one of these names, forgive me. You probably won't need to forgive me because nobody reads this blog, including you, whoever you are. (it's very freeing) Anyway, I am ... well, honestly, I get really angry about names that are ... different. Names like Dakota and Caitlin and Jaden that are done to death, names that were popularized by rock stars. Names like Storm that are supposed to convey some kind of strength but just seem pretentious to me. Why not Avalanche or Cataclysm? These "new" names drive me crazy and I'm alarmed at the bile that they bring forth. Why do I care if people pick what I think are stupid names for their children?

Because it's everywhere. Because the times they are a-changin' and apparently names that seem like names to me are out of fashion. I perceive it as a rising sea level of bad taste and tackiness that engulfs the world, and I am left alone here up on high ground, praising holdouts who still give names like David and Elizabeth. I'm not old yet but I now know the feeling of being left behind by the world in this small way, and it makes me angry because it's scary.

Yes. I understand that man's fear and anger if I look in that mirror that's behind door number two. In my story, which has become a movie in my mind, we talk. I say "I'm not really pushing for the whole enchilada right now," and then he knows that I want some change but not all of it. What if we talk about why we believe what we believe, and he tells me how that has shown up in his life. I could tell him about the woman pastor who saved my life, and that I can't believe God didn't want her to do that.

In my movie we just talk, and I'm not convinced, and he's not convinced, but who cares. He's a person now. One of his grandchildren lives in Chicago. We live two streets over and the hail destroyed his roof too. We realize we aren't going to change each others' minds, we can't change each others' minds.

We don't need to change each others' minds.

What we need is to know that the person on the other side of the debate is a person. We have looked into that person's eyes and we could not stop ourselves from liking that person just a little bit. Maybe even more than a little bit.

The problem is not that we disagree. The problem is that we don't know each other, and the disagreement becomes personal. It doesn't have to.

Last night I wished I had my People Remote so I could just pause the situation. Stop us before we get all jammed up in that alley of enmity. Let one person come forward and just tell his or her story. Let us all stop, and breathe, and remember that we can love each other just fine, even if we don't agree, will never agree. Agreement isn't everything.

Deus ex machina

2011-08-13T17:49:00.001-05:00

Here's the deal. I haven't been able to sing very much at my own church for more than a year, for reasons that are tragic and stupid and sinful. It's turned me inside out and made me look at my own selfishness and made me rely on God. I have whined and harped about it for far too long, but it really has been unbearable in the way that growing experiences - those blessings that suck - are.

My husband and I have been exiles from church before. Church is one of those things that can't stay good, apparently. I have also been the one not singing many times, but always before I had to admit that the person who was singing was doing a great job (better than I could, the oft-ignored voice of truth whispered). This time the voice of the person who sings instead of me is not always pleasing to the ear, and the sweet aroma of worship has a not-so-faint stink of human pride. So we have had one foot out the door for quite some time, but there is no where to go. I kept wondering if we should stick around for more blessings of the painful and sucky kind. If I'm being tested or punished, let's get on with it.

Then last week I got an email and made a phone call and set up a meeting and by the end of the week I was hired to sing at a different church, a big church with a worship pastor who thinks he's lucky to have me. I had no idea that this could happen, let alone that it might happen to me.

Years ago I got myself into an unhealthy relationship which made me feel worthless and unattractive, even though feeling worthless was what got me into the bad relationship in the first place. In this relationship I managed to dishonor myself and the man involved without having sex, which just shows you how good I am at dishonoring myself, and when it was time to get out of that relationship I figured God would let me suffer a long time before I would get to feel okay again.

Instead, I went to a party and drank some vodka and there was suddenly a younger man who adored me and would loudly proclaim things like "I can't believe you're going out with me" and while it wasn't a magic cure for all of my woundedness, it was pretty freaking fabulous. It's just like God to send me a doughnut when I ought to be dieting, to let me go to the movies when I ought to be studying. To send me a hot guy instead of making me sit home alone and learn my lesson.

I guess part of my lesson was (is) how good God is.

So tomorrow I get to suit up and sing harmony with a couple of other singers on several worship songs that I like. We will be heard, in a vocals-forward mix designed to include the congregation, not impress them. I get to be respected for what I do, which makes me want to do it as well as I possibly can. I get to love on the singers I work with, who are humble and teachable and focused on the congregation's worship of God, not us. I get to do it for two services, not one, and oh my goodness I would do it all for free. But I don't have to.

My home church situation will continue to be tragic and sucky indefinitely, I'm afraid. I have racked my brain and cried out to God. To let me stop caring, or show me how this is my fault, or just: fix it. In the meantime I have mucho forgiving to do, and I'm not doing a good job of it yet.

Deus ex machina=God in the machine. Apparently the ancient Greek playwrights, when their characters got in a jam, could just throw one of their gods into the mix to sort it all out in fine dramatic fashion. This feels like that, except it's the one true God, and He didn't exactly fix it - he just got me the heck out of there. Where this will lead, I don't know, but I'm so grateful. My eyes are opened to God's lavish, overflowing grace and mercy.

We're singing "Beautiful Things" tomorrow, by the amazing Gungors:

"You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of dust
You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of us."

Exactly.

Forgiving

2011-08-09T07:59:00.001-05:00

I have a lot of forgiving to do. This is not because I have been hurt or sinned against more than usual, but because I have forgotten to forgive; I've forgotten that it needs to be an ongoing exercise for me. Emotional hygiene.

Forgiving. I know a lot about it. I can say wise things about it. I'm glad I have already learned that forgiving is for me, not for the other person. It frees me. It doesn't take the place of justice. It doesn't require an apology.

I need to get up off my a** and do it.

I know that God forgave me, and that shames me a little bit. Knowing that I am forgiven for all kinds of nightmarish things that I have said and done and thought should remind me how level the playing field is. But it doesn't. This is my selfishness and all that is so un-lovely about me.

But I'm noticing, now, that maybe I'm just stuck in a loop of blame and anger and fear and grief. The sin done to me is ongoing, and I'm experiencing it in the present tense, and so I continue to take up my sword and hope that I can ... what? Make it stop? Get revenge? Fight, and win, somehow? I don't think so.

Even if I looked to the east, and Gandalf the White came riding in and rescued me from the situation that grieves me today, I'd still be hurt, and I'd still miss the bite that was taken out of my heart. I'd still want revenge, or justice. I'd want something. That something is completion. To be made whole.

In stories, so often, the sides balance. The score is settled. The bad guy is vanquished, the good guy is vindicated, usually publicly, and ends up on the plus side again because he has gotten the girl, or the loot, or a bad-ass reputation.

My wholeness isn't like that. Or... it isn't going to be, when I get it. I sure don't have it today. But I want it.

I think I know how to start.

1. Timing. It's over. My situation might continue, but something else has ended. Maybe it's about walking away, and saying "You can't hurt me any more." It feels like surrender to me, because saying "it's over" means I no longer think I can fix anything. If it is a relationship I might stop caring. If it's a job, I might stop working. If it's a fight, I put down my weapons, knowing the other person might keep on pounding me for a while. I have noticed that that pounding can continue because it doesn't hurt anymore. The damage is done. How many times can someone say "you don't belong" "we are many and you are alone" "you're not good / talented / lovable"? I get it. You've said it, I believed it for a while, it's hurt all it's going to. It's over.

2. The Score. What did I lose? One of my earlier life lessons about forgiveness was when I realized that someone who had hurt me had not benefited. The worse a sin against me is, the more it either hurts the perpetrator, or comes out of his or her existing hurt. When I was in college I fell in love with chemistry because the equations always balanced. I think they do here as well. Did I really lose? Even if I lost time, or money, or peace of mind, or friends, I gained wisdom. I gained understanding of who my friends are. I experienced the healing hand of God. I learned what I can live without, and I noticed that what was taken from me turned to ashes in the hands of those who took it.

3. Justice. Justice takes time. The husband who allows himself to be stolen ends up being not such a catch after all, but it might be years before the woman he left understands she is better off. The schemers who try to destroy my reputation will undermine their own, in time. I hunger for quick justice and I long to be the one to administer it, but I have already tried and failed. God's justice is always better; it always satisfies and it always sanctifies. It just takes a while, and I have to get out of its way.

4. Perspective. Around my house we love the line from Star Wars when Princess Leia says to Han Solo "If money is all that you love, then what is what you will receive," and it's pretty clear that money is not what they are fighting for. That scene helps me clarify. What kind of treasure is my opponent trying to grab, and why should I agree on its value? Princess Leia helps me shrug and say "If an amoral woman half your age is all that you love, then that is what you will receive." "If empty admiration is all that you love, then that is what you will receive." It's the "Gift of the Magi," or the folk tale about the three wishes that went so wrong - the value of a thing depends on its context.

5. Compassion. Apparently when I turn off the faucet of compassion for my opponent, that means I don't get any for myself. I haven't figured out how to hate someone else without some of that dark stain getting on me. We are in this together, my enemy and I. And that's appropriate, don't you think? If he is so bad, how did I let him get to me? If I am so hurt, did I invite it somehow? I'm trying to turn that rusty old faucet back on, and it seems to work best when I point it his way first. He really can't help it, I think. My dear lost friend T. always said "It takes so much more energy to be harsh than it does to be cool" and he's got to be right. Nobody wakes up in the morning and says "Well, I could be humble and God-honoring today, but instead I think I'll be selfish and cruel." Obviously we DO have choices in the moment, and obviously we all (me more than you) make the mean / ugly / stupid choice - but it's because we don't know about the better choices. We forget them. We never tried them before. We were too scared to stop and think. It boils down to a "can't" instead of a "won't."

So. It's over; you didn't really take anything from me. I can't make it right but God can. I'm probably better off, and I'm pretty sure you couldn't help it anyway.

I'm noticing that I can switch "you" for "me" in these statements and it works just as well when I'm the one who needs forgiving, as I do, and have, and will. I want to say "I forgive you" but it's got to be ongoing, not past or future tense. Always forgiving.

Bubble

2011-05-26T09:37:00.003-05:00

Long ago, before I got all fancy and went to graduate school, I never missed open mic night. It was at a gay bar on Halsted Street in Chicago, a bar that has changed names several times. I learned more there than I can express. These open mics were (are) state of the art as far as I'm concerned. There were two in Chicago then, hosted by well-loved and talented pianists who hosted the evening with grace and humor, and enforced a surprisingly high level of courtesy and respect in the room. They are still going on today.

Open mic night was frequented by a lot of us in various stages of aspiration and success. The talent level was pretty high, partly because this is a piano open mike, and we had a lot of trained theater singers and actors. I loved singing and making it all about me and showing off my new songs, and all that. But I loved listening too. I learned so much, and I was surprised by who I learned from.

Jacob rarely missed a Tuesday open mic. I didn't get much in the way of personal conversation with him but I thought he might have had some kind of "developmental delay" or something. He was childlike. Jacob was not a good singer, and while there are many ways to sing badly, his bad singing was common; he did not hear pitches well, and so he sang off-key.

There seem to be two kinds of singers in the world. Those who are off-key and don't know it, and those who are basically fine. Guess who worries more about it? From a physiological point of view, this makes sense. Being able to hear and sing pitches is about memory. Some of us hear pitches and remember them forever, and some of us hear a pitch and can't remember it long enough for our vocal folds to make that pitch. Some in that latter category are probably not even distinguishing among the pitches when they hear them, in the same way that more musical people do.

The singer who is singing away with all his heart, not knowing that he sounds dreadful, is iconic. It's a person with a "kick me" sign on his back, it's the cheated-on but unsuspecting spouse, the emperor with no clothes. We love to watch that guy, because then we know we aren't that guy. We're in the know, and he isn't, and we add "make sure I'm on key" to our list of ways to make sure we never look foolish.

Jacob looked foolish, and this was long before "American Idol" or Youtube. We had to catch foolishness live back then, and it was more memorable. Jacob was serious about his singing and performing and you could tell he worked hard at it. I am always proud of us, the community, when I remember Jacob, because he was treated kindly in our open mic. People laughed at him and talked about him behind his back, but he had his two songs like everyone else and he sang them to a reasonably quiet and respectful room.

I knew I was supposed to pity Jacob, but I didn't. Jacob was a bad singer, but he didn't know it and he never will, because Jacob had a bubble. When people were less than complimentary, or got sloppy and let him see their giggles and their rolled eyes, he didn't see them. Obviously Jacob's affliction - he can't hear pitches well enough to know he doesn't sound good - is also his bubble. He literally cannot hear how bad he sounds. What was my excuse?

Oh heck yeah. When I was in my thirties, I had a bubble too. It wasn't as strong as Jacob's, and at the time I didn't think I had one. I just thought I was very good at singing, and that other people sometimes weren't as good, and that occasionally people were better. So I'm looking back ten years later, and putting myself on the inside of that bubble, and remembering what it felt like.

I was always concerned with who was "good" at singing. There were three categories back then. "Not as good as I am", "about as good as I am," and "better than I am." I gave myself a little more latitude to judge singers who were just plain different - men, usually - and I remember them more as individuals with different gifts. But looking back I cringe at how black and white I was in my judgments, and how self-focused.

There were people who I didn't think were great singers but they were puzzling. They weren't brassy and belty and loud, like I like to be. Many were women with voices that seemed softer, and I pitied them, that they apparently couldn't summon an ear-splitting high note when they needed one. One was a girl-next-door type, a pretty but genuine girl who didn't get highlights or wear tons of makeup and everybody thought she was "really sweet." I liked her, you couldn't not like her, but I didn't think she was a great singer because... well, she didn't sing like I sang.

Apparently that was what passed for discernment for me back then.

I ran into this young woman and she was harried and busy and she said she was singing at her 10th wedding, and some were people she hardly knew, and it was only June; there were many more to go. I was surprised. I sang at weddings now and then, but usually it was close friends who asked. I felt jealous immediately, because I felt jealous a lot back then. Jealousy is incredibly illuminating and useful, by the way, and that's another conversation. Anyway, I scratched my head. Why did so many more people, apparently, like her voice than mine? I was a professional, I gigged, I wrote songs, I was funny, I could belt a B, what was up with that?

I had a bubble, and I think on the inside it was mirrored, and all I saw was myself and how I sang, and that seemed like all there was in the world. Fortunately for me, God allowed me to see out of my bubble. I started to notice others like this woman whose beauty was not turned up to 11, but had a persistent warmth and glow that could not be ignored. Even by me.

Because I started seeing out of my bubble, I finally started thinking that I'd like to get better as a singer. No, that's really not true. After I abused it, my voice started to feel tense and sore, and I wanted to make it stronger because I couldn't live without singing and the accolades it brought.

Hmm. Turns out I can live without it. That, too, is another conversation.

I started trying to go to graduate school. I could hardly fit my bubble through the door, but when I did, the teachers lined up with big giant straight pins and popped it. Over and over.

It sucked. It hurt. It hurt too much, because I needed my bubble too much, because I needed being a "good singer" too much to make up for all the parts of me that I thought were bad. But the only reason they were able to pop my bubble is because I was willing to let them, and deep down I think I wanted out.

I see bubble, now, in others (and I'm not sure I'm completely rid of my own, either). It usually goes with not just bad singing, but bad behavior. What I mean by "bubble," in essence, is being unable or unwilling to hear anything negative about our abilities. Staying naive or untrained, because we know more than experts, and we think training might take away our identity.

Nobody takes your identity unless you give it to them, and we usually don't give it away, anyway. We sell it, like Esau sold his birthright, in a moment of greed or pride or some other hunger. I could be a work-in-progress, willing to learn - but I'm starving for validation. So I'm going to sell that version of myself and instead we'll decide that I'm a star, but no one understands me. I'm a raw, native talent, and I don't need training. I'm an American original, and the rules of music or vocal health don't apply to me.

It starts out as a good idea, doesn't it? We don't need negativity, we say. We're going to think positive and only allow "safe" people into our dream. I agree. Dreams and hopes and aspirations should be God-sized and kept in a safe place. But then there are people who don't think we're stars. People who don't do things our way, but are successful. Sometimes people offer criticism, and it's mean; sometimes people offer comments meant to help. It's hard to sort it out and sometimes it all hurts. So we start actively screening out all things negative, all things that don't support every choice 100%, and then we don't have any objective criteria to know how we're doing. Except ourselves.

We start being ruled by rank - who's better? who is worse? than me - then we've got bubble. Bubble is safe. Bubble lets the hurtful things bounce off. Well, the hurtful things done to us, anyway; bubble lets me hurt others while staying safe.

Ever since I knew Jacob, and especially during the hard hard years of graduate school, I wished I could just have a little bit of my bubble back. I wished for a magic shield that only let the helpful comments through. A smart shield that knew who was right and who was full of it.

I didn't get that, and obviously I needed to develop discernment on my own, and it's been hard. The horror and shame that I felt (feel) about those years is still fresh. I was Jacob, only worse. I was up on stage showing not my talented, polished self, but a loud, sad, angry woman who really needed to be better than you, and really needed you to know it. Cringecringecringe

I miss my bubble sometimes because I have no choice but to hear everything, from the well-phrased constructive comment to the assassin who insists that I don't have a "solo voice." But without the bubble I've had to grow like crazy. I've considered every comment and suggestion and cut. I can't help it. I don't want to be Jacob. I'm working on the weaknesses of my singing, or my character, when the comments are true, and I'm contemplating the weaknesses of my heart when the comments are false, and I am still trying to figure out the magic shield that will help me know the difference.

The thing about bubble is, it looks like protection from the outside, but like so many safe places, it turns into a prison.

Next: Spot the Bubble

Goose

2011-05-16T20:32:00.000-05:00

As a performing songwriter people would sometimes ask me advice about songwriting. Guess what was by far the question asked most often? "How can I make sure my songs aren't stolen?" I was always surprised by this and kind of saddened.

I always wanted to say "What makes you think your songs are worth stealing?" (But I didn't).

Are we good, and do we think we're good, and are we as good as we think we are, is another conversation I want to have. But for now, let's just say that the people asking me this weren't getting their songs heard by anyone. Maybe they were scared their stuff would be stolen, as if plagiarizers and song thieves haunt every jive-ass bar and cabaret, as if we, the artists, were flashing our gold chains in the wrong part of town.

Maybe they just missed the entire point.

Doing art, or music, or dance, or theatre-or-whatever isn't about possessing. That great American novel that we always hear is in someone's drawer isn't there because of rejection letters and the cruel realities of this world. No, it's there because somebody didn't have the nerve to take it out of the drawer and share it.

Share. It.

Art and writing and music are the cake, and we don't get to have it, and we don't eat it either. We serve it and we watch you, the audience, savor it. And we don't cry, like in that weird Jimmy Webb song, that "I'll never have that recipe again," because, guess what? We WROTE the recipe. We can make that cake, or another cake, or a pot roast, if that's what inspires us.

I believe that inspiration comes from God, and a God who made 40,000 different species of fish is not a God of abundance. He is a God of a ridiculous overkill of abundance that threatens to drown us all in its splendor and plenty. If I write a great song - and by the way what is that? A song that will make me rich? A song that will make you cry? A song that will finally make you understand what it sounds like when doves cry? You tell me. If I write a great song by any measure, and someone is able to get their paws on it and perform it and get it played on the radio or sung by someone fabulous... even if someone takes my song and says that he wrote it... is that supposed to be the great tragedy of a writer's life? Because I don't get that.

If somebody gets my song played on the radio, I gotta say Wow! Thanks. You got my song farther than I could. And, should that happen, I still know that I wrote that song, and I can write another one. The thief can only steal what someone else made, and how sad is that?

When we write or create we channel something of God by creating something that never was, and we do that because God created US. He created us to create, and he's not messing around. We're not designed to squeak out one or two and then quit and take up woodworking.

In the fairy tale, there is a goose that lays eggs of solid gold and the foolish thieves steal the golden egg. They want more, and they don't want to wait for it, so they cut the goose open because that is where the golden eggs come from. When we were little kids hearing the story we knew that was a bad move. If you steal my song it's still a bad move, because I'll just write another song. I'm the goose who lays the golden eggs.

So is anyone who creates. There is no room inside me for all that gold, all those eggs that are yet to be. Who can explain it? There is only time and the mystery of God's abundance.

And lots of golden eggs, for anyone who is willing to wait.

It goes farther than that. It's not just about stealing songs. There are also foolish thieves who try to steal your soul. They crinkle potato chip wrappers during your 16 bar audition and they write cutting comments in the margins of your term paper and they go out of their way to tear down your abilities when they could just say "Thanks." It hurts, so much, but make no mistake: they are foolish thieves and they walk away empty handed. They are usually the same people who cannot give - support or compliments or accolades - because they are so empty themselves.

They are throwing away gold with both hands, because being able to love on someone else's work ALWAYS throws a little love back on me. Have you ever noticed that when you're feeling wonderful, you spread it around? I find myself stopping strangers in the supermarket to say "I just love that purse!" or marveling at the beauty of an old woman's face or suddenly noticing how someone's really pedestrian effort at doing something - anything - has honor and value.

They're foolish because tearing down your ability does not build theirs up one bit, and they won't know that until they have many years and a high body count to look back on and regret. I know that feeling, oh trust me.

I am pecked and bitten and wounded by foolish thieves, these days, but they don't get anything from me in the end. I will heal, and I will sing and write and continue to rely on God's mysterious abundance and the golden eggs He gives. I am not better because I create, and I don't make someone else worse who does not. A foolish thief can tell everyone who will listen what is wrong with my voice or my songs or my heart and soul, and it doesn't really matter in the end.

My gifts can't be stolen. I'm the goose. And so are you.

From the valley

2011-03-25T10:34:00.000-05:00

I am in a tough spot these days because you don't always get to pick who you make music with. It's made me think about how much I value the artists and musicians who are mature, and how soul-killing it is to work with the ones who aren't. Of course, the behaviors I complain about are familiar to me because I may have invented them. There isn't a single dumb, vain, mean, angry, sloppy, arrogant, or un-loving thing in the artists' hall of shame that I have not done. I look back on whole decades of my life as a performer and cringe. But, cringe is good, right? It means I have perspective.

In my symphony choir thing that I do, there is a woman behind me who is so busy commenting on others' mistakes I don't know how she has time to sing at all. If there is a bad note she chuckles. If the conductor makes a mistake she either yells out the correct answer or mutters it under her breath. At one point we were working on a song where the conductor really needed us to watch because he was shaping every measure, and a lot of folks weren't watching, and he stopped in disgust because of it. The woman behind me wasn't watching; she didn't know we had stopped and she didn't know why. She said, loudly, "what happened?" I so wanted to turn around and say "You. You happened." But that doesn't help.

It is so easy to love the person with limited gifts who struggles and blushes and feels miserable when she feels she's failed, and lights up everyone around her with honesty and effort. Doesn't your heart just go out to someone like that? But the person who criticizes and limits and belittles anyone within range makes a tainted music, even with much greater ability.

The mythology about artists is that the good ones are arrogant and that we can't blame them for that. You know what? It's not true. This woman should keep in mind that we in front can hear her, and she's not nearly good enough to be judging everyone else. And the more I am privileged to meet and work with really talented, successful, fully realized artists, the more I notice how lovely they are.

They have to be. 1) Successful means people want to hire you, and if you're a jerk, people don't want to hire you. At some point, talent on one side of the scale isn't heavy enough to balance a big steaming pile of jerkiness, and the phone stops ringing. 2) Most people who are talented realize at some point that talent just happened to them, and they can't take credit for it. When they do take credit, see #1. Many people who are talented and lovely also know that talent is about joy. It's for joy. It's not for impressing people, or for getting rich, or for making up for all of our deep emotional deficiencies. When it is about those things, see #1.

Talent is a joyful thing to experience. To have the ball roll off your fingers and seek its target eagerly, to throw your body into the exclamation your heart is feeling, to savor the note in your mouth until everyone else can taste its sweetness - those are things that the body was made to do, and when we finally grow into our talent we try not to miss the joy of it. Talent is physical for the artist, before it is ever emotional for anyone. God made talent and he put it into our bodies, and he made it to feel good.

3) The artists who are successful both commercially and artistically have worked hard. This is a cliche but you'd be amazed. A lot of people don't work hard. There is another mythology that idolizes talent, as though it elevates us to a nobility or upper-class life. If you're talented you don't have to work hard, is what the myth says, and talent is some kind of "yes" that is tattooed on our foreheads. Yes, you get to sing, and you don't; you have a ticket for the grand adventure, and you don't. Obviously many who lack talent don't have a ticket, but those who do are not living a life of leisure. Talented people might not have to sweat the basics, but they have to work incredibly hard. Sometimes talent means you can't ever be satisfied. Talent can be an ear for the language of music, but that means we can't speak our hearts in that language until we are fluent, and we may never feel fluent enough.

And we may not ever be happy with any other language. So we work.

You also can't tell, when someone is so good at what they do, what was effortless and what took agonizing years to master. You just can't tell, but artists in love with their art will do anything to win it completely, and they never forget how heartbreaking it was to suck at the thing we wanted more than anything.

4) The best artists value people. They see the art in everything. They value the ticket taker for his patience and humility. They understand how hard it is to be a stage manager, and they see that busy little woman all in black as a person who has talents that we singers may never even grasp. They are good listeners, not just to music, but to people, because they can't get joy from their talent unless everyone else does. Art is a shared thing, a moment we all breathe in together; some kinds of art have a time delay between the making and the receiving, but music is a union of performer and hearer that is intimate when it's right. And it's not right if we don't listen.

5) Mature artists see and respect the accomplishments of others. Beware the musician who pooh-poohs every successful musician you mention. "He's a hack." "They're so dated now." "You should see how much they have to tweak her voice in the studio." In the ongoing conversation between musicians and their audience, most of the successful ones are doing something right. They're saying something that touches hearts, or they have a vocal quality or a physical presence that can't be denied. I might think Britney Spears is tacky, but she's an amazing performer. I might not enjoy opera but I can't be anything but awed by the virtuosity and athleticism of that kind of singing. It reminds me of Solomon and the two women who claimed the same baby - the woman who couldn't bear to see the baby hurt, whether it was her child or not, is the woman I relate to. Music is my love, and if someone is creating it, I can see something good in it. Criticizing so quickly is like demeaning music itself, and it makes you wonder too ... is it so bad that someone else is more successful than we?

6) I think mature artists understand abundance. Because we have a connection to God, and there is always enough in God's economy. That may mean that we don't end up on TV, or on a yacht in the Mediterranean, because the wealth takes a different form. But if I trust in God's abundance, and that He gave me talent for a reason, then I might be able to keep my eyes open for where I am supposed to end up, and I might be able to maintain hope that there will be enough of whatever it is. Criticizing other artists makes us like hyenas fighting over a scrap of meat, and sometimes we end up taking from someone else just because we can. The habit of feeling cheated just roots in our hearts and we end up taking - turning our mikes up too loud, maligning other musicians behind their backs, taking credit for something we did not write or make, using power when we have it, as though we could store up for the lean times.

I have mentioned before that I had a mentor who refused to let me criticize other singers and always reminded me that there is room for everyone - because if there is room for everyone, there is room for me.

There actually is not room for me now, in the unpleasant environment I'm in, with musicians who have not traveled enough of the road. All I can do is remember the times when I was just like them, and wonder who I hurt as much as they now try to hurt me. It all comes back around, the hurts and the eventual wisdom. And soon, I hope, the forgiveness.

2011-02-28T07:02:00.002-06:00

Lost and Found

2011-02-21T13:10:00.000-06:00

Well, we got nice video of me, but we didn't take a single photo of anyone else. Oh well. I guess I thought it was all about me. You'll have to take my word for it - we had a nice crowd, they had a great time, there was a cake. It was fun.

Tickets Now On Sale

2011-02-02T07:22:00.003-06:00

You can pick your seats. :)

Click here to buy tickets. Below is a diagram of the seating arrangement.

My Tennessee Debut

2011-01-01T15:09:00.000-06:00

Saturday, February 19th at 7:30 p.m. Me, and the divine yet funky Wendel Werner on piano. I have six or seven new songs, I have a swanky off-the-shoulder top, I have publicity photos and postcards. A few minor details like rehearsals and we're ready. This show is not just the debut of my songs (and my new top); it's also the debut of the house concert, at least here on South Heritage Drive. Will we sell out? Will the cops shut us down? Will it be as fun and intimate and comfortable as I think? We'll see. Click on "Gigs" and "House Concerts" for more information. Tickets go on sale February 1st.

This show is a benefit for Heaven Sent Home, and I will post more information about the shelter soon.

What do you do with it?

2010-08-21T09:03:00.004-05:00

I have a friend who loves studying the Bible, but doesn't want to join a bible study or a Sunday school class because he's used to studying "at a certain level" and doesn't want to find himself with a bunch of people who are just discovering what he learned years ago. I get that. It's boring. And I used to work with a drummer who was phenomenal. Quick, great instincts, someone who heard the whole ensemble and the room, and fit himself in accordingly. Someone who I could put a chart in front of, and he'd feel his way through a brand new song like he could read my mind.

But he was irritable. Snappish. He drank too much. After a few rehearsals, I knew why. He was bored. Why did we have to go over it? He had it, and he resented those of us who did not have it on take 1.5.

I get that. My musical execution is far from perfect, but the "getting it" part comes easily for me. When I was in high school I had my first experiences of sitting there in some rehearsal or other, waiting for others to catch up.

This is hard to talk about. It sounds braggy. But it's important.

My drummer friend lit up when we had a good bass player, when the other singers weren't there. He loved it when we could just fly through songs and not have to stop. He talked a bit about how hard it was to find people to play with. I got that, but it also got me thinking.

When you have to sit in rehearsal after rehearsal, waiting for other people to catch up, it feels like a waste of time, and in some ways it is. If we could only work with the fast people, we'd be done and out of there in a half hour. But that hardly ever happens, so there we are, with time on our hands.

What do we do with it?

One of the first things that helped change my mind about this wasted time was that those people, who needed extra time to catch up, became my friends. And I finally opened my selfish heart to notice that finding the pitch, reading the chart, feeling the rhythm were not the only things that matter. Some of these people sing with a glorious tone I will never match. Some are patient and kind with themselves, as well as with the rest of us. Some are so happy to be there, and work so hard, and would not dream of being arrogant or impatient. Who was I to say that musicianship is everything? It isn't.

Another thing that helped me change was the long stretches where I had no one to work with. That sucks, since my main instrument is not voice but voices. I dubbed track upon track in the studio and it wasn't the same. I realized that those people like Lenny Kravitz, who play every track on some songs, may be hypertalented - but they probably have no friends. Or ... maybe no one will work with them.

At some point I looked around and figured that while I was sitting there with nothing to do, maybe I could help. Not by being a know-it-all - I do that so much, I should know how little it helps - but by listening. Being patient. Singing my part patiently, over and over, so that someone else can hear it. Lending my pencil, without giving attitude that someone else doesn't have theirs. And gently, when the opportunity is there, teaching.

I never thought I would teach. I didn't see how it could match the buzz of performing. But I still sat in rehearsals, and eventually it just happened sometimes that I could help, and helping turned into teaching. Once I stopped thinking about myself and my boredom for two seconds, I realized how the person next to me, who could not find the pitch after five tries, felt.

Because that's how I felt when I couldn't stay on a diet for even one day. When it took so long for me to finish running the mile, the trainers just about went home. When I couldn't get pregnant for five years, even with all the help in the world.

Oh. That's what that feels like. Duh. If I can help with that feeling, that's a whole different kind of buzz.

So now when I go to a rehearsal I get to sing, some, and if I'm lucky, I get to help. Some. At the end we maybe sound good, and maybe we don't. But I know for sure where the time went, and what it was for.

Creep

2010-01-21T18:02:00.007-06:00

I'm writing again. That's the short version; that is the happy ending.
I have these droughts, blocks of time where I don't write songs. Usually goes along with feeling bad about myself, life change, or some kind of adjustment where my songwriting needs to change. They're droughts, because my songwriting garden could bloom if I watered it, and for different reasons, sometimes I don't. Moving to a different state and having a baby was an awful lot of distraction, and crawling out from the life change and the postpartum whatever took a while too.

I write best when I'm in a cycle of writing / performing, and if I'm trying to write with no hope of when people will hear a song, eh, that doesn't work so well. So, in the interest of getting myself cranked up again, I went online in search of a guitar player. Since my last guitar player / collaborator / all around Very Useful Music Guy is just about impossible to replace, I went online with much skepticism. I'm leery of guitar players anyway, because they are often very self-taught and (in my opinion) often undertrained. Add that to the smidge of misogynism so many have, and you end up with a whole lot of guitar players who I cannot use.

I got a response to my inquiry, and it was kind of in my face. The guy came on strong with his brags, and he started selling himself as a songwriter and before I knew it he had offered to sit down and give me "Music Biz 101" and I was like, ick. Then he started critiquing my songs, my band, my writing, and trying to tear me down and build himself up. Before I could shut the whole thing down, he had really gotten to me.

And that is the really sad thing. As artists, musicians, writers, whatever, we get torn down. Sometimes a lot, sometimes a little. I learned to separate the helpful ("you really like that major III, I can kinda see it coming...") or the pedagogic ("this digression into the blah blah mode isn't as successful as the rest of the piece..."). And bless the lovely people know the difference between quality - "that guy's songs suck!" - and preference - "that guy's songs are just... not my cup of tea."

But if you have made art, or music, or whatever, for long enough, you will have encountered the other comments. Not helpful, but hateful. Literally, "hate full." And you know who really dishes out the hate? Other artists. Do they not know how and when to put the knife in?

At first this internet creep really got to me, and mostly because there was no way to argue with him. I tried to just say, hey, let's live and let live, no need to be insulting, but he fired back by insisting he wasn't insulting - "just honest!" And this wasn't "honesty." He just was dying to ?? tear me down. Weird. Creepy. Looking back after a week, I saw a vein of desperation in this guy... once he figured out I wasn't going to fall for his scam he got a little desperate, and a lot angry, and I am totally serious when I say maybe scamming chick singers out of a few hundred bucks isn't his angle. Maybe it's a little more in the serial killer realm? Because there was some scary energy going on.

But anyway. The really sad thing about artists hating on other artists, or wannabe / frustrated artists hating on successful ones, is how common it is. I have done it, I am sad to say. At the beginning of my career I liked to be catty and critical, and a mentor I had at the time stopped me and said "Don't ever forget; there is room for everyone."

Of course he was right. And if there isn't room for everyone, then there might not be room for me. Which is, of course, where the cattiness, and the cutting-ness, and the hate are coming from. Fear that someone else is doing It better, or sooner, or louder, than I am.

Thank God for Julia Cameron, and "The Artists' Way," because she explains the haters (she calls them monsters) and she explains the drying-up of one's soul that too many monster encounters can cause. And she explains the wannabe, "shadow artist," who pretends to help or admire, but really just wants to siphon off a little bit of our light.

Never knowing that there is, in the end, always enough light for everyone.

New song, new video, coming the first week of February.

For Unto Us

2009-12-01T08:18:00.000-06:00

I have always loved Christmas. Why not? It celebrates some of my favorite things: food, family, magic, snow, presents, winter, singing. Even when I was a kid, and I only understood the Christ part of Christmas on a basic level, I loved it. I think the Christ part of Christmas is something that everyone can enjoy, even if they don’t want to sign up for the whole Jesus-saves ball of wax. I remember seeing the Charlie Brown Christmas show and getting chills when Linus would say in his lispy little voice “Behold, I bring you tidings of great joy which will be for all the people.” The idea that a little baby being born can change everything, and that the tidings of great joy were for ALL the people.

For this reason, infertility was extra sucky and painful at Christmas. About two years before I got pregnant, a couple featuring a very pregnant woman got up to speak at church about how they felt about waiting for their child in the context of Advent, the season of waiting for the birth of Christ. It was one of my many painful moments, as I wondered how long my own Advent would go on.

Even as I bought it completely, I always worried about this idea that a little baby can change everything. There is nothing like the dream delayed to make you doubt the dream. Was I expecting way too much of a little baby, that if he ever got here he would “make us a family?” Family is where we find love and support, regardless of kids or biology or gender. If we couldn’t be a family without kids then we couldn’t expect kids to make us one. But still I hoped/knew there would be something on the other side and I hoped that we would be changed.

I have always loved Christmas because it’s about transformation. That one minute there is pregnant Mary, an ordinary young girl, and the next minute the sky is full of angels. A little baby inspires the thundering Handel chorus: Wonderful! Counselor! The Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace. As I have stumbled through my life with so much brokenness and baggage, I have always chased after transformation, and sometimes found it. Don’t tell me that people don’t change. I know that I have.

Now that our precious baby is here, I can say that my Christmas dream is fulfilled. My husband and I have bloomed during our son’s first year. Much has been demanded of us physically and emotionally, but we’ve always had enough and have been able to give of ourselves joyfully most of the time. We both were so scared of how hard it would be, and we both feel that it hasn’t been nearly as hard as we feared. I have felt my heart, like the Grinch’s, grow at least two sizes bigger, and seen my husband’s grow as well.

It’s true that it’s unfair to expect a little helpless baby to make us a family. But ours has. Unlike the Christ child, Daniel is not our savior; but so much has been given to us through him. The absolute needs of a newborn are so raw yet so easy to meet. We are buried completely in the needing and the holding and feeding and I find it joyful and satisfying. When I can pick him up and feel his body relax with that little contented sigh, I feel some remembered comfort from my own babyhood and I feel more grown up than I ever have. Being able to take care of another human has taught me to take better care of myself. I have cried so many times at the sight of his sweet face, so perfect and vulnerable as he sleeps. We laugh a million times a day at his babbles and stumbles and tricks. He has shown us how incredibly fortunate we were before he came, and how our time of waiting strengthened our marriage and our resolve. He shows me every day how fearfully and wonderfully we humans are made, as he crawls and touches and grows into each new phase.

This was the perfect year for me to sing “Messiah” with our local symphony choir and it was my first time singing those choruses that I have loved for so long. I learned that some of them are built on dance rhythms of the time and I learned to recognize the musical contrasts between the majesty of God and the humble celebration of the people as we receive this hope of transformation. I choke up a bit when we get to “Hallelujah,” but what really gets me is “Unto Us a Child is Born.” Unto us. A son is given. He is a gift to us, not deserved, not earned, just: given. And so much more than we ever dared to hope.

The Mother Hood

2009-07-01T07:02:00.009-05:00

I have heard a lot about how parenthood is a creativity-killer. It can be, since it sucks the time out of life in surprising ways. How can I have no time when I don't seem to do anything?

Here's where all the well meaning people chime in with "parenting blah blah blah most important job in the world blah blah blah." And yes I get that. I'm not asking for reassurance that what I'm doing matters, I know it does. It's just taking a while to know where all the time went. I'm not constantly changing diapers or feeding, it's just from time to time, and our baby is easy and contented. Mostly. And I have a fantastic husband who truly does HALF, at least in the summers.

It probably has to do with not being able to finish anything that I start, or not remembering what I intended to start, or not remembering where I left off when I did start but did not finish any given task.

Nevertheless... new songs are in my head but only vaguely. This also has to do with not wanting to write about old things (like infertility) so much anymore, and not knowing what the new things will be.

People I know have always chimed in with comments about how I ought to write about something - "I bet there's a GREAT song in there," or "you should write about that." Which annoys me, because I don't just decide to write about life events. I often wish like crazy that I could, but wanting doesn't make it happen. Ideas that are songs come when they come. I can try to make myself available for ideas but that's a whole process unto itself.

Speaking of chiming in, a surprising (to me) number of people said the same thing to me about how my next set of songs will be kids' songs or lullabyes or something. Ewwww? Obviously those songs are great and wonderful but something about that line of conversation was icky to me. As if that's some kind of natural progression for a songwriter (or maybe just for a female songwriter). As if we can all say, oh thank heavens that whole having-a-career thing is done, now I can completely focus every molecule on my children.

I would much prefer to keep music as part of my non-kid life... which I don't exactly have much of a non-kid life, just yet... and I need one.

But despite my resistance... maybe it's the sleep deprivation, repetitive tasks, and some hormonal euphoria. Whatever the reason, I now have a lot of jingly jangly rhymes in my head having to do with our current lifestyle, so now we're all singing such new classics as "Don't Put Your Foot in the Poop," "My Hand is Delicious," "I'm a Big Ole Baldy Baby," and my special favorite: "Let's Go See the Formula Cow." But oh, trust me; what happens in the nursery stays there.

Somebody's Mom (revisited)

2009-05-01T12:51:00.000-05:00

Somewhere in my postpartum haze I found time to post this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJH36vKjMAw

enjoy.

What I've been doing

2009-03-14T08:40:00.002-05:00

Daniel Stanton Ashley born 2/5/09.

New Video

2008-08-12T10:18:00.003-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNxW_87qg4g

It's pretty raw / live, from my June gig.

Todd and I are working on finishing this recording. I'll post more songs from this gig soon.

Gigs

2008-05-13T10:49:00.004-05:00

We, that is me and the band, are in rehearsal for our June gigs at Davenport's. Despite the fact that I'm playing with the band, this is a cabaret show. If you have never been to a cabaret, it's a very civilized experience: the show is an hour and 10 minutes (counting the long, enthusiastic ovations and encores), in an intimate room where people actually listen. The shows start at 7, which means you'll be home in bed by 9, unless you stay out and drink with me.

The band: the band the band! is fabulous. I'm reunited with three of my favorite singers, who by some quirk of temporary insanity have agreed to back me when all can and should be doing their own shows someplace. I am bribing them and kissing up like crazy. The core of the band is my writing partner Todd Seely, who is good at everything I'm not, and that is a long list. Recording, acoustical engineering, all things guitar are Toad's particular gifts. On the drums we have Dr. Paul Harris, because every band needs at least one mental health professional; my favorite drummer. For these shows we have guest bassist Brandon Mitchell, who will be playing upright and electric... though not at the same time.

This show is almost all new songs with a few old favorites and maybe a cover thrown in. The show is called "Happy Middle" because, while I am far from some of the happy endings I was hoping for, the middle can be a crazy horrible wonderful kind of happy too. The sound is edgier than my earlier piano shows, but you don't need to bring your earplugs. This is rock and roll for the rest of us, sad happy funny real life music.

A better woman than I, or perhaps a woman with more money, would have the new songs all recorded and ready to download by gig time. We have a few demos and lots of big ideas rolling around in our big heads, but the final versions of six new songs will probably be sneaking onto my "buy music" page for the rest of the summer. You'll just have to come hear them live first.

June 15th and 22nd 7 p.m., at Davenport's, Chicago. Reservations recommended 773 278-1830.

Somebody's Mom Video

2008-03-28T16:19:00.005-05:00

Click here to see it on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZIStQTK1N_U

There is no need to click over to the Infertility Film Festival to vote for it - unofficially I've already won. But if you like it, leave a comment someplace (here or at YouTube).

Video

2008-03-06T08:32:00.006-06:00

I'm having so much fun making this video! The wrap party is planned and now I just have to finish it and hope my computer doesn't catch on fire. Video takes a lot of memory and RAM and all that.

This song is about feeling excluded from the world of women because of infertility. It's also about how the pain of it can be private but the weight gain is really obvious. It makes me look like "somebody's mom," but I'm not. The theme of the film festival is about realizing and telling, and for me this song is about the frustrations of looking like one thing but not being able to be it. The making of the video has caused a lot of disclosure. In order to ask for help with this video I've told many friends about our struggle. For some reason, the weight gain has always been "the elephant in the room" and talking about it openly is a big part of disclosure for me. Maybe I just want people to know that the weight came on because of treatments and drugs (I have done many IVFs), not Twinkies.

Anyway, the video will be here or on Youtube or something the weekend of March 29, and the song will be downloadable by then too. Another infertility song, with a different mood, is going to be done shortly after that. Maybe another video....

Video

2008-03-05T10:03:00.006-06:00

I'm working on a video for my new song "Somebody's Mom," and trying to get some songs recorded. The video will be a part of the International Infertility Film Festival, so be sure and check it out after March 29th.

I've Got a Good Feeling

2008-01-11T11:22:00.000-06:00

This time... and that's the first "new" song I've put on my new "music" page. More new songs coming in a few weeks.