I remember when I started practicing improvising how I would “hear” something I wanted to add to the music in my head. The flicker of some perfect melody. I would open my mouth to sing it and … I couldn’t.

I lost the thread or the idea. Lack of confidence closed my ears and stifled my voice. The moment of inspiration flitted away like a butterfly and there I sat glued to the ground with my empty net (or, in this case, my open mouth). It was a frustrating experience.

…

As we sang at Songtaneous this past Saturday, I realized that this fighting to find my melodies happens less and less. More and more often, I can sing what I hear. I don’t think too hard about it. I have learned to open my mouth and trust my voice.

Perhaps because I am approaching a new decade, I have noticed that, more and more often, I can SAY what I mean, too.

No, not every time. *smile* But more and more often. I get clearer faster.

Through trusting my voice, I am learning to trust myself. By singing spontaneously, I am learning how to be more authentic, more courageous and to say, as well as sing, what I mean.

…

It seems like finding the skills and commitment to sing what I find in the music (and sometimes what I find is sad or mad or just plain weird *smile*) has strengthened some “authenticity muscle.”

This is the “muscle” that helps me traverse the terrain of changing careers and find collaborators and projects that fit me. It also helps be more direct and more honest with myself and with others.

Most important, my music muscles are teaching me how to transition. Repeatedly, consistently, awkwardly or seamlessly, melodically or with disconnected dissonance, over and over again, the music shows me how to move from point A to B. And, I see again and again that even the imperfect transitions can be beautiful.

In addition to planning my workshop, learning the choir music for Ann Reed’s upcoming concert in Duluth (Heroes, March 17th) and working with singers at the college and the middle school, I have been working on a number of grant proposals this month.

And, well … perhaps I shouldn’t admit this, but …

Grant-writing is kind of hard.

…

The first challenge, of course, is making the time to write a proposal. Even with all the writing I do (including right here *smile*), it always seems to take longer than I plan to draft and finish a proposal.

But, really the challenge of grantwriting for me is not in the writing; it’s in the thinking.

…

Thinking about what I want.

And what I don’t know yet and how to best manifest what I imagine. (Moving things out of my head and into the world.)

Making real phone calls to real people to discuss my project.

Saying things out loud and inviting feedback (and maybe even critics and critiques *wince*)

Not to mention, the reality (and responsibility!) of 24 hours in a day, 7 days in a week and  365 (or 366! *smile*) days in a year to use, or fritter away, however I choose.

As Marianne Williamson famously put it:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.”

…

Sitting down to plan your dreams (aka grant-writing) forces you to look that fear right in the eye.

And it’s … hard. (Did I already say that? *smile*)

But, it’s also good for us.

It’s certainly good for our projects.

…

I’ve talked before about the power of writing things down. (That is one of the many gifts I have received from writing this blog. *smile*)

Outlining the steps of a project makes them real and lets you know where the sticky or tricky spots are. How it can work and the things that won’t.

Documenting a dream helps you see when you might be overreaching (possible) and where you are playing too small (more likely).

By writing it out, you figure out what you need to prioritize (or de-prioritize!) in order to make space for your project.

You get clearer.

(And, when I’m clearer, I’m more committed.)

…

More important, you get going.

By the time I finish a grant proposal, part of me feels like someone has created a highly customized instruction manual just for me.

All I have to do is follow it.

It is the start of a new year, a new semester and a new musical at the middle school.

For me, scheduling during the first few months of a new year is like that children’s game with the tile pieces that slide in the plastic tray and only one square is open. (Slide this day of teaching here, to add this rehearsal in there. Shift this event here, to take that gig there …)

Currently, I am working on scheduling a vocal improv workshop in Duluth. (It will be in March. *smile*) And while there’s been nothing all that difficult about it, something about moving an idea out of my head and into the world always takes more energy than I expect.

…

Scheduling always brings out our personalities.

Do you say “yes” to everything and then slash and burn later. (Making you feel flaky and overwhelmed.)

Do you ignore most requests so you don’t have to decide? (Making you feel wishy-washy or rude.)

Do you decide things about your schedule but fail to tell anyone? (Keeping you in control, but others in the dark)

How do you react when things “come up?” Are you flexible or rigid? Excited or irritated? Do you leave room in your schedule for things to change?

(How about just making sure there’s time in your schedule to rest and recharge?)

…

I have discovered that scheduling needs to be equal parts planning and improvisation. Yes, you have to pick a date, but you have to be willing to change it.

Allowing for two things to work in opposite directions (or toward opposite end results) simultaneously is what we call an antagonistic relationship. And while on the surface, this may seem crazy making, it is actually a way to find balance and control.

…

Take singing for example.

We use the antagonism of certain muscle groups to our benefit all the time when we sing.

The muscles of the rib cage and the muscles of the abdomen work in opposition to better control and coordinate the release of the diaphragm, an ongoing tug of war takes place between the muscles that make the vocal folds longer and thinner and the muscles that make them shorter and thicker.

This opposition is natural and necessary.

When we train our voices, we work to build coordination between muscles that are designed to work in opposition. When we improvise, we balance our skills and knowledge against the unknown and our willingness to be surprised.

When we schedule, we need to fix dates in order for things to become real and, at the same time, be willing to adjust those dates when real life enters the picture and necessitates changes.

When we let these opposite ideas act simultaneously, we can find our balance.