Fine, I’ll Admit It: I Hate Relaxing

I've been blogging about my new lifestyle lately and how much I love it. In reading over my blog posts I realize that I’ve been promoting an unrealistic aspect of my new life: that I'll be spending more time luxuriating around, tending to my fragile psyche, and taking it easy. However, reviewing my actions reveals my almost violent reaction to relaxtion. Here's how it goes: I notice I'm stressed out. I'll mandate a time out. I'll sit down for ten minutes, but shortly thereafter I lose my mind completely and spring back into action.

Truth be told: I hate relaxing. Unless I’m being massaged or watching a movie, I have to be doing something productive. I'm well aware this is detrimental to a healthy life, but wouldn’t forcing myself to relax yet feeling as if restricted to a straight-jacket while I salivate over all the projects I could be pursuing instead also cause massive amounts of stress?

For example, one of my professors this year was a man I could see myself becoming. He worked full time as head of international finance for a national bank, simultaneously pursuing his PhD, hopping on international business flights weekly, and teaching at a business school in his “free” time. I envied his ability to multi-task and excel.

Then one week he cancelled class due to suffering a massive heart attack, (a few years prior he had successfully battled cancer) yet he led class the following week. Why? Doesn’t that sound crazy? No. His doctor recommended it because he thought his chances of having a second heart attack were greater if he took time off to relax. The doctor knew this man was not the type to sit around recovering and might combust if he couldn’t have his hands in the honey pots of his pet projects.

While I admired all this professor has accomplished, the giant blaring danger signs couldn't be overlooked. Cancer? Hypertension? These were not the accompaniments to the exciting life I imagined.

Quitting my full-time job obviously led to a drastic reduction in committments, but what I didn't anticipate was the craving to fill my calendar right back up with new ones. I'm like a project-junkie. Your problems...mine? I'll try to fix them, just after I'm done with dinner.

Presh Talwalkar, of Mind Your Decisions, wrote a fantastic post recently on his experiences with anger. He indicated that he used to be an angry person, exploding at employees, and even enjoying the power and results that came with it. However, he also said he recognized the detrimental effects his behavior was having on his work relationships, mind, and body. From there he set about to change. He illustrated his tendency towards anger was nothing more than a habit that needed breaking and he was successful in doing so.

I believe we can change. Like Holly Hoffman of WorkLoveLife, who documents her struggles with alcohol and the change she has gone through to quit her dependency. She is a clear example that we get to choose change. Our habits don't have to run our lives. Our habits are things we are used to, they feel right, but that doesn't mean they are right. Just because including time to relax isn't in my habitual mode of operation, doesn’t mean it isn’t necessary for me to be healthy.

Intuitively I know what I need to do. I think that is why so many religious traditions include prayer, meditation, and contemplation as part of their rituals. It makes sense. Someone who is in control of their reactions to their thoughts and emotions and is going to be a better, happier, and healthier person.

Subscribe to Shouting to Quiet the Thunder to see if I end up in a straight-jacket any time soon.

How Good Do You Need It?

There is a catch phrase that has been floating around self-improvement circles for years.

How Good Can You Stand It?

Like other overused mantras pushed by self-actualization gurus, it makes my skin crawl when I hear it. It is meant to urge you to conjure up images of your better, happier, or richer self, a day, week, or year from now. Come on, picture it, how good can you stand it? Do you want that pool, that wife? Do you want the Benjamins or the accolades? The guru leads you down a path where you mind-map with your inner child and then cleanse your spirit to help you discover what stops you.

Put down the Robbins or Chopra book now, what is stopping you is simple and normal. It’s not because you got beat up in second grade, or experienced birthing trauma. It’s that your needs must be met first.

You forgo the pool teeming with hotties because you need to eat. You don’t put time into a great relationship because you need to work and perhaps all you can muster is some drunken trysts on the weekend. You don’t excel in your job because you need to be at the hospital with an ailing friend or relative.

Just so we’re clear, I’m not placing a value judgement on any of your needs or wants. I could care less if you’d rather leave the ailing aunt for the poolside beauty – it’s your life, your call, not mine. I'm only saying that many of our psychological struggles with "What should I do next??" can come when we replace our needs with our wants. I believe this mindset is a major stumbling block to a healthy, happy life.

For example, when I was in high school I convinced my mother I needed to take the day off school and camp out for Beastie Boys tickets, oh, and I needed a new outfit to do it.

Yes, I’m comparing us to the crude example of a whiny teen. We are no different. Whatever we perceive or have created as our most immediate need will take over every time.

So when we read a guru's advice, and think he's got the key and say, "What I really need is to work 80 hours a week instead of 60, so that I can be up for the VP-ship when it rolls around next time." We should then temper our enthusiasm, put on our reality caps and ask, "Even if it will help me achieve my long-term goals, is it right?" You might win a stellar job, but will you pay the price with your sanity?

I’ve talked about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, and think about it whenever I feel like I’m not performing up to my imagined standards. I remind myself that my base needs are primal: food, water, safety. I love that relationships are next. That is an area I ignore then wonder why I feel empty.

By focusing on my needs, I found the courage to quit my job and I am satisfied stopping at love these days. Loving myself, stealing more time from work and projects to spend with family and friends, though it's not as frequent as I'd like. I’m learning to stop focusing on the peak of that stupid pyramid. But it’s the peak we’re all told to focus on. We start to neglect the foundations.

I used to have a good friend, we’ll call him Joe. Joe kept that pyramid peak in the front-most of his mind since his youth. The self-image he created, no doubt with other familial and societal influence, was to be rich. More specifically, he would tell you, "Make six figures by the time he was 30." Since middle school, Joe prepped himself for this life. Joe joined the clubs that would look best for college entrance, won internships for placement in more prestigious internships. His Ivy League pedigrees have scored him jobs like you see in movies where you have to sell your soul to the devil to get them. He's worth it too, he hands competition their ass on a platter every time. He is a huge success by many standards.

However, Joe revealed to me years ago on a break from his Wall Street gig that he felt as if, indeed, “He no longer had a soul.” His skin was pale, he’d gained weight. A few years later I heard his plans to marry fizzled with a broken engagement, and his physical (and I’d argue mental) health began to fail. He was plagued by chronic pain due physical manifestations of stress and underwent major back surgery at 28.

Joe ignored his basic needs for so long that his wants got the best of him.

I’m not sure what Joe is doing today specifically, we don’t talk anymore because our friendship is, embarassingly, beyond repair. I do know Joe got what he wanted. But did he get what he needed?

Don’t ignore your needs. While I don't believe success requires you to sell your soul and crumble from mental and physical exhaustion, I know that risking any fundamental needs will make your success stale and far less enjoyable.

Think about it, wouldn’t you like to be able to swim in that pool, or make love to that hottie without taking blood pressure meds and visiting the physical therapist the next day?

When Faced With Two Choices, What To Do??

I am a big fan of Naomi Dunsford of IttyBiz, so I hope she’ll forgive me for this half-assed reference to her brilliance, but I think she said something like, when you are trying to decide what to do next (regarding your home business) do what is closest to the money.

If I’ve slaughtered the sentiment, forgive, I couldn’t pinpoint the original reference on her site, so I’ve only her to blame for the a plethora of excellent content through which to scour.

While I think that is a wonderful way to frame your day for productivity and success, I have a tendency to run wild with great ideas until I've run myself into the ground. If you are anything like me, whether you work for yourself (as I happily do now) or someone else, at any given moment, you can do what is closer to the money or to the sanity. Though there are moments when the actions you take bring about both, I believe they are at odds most of the time. Even if you love what you do. For example, I’m a singer and private voice teacher. I’m a part time grad student. I’m a stay at home wife. I’m a blogger. I love these activities, and only one pays cold hard cash.

Therein lies my dilemma. If I want to be productive, I will spend all my time studying, or getting gigs and students. When I'm itching to follow this yellow-brick path of productivity promises, that’s when a Wizard of Oz-type figure looms before me and booms: Remember, your job or money was never the inherent problem; you are.

Then I skulk off and ruminate on how I'm doomed to find myself in the same situation I just left at my full-time job: haggard and uninspired. I gently remind myself that money can’t buy sanity. It provides for basic needs and the occasional jolly good time. If I want a sane and healthy life, I have to find balance. I have to shift my focus to taking care of myself, which may mean giving up a few bucks.

For example, right now, if I wanted to do what is closest to the money, I would stop writing this post, and work on my home business. I'd post “quality content” on my other blog about singing, design the ad for a program I bought space in, drum up business from referrals, research new ways to advertise in my area.

If I wanted to do what was closest to the sanity, I’d finish this post, bake a batch of chocolate chip cookies, take a long walk, then start preparing dinner.

Which did I choose? Well, if you are reading this, I think you know.

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Finding My New Path in Life

It’s been a long time since I've sat at my home computer to write, what feels like ages in blogging terms where communication moves so fast you feel like a slug if you respond in less than 24 hours. I’m back from a vacation in the countries of the former Yugoslavia, the lands of my ancestors, the cities my father lived and walked, the places he took my mother during their courtship.

This trip has been life changing and life affirming. It has been a salve, and a glue. It felt like a month, but was two short weeks. I climbed mountains spilling over with waterfalls, ventured into caves, toured the Adriatic coast of Croatia and glacial lakes of Slovenia, I traveled the serpentine roads of war-ravaged Bosnia, I spoke to the people in their language. I ate the food, drank the wine, danced the dances. The whole shebang.

I had the time of my life. I wrote a post recently about how change is not affecting me like it used to, but change is continuing to happen, almost against my will. It’s exciting, but for the first time I’m accepting change with a peace and calm previously unknown. I don’t know if it is because I’m older, married, making tough career decisions, or saw my father pass away. I don’t know if these life passages make change easier or what. I don’t know if it’s a natural progression. I only know I’ve never felt this way.

I feel like I’m stepping into a completeness I never imagined I would have. Not because it's not possible, but because it's reserved for people a bit more sane than I. More deserving. I don’t know if it’s because I’m embracing faith, I don’t know if it’s because I’m letting old wounds heal, I don’t know if it’s because I’m letting hackneyed arguments fade. I don’t know.

I don’t know why I feel this way. It feels incredible, yet mundane. Still. Of this world. Grounded in reality. Whole and contented. On the right path.

Is it because I’ve strayed from myself for so long, that this is what it feels like to be true to myself? Is this what all those writers I’d been drawn to my whole life also experienced and wanted to share, and I’d rail against them in disbelief? Is this what my parents had wanted for me? Is this what I’ve always wanted and now it’s here?

I’m reluctant to say yes. I’m scared that an affirmation will break the spell. You know, like when you are told to make a wish which will only come true if you promise not to breathe a word of it? I’m frightened that if I tell you that I’ve become happy that it will all fizzle and fade because I’ve courted fear and forboding for so long.

I don’t expect to be floating on a bliss-cloud forever. But even drudgery feels different. The bad experiences I have had lately don’t feel like they were tailor-made to crush and beat me down. They feel more like the natural bumps on the path of a well-worn life. This is the point. I’m back on the path. I’m moving forward. I’m not stopped and stuck on the side of the road, seeing life ahead and refusing to go with it. I got back on my horse.

Thinking of riding off into the sunset too? Subscribe to Shouting to Quiet the Thunder, cowboys and girls…

Time Off

I quit my job little over 30 days ago, my last day was this week. It was the act of courage that inspired my thirty day twittering exercise, though I didn’t write about it at the time because I wasn’t sure how things would shake out. The news has since worked its way through everyone’s system, most importantly, mine.

For the past two years I’ve worked full time while going to grad school; slowing cutting back on things I loved doing in my free time, and spending more time away from my family and new marriage.

I’m proud of all I’ve accomplished, and yet, I’m worn thin by a hectic lifestyle and have a lot of regrets. I quit, not because I dislike my job, or the opportunities it affords; I quit because it was the most responsible decision. No matter how great a job you have, it’s never worth your well-being or relationships. It's so easy to say now that I'm on the other side of the gut-wrenching decision I took too long to make.

I suppose I clung to a promise that going at this pace would lead to financial success. I have equated self-worth with my earning potential since I could first work. Always proud of my 2 to 4 job-at-a-time status, work has been the safety basket that I had been putting all my golden eggs in, believing that I would eventually keep my family from financial ruin. This cheap myth composed by a young, frightened girl was shattered when my father died just over six months ago.

Any fool can become a millionaire if they sacrifice enough. Sure I’d excel, but to what end? To a fault. I devote myself so completely to my commitments that I have trouble choosing what is best for me. And I don’t want to be that person anymore. Workaholic, obsessive, unhealthy, frazzled.

My father's death left me broken, but with a great gift: cancer has a way of breaking down belief systems. Nothing is the same now. And frankly, my job doesn’t compare. No amount of raises, promotions, or overtime would have prevented his stroke or given me more time with him.

I quit my job. The world didn’t end. Time didn’t stop. The only person crying was me. Like my family members, my boss and co-workers expressed surprise, concern, and then excitement and understanding. We all adjusted to the new input and went about business as usual.

A delicate balance lies ahead. I’m well aware that my workaholic tendencies could easily translate into my new roles. I know myself well, and I’ll be writing about the ways I trick myself out of it. I’m open to suggestions too.

Smell the roses.

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I Don't Care What I Think

I haven’t written for writing’s sake in a while. I feel so compelled to say something useful all the time now that I’m running ads and my posts are featured on Brazen Careerist. Too bad my most useful and benign article to date, “How to Survive a Bike Ride” brought on the most wrath. It left me confused, dejected, wondering…“How, oh how, can I make everyone happy?”

Oh yeesh, not really. But I had a moment when I realized I took my blog, the one thing I’ve committed to lately that had been unstructured, fun, a love song to the things I hate, and turned it into another pet project for perfection.

Why do I do this? Why the manipulation? Why do I parade myself around on a stage for my own approval? Even the mean comment guy is long gone. He probably can’t even remember my URL, God knows he didn’t favorite me. I can see him feverishly typing into Google: “Yelling into a Quiet Storm?” No no. “Crying in a Breezy Nook?”

He’ll never find me now.

I started this blog to give myself an outlet for the massive pain and regret I experienced over the last year. Writing has always given me sanity. Publishing it online gave me a reason to fight for it. My dad died, and I was running out of ways to say, “I’m sad.” And I started writing because I couldn’t bear talking anymore. I couldn’t have one more conversation about how depressed I was. I couldn’t make my husband sit still while I verbally vomited all over him. I couldn’t chat with my friends and lie about how I was doing OK. So I started writing. I started reading other blogs and writing mean comments on the happy posts about possibilities. I kept doing this until I decided I was kind of an asshole and perhaps life as I knew it wasn’t over.

I convinced my husband I would have a nervous breakdown if I didn’t quit my job. Oh, wait, scratch that – he convinced me. I refused for a long time. Then I realized he was right.

And now, I’m sitting here, semi-jobless ('cause I have approximately 5), happy, and hopeful. I'll write all about my miraculous transformation (and it's seed) some other time, because right now, I'm content enough to bask in it. I don't need to prove to anyone how, why, or when it came about. I'm thrilled I made an informed, adult decision with my well-being in mind.

I laugh because I never imagined I would be happy and hopeful about a me that is a slightly fatter and less prepared for retirement than I was a year ago. But I don’t care! I mean, I care in that I’ll try to cut down on the cookies, and I’ll make a plan for my life, but I’m not going to hate myself and settle into the depression where I’ve always felt the most comfortable. It’s just not for me anymore. At least for today and that’s all I’ve got.

Housework, Inner Work

I have the day off today. I had the intention of using it to study for my final exam, but that was rescheduled for next week because of all the Midwest power-outages, my school hasn’t had power all week.

So I started cleaning the house, which is in a constant state of disarray. I woke up this morning and felt like the storm had hit the inside of our house. Clothing strewn everywhere, dishes in every room, blankets draped upon every couch and chair (I carry them around the house which is kept at below freezing levels for my husband.)

I began to go through stacks of papers that have piled up throughout the last year.

The last year. The last fucking year. I hate this year. I hate the past 365 days. It was probably around this time last year my sister sat at dinner with me and said, “I think there might be something wrong with Daddy.” I, ever the skeptic, shrugged it off. He’s superman. I actually thought of the Ouija board game I used to play as a young girl. Of course I asked when my parents would die. I had memorized the age my father would die. 86. That sounded fair. Not 60. Fucking Ouija board.

Please don’t misunderstand. I also love this year. I love the growth, I love the love I have in my marriage, the support of friends and family. I have had remarkable, miraculous things happen.

These states can co-exist. But like a Michigan summer storm, when hot air meets a cold front, raging winds and rain burst through without warning. And this has been my inner state, sometimes my happy life collides with a broken piece of my past and a turbulent, fierce, and fascinating emotional rollercoaster emerges.

Today’s was finding stacks of papers, piles of my life, waiting for me to return and say, “This is complete.” I leave them there because…I cannot go through my house, my new house, with my new husband without finding my father there. A pile of my sheet music revealed some administrative form with his name on it. Even going through my bathroom, my drawer of nail supplies reveals the kit he bought me at the mall one day, you know, those booths where they shine your nails? He bought me and my sister a kit of nail buffers and hand lotion.

He was so excited about it too. He was so thrilled with the buff and shine technology. He showed us how on his own thumbnail. I remember, looking at his manly, rough, and weathered hand, with the one glossy thumbnail. I miss that. I miss him. I cannot get over that he’s gone.

I know I’ve probably said all I can say out loud about missing him. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still feel it. Every day. I may not notice it as much because it’s all part of the landscape. He is gone. But his absence is real. It is now a living thing. I don’t know if anyone knows what I’m talking about, but if you’ve lost someone you love, I’m guessing you do.

The ache does not disappear, it just integrates itself. Like if they cut off your arm. You would know, every day for the rest of your life it is gone. You have to do everything differently, you are not the same, even though you do the same things. You might even be able to do more, in some odd way. Death doesn’t impose limitations. It expands you. It shows you a part of yourself that has remained hidden, because you haven’t yet needed it.

Sometimes I can’t handle his absence. Sometimes I just wish he’d come back, as if he’s been on a vacation for too long. Sometimes I’m angry, sometimes I’m guilty.

And today, he’s everywhere with me in this house. I’m alone, and he is here.

A Married Girl’s Guide to Staying That Way

A few posts caught my attention over the last few days, all posing questions about marriage.

How do you know when you’ve found "the one"?

Why get married? Does it serve a purpose?

Would a Seven Year Contract make more sense than Lifelong commitment?

My own parents divorced when I was in college. In fact, I supported the decision. They were unhappy, so I figured, why not break it off? In retrospect, my views as an immature 19 year old were pretty much worthless. Today I would have a different opinion, but as we mature, we learn from our past to inform our futures.

Since I’m happily married and intend to stay that way, I thought I’d offer my views on what makes a marriage successful. I’m approaching my 9 month wedding anniversary, so many of you will feel tempted to smack me for broaching this subject, but I’ve witnessed successful marriages, and I’ve been lucky to have great examples to follow. Plus, I want to hear from you too, what do you think it takes to stay happily married? Here are my thoughts:

1. Don’t Demonize Each Other. When I first moved in with Mike after our engagement, I was comfortable complaining about the slightest inconvenience, until I realized how annoying I was to live with. A humbling experience is when you complain to your husband about his beard trimmings in the sink and then he points out your wicked habit of leaving empty paper bags all over the house. All. Over. The. House. I never knew I did that. If you were to walk in our house right now – I can guarantee you’d trip over a bag and there will be some beard hairs on the sink. But we’ve learned to accept a few of each other’s quirks and save the battles for things that really matter.

2. Make All Your Decisions As a Team. When Mike mentioned this bedrock of his parent’s marriage I was baffled. “You mean, the person closest at hand didn’t just decide?” As a child I would ask permission from whichever parent I thought would grant me a wish. That’s how I ended up enraging my mother with a waterbed purchase in high school, or how my dad was often blindsided by expenses for lessons or camps my mom might sign me up for. When you are both in on a decision, it will be better for the marriage and bring you closer, helping distill to what is critical. Mike might want to buy a new guitar or I might want to quit my job to become a yoga instructor, but together we are more likely include and understand the impact on the other person, not just pursue what will give us our jollies.

3. But You Say He’s Just a Friend. What do you do when the guy in your office wants to go running after work, or the woman at the coffee shop has an extra ticket to the basketball game? Do you say yes? This might sound painfully obvious to some, but I swear I see it all the time. “Oh, we’re just friends.” Here’s a whopping clue: your new playmate wants to sleep with you, steal your money, or both. You might be flattered that even when you’re “off the market” people can’t seem to keep their grubby mugs off of you, or you might be genuinely oblivious. Either way, it can lead to trouble, so just say no. If you need to befriend someone for networking purposes, find a nonchalant way to work your spouse into the conversation, or have him/her meet up with you at some point once business is taken care of. Nothing screams commitment like meeting it face to face.

4. Don’t EVER Say Mean Things About Your Spouse’s Family Members. Ever. Even if your wife tells you all the time she hates her parents, or your husband wants to strangle his brother (neither example autobiographical) don’t get comfortable spouting your own opinions about your spouse’s relations. Like them or not, these are the people who made your better half who they are today. If you have an issue with a family member, find a tactful way to raise your concerns. Never come outright and say, “Your dad is a total idiot.” It’s not okay. Think of a time someone has done that to you? I bet you didn’t like it. In fact, I almost got into a fist fight with a woman who called my mom a bitch. We had words. Very public words. Don’t go there.

5. Pretend You Met Today. Challenge yourself to discover new things about your significant other. What would you say to strike up conversation if they were a total stranger? Since I’m a newlywed, a lot of my old friends are still meeting Mike for the first time and they’ll grill him with questions I haven’t yet covered! For example, it’s exciting to hear his views on art history, or the time he went to a poetry slam in Chicago, things I know nothing about, so wouldn't have thought to ask. I try to ask questions beyond the, “Hey, how was work?” and get him to talk about ideas, feelings, or impressions.

These are the ideas I feel have made a difference in my marriage so far. The bottom line is a successful marriage takes work, acquiring skills, and paying attention to keep it that way, just like any other worthwhile venture.

I’d love to hear more great ideas, examples, or stories of successful relationships. Married people aren’t the only ones with something to offer either. Speak up:

What are other ideas you use with your significant other, partner or spouse?

If you are single, or divorced, what are some things you feel kept relationships from being successful?

Mama Bear and The Undefinable in Marriage

Tonight I earned the nickname Mama Bear.
Tonight I may have saved my husband's life, or at least a couple thousand in band equipment.

A friend who had witnessed the onslaught said, "You had a moment."

But before I launch into the story, let me take a quick moment to Thank God ('cause I do things like that, okay?)

1. Thank you no one got hurt.
2. Thank you for adrenaline.

It probably sounds like I ran into a burning building. I didn't.

But first, let me ask you this:

If one moment you were happily singing songs on a balmy summer night, in the courtyard of a bustling restaurant, and a moment later, rain starts streaming sideways, and when you turn around to tell your husband to stop playing, a giant table umbrella is launched by gales of wind with the steel pole directed towards his head, what would you do?

Witnesses told me I flew. One customer looked at me shocked, "You were fast!" My friend claims I started the whole thing. Apparently I went into some sort of psycho-heroic-trance. Maybe I'm giving myself too much credit. I didn't grasp the umbrella mid-air or anything. It got wedged on a table, but another had flown on top of restaurant roof, and objects were still being hurtled through space.

I wasn't really thinking, all I know is that I had an intense feeling of, "Holy shit, my husband." And even though his friend and a couple of restaurant staffers were helping him gather equipment, and even though he urged me to stay inside, my body simply wouldn't let me do it. All I could think was, "We're a team." It was instinct.

I know what I experienced is not rare. We've heard of mothers lifting cars to save their children, but it's rare to be in the situation oneself. I feel silly carrying on about it, but the truth of the matter is, there had been tornado warnings all day and it was plausible that one was heading in our direction. I suppose I thought in the flash of fury that I couldn't bear to spend my final moments watching my husband be eaten up by a tornado - I'd have to be with him.

What I'm saying is, I get it now. In those situations, you don't think - you just do. I also think that something that is fundamentally "you" informs your brain's subconscious decisions.

Make a leap with me. The part that was "me" that informed my decision to go back into gusting winds was my husband. There was every reason to stay inside. He was being helped, and I might have even been getting in the way. But that is love. That is marriage. That is the undefinable I think Adam Gilbert has been searching for in his last post. Why get married? Who the fuck knows, to be honest, but all I know is that when I saw that man, in the rain, wind, and flying objects, I had to be out there with him.

I'd wager that we'd all respond similarly, that in a time of crisis, what we value most becomes instantly, startlingly clear. It is simplified to its most primal form. This is evidenced by all the other people who ran back outside to gather things. They all valued something out in the rain more than comfort, dryness, and safety.

Maybe I'm reading into things. Maybe I'm still drunk and high on adrenaline.

Maybe it's time for bed. Goodnight.

Think Twice About That Education...

I understand that some fields require a specific degree as a passcard, but the more I know about and experience education, the more I think the current system is ineffective for many people.

This article, America's Most Overrated Product: the Bachelor's Degree from The Chronicle has some fascinating statistics and observations about the massive amount of people who bust their butts and drain their savings to earn college degrees – when they probably shouldn’t. It won’t pay off in the long run. Not because an education isn’t valuable, but sometimes it’s not as valuable as those whose hyped-up penchant for an enlightened society would have you believe.

To illustrate, my undergraduate degree in voice performance and comparative literature was a four and a half year pricey musical and literary tryst. There was a piano in every classroom and for final exams I would sing songs, or dress up and put on plays. I used to swoon over graduate assistants spewing over Beethoven and wrote papers about my visions of glistening moonlit pools upon hearing Debussy. I cheered on the academic parade of nonsense being taught: vociferous lesbians whose research exposed the underpinnings of female sexual repression in American folk music, or Buddhist vegan professors devoted to the obliteration of the self through short stories and the study of zen.

What I actually came to accomplish was to learn how to sing, and how to pursue it as a career.

Unfortunately I was too young and inexperienced to realize I wasn’t getting those tools as I romped from class to class. It probably won’t shock anyone that there wasn't a single course offered on the business aspects of a career in music.

I would be remiss to leave readers thinking I felt I learned nothing of value. Quite the opposite, I became drunk on fascinating information and relished each minute of my studies. It was electric to be able to say, "I'm studying to be an opera singer" and rattle off the roles I'd be singing soon. However, studying to be an opera singer is very different from the work of becoming a living, breathing, fiscally solvent performer.

My most valuable education came after I graduated. I experienced the painstaking trial and error of proper vocal study, bargained with my dreams of stardom versus the realities of needing a steady corporate paycheck, moving in with my parents and wondering how I was going to make a satisfying life for myself.

Though my degree was clearly irrelevant, I got an awesome job at a Fortune 500 company and immersed myself in the practical and grounded world of finance. Now I'm halfway through my Master's in Finance, and enjoying every other minute, but I sometimes wonder, what will I be doing with it that I couldn't do without it? I'm sure a lot of what I'm learning I could have gotten climbing corporate ladders, but I'm hoping to skip some rungs, if not get off the ladder all together. I guess time will tell.

I'm grateful for both paths I've taken - so, what’s the lesson?

To be honest, you may not need an education to be successful. While I'm sure my music studies gave me a great phone voice and confidence in front of a room, they weren't the dealbreakers for my job today. Hard work and dedication to learning industry-specific skills were.

I’m not arguing for the hackneyed college drop-out Steve Jobs illustration - he’s an anomaly, and you are not him. But even though we’re not all destined for genius, we can all be destined for success, with or without undergraduate or advanced degrees. I know a man who pulls seven figures. He boasts his less-than-stellar GPA and giggles about how the A students all work for him now. He’s not vindictive, he’s right. Not all career paths warrant a costly education, or academic perfection. I think that if know your shit and work your ass off and you’ll be just fine.

Hoping for a real education? Then Subscribe to Shouting to Quiet the Thunder. That'll learn ya.

Afraid of Change? Don’t Worry, You Won’t Feel a Thing

We fear the pain of change like a child who first visits the Doctor’s office. He imagines he will be impaled Count Dracula style by a huge needle, rather than the barely perceptible sting when the nurse surprises him with a pin-prick.

We fear change in its anticipated, not actual, effects. Penelope Trunk has written of the importance of making a choice, any choice, whether or not we can muscle out an imaginary outcome.

In that spirit, I have embarked on a thirty day campaign, twittering my acts of courage. I could use some ideas by the way. However, I’m noticing something interesting every time I perform a feat of courage. I don’t feel a thing.

No matter how drastic the act, no earth-shattering response follows, despite my hyped-up expectations. The last time I wrestled with a bout of change (and it was a while ago) I remember feeling a high.

In fact, I used to be a change junkie, flitting from one self improvement venture to the next. I used to be convinced the world was a better place with me in it, eating “I can change the world!” bullshit for breakfast. I feverishly read eastern and western religious and philosophical tomes, pop-psych favorites, attended seminars, top-notch schools, traveled and studied abroad, changed my hair, my clothes, my body, my relationships; mistaking such activities as substitutes for my own and everyone else’s, happiness.

Despite having access to all the opportunities to change in the world as an educated middle class white woman in America, I was miserable. Once I realized the changes I was making couldn’t satisfy me, I stopped. I stagnated. I melted into a pool of sameness and began to wallow in it.

Then last year, I got married and my father died, all within a 5 week time frame. You don’t need a PhD to know these events will change you, more accurately, break you.

Into a million pieces. Completely.
Put yourself back together. Again.
Learn how to truly change. Finally.

What I’ve learned:

You don’t need feelings for change. Your emotions are a highly inaccurate barometer for decision making and assessing the quality of your results.

You don’t need to have certainty or predictable outcomes. Even the best-laid plans must be malleable, to the point they may become unrecognizable.

You must be patient, and dare I say it, have faith. Making a change is the first, and easiest, step. Having the patience to withstand the time to fruition is a lifelong pursuit, and having faith that everything’s gonna be alright, well, that’s courage.

You can change too, start by doing something different, like subscribing to Shouting to Quiet the Thunder...

Rare Advice for Falling in Love

As a madly in love, happily married woman who recently (and I think successfully) hooked up two of her single friends, I have garnered priceless love data. I have researched my findings with other happily married or otherwise paired couples and I'm willing to share now that I've tested it on someone else.

1. Go for Quantity, Not Quality: If you are still single and looking for love, you need to go on as many dates as humanly possible. You need to ask your friends, co-workers, and yes, even your parents to hook you up. Try internet dating. As long as you meet in public, with whom it matters not. Like the efficient market theory, I believe in the efficient dating theory: that eventually by wading through all the crap you will find a priceless commodity, the one you don't trade up for because you've found a mate that will make your love equity skyrocket.

2. Hold Your Tongue: Like having sex on the first date, learn to say “No” to sharing the first thing that comes to mind in the frenzy of feelings that ensues when you first think you’ve found The One. Learn to walk the fine line between intimacy and annoyance. After a week or so, we tend to get comfortable, clingy, and our feelings get hurt if The One isn't following the puppetry of our expectations. That's when things start getting weird. Just don't say anything. I don't mean lie, or withhold important matters. Simply, don't be quick to judge or harshly opine with your new mate. You don't know anything about them, and be assured, though you find their beard trimming habits tragic, or their politics dismal, they will find your inability to leave the house without doubling back three times, or affinity for sci-fi equally horrendous.

3. No More Hairy Eyeball: You'll know you are in love when you are out and about, oblivious to glances from other potential suitors. I can say with assurance (sorry guys) that with every other boyfriend, I'd still be receptive to flirting with other guys. However, it all went away when I was dating my husband. It was like other men no longer existed in time and space. And on the off chance that my eyes met theirs, instead of getting all tingly inside, I'd laugh. A maudlin laugh as if seeing a sad clown, knowing that he could never capture my attention when I'd already got it so good.

4. Bridge Burning: Probably the most significant, and cathartic revelation in love is when you willingly, and happily, remove remnants from the wayward past you shared with various exes. I recommend gleefully cheering "Burn those bridges!" as you proceed. Deleting old phone numbers and ridiculous love emails is a delight, mementos you couldn’t bear to toss are now donated without mourning, and the only photos you keep are group shots or events you want to remember, not the singular poses of a beloved that used to arouse your affection. They now leave you unstirred.

Learn from me because I once was a bitter single woman. Painfully existing through the solitude of ice cream binges and Law & Order marathons alone. Ice cream and Law & Order are just so much better with a husband to share them.

Go get a room.

Or if you are not ready for commitment, try a small step, like subscribing to Shouting to Quiet the Thunder.

Honor Thy Tiredness

I am starting to believe the term “mid-afternoon slump” is a fairy tale phrase devised by marketing execs for energy bar and beverage companies alike to get you to buy their crap for a sugar or caffeine high to make it through your grueling day. Similar to how the word cellulite didn’t exist until the 1970’s so companies could begin hawking thigh creams and exercise regimens; the mid-afternoon slump didn’t truly exist either. It had a perfectly good name when you were a child: naptime.

I’m sitting at work, my breathing pattern slowing, my eyelids fighting for the glow of fluorescent lights. Unnerved I think, “Oh no! I’m tired!” As if there is something wrong with me, not my lifestyle. The mid-afternoon slump is natural and should be heeded. It’s your body’s unmistakable way of telling you you do too much. You need renewal, not a Red Bull. When you feel those lids getting heavy, it’s time to get busy – siesta anyone?

There is no concoction out there that can substitute for a healthy, balanced life. No level of electrolytes and vitamins that will truly perk you up. All you’ll get is the equivalent of an old, shlumping woman who’s been propped up with plastic surgery – a disturbing and obvious fake. You know what I’m talking about. That person in your office who is always alarmingly alert as if they are a character on 24: walking fast, talking louder than necessary, hair slightly disheveled, puffy eyes. I’ve been there.

You can also tell the real deal, someone who is rested, satisfied, without the requisite Diet Coke in hand. They are pleasant, calm, and somewhat mysterious in their lack of constant panic. Or maybe they've got prescription drugs. Who knows.

But, I’m beginning to think that people who have a freakish natural ability to sustain long work hours, become envigorated by it, and remain healthy are the work/life balance counterparts of modeling's Giselle Bundchen. God gave her a body that is truly a genetic mistake, beautiful, but a rare occurrence to be sure. One glance at the average body will inform you – not everyone is meant to wear only lingerie to work. Likewise, the average worker is not meant to sustain constant levels of stress over long hours and still feel enlivened by it.

Workers are not all alike. One look at Giselle Bundchen proves it. If you feel stressed and tired, recognize that you've reached your personal setpoint, no matter what all the other cool kids in the office are doing. In the longrun you'll be more productive and healthy.

Six Months to Live

I read an alarmist article in The New York Times yesterday about how blogging is bad for your health. Though I approached it with a wary eye, I raced to the finish to make certain I wasn’t in the category of blogger waiting in line for the reaper.

It’s not that I really had an inkling that blogging would kill me, but that my lifestyle would; which I think was the crux of this author’s misplaced thesis. He was trying to get to the point that high strung people can have a tendency to work themselves to death, and that happens to include people who blog for a living. His argument was mistaking correlation with causation. But that’s neither here nor there…the point is: chasing goals at the expense of a balanced life (whether you are a blogger, an attorney, or a prairie dog farmer) is not good for your well-being.

In what I would consider my formative work years, I had a mentor who would often encourage me to keep my eyes on the prize and proclaim, “You’ll sleep in six months!” Meaning, when I complained of being tired, she reminded me of my deadlines and the day I could finally rest and enjoy the fruits of my labors as a reward. Only six months never, ever came. I’m still waiting. Like waiting for a signal from a lover that you think you’ve finally won over, each time you get a call, a knock on the door, you think your dozen roses has arrived.

So, I’ve been working hard, harder still, and wondering why I'm so tired all the time. All my goals I set out six months more, the problem is, I’ve never stopped to enjoy myself, to sit back and say, “Now that’s a job well done.” With each accomplishment I’ve only perceived marginal success and said, “Well, that’s done…what now?” My frenzy to finish lines all over my life has led me to seek the high of exertion, not the bliss of recovery. I have been chasing dreams, and fantasies of better days, which have limited usefulness if you never complete them by enjoying them.

I have a suspicion that you must become the kind of person who can appreciate themselves, their accomplishments and stop fantasizing that constant work will get you anywhere faster or happier.

In my own experience, it’s led to a world of regret. I know that my relationship with my father is too profound for splitting hairs like, “Well, he missed my high school choir concerts, so it’s okay that I went to work while he had his chemo treatments.” But I do it. Silently in the back of my mind I do it. And I regret it. Big regret. My father lived and worked hard too, I always envied his ability to work, concentrate, achieve. And perhaps he's so much a part of me that it led to me distancing myself during times of tragedy and diving into work when life got tough. This is a reaction many people have. But. I regret it. And perhaps he regretted missing those concerts.

There is an interesting rule of propriety that I recently learned. A manner’s expert said that when you’ve committed a faux pas or major gaffe, the appropriate course of action is to briefly acknowledge and apologize for it, then move on as if everything is normal. Continuing to address your problem with the person you’ve offended will only cause them to feel the need to further comfort you for your mistake, thereby shifting the burden of your impropriety onto them. This is terribly bad taste, she indicates. She accurately points out that everyone feels better when they can just move on with things.

I see a parallel with regret. No one truly sets out to do their worst, that's why we call things "mistakes." And by recognizing where we’ve f-ed up along the way, we can apologize to people or to the Gods, and then set out to correct our life's course. I can sit around and continue to ruminate on my bad choices, but it does my father’s memory a disservice. The appropriate thing is to recognize my mistakes, learn from them, and change. No one wants to hear me apologize and return to business as usual. So, I choose change. Painful, life-renewing change. That’s all we have to live for. My six months is coming. And I mean it this time.

Anatomy of a Singer: Part 3, Art and Death

Previous: Anatomy of a Singer: Part 1, Birth

Anatomy of a Singer: Part 2, Madonna and Me

The multiple directions I traveled ended up leading to great discoveries. I loved opera in small doses, and I prefer art songs, which are short pieces often grouped together presented in a recital or chamber setting. I also got extensive experience as a producer when I led a collaborative effort, The Opera Project, with classmates and faculty to produce a one-act opera for children and tour it in Ann Arbor and eventually throughout Metro Detroit. It was interesting to realize that my greatest thrill in school was not on a stage, but watching a performance come together behind the scenes, received by an enthusiastic crowd of 7-9 year olds and their parents.

Fast forward to today. I still perform and teach regularly. After working with a number of different teachers, I have found one whose patience and technique has helped unlock many of the mysteries of my vocal struggles. She, along with a close singer friend gently remind me that a major barrier to my development at this point is finding time for legitimate practice and release of the biggest enemy to singers, tension.

Tension, though painful, has been a reliable companion. It’s static, solid nature has helped me muscle through the wretched pain of my father’s death; the euphoric plunge into marriage; the pressure of simultaneous work and school commitments.

I no longer admit to wanting to sing to crowds at illustrious venues, though I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t jump at such an opportunity. I think of the great Lorraine Hunt-Lieberson, a woman who I plucked out as my role model after first seeing her perform. I was inspired by her circuitous route to singing fame, emerging in her thirties after working as a professional violist. Her story resonated with me, late in my college career, feeling entirely unprepared to go to graduate school for voice and enter the cutthroat opera world. I simply knew neither I nor my voice was ready, but her example told me it was okay to wait. She died in 2006 of cancer and is credited with major contributions towards advancing the arts of chamber opera and new music.

I’m nearing my personal stop-watch of when I said I’d enter serious singing again. I don’t presume I could attempt Ms. Hunt-Lieberson’s fame, but I refuse to let go of the desire to master the art of singing. I still believe the fledgling thoughts of that young girl singing Imagine. The world will listen to me if I’m singing.

Can you hear it?

Anatomy of a Singer: Part 2, Madonna and Me

Previous: Anatomy of a Singer: Part 1, Birth

My first public vocal performance was John Lennon's Imagine at my 7th grade convocation ceremony. I took the words to heart. As trite as it sounds, I felt the magic of communicating Lennon’s visionary text, thinking, I can change the world doing this. People will listen to me if I'm singing.

I continued to pursue singing opportunities in high school, community theatre, local competitions and did well. Despite what I felt like was guarantee of future success, my high school voice teacher urged me to major in biology instead, since I told her I got A's in that class and always loved science. She said, "You can always sing, no matter what degree you get, but you can't always get a practical education." I think she was half right. She spoke from her experience coming from Korea as a young musical prodigy, moving through the US education system all the way up to getting her Doctorate, struggling as a single mother, and performing in nursing homes to make ends meet. Her warnings hit deaf ears and I applied and was accepted to University of Michigan's music school.

By some stroke of luck or mystical irony I was supposedly placed in Madonna’s old dorm room my freshman year. People would stop by, “Hey, did you know this was Madonna’s room?” My heart went a-flutter and I took it as a sign I was meant to be a star. Along with posting photos and motivational phrases on my walls, reading self-help tomes were meant to harness my chi and my destiny all at the same time. I figured musical stardom was inevitable if I wanted it badly enough.

However, even though I excelled academically in music school, I soon realized that my classmates were all variations on a theme of a high schooler's singing success story. They all had had their egos stroked by stage parents, jealous rivals, and requests to sing in their church or synagogue on days of religious obligation.

I won a few coveted roles and classmates and teachers liked me, so I did well. I decided to expand my expertise and carve out niches by getting involved in hair and makeup design, stage production, and continued to audition for whatever came my way. I also switched my major to include comparative literature because I was obsessed with languages and esoteric novels.

However, vocal uncertainy and my parent's divorce wore on me. Though I had a strong voice, my technique was still faulty and I had difficulty competing against more refined singers. There was no concrete path to follow...so I kept moving along in myriad directions. My fractured lifestyle suited me, I thrived on variety. Observers may have called it instability.

Next: Anatomy of a Singer: Part 3, Art and Death