The Green Wave

I love routines and traditions. Thursday mornings find me on the mat practicing yoga, followed by a delicious Indian lunch with my yoga friends. Sunday mornings my true love and I head out to Panera for a bagel and some quality time with our laptops. For awhile now, I’ve been scheduling things to protect the peaceful, green oasis of these times because they nourish me so much. I also love the round of the seasons, each with its own distinctive pleasures and traditions. I won’t eat corn out of season, but when corn season comes, I feast!

But I recognize the value of shaking things up, sampling new delights and even the not-so-delightful. From time to time I need and benefit from a change of air, a change of scene, an oil-change. And I like to stay in creative tension between my traditions and anchors on the one hand, and new influences, directions, and possibilities on the other. In that spirit, here’s a reflection on some new stuff in my own life:

Salem’s Lot! ~ Not in a million years would I have predicted that I’d be riding in my car, entranced and a bit nervous, listening to an audiobook of Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot. But I am and I have this to report: I’m a fan! A few weeks ago I listened to Stephen’s excellent book, On Writing, and I learned so much and enjoyed it so much that I thought I’d give his fiction a try. Well, as they used to say – I’ll be blowed! His portrayal of small-town Maine rings true, his characters speak in familiar accents and with familiar words (I hear my brother speaking sometimes!), and he’s not afraid to really think about some big ideas even as he keeps you entertained and on edge.

Fluttr Effect ~ My dear friend John and I went to the Squawk coffeehouse in Harvard Square on Thursday night after my storytelling gig with the brilliant and funny Diane Edgecomb at the Robbins Library. A whole new world! Talk about fresh and different and yes, refreshing. But best of all, I got to hear Fluttr Effect and can honestly say that I sat shivering at the beauty, the daring, the freedom and skill of their music. I’ve never heard anything just like that before. Valerie Thompson, who played cello for both my solo CDs, plays cello and sings, and she’s teamed up with Vessela Stoyanova, who contributes midi marimba (which also blew my mind. Zow!). They are melodic and intuitive and counter-intuitive and atmospheric, and just all around smart. I was swept up and reminded how big music is. Exhilirating!

A Haircut and Orange ~ I put myself in the hands of a young, dancing stylist at a chain discount-salon and ended up with a bit of a mess. So I took it to a slightly less effusive and slightly older stylist at another chain discount-salon and ended up with the shortest hair I’ve had in a long time. Hmmmm… Not sure what I think. But hair, blessed hair, is like a starfish arm. Tomorrow’s another day, Scarlet. In the meantime, I’m groovin’ on my orange scarf – a color which never spoke to me until recently. Now I feel I’ve put myself in tune with autumn by wearing it.

A Big Harp ~ I’ll say more about this some other day, but right now I’ll just say this: It is thrilling to try out the big harps of 32, 34, and 36 strings. Your relationship to them is quite different than it is to the dear small ones like my 22 string beauty (which can be played in bed, so light and easily lifted is it). These big ones lie against the breastbone, and when you pluck a note two octaves below middle C, you feel it in your clavicle, ribs, and cheekbones. I traveled up to Salem to try a few of these out at the Harp Connection, and fell in love.

Why does this matter for musicians or for anyone engaged in creative work? Because we’re omnivores who translate, transform, and transmit everything we encounter into music, poems, art, essays, dances, paintings, sermons, even conversation… And so keeping it fresh means sampling from a varied menu – the oatmeal for breakfast and the fried grasshoppers at lunch (yes, we really did try these; no, I’m not rushing to get them again. But you know, they weren’t bad!). And that in turn means fresh art to share and love!

If you’re trying anything fresh, exciting, different, or surprising, drop me a line. And as always, dear readers, thanks for visiting me here at The Green Wave!

Music is the thread that runs through the days, the electric current of pleasure that carries me from moment to moment and place to place. Even when I’m up to my neck in essays or conferences or stacks of Irish homework, music is a constant companion, a loyal friend. If you feel like this too, chances are you have several irons in the fire at the same time. Here’s a little album of snapshots from my present musical life:

Reels! I’ve been working on two in particular lately, playing them over and over as I feel my way through their mazes. I’m double-siding student essays and grab the flute to play. I run in before supper and blow through them a couple times. I turn on the piano’s metronome and play them slowly and then crank it way up and play them (with many mistakes!) as fast as I can. So many things you can say with a reel! So many ways you can lean in or away from the line, so many choices about breath and intention. I’m hypnotized willingly by these reels. I think about them often.

Will There Ever Be Peace? Yesterday, Ellen Schmidt – brilliant singer, song-writer, bass-player, great-hearted woman/powerhouse/friend/mentor – hosted a bunch of singers at her house to help her record her new song, “Will There Ever Be Peace?” The atmosphere was convivial and merry as we sat out in Ellen’s breezeway, sipping cider and telling stories. One by one, each of us went downstairs to greet Seth Connelly the recording engineer (a fantastic musician,performer, and engineer) to sing the song’s title in another language: Mandarin, Farsi, German, Spanish, Tibetan… I was delighted to sing the Irish line, “An mbeidh siochan ann choiche?” and also, as it happened, the Arabic line: “Rah yassir sallaam?” Later, after all the individual lines were recorded, Seth invited us to come down as a group and sing harmonies on the chorus. It was a great experience and I feel I learned so much – about collaboration, about harmony, about relaxing even when you’re nervous, about the strength of our musical community, and about how what we do individually as artists can be useful and pertinent to the whole world. I am inspired.

Learning New Songs. The long ride to school is a perfect opportunity to drill new lyrics. Listen, sing along, turn off the CD, sing, forget something, listen, sing along, turn off the CD, sing… “He Rolled her to the Wall” (Frank Harte’s singing), “My Lagan Love,” and “The Tide Full in,” (Niamh Parson’s singing), “The Barring of the Door,” (Silly Sisters’ singing), “Seachran Charn tSiail,” (Dominic Mac Giolla Bride’s singing), “Thunder Road,” (Bruce Springsteen’s singing/song). Loads of others, too.

Making New Songs. Lots of verses, lines, and stray notions, but no whole new song for a few weeks now. Working on a love song, a song about honey, a song about flying into the night sky, one about imperfect love – and about a dozen more at various stages. My true love has taken to cawing softly on occasion to remind me to finish the song about ravens in the Tower of London. (Someday I’ll write a post about why songs get held up – but right now it’s still a mystery to me).

Thinking about Halloween Music and Hag Music. Two gigs coming up in the next weeks with room for music – a program of seasonal songs and stories with Diane Edgecomb, and a program all about my seanchara (old friend) the hag for the Lexington chapter of NOW. I find myself singing lines and verses, weighing the options.

Dance Music for Harp! Something has changed in my hands, and these days I’m able to tackle some hornpipes and jigs and reels on the harp. It’s a lot like playing those reels on the Irish flute. Mesmerizing. Time slides away. I am elsewhere, playing and re-playing, entirely absorbed and happy.

That’s a wonderful place to be, no matter what sort of music you’re playing, poems you’re writing, dances you’re dancing, essays you’re writing: happy and absorbed. Deeply content. I wish that for you, too, Dear Reader. Drop me a line to share a snapshot of your own life if the spirit moves you.

This past week, my friend Trina told me that her daughter Sophie (whom I adore) had graduated to a full-size cello. I wasn’t sure at the time why I felt so stirred by the news, but on reflection I see that it signals in my mind a change to grown-up music. It reminds me of Reverend Beebe in “A Room with a View” who on listening to the otherwise repressed Lucy Honeychurch playing a Beethoven piece on the piano, remarked that if she ever undertook to live as passionately as she played, the results would be impressive indeed.

This little poem is inspired by Sophie’s graduation into a full-size instrument and a full-size life. The two are, I think, intricately entwined.

In Her Hands

 

The three-quarter cello,

breast-height and smiled-upon,

a maker of child-music

in clumsy quavers and slurs

in pieces adapted for lesser hands

 

its player tolerated and indulged

with promises of a big-girl bed

a bike with no training-wheels

of a someday-life in full-size

 

This week my Sophie

pushed up over the top

of the three-quarter instrument

and blossomed into the full

 

the devastating

the sonorous

the exquisite

the plaintive

the dangerous

 

cello

 

Her life is in her hands now

 

 

 

Kate Chadbourne

14 October 2007

My true love read today’s post and we spent a half hour or so discussing it. He objects to the idea that comparison is necessarily a pernicious influence. What we do with comparison – how we feel, act, and think about it – is the real issue, he believes. We shouldn’t avoid the truth and pretend there are no differences in quality or kind; that’s a lie. And after our discussion, I think he’s right. With that in mind, it strikes me as important to distinguish between helpful comparisons and unhelpful comparisons. This is complicated because the comparison itself is mixed up with our thoughts about it. Nevertheless, here’s a first attempt at reading the differences:

A helpful comparison inspires you to do your own work, hone your skills, practice, learn something new, or make fun changes.
An unhelpful comparison leaves you dispirited or discouraged.

A helpful comparison compares apples and apples.
An unhelpful comparison compares people, skills, or things in different categories.

A helpful comparison shows you where you can go next.
An unhelpful comparison leaves you dissatisfied with where you are.

A helpful comparison inspires action.
An unhelpful comparison leaves you stuck.

A helpful comparison makes you proud and happy.
An unhelpful comparison makes you smug or sneer-y.

A helpful comparison puts the focus on the work or the process.
An unhelpful comparison puts the focus on personality or potential.

The kicker is, any of these unhelpful comparisons can be turned into a helpful one with a change of perspective. If you are just picking up the flute and you compare yourself to James Galway, you will certainly conclude that he plays better than you do. At that point, you can either be inspired by his music or discouraged by how far you have to go. It’s your choice.

At this stage in my life, I want to choose whenever possible what is fun, uplifting, challenging, intriguing, pleasurable, joyful. I’d rather be inspired by other people than threatened by them. And I’d rather be inspiring myself than threatening. Choosing good things, rather than avoiding painful things, is where the real power lies. So in that sense, I am choosing the open sea rather than avoiding the shoals. And when the weather is right, I just may visit the shoals to spend an afternoon lying in the sun on the rocks, thinking of my next destination.

These days I’m surrounded by beautiful voices: angelic voices, passionate voices, crystal-clear voices, honest voices, sweetly deceptive voices, beguiling voices, impressive voices, trained and untrained voices, voices throaty and rich, rumbly and deep, high and airy, light but heart-piercing. There is so much to enjoy, so much to admire, so much to learn from. And in the midst of this sea of voices, I raise my own voice and sing. The vast majority of the time this multiplicity of beauties is cause for joy and I feel I am participating fully and equally in something powerful and vast.

But sometimes – very rarely – I fall out of alignment. I hear the beauty or accomplishment of one voice and think, “I am less.” Or I encounter someone else’s complete confidence in his or her voice and think, “I must be less.” Or I hear someone else praised extravagantly and think, “That’s true, and I am less.” (It’s funny in a way that despite the extravagant praise I have received through the years for my voice, I have never even once thought, “I am more.”).

Clearly, this is pernicious and wrong-headed thinking. Within it lies the temptation, however slight, to stop singing, to remove my flawed or imperfect voice from the sea of voices. It also contains a welter of misguided beliefs – that perfection is necessary for artistic expression, that some people qualify for the privilege of artistic expression and others just don’t, and that we all feel the same about what is and isn’t pleasing, desirable, or beautiful.

None of this is true, of course. But in a world that seems sometimes only to have room for One Female Country Singer, or One Male Folkie, or One Celtic Singer (and I should say that this opinion is usually held by people who know very little about the particular genre or field. For instance, while there are scores of wonderful Irish-language poets, the public consciousness seems unable to hold more than Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill in mind. And she is wonderful, truly, but there are so many others worth loving, too!), it is easy to understand how someone might fall prey to self-denigrating comparison. Just the other day, a friend told me that when a singer she knows sang an Irish song very beautifully, the listener said to her, “Well, Kate Chadbourne now has a rival!” Ow. Instantly, the pleasure of singing is overshadowed with the idea of rivalry, fear of loss, and even a touch of shame. I don’t want this! And I certainly don’t want to think of this person – who could be a friend, after all – as a rival!

So there are two questions here. How do we inoculate ourselves from comparison’s ill effects in a world that often uses comparison (and elimination) as a means of sorting, organizing and simplifying? And second, how do we protect ourselves from our own comparisons?

Listen to more. Don’t get hung up on any one voice, style, genre. Keep the ears as open as possible. In my own case, I passionately admire Niamh Parson’s singing. Recently, in the midst of this new awareness of comparison, I listened to her and thought, “Hers is the best voice I have ever heard. And I am so much less.” But later that same day, I listened to the very different voice of Merrie Amsterburg (suggested to me by gorgeous singer, Camille Breeze). And I thought, “Hmmm… She’s nothing like Niamh, but what a voice! And I wouldn’t want a world without Merrie’s voice.” That reminded me of how many kinds of voices I love, and how different they can be and still be beloved and admired.

Join a community of performers. Attend an open-mike and you will hear perhaps 30 different performances in one night. You will hear old hands and people just starting out, people struggling with extreme nerves and people completely at ease. You will be charmed, moved, beguiled. You will hear many voices and perceive many hearts. You will be one voice and one heart among them, and you will feel at home. There is room for everyone.

Refuse to give or receive slavish praise. There are people who “follow” musicians with something like hunger and dogged devotion. Just being close to the musician enlarges them, as though it were really possible to absorb glory from someone else’s aura. When they speak to or about the objects of their devotion, they gush. In this worldview, there is a hierarchy of people with “stars” at the top. And even among stars, there are greater stars and lesser stars. They are people whose eyes constantly scan the room to assess relative levels of importance. They assume that you think just like them, and that you, too, want to associate with the “great.” And if you listen to them, you will get an entirely cracked notion of your own importance: either too much or too little. Don’t listen to them. And heaven knows, don’t be one of them.

Put the focus on doing rather than being. It’s better to sing than to simply have a great voice. It’s better to write flawed songs than to be a songwriter full of potential. It’s better to botch a performance than to be a non-performing performer. If you are actively doing your art, the rest takes care of itself. All that is asked of you is whole-hearted devotion, passion, and habitual action. As Aristotle quipped, “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”

Be loyal to yourself. When you feel the chill of comparison, either from yourself or from outside yourself, do whatever you need to do to protect the part of yourself that sings, creates, expresses. For me, this often means going straight to the piano, the harp, or the journal and making something new. Keep a few articles of past encouragement up your sleeve to balance present discouragement. (I think of my father’s wonderful words, “you sing like a friggin’ bird!” or Ailish in Donegal this summer saying, “I have never heard singing like that before, Cait!”). Being loyal to yourself and your right to keep going necessarily means you embrace a larger ideal: that everyone has the right to create and to keep going, and that leads me to:

Encourage each other. Believe in a passionate, vital world in which everyone who wishes to sing, sings. Reach out to someone who needs a dose of enthusiasm. Keep things lively. Accept praise lightly and gratefully, but stay away from the rocky shoals of comparison. Instead, dive and leap and joyfully dive again in that beautiful sea of voices!