Sing Your Song: Making the Case for Making a Joyful Noise

The itsy-bitsy spider went up the water spout, down came the rain and washed the spider out, out came the sun and dried up all the rain and the itsy-bitsy spider went up the spout again.

When I think of songs like "Itsy-Bitsy Spider" it takes me back to a time when singing was a part of my every day life, whether it was learning the ABC's with the alphabet song, or playing "Ring Around the Rosie" with my friends, or looking up at the night sky with my parents singing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." I have always loved to sing. I even remember as a little girl singing myself to sleep every night. But, in the U.S. (and perhaps in other countries as well), something happens around the ages of 9 or 10--we slowly segregate kids into two groups: those who can sing, and those who can't.

I was in the "can't sing" group. And it was devestating to me.

I'm sure you know which group you're in. Maybe it was a music teacher that asked you to just "mouth the words." Or maybe at camp a friend called you out in front of everyone for singing off-key. But that is when you stopped singing in front of people--I know I did. Sure I still sang in the shower or the car, but it's not the same thing. When we stop singing together, we lose something very important--connection.

I am always delighted and amazed when I see movies about African tribal culture because singing and dancing is so much a part of their lives. I recently saw a movie on the Lost Boys of Sudan, called And God Grew Tired of Us. These people had walked thousands of miles, through terrible circumstances and had seen atrocious things because of the civil war in their country, only to end up in the desert in Ethiopia in a refugee camp with 80,000 people, very little food and water, and maybe, if they were lucky, just the clothes on their backs. In the midst of this, they came together and sang. Their singing together connected them, began to heal them, and even brought them some joy in the middle of a dire circumstance. That's what singing can do.

I have a couple of personal experiences that have made me realize how important singing is for our whole lives and not just when we're children. When I was a young parent, my kids were about three and five, I was spent. Like most young parents, I was putting all of my time and energy into work, the kids, the house and I just ran out of energy to keep doing that. I went to go see a counselor and she asked me, "What do you love to do?"

"Sing," I replied. And she said, "Go do it." So I did.

I found a wonderful voice teacher who got it. He would say, "we're here to share, not to show, to express, not to impress." He knew it wasn't about American Idol--it was about the joy that comes from singing with and for others. (By the way, the voice is an instrument, and like other instruments if you get training and practice, you can improve!) The teacher had a glee club, which I joined and sang with for about five years. I even did solos and duets! I did one duet with my best friend which is one of the highlights of my life. Singing filled me up so that I could continue to take care of the ones I loved.

The other experience that made me realize how important singing is started with a phone call we got at 5:30 in the morning about 10 years ago. You know that call you dread getting? You're sound asleep and the phone rings and your heart is in your mouth? It was that call. My mother-in-law had had a major stroke on the left side of her brain. It took away her function on the right side of her body, and it took away her speech. Tens of thousands of words in the adult vocabulary and she was left with just one: alright.

As anyone who's been through tragedy like this knows, there is laughter amidst the tears. We would laugh, and Joanne would laugh at herself, with her "alright" conversations. But she didn't always laugh. It was frustrating for her not to be able to express herself. Try as we might to rebuild her vocabulary, those brain cells were dead. But what we did discover was that she could SING! Singing, you see, comes from the right side of your brain. She knew every word to songs she'd known her whole life, like "Happy Birthday" or "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." I would take her on walks around the neighborhood and we would sing the songs I knew from glee club, songs from the 40's and 50's like "Dancing Cheek to Cheek." It was so wonderful to hear her voice, to see the joy it brought her to express herself so effortlessly through song, when everything else was so difficult. Those walks where we connected like this are special times I'll never forget.

Today, I'm encouraging you to sing your song! Make a joyful noise! So you don't miss out, so we all don't miss out, on the special connection that comes from joining in song with others.

An Open Letter to My Sons: It's YOUR Road

To my sons (and young people everywhere who want to change the world):

There is no "right" way. Especially right now. I can see it in your eyes: a fire, really a spark right now, burning, waiting for some oxygen to really fuel it. You feel stifled, restrained by the system and structures around you (including your dad and me). I remember that feeling.

I just knew I would be a famous actress. Part of me still believes it (at my age!). Now, though, that passion I had is funneled into other pursuits. I want to change education so that people like you and me don't have to suffer through years of feeling like our fires are not being stoked. What if you had an education that found out what your dream was and did everything possible to support it? That is what every child deserves. The system, though, is not going to give it to you, so you need to find it yourself.

What I want to tell you is that there is no "right" way. The pressure right now is to get good grades, graduate from high school, go to a good college and get a good job—but that may not be your path. More people than you know follow a different path...and that is OK. Do I want you to get good grades? Sure. Do I want you to go to college? Yup. But if you don't, that can be OK too.

I say can be OK because there is one condition: you need to be pursuing your passion. Most famous people who didn't graduate from college (Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, Halle Berry, Jennifer Anniston, Michael Dell, etc.) have one thing in common—they left to pursue their passion. Whole-heartedly. Doggedly. Without distraction. If you don't go to school so you can sit around and play Call of Duty all day, that's one thing. If you're out there kicking ass and taking names, that's another. (And one way receives our financial and moral support, and the other way doesn't. Just so you know.)

(Can I add a caveat to my caveat? Sometimes what may look like "playing" to others may not actually be "playing." When Steve Jobs dropped out of Reed College, he hung around and audited classes including calligraphy. At the time it appeared to have no practical application in his life—it just interested him. The "usefulness," however, became clear a few years later when he and Steve Wozniak created the Mac—the first computer with beautiful typography. In Steve Jobs' words: "you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something—your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.")

For some reason, we like to make young people think that there is only one path, one right way, but that is a lie. Education, especially as it exists today, is mostly an exercise in learning how to follow the rules, to tolerate boredom, and, at best, to demonstrate that you can show up everyday and get something done. If you can do the latter part, though, if you can show up and get something done, even outside the structure of school, then you are already on your path to success.

So fear not. Do your best in this system where you do not fit, and then make your own way. Keep your eye on the prize and know that with hard work and persistence, you will get there (please note that it is highly unlikely that it will be handed to you). If you go to college right out of school, if that's the right path for you, great. But college will always be there if there is something you need to know that you can't learn some other way (for instance, if you suddenly decide that "rock star" doesn't cut it and you'd rather be a surgeon or an attorney). (And please don't tell Grandma I said this.)

In the meantime, know that you are a talented, brilliant human being, regardless of what anyone else thinks or what everyone else is doing. It can be a tougher road when you're making your own way, but it is your road. Make the most of it.

(By the way, Steve Jobs' commencement address at Stanford University is one of my favorites. Watch it sometime. )

Love,
Mom

30 Days of Creativity - Day 1

My Fear of Anticipation

I hate the moment when my feet leave the diving board--that split-second when there's no going back on my decision to jump and before my body plunges into the shock of the cold water. I have been known to stand on the diving board for minutes, warding off threats from my husband and sons who are dying to push me in. What's so weird, though, is that hitting the water is never as bad as I've made it out to be. The fear of what might be far outweighs the fear in the actual experience of what is. The fear I experience is not a fear of the thing itself, but in my imagining of the event.

Take bungee jumping, for instance. My husband really wants to go up to Nanaimo, British Columbia in Canada and bungee jump off the bridge there. What scares me about bungee jumping is not the fear of dying, but the moment between when my feet leave the bridge and when I feel the cord "catch" at the bottom. That's a heckuva long moment compared to leaving a diving board! But think about it--that IS the experience of bungee jumping. If you're going to enjoy the experience, you need to enjoy that anticipation while you're flying through the air, plummeting toward the earth. In order for me to enjoy life, I have to be doing more than just anxiously awaiting for that cord to catch at the bottom.

It's the same reason I hate horror movies. I experience no pleasure whatsoever in that moment where the killer is waiting, poised with the knife as the unwitting future victim slowly puts her hand on the doorknob. Now, I don't enjoy movies with a lot of killing anyway, but wiping out a group with machine guns is far less scary because there is no anticipation. It just happens. The event itself, again, is less scary than the anticipation of it.

So how can I deal with the fear that comes from anticipation? As far as I can tell, there is only one way--to fully experince each moment. It takes practice to constantly bring myself to the present, but the reality is there is usually nothing scary in this moment. Even when bad things do happen, it is usually just in one bad moment, surround by a bunch of very manageable or even good moments. Being present, even to fear, is far less scary than the events I anticipate. So, I breathe, let go of my thoughts, and once again strive to just be.

I think it's time for a swim.

When Saying "Yes" Means Saying "No"

I know I am not alone in having trouble saying "no" to things--especially as a woman. There are so many things I want to do, it's hard to turn things down. Sometimes I can't say no because I feel guilty, or obligated. Usually, though, I say "yes" without even thinking; if I can do it, then I should do it.

For a number of years, this worked for me...sort of. I ran through life, from one thing to the next, not really having the time to be present to any of it. For the last 20 years I have worked, raised children, volunteered at school, maintained a house, volunteered in the community, acted, sang, helped out friends and family, ran marathons and races, and on and on. It probably doesn't sound too different from your own life. It wasn't until this last fall, that suddenly (and I do mean suddenly), this crazy life caught up with me. I just couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't.

So what happened? It felt as if I hit a brick wall. Trying desperately to control every aspect of my teenage sons' lives, while working and doing all these other activities pushed me over an edge. I think it all began with a helicopter crash last February in which five people died--people we knew. It was followed by a couple more tragic deaths of young people in our community and then the death of a friend from high school. I think my undoing was at least nine months in the making (if not years prior to that). These untimely deaths planted seeds in my soul that started growing, pushing out old thoughts and behaviors and demanding new ones.

If life is so uncertain (and it's easy to pretend for stretches of time that it's not), then I need to make conscious choices about how I want to live it. Living in constant fear and worry, trying to control everything, stressing out over what needs to be done next isn't me living my life--it was my life living me. I made a conscious decision to quit working at a job that I was totally burnt out on, and spend this year supporting (not controlling) my sons and working on my writing and speaking skills.

What happens when you actually make a decision about what to do? Why wonderful opportunities come your way, of course! Opportunities that I now have to say no to, based on the direction I've chosen. I have to say no to people with whom I've worked for years and admire and respect. I have to say no to work that gratifies my ego and would earn us some extra cash. I have to say no to travel and another accomplishment for my resume.

The opportunity, I need to remember, is not in saying yes this time. The opportunity is in saying no to anything that might distract me from the course I've chosen. If I continue to fill up these spaces with busy-ness, I will find myself right back where I was. So, I take a deep breath, choose to let go of all the chatter and fear, and find the courage (yes, courage) to say "No. Thank you, but no."

What Are Words For?

I had an unusual situation happen this week. I said something in a group of people and completely offended someone. Now, don't get me wrong. I have blatantly offended people before by expressing my beliefs or ideas on a topic. I've also put my foot in my mouth and experienced the lovely taste of leather many a time. This was different. I was speaking from my heart, and someone completely misinterpreted what I said. That is not a common experience for me.

I consider myself somewhat of a word expert (although since I've begun playing Words with Friends, I realize now that I am a neophyte). I am an English/Psychology major and daughter of an elementary school teacher. I have been in corporate communications for the last 20+ years. I am a published author. I consider myself a clear communicator--so you may not like what I say, but very rarely have I been misunderstood.

The person's reaction caught me completely off guard. When I discovered how the person felt about what I said, I was shocked and felt terrible. As a people-pleaser, the last thing I ever try to do is hurt someone's feelings. What I said had affected the person so much, he or she was contemplating not participating in the event about which we were meeting. That's a pretty big deal.

While I am going to let it go and not beat myself up about it, since it was not my intention to hurt anyone, it did make me think. As comfortable as I've become in communicating, words are an imprecise business. That's what I've loved about them. I hate math and am terrible at it. I've never like the right/wrong thing with solving math problems. Words are fluid, flexible, changing, and present you with a variety of options. The thing is, we hear and speak them through our own filters.

I'm thankful for this experience, jarring as it's been, because it's made me think about an aspect of communicating with which I haven't had much experience. What are words for? Hopefully they're for peace, for love, building people up and other positive things. Sometimes they're for fighting, when necessary. We must never forget, however, their power. In an age when we are surrounded by words--texting, tweeting, e-mailing--it would be imprudent to forget that.

I am THAT parent...

I’ve lost sleep for many nights now, waking up in the middle of the night, worried about the future of my teenage sons. Over the years, they have both had challenges with school, sometimes alternately, sometimes simultaneously, adding numerous grey hairs under my “natural” brown hair. After the 16-year-old leaves for school and I drop the 14-year-old off at his, my day is spent looking in dread at the caller ID on the phone each time it rings. “Mrs. Keller? This is Mr. So and So at Such and Such school. Could you come pick up your son?”

I am THAT parent of THOSE kids. The ones that get in trouble. The ones who get sent to the principal’s office—something I spent my entire school career trying to avoid. And somehow, every time I get that call and make the long, anxious trip to school, then enter that office with my tail between my legs, I am suddenly 10 or 13 or 16 again and haven’t managed to avoid the principal’s office at all. I see the sad, sullen face of whichever boy of mine managed to make an impulsive, regrettable decision and I am distraught.

In that moment, I feel ashamed and heartbroken. Perhaps I should be angry, but all I can think of is how great this young man of mine is. I know his heart, his intent, and his remorse. They are not malicious, my sons. They are not bullies or druggies or vandals. Their infractions usually center around disrespect, or controlling their emotions. Somehow I have raised two kids with no tolerance for bullshit or ineptitude, for which I am proud, and yet I have failed to teach them how to contain their contempt and frustration. Perhaps we cannot teach our children what we fail to do ourselves.

As this man (always a man) charged with being school disciplinarian looks at me and articulates the wrongdoing of my offspring, thoughts swarm in my head. My heart races. When he finishes, his words hang heavy in the room as I hear the soft sniffles of my son, head hanging, nose dripping. This man is waiting for me to say something. To give him some explanation of my failing or my son’s, to get angry or defensive, or give him some clue about what great parenting technique I am going to employ to change my son’s behavior. Or better yet, what punishment I will dole out that will be painful enough that he will never sin again.

But I don’t know what to say that will fulfill this man’s need. Sitting there calmly, my demeanor belies the tempest inside me. I hear words fall lamely from my mouth to somehow convince him that I am a good mother, an effective parent. Really I am just trying to move through this as quickly as possible so that I can race my child in slow motion out of that office and into the car and the safety of our home. I want out from under this magnifying glass hovering over his behavior and my parenting. Truthfully, the safety is partially for him and mostly for me.

The car ride home is usually quiet at first. After a few minutes when I think I have collected myself, I begin to talk, to question him, but the tears always come. Tears of sadness for him and his situation. Tears of distress that I have somehow failed him. Tears of frustration that here we are, once again, neither one of us learning how to prevent a repeat performance of his poor judgment. He sits, quietly, knowing that this is the second part of the torture that is his punishment for his behavior—me trying to force him to talk about his thoughts and feelings.

Usually, eventually, he will toss some crumb to me of what is going on inside that head and heart of his. It will have to suffice, because the more I push, the more he steels against my prodding. Sometimes, there is some consequence doled out—you can’t use the car, you’re grounded this weekend—and he slinks off to his room, texting, I’m sure, his real thoughts and feelings to his lifeline of friends.

Just as a wave peaks, then crashes, the drama of the event subsides over the next hours, running swiftly yet calmly up the shore. This is when inside I question myself, and begin the rumination over the details of the incident, trying desperately to find the key to what will change my son so we don’t have to do this again. It involves conversations with my husband—mostly me puking my thoughts and feelings on him—as well as time spent looking for counselors, diagnoses, medication, personal development programs and more. I am going to “fix” them, you see. I will show the world and that man sitting in the chair across from me at their schools that I am a good mother. They are good boys.

Years of this are beginning to take their toll on me and on them. I am spent. I am faced with what I know is true. I have two sons who are smart, funny, kind, thoughtful, emotional, creative, and strong-willed. While their personalities are so different, they share these traits. I am proud of the people they are and the men they are becoming. I raised them—intentionally and unintentionally—to question, even authority, to be different, to be passionate, and in doing so, to be messy. They are not on a straight and narrow path—they are on a divergent one, a bumpy and beautiful one of their own making.

In my heart, I knew this is what I wanted for those sweet little babies placed in my arms so many years ago, but I had no idea how difficult it would be for them to experience and for me to watch. I know my friends are facing the challenges of watching their kids go off into the world on their own as well, but I can’t help but feel that they have the reassurance of seeing down the road their son or daughter is on, even just a ways, while my son is standing in a jungle and I have no idea what is behind that next whack of his machete as he clears a path in front of him.

The days when they’ve gotten in trouble at school often end with dinner together, or sitting on the sofa watching T.V. and we find ourselves laughing at some You Tube video they are showing me, or they pull me in to listen to their latest guitar riff or drum solo. I see once again who they really are and I know in my heart I am a good mom. They are good boys. I valiantly try to let go of who I expected them to be, and desperately strive to embrace who they are and who they are becoming. It isn’t easy. But it is the work I am most proud of.