An open love letter to the CBH Choir and Band

Dear CBH Choir family,

I am so honored to be singing with all of you this year. Will invited me to join the choir last summer before High Holidays, and I just wasn’t ready to do it then. Mostly, I was scared. (Terrified, really.) I sat at Rosh Hashanah services last year watching all of you with a mix of awe and excitement, knowing that if I could get over myself, I would get to be one of you.

So why the fear?

Quite honestly, I knew I would love it. Somehow, it felt scary to be on the precipice of doing something so potentially nourishing to my spirit. I didn’t know if I could actually let myself feel that kind of fullness and joy.

Our choir retreat a few weeks ago was very powerful for me for that reason. It was so nurturing in a way that I haven’t experienced in a long time. I cried quietly through yoga when Rebecca talked about release. I cried through “Om.” I cried through tree pose, supporting each other as we balanced in a circle. I cried through the activity of breathing with our backs up against a partner’s back. Afterwards, my partner told me, “I didn’t want to move… didn’t want to let go…. I haven’t felt like someone has had my back since I got divorced a few years ago.”

I couldn’t speak to respond to my partner because the feeling of connection to her and to the rest of the group was so strong. The energy the choir creates by being together, even without singing, takes my breath away.  

There is a lot of love and support there.

After a really rough last few years, I didn’t know that I could feel that connected to a group of people anymore. It is surprisingly hard to let go and just let yourself be loved by a lot of new people.

The CBH choir is so much more than what I imagined last year as I sat and watched all of you from the side. I didn’t know that choir members celebrated birthdays together or knew all about each other’s kids’ activities or said Kaddish with each other.

I have learned a lot through choir this year, for example:

1)   How to appropriately pronounce “Hallelujah” with long vowels

2)   How to operationalize “hushed intensity”

3)   How to read Will’s many forms of eyebrow communications

(FYI, in case you missed it tonight, the one where his eye gets big and he looks at you intently with his eyebrow raised means we are about to move onto the next section of the song.)

I’ve also learned to let a lot more joy come back into my life and to let myself fully experience it. Specifically, I love the sense of wholeness I feel in singing with all of you. I think one of our songs sums that feeling up perfectly:

"Ashira v’azameira ura k’vodi"

Rough translation:

I will sing and chant and awaken my soul

Through my voice and breath I can bring forth my own essence

Which is connected to all sparks of the Divine

I am so happy to be celebrating this new year with all of you in the choir loft (with the bubbles... that I did not put there, but feel the need to blow occasionally).

With much love and respect and awe,

Ariela

Clarity

My birthday was earlier this week. The big 36. In Judaism this is an important year – a double chai – life x 2…. Like I’ve lived two and now I’m starting on the third. (I might not get 9 lives, but I’ll take a new one now and again!)

I have always used my birthday as a time to reflect on the previous year and envision the year ahead. This year especially, it’s hard to look back and see how far I have come, mostly because I see how far I have yet to go to become the person I want to be. My friend said that was crazy that I couldn't see the change.

I don’t want to mistake “work in progress” for lack of clarity though. The process of gaining clarity is big, but no one really talks about it. It is a very personal process. People tend to focus on the action part because it is more outwardly visible, but that only comes after clarity.

Roughly, it’s kind of like this: 

 

(Note: I’m not a fan of boxes, nor do I think that a person arrives at action and is suddenly done. This is just part of the process of becoming, and it is iterative and cyclical.)

Anyone familiar with logic models knows that the magic is in the arrows: the real work is getting from one “box” to the next.

I am seeing a lot of friends right now stuck in pre-clarity, often putting a lot of energy into thinking about circumstances, situations, or people that are not within their power to change, or making peripheral things seem like THE thing. I know that feeling well. It is full of angst, but that somehow feels safer. It is easier to remain motionless in pre-clarity, because there is no clear course of action.

Last year I was very much in pre-clarity.

Actually, that is an understatement. I was lost.

I went back and re-read a poem called "Quiet" that I had written a year ago about the experience of finally hearing my own voice again. I teared up when I read it because I recognized that Me a year ago had no idea how scary and pivotal the process of gaining clarity would be.

The phrase, “Can’t see the forest for the trees” has been echoing in my mind a lot lately when I am listening to friends: people being overwhelmed by detail to the point that they can’t look at the entirety of a situation and separate out the pieces. It’s a feeling of being stuck; perhaps not seeing a way out. All of that is pre-clarity. That was very much me last year.  

Gaining clarity is scary. It is scary to admit to yourself that something isn’t working – whether that is a job or a relationship or school or parenting or any number of things. It is hard because we have often made a deliberate choice to put ourselves in the situation, connected ourselves with others, and invested lots of love and energy. I remember thinking to myself last year, “What does that say about me if I invested wrong?”

Gaining clarity in itself is huge – the process of owning what you know to be true, no matter how inconvenient or weird or upsetting it may be to others. But clarity is only the seeing piece…. And then there is what you do after gaining clarity. 

Navigating the space between – riding the arrow between clarity and action – is surprisingly difficult.

Things actually got harder last year once I had clarity. Because then it wasn’t okay just to remain still. Because once I had clarity, it was on me to be brave enough to act on what needed to happen. Because I couldn’t sit around and say, “I don’t know” anymore.

At the outset, the options for action seemed binary – do or don’t do, keep or ditch, stay or leave. I think one of the hardest parts of action is navigating the gray space. Sometimes it is more about re-balancing and redefining, which takes even more patience and creativity than a clear cut yes or no.

Being able to hear my own thoughts clearly means I am so much more aware of my personal growth or the lack thereof. And quite honestly, it is much more in my nature to judge myself harshly than to give myself a high five. While I easily see it in others, I do not naturally see progress in myself.

 

So when I told my friend that I didn’t think I had made much progress since last year, I see now why she thought I was crazy. I didn’t realize in the moment how much bravery it had taken for me to gain clarity, and how much more bravery it took to take action. I forgot that it had taken me a week alone to hear myself think, and that it had taken even longer for me to allow myself that time!

I am excited about this next year – this next “life” or stage in life. It feels lighter, clearer, and more purposeful, even though none of it was what I could have predicted a few years ago. Somehow, knowing that I have learned how to give myself permission to listen and change course makes this next “life” already more gentle on my soul.

Attachment

Sometimes I have a tendency to get so attached to people or things outside myself that I forget to pay attention to what’s inside me. And as much as it feels hard to let go of those things, it is even harder to hold on to Me – especially when my hands and heart are otherwise occupied.

I have worked really hard in this last year to let go of things that look nice and shiny on the outside but ultimately do not serve me well. It is a lot of work to release finger muscles nearing rigor mortis (old habits that die hard) or knuckles tightened in a death grip (fear). 

Next weekend’s choir concert is really important for me. A bit of an anniversary, in fact. When I attended the concert last year I was not in a great place in my life… feeling stuck in a job that I let make me miserable and color the rest of my life 50 shades of black.

Hearing the choir sing, exactly a year ago today, was part of the turning point of learning to let go. Here’s what I wrote the day after the concert.

March 23, 2014

Most people don’t know that I get lost in music

Swimmy-head-can’t-think-about-anything-else-but-deliciously-present lost

Only a few people know about my musical obsessions

Songs I will play on repeat for days on end

Wanting to consume them and make them part of me

Because I know they were written just for me

One of “my” songs can take me somewhere else entirely

Or ground me so deeply in myself that I sometimes can’t move

The Bet Haverim choir has that effect on me too

Music that tugs at my Jewish roots

Reminds me of my beautiful traditions, of who I am

Listening to the choir last night was like hearing my own voice again

After so many months of feeling lost and silenced

Every time I hear the choir, I want so deeply to be a part of it

To become more confident in my own voice in music

But I usually tell that voice to be quiet

Because if I take that chance

It could come out all wrong

So it is probably best left alone inside

Quiet

But last night I started to feel a little piece of me cracking away a bit

Daring me to let go of the structure holding me back from fully being Me

And I stopped and wondered what it could possibly feel like to be free of the constraints I put on myself
And immerse myself in what I deeply love 

Music

So many changes for me in this last year that are so much more important than leaving an awful work situation – most notably, starting voice lessons and joining the choir – two things that seemed impossibly scary and out of my comfort zone a year ago today. And now, I can’t imagine my life without either of them, especially choir.

I spent many years watching the choir with awe.

Watching Joy, so true to her name, light up the sopranos with her bright smile.

Hearing Gayanne’s soulful voice fill the room with life and love.

Seeing Will create and perform songs so beautiful they move me to tears.

(Every. Single. Time.)

These people who were once just familiar faces are now treasured new friends.

Carrie, whom Elena has adopted as her special aunt down the street.

McKenzie, whom Elena calls, “The lady with the happy eyes and beautiful hair.”

Brad, whom we fondly refer to as “Mustachio” after Purim.

Nefesh and Irene, who give amazing hugs.

Shana, my alto rock and old friend who can always make me giggle.

And so many others I can’t imagine not seeing each week.

All of these people, I may never have been able to hold in my heart, had I not been able to let go of some other things that seemed so important for so long.

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On a recent beach trip, collecting shells along the shore, I thought about how the ocean inspires me to become less attached to things. The waves come and go, bringing with them new treasures and taking away others. I thought about how if I hold on to everything I just found, I have no room for what is yet to come. That if my focus is on making sure I keep what I have, I can't notice anything new, let alone decide if I want to make a trade.

It’s hard to change and grow without letting go of something. 

And all of that process revolves around fear. Not having enough faith that what could be next will be the right thing for me in that moment. It is so much easier to be attached to what is known, even when I know I no longer need or want it.

My friend once told me, 

“May this Passover be the year you bring yourself out of your own personal Egypt.”

As I work on leaving behind fear in favor of faith, I am wondering… 

What are you letting go of this year?

Come to our choir concert on Saturday! Information found right here!

Patience

When I was a freshman in college, my brother had a series of seizures and ended up in the hospital. I flew home, and I was in such a hurry to get off the plane so I could go see him. I am sure all of my fidgeting and loud sighing was quite annoying to my fellow passengers. 

At one point, the woman in front of me turned around and said pedantically, “Patience is a virtue, my dear.”  

I believe my response included narrowed eyes and something along the lines of, “Yes, but it isn’t one of mine.”

And unfortunately, 18 years later, I think that’s probably still true, particularly when it comes to patience with myself.   

Sometimes, with the deepest things that matter most, that I am so afraid to do wrong, I find myself paralyzed. Taking myself so seriously that I can’t do anything. The impatience with myself just feeds the cycle of non-action. Just me getting in my own way.

I have been thinking a lot about how to navigate these unhelpful spaces.

Rabbi Josh and I talked last week about the meaning of the word “patience.” He explained that it’s not about the ability to wait, but rather the mindset during the waiting time. The tolerance of discomfort.

Yeah, I can wait. Waiting is just an action. But I have noticed that my mindset during the act of waiting can influence the outcome, particularly when it comes to trying to be patient with myself.

Example: Voice lessons are so hard for me. Probably the hardest thing I have ever done. The barrier, again, being me getting in my own way – the nerves…. the anxiety…. Feelings that are not particularly familiar to me that I just want to go away! And yesterday! (This mental tape says, “OMG! What is wrong with me that I can’t just relax and sing freely??!!”)

I was trying to explain this to my voice teacher, Gayanne, last week. That when something is hard, I either decide it doesn’t matter and walk away, or I decide I need to conquer it and put all my energy towards that goal and get it done. The latter approach has served me well for things requiring brain power. Seems reasonable that I could apply that to singing, right?

Gayanne aptly pointed out that maybe my voice doesn’t want to be conquered. That I need to give it space to emerge. That the more I push it and get frustrated with its slowness, the less it is going to want to come out.

Because voice thrives with space and time. Patience, not push.

It will come out when it is ready, just as the people will get off the plane when they can. Being impatient just makes the experience worse, and mostly just for me and those unlucky enough to be in proximity.

Gayanne also reminded me that I’ve only had five voice lessons and that all of this is part of the process. And that I need to let myself sit in the nervous feelings. I need to learn to tolerate the discomfort. Patiently. Because “push” isn’t helpful in these situations, as much as it has worked well for me in others.

My pep talk to myself changed when I focused on patience and gentleness rather than, “Get it done, girlfriend!” We’ll see how that goes for me. Thus far, it feels… safer. 

Yet… despite this realization, I am still wondering: Can I push myself to be more patient or is that just doing patience all wrong?!

Your thoughts on cultivating patience appreciated below. 

Stay

My daughter, Elena, is five. She is not a huge fan of going to sleep. Tonight, she tucks my hand close to her chest, wrapping her arms around it so I can’t move.

“Stay,” she says softly, “Stay forever.”

And while I am excited to return to my newest project in the art room, I am also struck by the importance of my presence in her life at this very moment.

Stay.

Stop.

Be with me.

As I watch Elena fall back asleep, it crosses my mind to think about how abruptly this feeling of Elena’s will change in a few short years. Believe me, I think about this daily, with each hug and snuggle and skip down the street holding hands. I know she will not stay this pint-sized girl forever.

But instead, I think about how hard it is, as an adult, to ask another person to stay.

Not forever. Just for a bit longer.

It’s so much easier to ask for things: “Please pass the salt.” “Can you pick me up some more wasabi peas?” “Would you mind refilling my sweet tea?”

All of these things… things that we usually can get for ourselves…  pale in comparison to the power of another’s undivided presence with us.  

I think about how often I’ve wanted someone to stay but have been afraid to ask. Afraid that a “no” on top of being alone would be so much worse than just being alone in the first place.

I also wonder how many times I might have said “no” to someone… in the moment, not realizing how much courage it took to ask.  

I think about this a lot, especially around my birthday. I don’t want stuff. I just want time with people I love. Super-connectedy-deep-conversationy kind of time. The more chill and the less planned, the better. Just time together, with no expectations other than presence. 

Somehow it’s so much easier to ask for stuff and give stuff. It feels more…. gifty. Like… here it is, all with a nice bow!    

One of my best friends and I like to hang out on the swings at night. These evenings, when time is carefree and easy to squander, are the spirit of STAY:

Be in this moment with me. 

Don’t rush this time thinking about tomorrow. 

Linger a bit, though the air is chilly.

Just stay.

 
As adults, we joke about children asking for all kinds of things: a funky skirt from the thrift store, just one gummy worm, two small tasty donuts…. These requests come as easily as the ones for people… for presence.

I wonder when and how in our lives we come to learn that it is better to ask for things instead of people. Do we believe we are more likely to get what we want if we ask for something we can buy? Are we trying to make it easier on others, knowing we are all so busy? When did it become easier/better/more socially acceptable to ask for things that don’t really matter?

As much as I want my daughter to be strong and independent and brave, how do I make sure she never stops asking me to stay?

I can feel how much my presence means to her in this moment, but I sometimes forget how much it means to me to be wanted and needed… to know that my presence alone can bring comfort to another person.  

I close my eyes, my hand still tucked under Elena’s arms, and wonder… when was the last time I asked another person, bravely…. Stay?

Belonging

When I set out to get my PhD, I had never wanted to become a professor. My heart was in the community doing nonprofit work, and I fully intended to return to that world after graduation. Yet, when an opportunity presented itself to remain in academia with my fabulous mentor, I took it. But a few years later, I realized I needed to change what I was doing in order to be true to myself. My mind found academia stimulating, but my heart was woven into the fibers of a nonprofit that had defined my career.

When I got a job at (un)said nonprofit, I knew it was going to be amazing. Finally, I was returning to my people, my world: social justice and community work. Despite my wonderful professor colleagues, I wasn’t going to feel like such a misfit anymore in the ivory tower. I felt like I was finally coming home. I never could have predicted it would be the absolute worst year of my life.

It was awful for many reasons, in part due to the gap between expectation and reality. It was also painful because I had felt so connected to the people and the organization already, yet I realized that I had to keep proving myself over and over again. I was never enough. Couldn’t ever say something just the right way. Couldn’t meet with enough people or send enough emails. Over weeks and months, it began to feel impossible. I began to question myself – was I really the issue?

I don’t know what the word is to describe the icy realization that you are not/no longer/never have been part of a community of which you thought you belonged. Like having someone tell you that gravity is a social construction or that your family packed up and moved away without you. A feeling of being ungrounded, untethered, and somehow not at all free.  

The power of community is incredible. Maybe we only fully realize that power when it is gone.

It’s not that I was lonely or that I didn’t have other supportive people around me. In fact, I made some very good friends at work – in particular, two women who are still some of my closest friends now. It’s rarely about the individual people. It’s about a collective vibe that tells you if you are welcome or not. If it is safe for you to be yourself. The “community” difference is the piece about not needing to know a group of people in order to feel a sense of belonging and connection. To not have an underlying sense that you are being judged to determine whether you fit or not.

This is kind of a strange example, but work with me on this one: I love cemeteries, particularly Jewish ones. I feel connected to the Jewish people buried there. It reminds me always that I am part of a People; not just another person among all other people.

It's small things that make me feel the connection -- things like how Jews leave a stone to mark when we have visited someone's grave. A pile of rocks on a headstone are so meaningful. It's our way of saying, "I am here. You have not been forgotten."  

Many headstones have people's full Hebrew names on them. Your full Hebrew name is your own name in Hebrew + “daughter/son of” + your parents' names in Hebrew. Hebrew names are really important. It's your Jewish identity.... your Jewish essence. It ties you to your history.

Hearing my full Hebrew name echoes something so deep inside of me... it is one of those space and time connections. Like when I light candles on Shabbat and say the same prayer spoken by women throughout history and women across the country right now and women in the future... It is being pinned to the map of my own existence, but not just my map... more like the collective conscious map of Jewish people.

It is belonging in the deepest sense of the word.

I think that we weather transitions best when we know we belong somewhere. At least while everything else is up in the air, we have a known safe place to be ourselves.

I realized this especially during the first choir rehearsal I attended last month. Never have I been so quickly welcomed or accepted by a group of people. No needing to prove myself, no hazing (yet!), no suspicious questions or side eyes. Just welcoming with open arms, lots of smiles, and lots of laughter.   

In the middle of rehearsal last week, I stopped to think about how grateful I am to be a part of such a supportive community – even of people that I don’t know very well! I actually got a little teary and couldn’t sing for a few minutes.

And though I had only worked with these people for a mere five hours ever, it felt an awful lot like… home.

 
Freedom while grounded and tethered.
A rekindling of connection to smooth the passaggio.

Passaggio

Passaggio: a term used in classical singing to describe the pitch ranges in which vocal registration events occur. Beneath passaggio is the chest voice where any singer can produce a powerful sound, and above it lies the head voice, where a powerful and resonant sound is accessible, but usually only through training.

In not so many words, Passaggio is that space where your head voice meets your chest voice. The space you don’t want to have to sing through because it’s awkward as hell. As an untrained singer, I don’t totally trust my voice to get through it gracefully. 

It’s such a life metaphor, isn’t it? Navigating the space between where you are and where you want to be. The awkward growing-out phase of a haircut. Starting graduate school. Moving in with your partner. Everything about these transitions is likely to be painful.


But you know that what awaits you on the other side is going to be amazing... If you can trust yourself enough to navigate the awkward. If you can muster up a little more brave than scared.

I was pretty self-conscious during my first two voice lessons, despite the easy nature of my voice teacher, Gayanne. I sang in what I call “little voice.” The voice that says, “I’m here but maybe don’t look at me, ok? Let me hug the wall a little longer. Let me keep my coat on a bit before I decide if I want to stay.” 

Little voice is an overwhelming influx of self-judgment, self-doubt, and fear… all wrapped around any part of me that might be useful for singing. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy of failure. 

Outside of singing, I’m not known for having little voice. True to my name, I’m a lioness, a calculated risk-taker: strong, solid, fearless – and probably to my detriment at times. This whole little voice thing is new for me since last year.  Some of it is probably a good thing – tempering my tendency to speak up about anything remotely unjust or ineffective.

Regardless, I have been annoyed at my seeming inability to pull out big voice when most needed. I was dreading the first night of choir when I would have to sing for Will, the choir director. I was pretty scared that I wouldn’t be able to muster anything but little voice.

So you can imagine my surprise when big voice came out for Will. Well, big-ish voice. Somehow I felt more confident and not at all scared. In fact, I actually ENJOYED singing!

I spent the next week way over analyzing the presence and absence of big voice and little voice. Was it because the space was different? Was it because my first two voice lessons made me feel more confident?  Did hearing my friend, Shana, sing before me make me feel inspired?

On my way to my third voice lesson, I sang in big voice and little voice, trying to figure out the difference between the two. As I turned into Gayanne’s house for my lesson, I realized what it was.

Breath.

Just… breath. Air. My body doing something it does naturally, without interference from my brain.

Gayanne said she was happy to hear me focus on something physical rather than be all up in my head as I have been.  And I actually enjoyed that voice lesson a lot more, because I stopped getting in my own way.

----

…Goethe said, “Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness.”

During one of our earlier voice lessons, Gayanne and I somehow found ourselves discussing the experience of being in labor. I started thinking about when I hit transition – the most intense stage of labor right before pushing. I remember how concentrated the contractions were then, and how I was trying to hold them off by holding my breath as long as possible, almost trying to will them away. 

My midwife, Claudia, recognized what I was doing and explained very matter-of-factly, “Listen, the intensity of the contractions is what is going to get your baby out. Work with your body, not against it. You need to focus your breath. Push your breath through the contractions.”

In essence, I needed to commit and I needed to breathe. Until I could commit myself -- my breath – I was going to stay in labor.

I feel that way about so many things, but singing especially. Committing my breath, my life force. Trusting that I’m going to hit the note. Trusting I will weather the Passaggio gracefully. And even enjoying the act of singing, rather than critiquing myself every step of the way!

Rabbi Josh and I talked last week about the Hebrew song, “Gesher Tzar Me’od.” The translation of the Hebrew lyrics is, “All the world is a narrow bridge; do not be afraid.” The lyrics were adapted from a quote by Rabbi Nachman; however, the original words were, “Do not let fear hold you back.”

The difference between, “Don’t be scared” and “It’s ok to be scared, but don’t let it keep you from doing what you need to do” is significant: a recognition that what is in your head can be there, but that to cross the bridge, it takes action over thought.

At the core of any Passaggio, any transition, is action. Getting out of the fear in my headspace… not just thinking about the person I want to be or all the reasons holding me back from being that person…  Just taking one step, right now… committing this next breath unequivocally to DOING, no matter how awkward or unpleasant it may be.