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.