Recently I was asked whether I've done any singing since I became a mom. My knee jerk (or should I say voice jerk) reaction was to say "oh no, I don't have time right now...I just sing to Elliot sometimes". As I offered this pretentious response with an aire (singing pun intended) of humility, a nightlight-voltage light bulb turned on in my head. I thought "wait, doesn't singing to my son count????".
I spent what some would call the most formative adult years of my life (age 16 to 22ish) toiling away in practice rooms, desperately yearning to reach the pinnacle of success for a classical singer: a career as an opera performer. Starting in high school, I worked my opera-singer sized booty off to become the best soprano I could be. I took weekly voice lessons. I spent my evenings (OK every other evening if I'm honest - I never did practice enough) vocalizing on every vowel sound in the romantic languages, at every tempo and on every pitch I could physically produce. Ambitious as this may sound, I probably worked 10% as hard as most professional singers do. Because classical singing is nothing short of a sport; a complex, demanding, and mysterious sport that requires an intricate dance of fine-tuned yet invisible muscles.
The story of my decision to leave the opera path behind would fill a novel-length (and very tediously self-absorbed) blog entry. So instead I will sum it up in 1 short list. I left the opera path for these reasons:
1) while I do have a good voice, I don't have the vocal stamina or emotional drive to sing for a living. In short, I just don't have the chops.
2) I wanted to settle down in one place and have a family.
3) Although performing is fulfilling, and sometimes even enthralling, it just stresses me out too much. I knew I wasn't cut out for a performance career when I landed a lead role in Steven Sondheim's "Passion" at the Eastman Opera Theater (with a steamy sex scene to boot) and my primary reactions were panic and anxiety.
Since I left that world behind, it's been difficult to find the right place for music in my life. I'm sure many of my trained singer friends would agree. I've oscillated between extremes: from supporting myself entirely through music-related jobs (church gigs and teaching) to avoiding musical activities altogether. While I don't think there's a perfect answer, one thing I'm learning is that I shouldn't stew in a sulky soprano silence while waiting for the perfect solo opportunity to present itself.
The most fulfilling musical moments I've had in the past year or so have sprung up in the most humble and intimate circumstances; when my mother-in-law and I sang "Amazing Grace" at my Grandma-in-law's bedside moments before she let go of this world, or in the sparsely populated dining room of my Grandmother's nursing home, where I sang "Smoke gets in Your Eyes" with the resident physical therapist/pianist and my gleefully growling son. And last but not least, singing to my son in a variety of goofy and absurd contexts: when he's screaming in the backseat of the car, or when he won't drink his bottle because of his feeding issues and the only thing that will keep him sucking contentedly is a coloratura aria.
In short, when I get over myself and get the hell out of the way, my voice can actually do a bit of good in this world. And I know there are other voices out there that have stayed silent for too long (ahem, cough, you know who you are). In many cultures, people sing their way through the day to commemorate both the subtle nuances of daily life and the monumental emotions experienced at weddings and funerals. So why should we singers (trained OR untrained) deprive ourselves of such joy and comfort?
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