I'm not sure how many people are still following this blog, but I do need to tell any of you loyal readers out there that my blog is now moving here. This is in an attempt to gain a bigger readership, hold me accountable to blogging more frequently, and not be ashamed to integrate my faith and spirituality with my artistic and professional life. The two have never been separate for me, so why should I act as if they are?
In my last few weeks of pregnancy, I've got tons of time - some of which is used well (sleeping 11 hours!), and some of which isn't (watching my sister slaughter me in a round of Words With Friends). I've read so much about labor and pregnancy that my head is spinning. The hospital bag is packed, my birthing ball is blown up, and now it's time to just wait...and wait until this baby girl decides its her time to make her grand entrance into our beautiful world. I am so eager to meet her and wonder daily, what will she look like, feel like, sound like? My husband's typical reply is simply, "Probably a little bit like us!"
So thank you for your loyal readership - my blog will now be transitioning into my website, and I hope that you'll still follow me on your blogrolls and RSS feeds. I admittedly haven't played much guitar lately (it's kind of hard when your belly is so big that you can't see your fingerboard any longer) but I'm daily on the lookout for some artistic inspiration so that my insides don't crumble and dry up. Today - a new book on my iPad and a movie on Gustavo Dudamel and El Sistema. I'll let you know how I like both of them.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Manna
I haven't blogged in so long that my computer doesn't remember the address in the browser. It's been a little busy around here in sunny LA - I spent three months in hibernation studying for qualifying exams, watched my husband run a marathon in the only torrential downpour that LA has ever experienced, and have been going crazy with my "nesting" instincts. Pregnancy is going by fast, this being the final week of my second trimester. I can't believe that my belly is going to grow even larger than it is now and that this is the final stretch before we get to meet our little girl.
This has proven to be one of the most thrilling and yet totally anxiety-ridden seasons of my life. A few months ago, P lost his job and we were faced with the reality that we are once again in a season of financial strain. Graduating this May will be thrilling and freeing, but is putting me out on the market for a college teaching job that doesn't seem to exist right now. I am for once more qualified than ever to do what I've dreamed of doing - teaching guitar at the college level and having a performing career - and yet the steps to making that a reality sometimes seem so far away.
Some doors are currently closing and some doors are opening. For now, I have a few really great concerts lined up for next season and am trying hard to create more opportunities in that area. I've tried to use every outlet of my current network to find teaching jobs and have gotten a few maybes, a few no's, some complete lack of responses, and have tried to pick myself up after each one and continue to think creatively about my career. But despite all my feminist convictions about balancing a hefty career with impending motherhood, if God says this is a season for me to have the luxury of being home part-time with baby, than I have no reason to doubt that could be the best thing for our family.
I've admired the way that P has made a challenging situation into a time of self-discovery, exploration, and contemplation. It's made us all the more reflective over what is truly important for our child to have in her life. There's a crib in our dining room right now, a sight that the practical, get-it-done side of me thought would be fine, rationalizing it with a good friend and mother of three's humorous words in my head: "Babies don't need their own room. You could put a baby on the floor and it wouldn't know the difference!" But the night I came home and saw P building the crib that we snagged on craigslist, I burst into tears, pained by emotions that I'd never experienced before - the fear of not being able to provide for our child. I realized that this fear was not completely legitimate; I mean, I don't fear not being able to give the baby food, shelter and clothing, but I only fear not being able to give it all the things that our culture says is necessary for our little ones.
Realizing this, I'm trying hard to see past the American need for more stuff and more space, the controlling, materialistic urges and idols that plague American parents and tell us that we absolutely need all these things for such a tiny little person, that if you don't get this thing, then that could happen to your baby, etc. It is ridiculous the way that the baby gear industry instills fear into parents and guilts them into buying more stuff and more expensive stuff. As P reminded me the other day, sometimes God gives us manna, and you get only what you need for the day. But sometimes the baskets of loaves and fishes indeed overflow, and the abundance of his grace showers us. Right now, our manna is more than enough. He has promised us this, and I have no reason to doubt the right provisions will come in time.
So we've decided to name our baby Elisa, which means "God's promise" - a reminder of the necessity of a season in which we are utterly dependent on His provision and promise, and the character we pray that will develop in our daughter as a result of trusting in His promises.
This has proven to be one of the most thrilling and yet totally anxiety-ridden seasons of my life. A few months ago, P lost his job and we were faced with the reality that we are once again in a season of financial strain. Graduating this May will be thrilling and freeing, but is putting me out on the market for a college teaching job that doesn't seem to exist right now. I am for once more qualified than ever to do what I've dreamed of doing - teaching guitar at the college level and having a performing career - and yet the steps to making that a reality sometimes seem so far away.
Some doors are currently closing and some doors are opening. For now, I have a few really great concerts lined up for next season and am trying hard to create more opportunities in that area. I've tried to use every outlet of my current network to find teaching jobs and have gotten a few maybes, a few no's, some complete lack of responses, and have tried to pick myself up after each one and continue to think creatively about my career. But despite all my feminist convictions about balancing a hefty career with impending motherhood, if God says this is a season for me to have the luxury of being home part-time with baby, than I have no reason to doubt that could be the best thing for our family.
I've admired the way that P has made a challenging situation into a time of self-discovery, exploration, and contemplation. It's made us all the more reflective over what is truly important for our child to have in her life. There's a crib in our dining room right now, a sight that the practical, get-it-done side of me thought would be fine, rationalizing it with a good friend and mother of three's humorous words in my head: "Babies don't need their own room. You could put a baby on the floor and it wouldn't know the difference!" But the night I came home and saw P building the crib that we snagged on craigslist, I burst into tears, pained by emotions that I'd never experienced before - the fear of not being able to provide for our child. I realized that this fear was not completely legitimate; I mean, I don't fear not being able to give the baby food, shelter and clothing, but I only fear not being able to give it all the things that our culture says is necessary for our little ones.
Realizing this, I'm trying hard to see past the American need for more stuff and more space, the controlling, materialistic urges and idols that plague American parents and tell us that we absolutely need all these things for such a tiny little person, that if you don't get this thing, then that could happen to your baby, etc. It is ridiculous the way that the baby gear industry instills fear into parents and guilts them into buying more stuff and more expensive stuff. As P reminded me the other day, sometimes God gives us manna, and you get only what you need for the day. But sometimes the baskets of loaves and fishes indeed overflow, and the abundance of his grace showers us. Right now, our manna is more than enough. He has promised us this, and I have no reason to doubt the right provisions will come in time.
So we've decided to name our baby Elisa, which means "God's promise" - a reminder of the necessity of a season in which we are utterly dependent on His provision and promise, and the character we pray that will develop in our daughter as a result of trusting in His promises.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Expecting?
We were going through security for the umpteenth time at the Rome airport, victims of a delayed plane with a flat tire that resulted in us spending two full days in the very proudly named Leonardo Da Vinci Airport.
Cranky and tired, I moved through the security line with dragging feet, knowing the drill. The coat comes off, the boots could stay on, the liquids came out. As we got to the front of the line, the security woman checked our boarding passes and passports. A family with children moved to the left in a shorter line for people with kids, their baby crying and toddler whining. The woman, a pretty Italian in her 30's, glanced at me and I felt her gaze move downwards to my belly.
"Aspetta?" she asked.
"Sorry?" I said, not sure what this word meant in our current context. When I spent a summer in Italy at a guitar festival, I had an Italian roommate who said this word quite a bit as she fumbled to look stuff up in her Italian-English dictionary. I had gathered it to be a sort of Italian space filler like, "Umm" or "Hold on..." I also knew it to come from the verb aspettar, or to wait.
But here the security woman smiled matter of factly, drawing a gesture of a rounded belly with her hand.
"Aspetta?" she asked again, this time with the tummy gesture.
"Oh," I said. "Oh, um...yes. Er- si."
The secret was out at 12 weeks. She smiled again and pointed for us to go in the shorter family line with screaming babies and whiny toddlers.
So it's true - I'm pregnant, but this had sort of been our secret until now. It was kind of fun having this huge piece of information and keeping it from the world, like we had formed some sort of elitist club with only our closest friends and family. I've reveled at knowing that I have this thing growing inside of me that is going to turn our lives upside down and never leave us the same again. I was a secret agent of sorts with an important mission - to stay healthy, happy, and provide a nice warm place for baby to float around and be comfortable.
But now it appeared that the cat could easily be let out of the bag. My cover was blown, at least by this woman who possessed the Italian panache to say so very directly. I knew this time would come - I was sometimes almost eager for it so that I could be honest and authentic with those around me, sharing the news with excitement. But I suppose all the pasta I had eaten during our 10 day blitz through Rome and Amalfi expedited the formation of the baby bump, and the baggy gray dress I was wearing wasn't so baggy that day. The public had now confirmed to me - it's true! We know you're having a baby! Congratulations and walk through this shorter and supposedly faster moving line with screaming children since you'll soon have one of your own!
I passed through the metal detector blinking back tears (oh, hormones) and realizing all over again the magnitude of this new thing in our lines, flooded with a swirl of emotions - anxiety, joy, fear, peace, excitement, trepidation, anticipation. The responsibility, the miracle, the changes, the exhilaration. It's really happening; the nausea, gas, hunger, and multiple trips to the bathroom are not just in my head. I really am entering the world of motherhood... and never going back.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
I'm back...
I haven't seen this screen for awhile. It looks strange. My banner is messed up. My readership has probably dwindled to zero. If you are out there somewhere, dear reader, I must apologize for my silence. I'm not sure what happened. It became habit not to write and I guess I have been in a too-busy-for-reflection sort of mode as I started teaching more and working for the Guitar Foundation of America. Life without reflection is not as good as it is with. So I'm going to start blogging again, mainly because so much stuff is happening and I'd like some record of it when I'm old and gray.
A new school year has begun (and the semester is 2 weeks from being over) and I am about as burnt out as bad toast. I just got through a stressful few months in which I premiered a new recital program that is probably the most meaningful to me that I've ever played. It went really well, and I got wonderful support and encouragement from all of my faculty mentors at USC. It's a program of original music written for guitar by women, much of which is not often played by many guitarists on the concert stage. This program makes me feel that I've somehow found part of my voice as an artist, that this series of miniscule finger movements and muscle memory are communicating some kind of voice for the voiceless. There is some part of an injustice that I feel that I am slowly helping to unravel. Because music by men is played day in and day out without any question of why there is a gender gap and why a program of music by female composers is a strange thing. But in all reality, life interrupts and music by women has often been tossed by the wayside, not taken seriously, or discounted because of the composer's gender. Or there were just not as many chances for these composers to get their music published, played, and circulated when it was written because opportunities like these were not available to these women.
There is still work to be done in the fight for equality between men and women. There's always been a bit of a feminist inside of me. I used to wear this Rosie the Riveter T-shirt in 8th grade with the WWII slogan on it, "We Can Do It!" Yes, you know the one. It was actually a slogan used to encourage more women into the workforce as men fought the war during the 40's. Well, in 2010, we still need to hear this slogan as woman juggle career, family, motherhood, marriage, etc. Somehow, playing the music on this program makes me feel connected to these female guitarists and composers throughout the ages, as I imagine them struggling in a male-dominated field just as I sometimes do today. But I thank them for being who they were and doing what they did, because my struggle is not nearly as difficult as theirs was.
Here is a piece by Emilia Giuliani, the daughter of well-known Italian composer and guitarist Mauro Giuliani. She died around 1840 of unknown causes at the age of 27. Before she died, she wrote over 50 opus works of music for guitar which show that she must have had some serious chops - they are not easy pieces! I've read before that she stopped writing and performing around the time that she got married, which I assume was because she did not want to overshadow her husband, who was a moderately successful opera composer. She was probably also expected to primarily be a wife and mother as well. I wish she had lived longer and that more of her pieces survived, but the ones that exist I will be tackling one by one. She fascinates me and I'm excited to be unearthing music that has never been recorded or performed much.
This is Variations on a Theme by Mercadante, op. 9 by Emilia Giuliani Guglielmi. Hope you like it.
A new school year has begun (and the semester is 2 weeks from being over) and I am about as burnt out as bad toast. I just got through a stressful few months in which I premiered a new recital program that is probably the most meaningful to me that I've ever played. It went really well, and I got wonderful support and encouragement from all of my faculty mentors at USC. It's a program of original music written for guitar by women, much of which is not often played by many guitarists on the concert stage. This program makes me feel that I've somehow found part of my voice as an artist, that this series of miniscule finger movements and muscle memory are communicating some kind of voice for the voiceless. There is some part of an injustice that I feel that I am slowly helping to unravel. Because music by men is played day in and day out without any question of why there is a gender gap and why a program of music by female composers is a strange thing. But in all reality, life interrupts and music by women has often been tossed by the wayside, not taken seriously, or discounted because of the composer's gender. Or there were just not as many chances for these composers to get their music published, played, and circulated when it was written because opportunities like these were not available to these women.
There is still work to be done in the fight for equality between men and women. There's always been a bit of a feminist inside of me. I used to wear this Rosie the Riveter T-shirt in 8th grade with the WWII slogan on it, "We Can Do It!" Yes, you know the one. It was actually a slogan used to encourage more women into the workforce as men fought the war during the 40's. Well, in 2010, we still need to hear this slogan as woman juggle career, family, motherhood, marriage, etc. Somehow, playing the music on this program makes me feel connected to these female guitarists and composers throughout the ages, as I imagine them struggling in a male-dominated field just as I sometimes do today. But I thank them for being who they were and doing what they did, because my struggle is not nearly as difficult as theirs was.
Here is a piece by Emilia Giuliani, the daughter of well-known Italian composer and guitarist Mauro Giuliani. She died around 1840 of unknown causes at the age of 27. Before she died, she wrote over 50 opus works of music for guitar which show that she must have had some serious chops - they are not easy pieces! I've read before that she stopped writing and performing around the time that she got married, which I assume was because she did not want to overshadow her husband, who was a moderately successful opera composer. She was probably also expected to primarily be a wife and mother as well. I wish she had lived longer and that more of her pieces survived, but the ones that exist I will be tackling one by one. She fascinates me and I'm excited to be unearthing music that has never been recorded or performed much.
This is Variations on a Theme by Mercadante, op. 9 by Emilia Giuliani Guglielmi. Hope you like it.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Carpe Diem
I hope that I will never rest on my laurels, and continually strive to have enough motivation to get up and keep going. This season I've been seized by a surge of ambition once again, a quality that developed in me during my teens and has come in ebbs and flows during adulthood. I'm feeling a sense of stability in where I am, confidence in who I am, and the development of roots here that I haven't had for years after we've moved around so much. It feels good to be planted. Despite the way cities can wear down, they inspire me. I'm happy here.
I'm now preparing to put together an audition tape to enter a guitar competition that happens every two years in which the winner gets to perform with the Buffalo Philharmonic. The entry happens in two stages- first a recording of the first movement of the concerto you choose, along with a required set piece and five minutes of free choice music. If you make the semi-finals, you pay your own way to upstate NY this summer (very glamorous), and all four finalists perform with the Buffalo Phil as the judges chooses who wins.
I don't have high hopes, but I'd be thrilled if I made it to the semis. I very honestly doubt that I will, but I know I have to at least try. I've had so many moments this month where I just want to call it quits because of my dislike for the required piece. But I can't help wondering what could happen if I just put my nose to the grindstone once again and give it my all. Behind every win there are so, so many losses. Behind every decision to try, there are so many missed opportunities that pass by, untapped, potential sinking into the ground. One of my greatest fears is to live my life squandering what God has given me and to failing to recognize his hand in my life. And so although I'm tired, when I'm honing, working, trying, pressing on, I feel like I'm alive and I somehow feel free.
I'm now preparing to put together an audition tape to enter a guitar competition that happens every two years in which the winner gets to perform with the Buffalo Philharmonic. The entry happens in two stages- first a recording of the first movement of the concerto you choose, along with a required set piece and five minutes of free choice music. If you make the semi-finals, you pay your own way to upstate NY this summer (very glamorous), and all four finalists perform with the Buffalo Phil as the judges chooses who wins.
I don't have high hopes, but I'd be thrilled if I made it to the semis. I very honestly doubt that I will, but I know I have to at least try. I've had so many moments this month where I just want to call it quits because of my dislike for the required piece. But I can't help wondering what could happen if I just put my nose to the grindstone once again and give it my all. Behind every win there are so, so many losses. Behind every decision to try, there are so many missed opportunities that pass by, untapped, potential sinking into the ground. One of my greatest fears is to live my life squandering what God has given me and to failing to recognize his hand in my life. And so although I'm tired, when I'm honing, working, trying, pressing on, I feel like I'm alive and I somehow feel free.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
On Winning
I don't usually win stuff. I have never won anything out of a drawing. Every time I shop at Trader Joe's, I put one of those little tickets into the BYOB lottery. I have never won in my many years of shopping there. A long time ago, my entire family won prizes in a drawing at a church party and my name was the only one that didn't get picked. I often enter the Lucky magazine sweepstakes to get some of those fabulous beauty prizes. Nope, nothing.
These are pretty flippant examples, but I have barely won anything that could be deemed a little more important either. I have entered many competitions in my time, some that I've blogged about, some that I haven't; some I've entered without telling a soul. Some I have won by default because there was no one else competing. Many I've gotten a quiet rejection letter to which I nodded and put promptly in the recycle bin.
So I thought I would write about winning, because I don't usually win stuff. I did the USC Donald Miller Concerto Competition last week, and I won. The prize? I'll be performing with an orchestra for our department recital in April in Newman Hall. I am totally psyched. I've longed for playing with orchestra since my days as a cellist in California Youth Symphony. My current axe of choice not being an orchestral instrument, I've left that world behind and continued along, not wanting to pine for anything that is outside my realm of expression now. But here I have another chance to play with an orchestra- and this time as soloist! (If they can hear me, that is. Perhaps it's wise that the guitar is not an orchestral instrument. It would promptly be drowned out by just about any single instrument in the orchestra.)
I have a terrible habit of imagining every possible outcome for every single uncertainty in my life. I think it's my way of managing my expectations and protecting myself from any kind of shock or surprising emotions. Here was one scenario that I had imagined, and when they announced that I had won, it didn't feel anything like I thought it would. I felt no different than I did right after I finished playing and sat down to watch the rest of the competitors in the audience. I guess this is because my real anxiety was to play the concerto my utmost best as I had been prepping for it vigorously for some time, studying the score, listening and re-listening to my favorite recording of it while driving while imagining the orchestra and singing along to my entrances; practicing passages slowly and at tempo, drilling small sections, and running it as if it were a performance, with bright lights and a canine audience to boot. So the real release was getting through it and feeling good about it overall. Only one pseudo-missed entrance that I promptly got back on with my pianist. No other major mishaps to tell of.
And so continues the journey, onto practicing and more practicing. A burst of confidence reminded me that I need to always be pushing forward if I want any semblance of a performing career, not settling and not stopping. Another performance of the concerto at a noon concert yesterday proved to myself that I am making progress in the art of performing. I know how to manage it and I know that what matters is my heart, and the process. I know how to be in it, and my stomach doesn't hurt every time as much as it used to. And I love it.
These are pretty flippant examples, but I have barely won anything that could be deemed a little more important either. I have entered many competitions in my time, some that I've blogged about, some that I haven't; some I've entered without telling a soul. Some I have won by default because there was no one else competing. Many I've gotten a quiet rejection letter to which I nodded and put promptly in the recycle bin.
So I thought I would write about winning, because I don't usually win stuff. I did the USC Donald Miller Concerto Competition last week, and I won. The prize? I'll be performing with an orchestra for our department recital in April in Newman Hall. I am totally psyched. I've longed for playing with orchestra since my days as a cellist in California Youth Symphony. My current axe of choice not being an orchestral instrument, I've left that world behind and continued along, not wanting to pine for anything that is outside my realm of expression now. But here I have another chance to play with an orchestra- and this time as soloist! (If they can hear me, that is. Perhaps it's wise that the guitar is not an orchestral instrument. It would promptly be drowned out by just about any single instrument in the orchestra.)
I have a terrible habit of imagining every possible outcome for every single uncertainty in my life. I think it's my way of managing my expectations and protecting myself from any kind of shock or surprising emotions. Here was one scenario that I had imagined, and when they announced that I had won, it didn't feel anything like I thought it would. I felt no different than I did right after I finished playing and sat down to watch the rest of the competitors in the audience. I guess this is because my real anxiety was to play the concerto my utmost best as I had been prepping for it vigorously for some time, studying the score, listening and re-listening to my favorite recording of it while driving while imagining the orchestra and singing along to my entrances; practicing passages slowly and at tempo, drilling small sections, and running it as if it were a performance, with bright lights and a canine audience to boot. So the real release was getting through it and feeling good about it overall. Only one pseudo-missed entrance that I promptly got back on with my pianist. No other major mishaps to tell of.
And so continues the journey, onto practicing and more practicing. A burst of confidence reminded me that I need to always be pushing forward if I want any semblance of a performing career, not settling and not stopping. Another performance of the concerto at a noon concert yesterday proved to myself that I am making progress in the art of performing. I know how to manage it and I know that what matters is my heart, and the process. I know how to be in it, and my stomach doesn't hurt every time as much as it used to. And I love it.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
300-Something Days of Practicing
At the beginning of 2009, I made a New Year's resolution to practice every day of the year.
Now mind you, I didn't define what constituted practicing (no time limit or requirements). The idea was to want to go to the guitar as naturally as other daily activities were, like brushing my teeth or feeding the dog. I also wanted to avoid lapses of nothingness after a big recital where I usually feel like I deserve a break and leave the instrument untouched for weeks at a time. So even if it was just a scale, to go to the guitar daily and play something- anything- was the goal.
I didn't quite keep it 100%. I think I missed about 10 days, mostly when we were out of town. For example, the day we hiked Haleakala (volcanic crater in Maui) I was too exhausted to think about anything guitar afterward. And some days I sort of cheated. I mean, playing a scale (sometimes taking about 5 seconds) did not always make me feel that I was connecting to the instrument, but was a way to check the box each day. By the time we got to December, I guess I ended up feeling a bit disillusioned and decided not to bring the guitar with me on our NYC trip (not wanting to fly with it, but with good reason!). So I did some mental practicing instead, reviewing my scores, imagining fingerings, and listening to recordings, which is actually a really effective part of practicing also.
Now a year later, I can say that I think I practice "better" than I ever have. I'm not sure if this is a result of the resolution, or just the fact that I have less free time on my hands. I am more efficient, targeting hard spots, running sections slowly instead of just breezing through the piece and taking a million breaks. Today I have no commitments at all, no students, no classes, no other work. I could practice 8 hours today if I wanted to. I'll be honest and say that I really don't want to even do half of that. I cleaned the entire bathroom before sitting down to write this blog entry. That's how much my flesh hates working sometimes (or just how much I love cleaning bathrooms?!).
As I was told at a yoga class yesterday, showing up is half the battle. So as my red practicing stool stands empty this morning, I feel sad that it is alone. I think I will go and sit on it.
Now mind you, I didn't define what constituted practicing (no time limit or requirements). The idea was to want to go to the guitar as naturally as other daily activities were, like brushing my teeth or feeding the dog. I also wanted to avoid lapses of nothingness after a big recital where I usually feel like I deserve a break and leave the instrument untouched for weeks at a time. So even if it was just a scale, to go to the guitar daily and play something- anything- was the goal.
I didn't quite keep it 100%. I think I missed about 10 days, mostly when we were out of town. For example, the day we hiked Haleakala (volcanic crater in Maui) I was too exhausted to think about anything guitar afterward. And some days I sort of cheated. I mean, playing a scale (sometimes taking about 5 seconds) did not always make me feel that I was connecting to the instrument, but was a way to check the box each day. By the time we got to December, I guess I ended up feeling a bit disillusioned and decided not to bring the guitar with me on our NYC trip (not wanting to fly with it, but with good reason!). So I did some mental practicing instead, reviewing my scores, imagining fingerings, and listening to recordings, which is actually a really effective part of practicing also.
Now a year later, I can say that I think I practice "better" than I ever have. I'm not sure if this is a result of the resolution, or just the fact that I have less free time on my hands. I am more efficient, targeting hard spots, running sections slowly instead of just breezing through the piece and taking a million breaks. Today I have no commitments at all, no students, no classes, no other work. I could practice 8 hours today if I wanted to. I'll be honest and say that I really don't want to even do half of that. I cleaned the entire bathroom before sitting down to write this blog entry. That's how much my flesh hates working sometimes (or just how much I love cleaning bathrooms?!).
As I was told at a yoga class yesterday, showing up is half the battle. So as my red practicing stool stands empty this morning, I feel sad that it is alone. I think I will go and sit on it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)