I was too caught up in the world and the madness and the hubbub. My natural state is working creatively away from people. Teaching always made me anxious. I transferred the anxiety to energy when I taught. But four, or five, or six students in a day always, always left me completely wiped out. And when my studio was in full swing, and I had 9 or 10 students a day, well, it’s just a good thing I was younger.
Acting or singing a rehearsed performance in front of people is another story. That feeds me. I remember being amazed when Dustin Hoffman on a talk show said he was introverted. Can’t remember what he said, specifically. It was my first realization that performers are often introverts. Performing is a way to put all that rich inner world into an outer expression. Weirdly, I think it creates a safety zone for that expression.
The pandemic and a case of pneumonia drove me home in March. For the last few weeks, I’ve been in the process of remembering who I am and putting that in perspective, remembering what’s important to me and what’s important in life, while simultaneously considering the future. The process hasn’t been a direct line. It’s been more like a substance withdrawal program and a jagged journey. What had my life turned into? What was it all about? What was “I” all about? Now that everything is topsy-turvy, what is there for me? What’s next? What will I do? How will I survive?!
I thought about moving somewhere cheaper. Where would that be? There’s not much that’s cheaper. That’s not a good idea. Get real, Patricia. Roommate? No! What about a large SUV? Better than having a roommate. Seriously.
One thing is for certain. I’m feeling good about giving up teaching. Going online decimated the smaller collection of students I’d been teaching in a tiny room in a music store. While I was thankful to have the place to teach, since affording my own leased studio again would have been prohibitive, the room and the location didn’t lend me much credibility. And, honestly, the quality of the student inquiries had sunk even further over the last couple of decades. I taught the general population – singers who were not necessarily college-bound or interested in defining a solid foundation technique. Fewer and fewer of them even understood what it would mean to develop technique. I can’t remember one person who cared much about learning to read music. And “song-singing” teaching of songs that are vocally inappropriate for the students made me even more anxious. I felt guilty, not being able to teach my best. But I would have had no students if I had taught my best. And the new situation teaching online had devolved, in some cases with younger students, to an online babysitting experiment. Students would cancel willy-nilly. They wouldn’t invest in USB microphones or set up their lessons where they could benefit the most from them. There was a lot of, “Can you hear me now?” This was not working.
The first two weeks or so I saw a positive difference teaching online. Students made huge progress – in just one lesson. It was because the students had to pay very close attention. One of the major problems – maybe the major problem – in education today is distractibility and students’ inability to focus. I was actually exhilarated, though exhausted, at first. So much more prep work on my part went into a lesson. And, as had been the case with in-person lessons, the students weren’t carrying the bulk of the load in their own lessons. I had always done at least twice the work for them, in and between lessons.
As the online teaching fizzled out, I started to feel lighter. I had taught for the better part of over four decades. It was definitely time to stop. The pseudo-security I had hung onto for years went away. The decision was made for me. Couldn’t feel too guilty about that. Sweet relief.
Now I’m remembering how I see myself through my own eyes. I’m remembering the simplicity of what I always felt was attractive, instead of worrying that my appearance meets with anyone’s or everyone’s approval. I’m remembering the long pinafore dress I wore like a regular uniform, with the comfy espadrilles, and the too small green Girl Scout sweater that I found in the lost and found behind the desk at the recreation center where I worked. My hair was long and natural, and I felt pretty – to me. I’m seriously considering letting my hair color continue to grow out. I had wanted to for some time. But blonde begets blonde begets blonde. And it becomes a vicious cycle of maintenance and money. Will I be a lot less glamorous with my natural dishpan mixed with a few grays? Yes. But my eyes will stand out more. My skin will look less sallow. My make-up foundation color will likely change. And I kind of look forward to sporting the gray, however it will develop. Like watching a seedling grow, or one of those magic sea horses expand in a glass of water. Look at that! That’s me! Oh, I still want to look nice. Just on my own terms. I might be slightly chubby. I might wear a long dress and a funky sweater. There will be a little perfume and jewelry, of course. Always a girl. I’ll be happy with that.
Somehow, in my youth, I decided that being a person of substance was more important than being outwardly attractive. I think this is because I had bucked teeth, was chubby, and was simply different. I was taller than others in my classes in elementary school. And I was a loner – except for the time I decided Billy Odem was cute and was yacking away at him during class, much to his dismay. And much to the teacher’s dislike. And a difficult family life made me want to rise above the family life. Much later in life I was characterized by one person as “noble”, and by another as “heavily into payback.” No matter how people translate me, that’s my configuration. I am some kind of a humanist continually attempting to conform to the universal Golden Rule. I care deeply about people. I just don’t want to be around most of them.
Time. Awareness of passage of time also kills the creative. We can’t avoid some deadlines and scheduling. But how absolutely glorious and decadent to have any day that can be sauntered through in creative freeform. I’ve spent a few days in hog heaven, lately, recording voiceover auditions, writing, just thinking about all kinds of things that aren’t (the list ensues) picking music, planning lessons, emailing students, asking them to pay me, finding them resource materials that they never look at, and… You get the idea. Whew. Sorry I went there for a minute. Back to the point.
I turn 65 this month. How I will safely navigate the next 25-30 years (hopefully) of my life is totally, completely up in the air. I’m thrilled to be focusing more on my voiceover. I had sidelined it, though it made me happy, because teaching made more money and meant more security. And there are many writing projects percolating in me.
Don’t think about making money, Patricia. Just do the work. Don’t think about making money, Patricia. Just do the work. This is the mantra. Because thinking of making money makes the creative go away. On the spot. Fingers in ears. La-la-la-la-la. No crosstalk.
When I was the opera singer in my high school, community members who were my fans said, “Somebody will snap her up.” That doesn’t happen. There was no snapping, though I took the notion as gospel back then. Now, I know that I do have to promote myself by making myself and my work known. But that must happen concurrent with doing the work and must be spontaneous to be effective. Nothing forced is ever as good as work that is organically motivated. The work might be good, but not as good as it could be. Forced work is certainly better than no work. Time to take advantage of the time and make time for that which is important and feeds the soul.
There’s no going back. But moving forward doesn’t have to look like the immediate pre-pandemic past. Moving forward might resemble a time much earlier than that, whenever that was. What kind of adjustment will there be? We shall see.
Sense and Sentience 