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Before I left my job as associate editor at Kripalu, I had the good fortune to take Claude Stein’s Natural Singer workshop. Below is a piece I wrote about the experience, just printed in the newest Kripalu catalog.
I love singing—in the shower, in the car, around my apartment—always by myself. I hate public speaking. My voice shakes, my hands tremble, my heart races. So, it logically follows that the idea of singing in front of people terrifies me, even in front of really close friends. And yet, somehow, the weekend after Thanksgiving last year, I found myself standing in front of a room of 27 strangers, staring at the floor, trying to find the strength somewhere inside of me to sing the first few lines of “Seasons of Love” from the musical Rent.
I’d gotten to a point in my life where I was sick of letting my fear silence me. In all sorts of ways. So I signed up for Claude Stein’s Natural Singer workshop, something I had always wanted to do but never gotten up the nerve to.
The first night of the workshop, we all sat in a circle, sharing our goals, which ranged from singing karaoke to improving vocal technique to just getting started or getting back into singing again after a long break. We sang simple things together and did warm-ups and exercises to work on tone and projection. You could feel the nerves in the room calm a bit, and excitement and joy begin to bubble up.
Claude urged us to hold on to the reasons we were there. He told us that emotions would naturally come up during the weekend. “Don’t think, just sing,” he said, urging us to let our intention to sing be more powerful than anything else—more powerful than nerves, emotions, fear. Scared? Sing louder. Crying? Sing through the tears. Just keep singing, even if it’s “Row Your Boat” or “la la la.”
That’s how I found myself in front of the room, staring at the floor. I took a deep breath, opened my mouth … and nothing came out. Still looking at the floor, I took another deep breath and then sang my song quietly, hands gripping my pockets for dear life.
Claude has an uncanny ability to know just what to say, just what exercise will get you—and by you, I mean anyone—to loosen up and let it out. He knew my goal was to get past the fear that silences me, so he identified volume as the first thing to tackle. “Volume is the key today—to life, to everything,” he said, which felt so incredibly true for me.
We started with baby steps. Literally. He asked me to take a half-step toward the audience (“I don’t think you could get any further from us unless you opened that window behind you”), and then another half-step. Then I sang about what scares me, to a tune Claude provided. Half of what I sang didn’t even make sense, but I just kept on singing. When I sang that I was scared of looking silly, Claude suggested a new exercise: sing “Seasons of Love” again, only this time with the accent of a Russian from Paris who spent time in Bolivia. When I told him I’m not very good with accents, Claude said, “Perfect!” and sang with me in an accent for the first line or two. It was hilarious. And awesome.
At the end of my time in front of the group, I sang the first lines of “Seasons of Love” one more time—this time looking into the eyes of the people watching me, singing louder, smiling even. I wasn’t shaking; I felt amazing. And I sensed that I could bring this feeling back into my life—this conquering of fear, this getting past silence, this bolstering of self-confidence. Looking around the room, I saw supportive, smiling faces. No one was judging me. One woman said to me afterward, “It’s clear you have so much in there, and we could see it start to come out, and it was beautiful.”
Not only was my time in front of the group amazing, but witnessing everyone else was, too—seeing myself in others, watching people work through what came up for them, appreciating their strength and talent. Recognizing how far each of us came in our own particular ways, in such a short time, was awe-inspiring, and left me wondering what it is that silences all of us. We have things to say. We have things to sing.
Jessica L. Atcheson is a writer and editor whose work has been published in regional newspapers and online. Formerly Associate Editor at Kripalu, she now works as a writer/editor at the Unitarian Universalist Service Committee in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
© Kripalu Center for Yoga & Health. All rights reserved. Originally published in Summer 2010 issue of the Kripalu catalog. Reprinted with permission.
We're not talking 1770 here.
One word: wow. Two more: totally awesome.
I was recently introduced to the wonder that is roller derby. New to the spectator stands, I wasn’t totally sure what to expect (since I’d been warned that it was nothing like Whip It), but let me tell you—it’s raucous, it’s exhilarating, it’s bad-ass. Thoroughly fun and riveting to watch.
I’ve never been a big sports fan—or a sports fan at all. But I am definitely now a fan of Boston Massacre, part of the Boston Derby Dames league. It’s a total experience. Clever derby names, loud music, and then the bouts themselves—so compelling to watch: the fast-paced intensity, the moves, the strategy, the blocking, the grace and toughness of the skaters. There are some really amazing players.
Bonus: dance party after the bouts in the red-carpeted Fez Room (yes, it’s really called the Fez Room; it’s the Shriner’s Auditorium).
Boston Massacre’s next bout: March 20. Try it; you’ll like it.
Welcome to Jackson!
This weekend, Giraffe took a trip to the North Country of New Hampshire as I reconnected with old friends and stomped around old haunts. Jackson has a special place in my heart. I lived there for a few years in elementary school (third through fifth-ish grades), and then I was back up in the vicinity when I was serving in the AmeriCorps Victim Assistance Program for a year after college.
The Jackson Covered Bridge is quite old. Giraffe is much younger.
There’s nothing like an old one-lane covered bridge into town to make it feel out of time, or quaint, or touristy, or all of the above. In any case, I find it endearing.
One of Giraffe's new favorite places.
One of my most favorite places is Jackson Falls. During AmeriCorps, I spent many afternoons there sitting in the sun, surrounded by the roar of the water, pondering all the things one ponders when you’re 22/23 and trying to figure out life and the world and people, and you’re working at a crisis center where you live in an apartment above the shelter (that is in an undisclosed location).
View down the Falls.
And one of my favorite events when I was little was the Wildquack River Festival, which involves herding hundreds of rubber duckies racing down Jackson Falls. I’m not even kidding. I had a bright orange volunteer shirt that I wore for years after I had the chance to be a duck-herder (broom in hand).
Giraffe takes a closer look at the Falls.
I didn’t want Giraffe to be like one of the rubber ducks and take a trip down the Falls, but Giraffe couldn’t resist getting a closer look.
Giraffe sunning next to the Falls.
View from the top of Jackson Falls
After some delightfully serene moments at the Falls, Giraffe and I headed back down into town.
Jackson Grammar School
We said hello to the Jackson Grammar School, where I started my first day with a side ponytail, had my first crush (on a pale boy named Simon), and was one of three Jessicas in a class of 10 (and that was several grades combined). It was originally a three-room schoolhouse, and if I remember correctly, while I was there, they added on an extra classroom (it’s even bigger now). My favorite classroom was up some stairs that are on the other side of the window to the right of the door.
Recess Yard
We played four-square and tetherball and hopscotch and jump-rope during recess. And tunneled into the big pile of snow that the plow made in the winter.
Jackson Public Library
And Mr. Poon or Mrs. Birkbeck would walk us across the street and over the bridge that crossed the Wildcat River to the teeny Jackson Public Library, where we could feast our hungry brains on the shelves of books that seemed quite adequate to us young’uns at the time (but they’re working on a big expansion right now!).
Jackson Town Hall
Our yearly musical productions were performed in the Jackson Town Hall, just across the street in the other direction from the school. That is where I twirled a yellow boa as I sang “Cabaret” in a production of SRO: Standing Room Only. Again, not even kidding. I guess I was too young to be paralyzed by nerves.
The Wentworth
The Wentworth (across the street from the library) was one of the places that my parents worked, and we lived in one of their condos for awhile. Things of note that I remember about the Wentworth: they had hayrides in the fall, my mom built a gingerbread replica of it one holiday season, and it had a huge fire one year (I remember watching the flames shoot from the roof in the middle of the night).
So, Giraffe had quite a tour and a trip down my memory lane. Also, as a side trip, Giraffe went on safari in Conway, and came across an adorable creature named Jenna. Will the wonders of the North Country never cease?
Hark! Is that a baby Jenna I see?
Caption anyone?
UPDATE:
“‘The brave little giraffe made it to the top of mount sneakers, cocking his head slightly so he could catch the lovely mountain breeze blow in between his ears and horns. ‘oh, my,’ he thought, gazing from the peak into the great unknown. ‘how beautiful.’” —Caption from the Letter K
A few weekends ago, I hiked Monument Mountain with my dear friend Liora. It was a beautiful day—perfect for summit sitting, wandering, talking, tree climbing, and goofiness.
Liora and I
Eating apples (from the tree of knowledge?) at the summit.
Looking off into... the distance? the future?
Tree-climber or PhD? Both!
Homage to the Karate Kid.
Yay!
Then, the other day I finally made my way over to East Mountain. There’s a delightfully tucked-away trail down the road, a steep climb, then a ladder up a big rock to a view of Great Barrington, the Berkshire Mountains, and the Catskills beyond. I was in a reflective, contemplating kind of mood, so the solo walk up, lunch hour (and mountain/sky/cloud-gazing) on the rock, and walk down without seeing other humans was perfect. Cell phone photos follow.
View from East Mountain
Boots on the rock.
Giraffe sighting!
A few weeks ago, I was handed the opportunity for a last-minute adventure. A friend who had planned a weekend getaway to see WaterFire in Providence decided that she couldn’t go and offered me her fancy hotel reservation for free. So, off went Angela and I to Rhode Island.
Free 4-Star Hotel Room
Our schmancy hotel was downtown, right across the street from the capitol building. How schmancy was it? There was valet parking. The front desk staffperson that checked me in had the title of “choreographer.” And the pillows on the comfy beds were huge.
A ring of fire next to the Providence capitol building.
The whole reason we were there, though, was WaterFire. A sculpture installation on three of Providence’s downtown rivers, WaterFire is made up of a series of 100 small bonfires that float like buoys on the meandering rivers. It’s magical—the intoxicating smell of burning wood, the sound of (dramatic) international music piped along the walkways, and most of all the sight of two mesmerizing elements (mesmerizing enough on their own, even more so in their fanciful dance).
Line of Fire
I don’t know about you, but I could stare at a bonfire for hours and stare at moving water for hours, so the combination was enchanting. (It would have been more so if there weren’t hundreds of people milling about, of course, but such is the reality of WaterFire.)
Pretty lady with a flower.
Throughout the night, people were taking gondola rides down the river, and as Angela and I stopped under one of the bridges lit by old oil lamps, a gondola passed and its guide threw a flower to us. Some of the charm wore off once we read the paper tag that accompanied it—”WaterFire is sponsored by [insert the name of some corporate entity that I can't remember].”—but still, it’s not everyday that you get a flower thrown at you from a passing gondola.
Fire and Water
In order to keep the multitude of fires burning throughout the night, there is a firetender boat winding its way along the rivers. Staffed by five or six people dressed in black, the boat is full of chopped wood ready to feed the fires. There was something about the sight of the firetending that seemed ancient, primal, ritual.
Firetender Boat
Classic arms-length view of Angela and me.
So, it was a delightful random adventure. I had first heard about WaterFire from my friend Maureen, a talented photographer whose photos of the phenomenon do the magic of it much more justice. But I leave you with my best shot at capturing a bit of it:
Water and Fire
On a recent trip to Michigan to visit my dear friend Gabe, I found myself on the edge of Lake Michigan—a place I’d never been before (well, except for five minutes in Chicago, but that was completely different). Having grown up spending part of my childhood on Cape Cod, I was struck by the feeling of being at the ocean.
Shore of Lake Michigan
Deep, almost tropical blue water like the ocean, waves like the ocean, endless expanse of water like the ocean. But no salty residue at the end of a swim. I was enamored. Esch Beach, Charlevoix Beach (we found Petoskey stones, even!), and my favorite: Sleeping Bear Dunes.
Beginning of Sleeping Bear Dunes
This is the legend of Sleeping Bear Dunes (warning: it’s not a particularly happy story): There once was a mama bear with two cubs, forced into Lake Michigan by a raging forest fire on its shore. They swam and swam for hours to reach the other shore, and the two cubs, growing tired, lagged behind. The mother bear reached shore first and took a place on a nearby bluff to keep a lookout for her cubs. The cubs never reached the shore though—their exhaustion overcame them, and they perished in the Lake not far from shore. The mother bear never left her lookout post, though, and eventually she grew tired, and laid down to sleep. Never leaving, she died there, the sand covering her in time. The universe was moved to create two islands in the spot where the cubs met their fate (North and South Manitou islands), and the mother bear at her lookout became the Sleeping Bear Dunes.
Sad legend, beautiful place. The dunes were huge, and it felt like we were at the edge of the world.
Edge of the world—or at least the edge of Lake Michigan.
On our way out of the park as the sun was setting, we stopped at the Dune Climb, where I scrambled up to the top of the first major dune (it was that kind of thing where you get to the top, only to realize there are more dunes and more crevices and climbs to explore). From the edge of the world to the top of the world.
Me at the top of the world at Sleeping Bear Dunes.
Another cool thing about northern Michigan: lots of milkweed to nourish the local monarch population; we saw quite a few caterpillars and a couple butterflies, too. There’s an informal census ongoing.
Gabe appreciating the local flowering milkweed.
There were many other delights: the Cook’s House in Traverse City, several co-op visits, birthday celebration, history lessons, porch sitting, Grocer’s Daughter Chocolate in Empire (highly recommend their fudgesicles and sunflower butter chocolate bar), Short’s Brewery in Bellaire (I had a beer called Strawberry Short’s Cake—it’s brewed with two pounds of strawberries per gallon, plus cream and biscuits and sugar, and it’s really good), Hummingbird Nectar tea from Light of Day Organics, more porch sitting, walking, lounging, all sorts of talking. It was a magical visit all around—northern Michigan adventures, low-key downtime, and quality time for connecting with a dear person.
Me happy to be in Michigan.
See, look, that's happy.
Last night I had a big cooking adventure. And when I say big, I am overstating in the minds of most. I roasted a chicken and some root vegetables—but it was my first time on my own. I’m trying to get back into cooking good meals for myself and trying to expand my horizons a bit. Been eating out too much and not well too much lately. In preparation for the little big adventure, I knew I needed some spices for flavor enhancement, and realized I had no idea what herbs and spices are packed away in my cupboard. So I took an inventory. Now, I know fresh herbs are better, but cooking for one and only limitedly within the herb-and-spice realm lends itself to the dried variety.
Spices and Herbs—out from the cupboard and into life
Here’s what I found:
ground turmeric
garlic powder
ground cumin
stick cinnamon
ground cinnamon
vanilla powder
whole cloves
whole allspice
paprika
chili powder
garam masala
ground coriander seed
ground nutmeg
Highly reflective of the chickpea masala I’ve made a couple times and a mulled cider recipe I tried out once.
Which left me to buy at the Co-op yesterday:
parsley
sage
rosemary
thyme
Yes, yes, I know. The song. Cheesy. But a great reminder of herbs that are good for chicken (especially soup, which shall be a future adventure). I’ll spare all my vegetarian readers a photo of the cooked chicken. But let me say that it was all very good (and will be for the next couple days as I savor the leftovers). Any recipe suggestions involving any of the spices above most welcome!
