I’m Not Always Right, But I’m Never Wrong

I stand by this.

By *this,* I mean my decision to start and maintain this blog, as infrequently as I may post. 10 years after my first post, it is more true than ever that I have to be intentional about remembering my wins. Apparently, ‘What Have You Done for Me Lately‘ is how I view myself. It seems like I don’t have ‘Control‘ over my negative unkind ‘Nasty’ thoughts.

Anyhow, it’s never a bad time to reflect upon how I came to live in a ‘Rhythm Nation’.

Why Did I Start Music Lessons? How Did You Choose an Instrument?

One of my mother’s graduate school professors commented on my lithe fingers as a Baby J. They enrolled me in piano lessons when I was 4, and I am told that I got through 3 years of music study before I realized that I had not asked to do it. I guess I was having a good time. 🙂 I am not one to wish I was a child again, but I rather like that this was chosen for me – having confidence in your parents’ discernment is a big deal. The rest has always been up to me, which, again, I rather like.

Who Encouraged You Along the Way? How?

My parents deserve the biggest shout out for not just logistics and finance, but cheerleading. Not just at recitals, but during my daily practice. Successful daily practice enabled the recitals that my extended family, friends, and teachers attended. I cannot think about my music study without thinking about all of the love in my life. It amazes me that people took time out of their day to listen to a child play the piano.

What Experiences Were the Most Impactful?

Dude. Piano Camp. My parents dropped me off at the Indiana University School of Music Piano Academy in 2000 and 3 weeks later, I was a different pianist. It was like a revival – I could not get enough piano and piano literature when I returned home.

I must say that I both live and die by the applause. Losing competitions stick with me more than any that I won – how did it matter that I was talented if others performed better, even in a moment? It’s not as though my parents ever cheered me less, so I can’t say I felt pressure in that sense. That being said, the fact that I didn’t win 100% of the time didn’t make piano study any less wonderful, even if I thought less of my ability to play in relation to others. Thinking about it now, I cannot recall any time I ever thought to myself, “I’m going to practice more so I can win!” Winning was playing the piano well and earning the praise of my piano teachers.

How Has Music Changed Your Life?

I can’t read that question without laughing. It might be easier to share the areas of my life it has not impacted. Music is always there for me – whether I need to dance, sing, cry, play. She is faithful, even when I am not. Having the skill to curate musical experiences for children is incredible. Just this week, I had a child in class have a meltdown when asked to go on the risers – just to sing in class as we often do from our chairs with no additional audience. After class, he ran to me and hugged me, expressing how scared he was to sing. I told him he could come back during another period and try again. I’m tearing up as I recall how he trusted me to be brave enough to sing the music he clearly enjoyed in front of others. I get to help people take chances and discover how amazing music is.

How Did You Decide to Become a Teacher?

The short answer is that I love being a student, and it is impossible to teach (well) without learning. I type this and shake my head at myself, because I regularly lament that I do not know more than I do, even though somehow I understood years ago that I would need get to keep learning if I chose this career path. I would be remiss not to mention that I want to ensure that my students have positive experiences – while the vast majority of my experience as a piano student was positive, it wasn’t until I had a negative one that I thought about teaching. I often think about Coco Gauff’s US Open postgame speech about how her haters thought they were pouring water on her fire when they were really adding gas to it. I never want to put water on anyone’s (healthy) fire. May God forgive me for any time as a teacher I have provided insufficient fuel.

What Do You Want to Carry Forward from Your Story?

I want to let go of my feelings of inadequacy. I was telling my cousin just the other day that I don’t feel like I will have accomplished anything unless I am able to help other professionals, not only students. I know this isn’t true, but – ugh. I want to be a winner. I don’t have to beat anyone per se, but I would like to feel like other teaching professionals respect and can learn from my work. I wonder if I would feel this way had I not attained so much education, but it is what it is. “Woe is me, I am credentialed.” I could just ‘Scream.’

What Do You Want to Leave Behind?

I want people to feel better about themselves while working with me because I helped them be their best selves. I want to leave behind a good time, and I want people to know that I have the keys (I really didn’t do that one on purpose) to a good time.

One more for the road – I want to take people on a musical ‘Escapade.’

Connections

What was said:

“You must be very good at that. I bet the kids all love you. You have the perfect personality for that.”

Who said it:

My piano professor from graduate school.

What I heard:

“Good thing you aren’t teaching privately or performing because I don’t think you would be good at those things.”

Have I mentioned where I am right now?

Professional development has always been a double-edged sword for me. I got into teaching because I wanted to be a lifelong learner and I’m doing it. Teaching and learning. I also would like to be good at it, though. As a teacher, I don’t think I can call myself a good learner if I am not sharing what I am learning effectively. I don’t know what it will take for me to feel like a successful professional, but I don’t usually feel that way. I looked into the hotel mirror and plucked a gray chin hair. Clearly, there’s no longer a place for me at the young professionals’ workshop. I’m losing time!

This is my first MTNA conference since 2019. They had been canceled, and then virtual, until last year, but I was not ready to attend an in-person conference until this school year. PD, while valuable, has just been one. more. thing. At least for me, I have to be in a place where I can absorb information well so I can share it. The last 4 years have been a lot for us all (really the last 8 if you have any interest in the US being a democratic republic), and perhaps I’ve needed more time to process than most. I don’t know if that’s okay, but it is what it is. I took students to the FEMEA Southern Regional Chorus in October, to FMEA All-State Chorus in January, and now I am here, trying to figure out how best I can serve myself and my students. Do I trust God enough to connect with others? Is it possible that I can serve Him better by seeking their help in my professional endeavors?

I’ve found myself reluctantly interacting with people. It would be unfair to call me a cold person, but I definitely am an introvert with a nasty case of imposter syndrome. Why am I here? I don’t have any private students right now, though I do teach group piano at work. I don’t want to open my mouth and then someone learn that I have nothing to offer them. Nightmare fuel. I will say that I’ve run into supportive people, including my professor, a friend from Seattle I was expecting to see, and a friend from my FSU years that I have not seen since 2008! I’ve stepped way out of my comfort zone by sightreading simple duets with a stranger, who was quite helpful in talking about how she set up her business. It’s just so hard for me to put myself out there and be vulnerable, which was literally the first advice I got in my first teaching job out of school – learn to be open. 13 years later, I still struggle.

One reason I know that I am in the right field is because music helps me to be my best self. I get so excited to share music I am less focused on my many imperfections than connecting with the music and the people who made it and who will make it. It’s so incredibly powerful. Maybe instead of dreading networking, I can look forward to connecting with people who are passionate about the same things that I am.

Me: Immediately washes hands after connecting with others

Seriously. Now. What.

I. Seriously

We’re all gonna die.

I wonder how I would be handling my midlife crisis if I were not Christian. Perhaps if I were of another faith, or no faith at all, I wouldn’t think about death quite so much. Our Guy literally conquers death. I mean, there’s no fun plot twist of the resurrection without the bad part, amirite? I find the thought of my own earthly life’s end much less upsetting than that of others. In FACT – I think it’s possible that the idea of others’ passing is a larger part of my decision making than my own, but that may be because I am still relatively young. I’m embarrassed to admit how often it crosses my mind that each time I talk to an older person I love, it’s closer to the last conversation I’m having than the first. One less time I get to tell someone I love them. Am I doing enough for those around me while I can?

Dark stuff, I know.

II. Now.

Am I doing the right thing with what I have? NOW? Now is all I have. I might not wake up to write another post. Last March I wrote of this plan to persevere on my fitness journey. You want to know how that story ended? Shortly before my April race, I caused a (fairly minor) car accident, more inconvenience than injury. Thankfully, the inconvenience didn’t prevent me from running better in April than I had in March, but I certainly didn’t spend more than a day or two doing any of the strength training I wanted to. The end of the school year came, I went to Greece for two and a half weeks where I completed exactly ONE workout, I walked the Peachtree 10K with Mommy in July, I ran/walked the Ovarian Cancer 5k in September, then I decided I wanted to keep going. Apparently, strength training once every 6 months is not quite enough. Shin splints. Damn. Which brings us to NOW – I purchased an indoor bike so I have some non-impact work as I did my PT – which I actually did until Christmas! Christ is born, Joanie celebrates by doing nothing. How’s that for taking advantage of the present? Should I even write down what my goal is, since I think there’s a fair chance I just will end up writing about how I blew it 9 months from now? Assuming I don’t die, of course.

III. What.

Clearly, life goes more smoothly when I am physically healthy, so not having a fitness routine is not a viable option. The death of Dr. Kuehl-White has prompted me to reconsider where piano fits into my life. Music teaching still pays the bills, but I don’t have any private piano students right now – for the first time since 2012! – which I’ve found to be a relief. Of the many spectacular things about her, the one that brings me the most comfort at the moment is that she made it incredibly clear exactly what she wanted her legacy to be. She had given me one of the sets of pieces she edited (a signed copy, naturally), and I ordered four more of them. Outside of the many deaths that I’ve experienced the last few years, I haven’t played the piano much at all, and now my teacher is motivating me from the other side. THAT is a legacy, y’all. Am I naive for being surprised that I want to play the piano, given that I have an advanced degree in it and make a living teaching music? Am I “just” emotional right now and as I adjust to this new grief, life will go back to normal and I will let my desire to play subside? Is that okay? What is right?

Evidently, I’m not the first person to struggle with these feelings.

Legacy

“What have I done with my life?”

As someone who has struggled with the chronic condition of imposter syndrome for the entirety of her adult life, I ask myself this fairly often. Though I’ve yet to find a cure, I manage my symptoms by – well – working. Bills are a bother, but I’d rather unfurl myself from a ball and work than live uncomfortably. However, there are some occurrences that cause major flare-ups, and this one is big.

My piano teacher died.

I couldn’t think of a more poetic way to learn of the news. It was my college bestie’s 40th birthday, and I was driving home from visiting her in the Florida panhandle. As I stopped to get gas, I checked my email. My first piano teacher was informing me of the memorial service for my second piano teacher. I wrote back right away, saying I would help in any way I could. I continued on Interstate 10, thinking of the four years I spent in college as a piano performance major at THE Florida State University that would not have happened without either of my teachers. At the next stop, I checked my email once more. This time, I was asked if I was willing to play. Ah yes, how much time did I spend being stressed about a performance in this area of the state? I’ve been playing at funerals/memorials for my family, but this call, frankly, was different. I called my first piano teacher through tears, saying that I didn’t know, wondering if I was worthy for such a task. He reassured me that worthiness was not an issue, but not to feel obligated, given the time constraint and heavily charged emotions. I asked him for a few days to think about it, and he graciously said yes. I called the friend I had just hugged a few hours earlier and talked it through – what would I regret more? I probably make most of my tough decisions by asking that question, and I knew that if I chose not to honor her at her memorial by playing, I would regret it for the rest of my life. Coupled with the fact that the first piece we worked on together was one based on a funeral poem? Sometimes God whispers to us, other times, He shouts. This was a shout.

Her obituary doesn’t come close to capturing the essence of the amazing woman with whom I was so privileged to study. She was a BFD, my favorite humble diva. Now she’s gone, and I’m left wondering what I have done thus far. It does not feel correct to call her a colleague, even though we technically taught piano at the same time (her career wrapping up as mine started). Yes, I’m a music teacher, but so what? Am I any good? Who is better because I was in their lives? I know God is good, because in the days after my learning of her death, He sent me people to help reassure me I’m not a complete waste of space – a student saw me at the mall and ran to hug me excitedly; I saw a parent at a football game who bought lunch for my husband and me as a way of saying thank you for my help over the years. Well – that’s two!

In terms of my schedule, her memorial couldn’t have come at a more ideal time. Of course, the time off I had to practice was also time for me to sink into the abyss. What kind of pianist am I? I don’t practice. What kind of teacher am I? I don’t have private students right now. What have I done with everything that I’ve been given? It didn’t matter – I know if I didn’t play the hell out of that piece, I wouldn’t honor her the way she deserved. All I can do is my best, even if that isn’t very good. She got me to a Superior rating on Rachmaninoff’s Elegie Op. 3 No. 1 as a high school sophomore, and dammit if I wasn’t going to show I earned it. I followed her directions – practiced in different rhythms, hands alone, sections. I played for two of my pianist friends, whom I knew would be supportive but give excellent feedback. I thought about how many wonderful people I’ve met because of the path she helped me walk, from the friends I made in college and graduate school to professional colleagues I cherish.

When I arrived at the recital hall, I met her cousin, who asked if I would introduce myself prior to playing. I said I would say my name but that was about it because if I spoke before playing, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to keep it together. She insisted – but I ignored her 🙂 As gentle a person as she was, I was confident my teacher would not have wanted my emotions to interfere with the business of performing. Upon entering the stage, I simply said my name, said I was once called Joanie, and proceeded to play. It wasn’t perfect, but it never is. I know I played well, but I wish I remembered it. I was so prepared for the business of playing that whatever emotional detachment I needed to do it is still there. I then gave my thoughts on her place in my life.

One thing with which I am struggling is the final years of her life, as I hadn’t spoken with her for a long time. She was in an assisted living facility, and I had tried once or twice to meet with her virtually, but the strange circumstances of her moving there made it difficult. Whoever was in charge of her estate – God will take care of them. I hope she knows how much I loved and admired her. It was helpful to see her other students at the memorial, each of whom told me that she spoke highly of me to them. Most meaningfully, I learned that she had a picture of me in her room where she lived. It was displayed on a table with other keepsakes. When my first piano teacher told me I could have it, I immediately put it in my purse.

I am not sure what kind of legacy I will leave, but I know who helped make it. No pressure!

Now What?

My next steps will most definitely NOT look like they did 10 years ago. I remember immediately looking up a 10k trainer, putting 6 weeks in, and running those 6.2 miles at an 11ish pace. L.O.L. To be young again. However, I do want the same things I wanted then – to continue making progress. So why not in the same way?

I am not regularly strength training as I was. Frankly, I am not regularly doing anything, which is part of why I’m so proud about running all the way through on Saturday. Putting my mind to things and doing them isn’t behind me, as I was beginning to fear. 30 pounds heavier, 10 years older, no strength training – and 3 minutes slower than my first time? I think I’m closer to the floor than the ceiling, which intrigues me. Notice that I didn’t say it excites me, since I am still feeling a bit shy about embracing a routine. That being said, I am determined to reach for the ceiling, even if it means being a *tad* uncomfortable.

I discovered over spring break that I don’t hate the gym. I hadn’t had a membership since 2018 and stopped going to the one in my apartment complex once the pandemic began. When my boo and I had a little getaway for our anniversary, I had no plans to go to the gym then, either! I was going to do my 5k training on the streets, ya know? One morning, I started out for a run and I felt a few raindrops. I learned then that I am more willing to mask in an uncrowded, immaculately clean fitness center than I am to get my twists wet. Since we’ve been back, I have been trying to figure out when I can hit an upscale hotel again with the express purpose of going to the gym!

As I write this, it sounds like I have transitioned into a weekend (vacation?) warrior. My next race is in 4 weeks, but it is in another city. I see myself doing strength two days a week at the house and running on the weekends. I tried to allow Garmin to create a get faster plan for me, but I couldn’t even bring myself to press “start plan.” It’s just not me at the moment. I don’t anticipate a summer full of races because it is JUST. TOO. HOT. Getting fit, walks for good causes, deciding to consider another training cycle when the weather is cooler.

Look at me, it’s less than a year since my last post. Goal – getting in four strength workouts and four runs before posting again.

Just because life looks different doesn’t mean it’s not still sweet. To my next steps!

10 Years Later: Race Report

On March 23, 2013, I ran my first 5k. I decided early this year to follow the same training plan I had 10 years ago to see if I could achieve a similar result.

I. Training

Over the past few years, I have tried several times to complete Couch to 5k again. I kept falling off of the wagon because of injury, family deaths, fatigue from adjusting to the new normal that is life in the pandemic era. I was scared to reach week 6 this go-round because that has been where it goes wrong. The only thing that went “wrong” in my training this time was that I accidentally started a week earlier than I needed to, but that mistake allowed me the flexibility to deal with life as it happened. I was able to get all the days in, often feeling strong. I have learned – or been reminded – that training is best when I am well-rested, hydrated, and stretched. Shocking, I know. In the before times, I was happy both training before and after work. These days, I have a strong preference for running on days off, so I don’t feel rushed to stretch.

II. Race Day

I was single and living with my parents 10 years ago, but I still wanted them to come cheer me on today! Apparently, living with my husband doesn’t absolve me of my driving duty, so I dutifully went to pick Mom up. Daddy’s mobility doesn’t look the same as it did 10 years ago, and I happily accepted his well wishes before we left.

We parked and crossed the street to the elementary school where the race was staged. I had emailed the race organizer to see if there was a chance that I could have the same bib number as I did 10 years ago, but he politely replied that it was likely not possible due to the 5k numbers not going as high as I would require. Sure enough, I received a 3 digit bib number instead of a 4 digit one. I noticed that this year, the start and finish line were exactly the same, as opposed to being about 50 yards apart as they had been in the past. Mom made fun of me for this selfie:

I guess I was making a lot of faces to finally land on this relatively straight one?

In my training, my left knee had good days and bad days, but by the time the cycle had wrapped up, I was able to run without pain and thus without my brace. As I was warming up, I started to wonder if I should have been wearing it. I dismissed it as pre-race jitters. There was an announcement for 5k runners to begin lining up. I hugged my Mom, she wished me luck, I said a prayer, thanking God for the day and asking for the strength to run the whole way through. I haven’t run a race in its entirety since February 2020!

The horn sounded. We were off!

Immediately, I noted that my left leg was unhappy to be there. I grimaced, hoping that it would subside, and thankfully, before the first mile was done, it did. I was lightly jogging, enjoying the curated playlist I had decided to put in a race day order minutes earlier. I think I try to intentionally forget that this race is what I call “Florida hilly” – lots of little ups and downs, as it is adjacent to a golf course. I saw the first incline and sighed but was determined to push through. About a half mile in, I recognized that there were people I would likely be running with the whole time based on our pace. There was an older black woman with beautiful gray natural hair who was slightly ahead of me most of the time. I decided I wanted her to beat me because it is a sign that I can keep getting better. I was running without a watch this time – even 10 years ago I had a basic polar heart rate watch. I just wanted to move without watching any metrics. When I reached the mile 1 sign, I smiled, crossed myself and thanked God. My music was telling me I was going the pace I wanted. Mile 2 was similar – I could keep this up, I thought.

Mile 3 was absolutely brutal.

There were so many bloody turns. My mouthing the words to my playlist had become cursing. I know I have written previously about turns making me feel like I am progressing, but these turns were just too many. Another one – then another one – I felt like I would never see the finish line. I really wanted to walk, but I knew I would be mad at myself later, and I knew my body still was able to have both feet off of the ground at the same time. I had been looking forward to the triumph of seeing the finish line like I had at age 27, but at age 37, I was feeling relief. Seeing my Mom waving me in did change my cursing into smiling though, and I still had a little more in my legs to pick up the pace toward the finish.

I did it.

I had tried to duplicate my picture from 10 years ago, but I had two arms up in that one! I should have checked *sigh*

III. What’s Next?

As much as I was cursing the course yesterday, I hope I can return at 47. I need 10 years to mentally prepare for the turning, I think. 🙂 So much has changed in the last ten years. Yes, I am heavier, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be stronger. I think the greater challenge is the mental weight of life that has come with the passing of time. I hope my Dad is still around to give me a hug when I get back from dropping off Mom. I hope my Mom can make me another “Go Jo” sign and be there to wave for me as a I finish. I’m not sure who is reading this anymore, but if you are, I am rooting for you to be your strongest, too! ❤

Finishing Well

New Year’s Eve is never going to be the same for me – it was the day my Grandma died last year.

I called my Mom this morning at 9:34 AM – a year ago today, she had called me then to let me know Grandma wasn’t looking great. It was terribly shocking, despite her being 100 years old. I miss going to her house and giving her hugs after school. I hope she knows how much I miss her.

All year long, I’ve thought about how I want to be like her. I’ve been reflecting upon how I’ve had this drive to accomplish so much and make the most of my education and training and her death makes me think – eh. Will I ever be the woman my grandmother was? She raised nine children with my grandfather, all of whom who live “better” (in the sense of material things) than she did. I always joked with my mother that Grandma would outlive us all, since she was so committed to eating well and taking vitamins and supplements. “Joan,” she would say. “I saw it on the world wide web – I want to try this.” We lost Grandpa in 2003, and though she missed Jamaica terribly, she always made the most of every day. You could NOT go into her house without hearing about Jesus. Grandma was unapologetic for better or worse, and frankly, it was usually better. How many people can say they both lived well and died well? Typically people are either eager to die, for an end to pain or loneliness, or scared because they don’t know what is coming next. Not my badass Grandma, who managed to find the balance of understanding that living is Christ and dying is gain – the embodiment of Philippians 1. She was prepared for it all.

How can I be like that?

I’ve been plugged into the Orthodox church lately and wonder every day if I should take the plunge and get chrismated. It’s peak Grandma to be at church – how can anyone possibly do all that she did without profound faith? If I get chrismated, am I being less like Grandma because she was Baptist? Does it matter? In this moment, I am growing in a way I have not in a while. I stopped going to my Baptist church because when the pastor I greatly respected left, he was replaced by a pastor who wrote in a blog (since taken down, of course) that a Christian could justify a vote for Trump in 2016 but not Clinton. I simply do not feel safe in white evangelical spaces any longer. I could look for a Missionary Baptist or an AME church, but it seems silly not to look for a home in the faith of my husband and stepdaughters. The priest who married us at the Orthodox church says I have to do it just for me – if I didn’t have any Orthodox family, would I still want to become Orthodox? Am I forsaking my family’s culture if I do that? What will help me MOST be like Grandma? Does it matter which church I am in as long as I am growing?

I suppose I should be most scared of forsaking Christ. I don’t see any risk of that in the Orthodox church, theologically speaking. I want to live well AND finish well, just like Grandma. 2021 had a lot of ups and downs, but I am at peace despite the turmoil. I don’t know what 2022 will bring, but my mission statement is simple: serve God and have a good time. I have hope because of Christ. Hopefully it will be a long time before I’m in Granny’s arms again, but that’s where I wanna be!

Grandma came from Jamaica to help take care of Baby J ❤

Whose Day Was it Anyway?

I performed at a wedding yesterday. But get this – I. Sang. Lady J, pianist. Sang. Outside of a classroom. By myself.

I’m taking classes in Byzantine Chant. I will save the story for how I got here for a different post, but I am incredibly thankful to be where I am. I am learning to read a different notation system. Check out the same song in Byzantine notation vs Western, from St. Anthony’s Monastery:

Yet another reminder that despite my extensive musical background, my knowledge is in fact incredibly limited. Learning how to read has been great fun, and after about 3 months of classes, I’ve decided I prefer it over western for singing since the pitch is relative. It makes transposition a lot easier, at least for me.

My priest knows I have been taking classes, and it turned out that the pastoral assistant would be unavailable to chant for the wedding, so I was asked on Monday to sing for the wedding on Saturday. I said yes, even though I had been hoping that my first day at the chantstand would be on the feast day of St. John the Baptist in January. It may sound silly, but I felt like I wanted a saint with my (male) name on my side the first time I was singing. How could I say no to serving if I was available, though? I am learning to chant not just for my edification and delight, but so that I can serve in church, and here was my church, needing service.

The pastoral assistant provided me with a link to all of the music in Byzantine notation. I was pleased that I was able to follow along with the recordings and get the melodies down fairly quickly. After all, the only Orthodox wedding I’ve attended was my own, so I had very little idea of what to expect. I had a Zoom meeting with the pastoral assistant, who helped buoy me with confidence as I showed him my progress.

I took it easy in the morning yesterday – lightly humming my way through the melodies so as not to wear out my voice. I went for walk/run (my intervals are up to 3 minutes now!) and stretched (hah, I’m doing that, too!). I excitedly drove to church, dutifully arriving 30 minutes prior to the wedding, which ended up being an hour early. Let me tell you – as a Jamaican with a tendency to run late, Greeks seriously give us a run for our money.

My first performance was 32 years ago. I am JUST now learning to stay calm prior to performing, and this bride and groom were putting my ability to remain calm to the test. 30 extra minutes to wonder what pitch my priest would be starting on, as it is my job as the chanter to match it. From the pews, perhaps some people don’t notice, but I do not like when everyone chanting/singing does not maintain the starting pitch. Would he be too high for me to be comfortable? I didn’t know. I decided that worrying wouldn’t help and enjoyed the Christmas music that the organist was providing.

The bridal party started arriving while the organist played Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. Classic. The organist had asked me to signal when the flower girl had come down the aisle so that she could end and start Here Comes the Bride. I dutifully signaled and looked as the bride made her way down the aisle. I started tearing up and immediately reminded myself to keep it together- sinus drainage doesn’t really promote great singing, no? I was happy that I was teary-eyed, though – it is nice to be moved by ceremony and simply feel connected to a sacrament for other human beings.

The priest began. E flat. UGH, I thought. I used the lower part of my voice to match him. I was hoping he would be on G so I could use my mid-range, but alas, here we were on E flat. He had said I could go with any pitch I wanted, and he would match me, but it didn’t feel right. E flat was in the air, and I had a moral duty. 🙂

The service went much faster than I had anticipated. I read through the Epistle because I didn’t have the confidence to intone – it felt too much like winging it and that was a little much for my first time at the chantstand. I sang one less song than I had prepared, but I was pleased with most of my execution. I am still working on my resonance and breath support with notes higher than B4 so those were kind of iffy, but I don’t think it impacted sacramental validity. 🙂

My priest and the organist definitely pumped me up afterward – looks like I will have another opportunity to chant again. But that’s not even the best part. Guess whose day the church was observing – St. John of DAMASCUS! I had no idea until I had checked the church website in the morning. So I got a St. John after all – a hymn writer, even! Perhaps even a better match for me than the locust and honey eater, no?

I’m hoping the bride and groom had a joyous day and will have a joyous marriage. It was nice to be a part of a big day for them, but it was a big day for me, too. At the end of it all, everyone there was celebrating God, and it was awesome being a part of it. Yay!

Icon of St. John of Damascus

Lapsed Convert

Just a month a half ago, I wrote that I wanted and intended to commit to stretching regularly. I’ve since been reminded that while stretching and training must go together, so do stretching and – uh – living. Somehow, I managed to twist the necessary association between stretching and training to – “well, if I’m not working out today, I don’t need to stretch! Do I not feel like stretching? I won’t train today!”

The TRUTH.

It’s absolutely amazing how many ways we can, as humans, find a way to rationalize our behavior. I found myself unbelievably tight after a cross country flight yesterday and spent a solid 30 minutes stretching before attempting a walk/run today and I am so much better for it, yet I am confident that I will somehow find some other excuse not to stretch. In the same ways our souls are meant to move toward God in order to maximally function, our bodies were created to move, and the specific movement of stretching assists in getting the most from the rest of our movements, from running a marathon to typing a blog post.

At 36, I’ve already experienced the type of pain that I can’t explain – you know the type, where you think “what did I do? Why does that hurt? Oh, because I’m alive.” While I am positive that a consistently followed regimen can help to prevent this, a long life means that there will inevitably be pain for which there is only ultimate healing – death. My man Paul wrote in his letter to the church in Philippi (presumably between stretches) that to live is Christ and to die is gain. I believe Christ suffered a *bit* in His earthly ministry, no? As unholy as my quadriceps and hip flexors were feeling this morning, on a scale from painless to crucifixion I can’t say it was too bad. It was enough to put me on a path today to take care of my body, and for that, I am thankful.

Every day that I am alive, I can seek Christ, I can seek physical wholeness, but again, Paul reminds us that as long as we are living, our perception will be incomplete. Are there any converts that are thriving 100% of the time? To live is to lapse. There really is no cure for my humanity – for now. That is not to say that there is no hope, because keeping focused on Christ is the only treatment I know that helps to alleviate anything that ails me. Lord, have mercy on my body and soul.

Lost and Found

I went to church today, but I didn’t go in.

My journey to this weird but truthful statement is the fault of the CDC, whose most recent recommendations my church is now following – they are asking those who are not vaccinated to continue to wear masks and those who are vaccinated may feel free to bare face. Frankly, I feel about my mask indoors about the way conservatives tend to feel about their guns – from my cold, dead, hands. With no way to tell if someone is vaccinated, I’m simply not comfortable being in close proximity for extended periods to people without masks. If other people want to help Pfizer and Moderna figure out how long the vaccine lasts, I thank them for their contribution to science, but definitely from afar. FaceTime me in the meantime.

I was prepared to watch the livestream from the parish hall across from the sanctuary, which is why I had driven to church in the first place. Upon releasing the statement of the updated policy, my church had said that they would still have masking and social distancing in the hall. Space for people in the kingdom who believe in Christ and covid! Great! I entered the hall only to find that the livestream was down. I walked back outside and wrestled with what I should do. I stared at the church building, but I just couldn’t open the door. I thought I would be too distracted, and I would simply not feel good hanging out with my parents later today. I walked to my car, but going home didn’t feel right either. I ended up going back into the hall, where there was a table with books. I saw a few titles by Bishop Kallistos Ware that I have wanted to read, so I picked them up and sat in the empty hall. I figured a healthy compromise would be to read about church history.

I’ve continued to observe the church calendar by fasting on Wednesdays and Fridays and I love it. I am not sure if I am doing it wrong because, well, I love it. I know I have two days each week where I am not going to go bananas (heh, except for the part where I eat bananas because yay fasting, sorry, I love puns), and I am more mindful of my eating on the other five days. I don’t treat Tuesdays and Thursdays like Mardi Gras – I eat as I please, but there’s no need to overeat, ever. It isn’t a diet for diet’s sake, but for the sake of my soul, I am working to tame my passions. I want to stay connected for the reasons for the fast – I make sure every Wednesday I say at least once, “Judas. That MF!” and on Fridays, I reflect upon Christ’s crucifixion. Yikes. Big yikes for humanity’s sake. I haven’t weighed myself, but I know I feel better than I did in March. I need to pray for the strength to not react badly to whatever is happening on the scale; whether it’s a loss or gain since May 1, I need to handle it in a Christlike manner.

All this to say – I am thinking about officially switching teams from Evangelical Protestantism to Orthodoxy. I don’t know if this is a phase, so this is not something I would do anytime soon. When Pete and I married, I said I would never do it, because conversion is for the lost and I didn’t think of myself as lost. Frankly, I still don’t. However, I am unable to deny the effects of seriously participating in church observances, and what would I have been doing for the last 3 months at the church in which I was baptized? I cannot say for sure, but it wouldn’t have been *this* and *this* is working for me. I’ve reached out to my priest because I have many questions about Orthodox theology and history and hopefully will be meeting with him soon. May God grant me many more days in the church militant.