In Touch

Hello there, poor neglected little blog. And hello to you, poor neglected little reader. Has it really been over a month since I last sat down to write? Tut tut. I’ve been caught up in a web of work to do, as well as my customary brooding. Let me explain.

First, I was busy with recital prep, then the event itself, and the inevitable post-recital funk. Then planning for my whirlwind social tour of New York, which involved visiting with no fewer than nine friends (ten including the baby) plus family, and having long, excited conversations on such topics as life plans, relationships, careers, heartbreak, etc. I’m zonked. I won’t regale you with summaries of all those girlfriend bonding sessions, why don’t I just talk about me for a change. :-)

Grief counselors have identified Five Stages of Recital Preparation:

1. Denial: “The recital’s in two weeks?”
2. Anger: “I hate this music, I hate my harpsichordist, I hate you….”
3. Bargaining: “Why do I have to do this? Can’t someone else sing the thing instead?”
4. Depression: “I can’t do this. I’m the worst singer in the world. And I think I’m getting fat.”
5. Acceptance: “I am going to sing this and it’s going to be fabulous and lots of fun. Dammit.”

But go through with it I did, and I even lived to talk about it. It was probably the first performance I gave where I didn’t get tired of hearing my own voice towards the end of the program, or worry if people were bored. I earned high praise from a prof whose heart I’ve been trying to win (professionally speaking, absolutely), and my biggest fan, which would be my Dad, was ever-proud. Then again, he would be proud if all I did was step on the stage and sneeze.

I was a duck out of water for the first week or so after the concert, not knowing what to do with myself or what music to work on. I had lived with some of this rep for close to a year, and as much as I was eager to bring it to performance, I knew I would be reluctant to leave those songs behind, as if they were old friends. But, the 90-minute concert came and went, there is no more work to be done on it, and the music is shelved and put away. But I still sing the tunes to myself, with the lusty nostalgia of recalling an old affair. Now it’s on to new music, new opportunities, and the next steps.

Back in New York, I was touching base with people I consider close friends. Now that I’m out of town, seeing them for a few hours feels like precious moments, as we try to squeeze in a life update since my last visit. Granted, now that I have to make an effort to see these folks I get in some good quality time, and in fact, I might see them more frequently now than when I was living in town. But still, I wonder how long and how deep these long-distance friendships can run.

Friendships, unlike pieces of music, require constant upkeep, attention, care, and feeding. I try to stay close to my long distance friends, but on any given day, there is a finite number of “Hi, how are you” emails I can write. And I think that even in person I can estrange myself from my companions, perhaps with the self-obsession that singers cultivate. Already in my short time in Boston there have been some goodbyes.

Whatever happened to those Dutch girls who visited me a while ago? Or the German relatives I met only once? Or my politics professor who I adored. Or my college friends who have moved far away. Or my tenuous friendships with old coworkers. And what about that certain young man, who perhaps right now is finishing his workday at the office where I used to greet him, turning towards home past castles and pine trees that seem to float above the skyline.

Maybe I’ll look them up the next time I’m in town. Maybe we’ll get together for beers and smiles and it will be as if we never were apart. Maybe we’ll beat the odds and reunite after years of no contact and eventually claim that we’ve known each other for most of our lives.

Or maybe we won’t. Maybe I’ll just make new friends. And eventually leave them too.