Last weekend, I made the trek to my hometown of Ponca City, OK and played a concert in the theater where I used to go to movies as a kid. I don’t think I could have asked for a sweeter homecoming or a more enthusiastic welcome. My Ponca City brethren rolled out the carpet for me in grand style. They put my name up in lights, interviewed me on the radio and came out in droves for my performance. Even before I arrived, the good people from my hometown had already sent excited emails to me and posted about the show on Facebook. I was flabbergasted by the response. I was and am heartened and humbled.

 It was a wonderful feeling to play in the Poncan Theatre; it’s such beautiful landmark. But the thing that made it special was all of the people that came out for the show: former teachers, relatives I hadn’t seen in years, jazz fans, old schoolmates, childhood neighbors and, of course, so many dear friends, several of whom traveled from out-of-town to see the concert. I was astonished. If it is possible to be flooded by love, then I was most certainly drowning.

 It was quite the trip to revisit the village that had patiently tolerated the slightly feral little tomboy who “practiced” trick-or-treating in August and who had a proclivity for potty mouth. I was surprised by how much they remembered about me and was entertained (albeit slightly embarrassed) by some of their stories. It’s amazing how many people we connect with along the way in this grand adventure called life. As I spoke with all these lovely souls, I felt blessed. Sadly, there were many other people that I didn’t get the chance to speak with and I feel very sorry about that. The post-performance was a little dizzying. I wish I could have lingered over coffee with each and every person who came out to the show.

   Another big piece of the magic that night was my fabulous band. Randy, Michael and David played their asses off and made my job easy. This group of musicians could make Mrs. Miller sound great. It was a fabulous ride. I am grateful to Randy for making the trek out from Seattle and also to Michael and David for their willingness to make a road trip to Ponca City to play a gig with a chick singer they’d never met. I sincerely hope that our musical paths cross again someday.

 I am basically a regular goober. I have bills to pay. There are piles of dirty laundry in the hallway of my apartment. I could stand to lose 15-20 pounds. My kids fight over who gets to ride shotgun in the car. I’m forever misplacing my keys and my glasses. I stay up too late and get up too early. I run out of #2 coffee filters at inopportune times. I’m pretty much like anyone else. I am not particularly extraordinary. However, the people in my hometown made me feel like I was truly special–like I was somebody. For a few days last week, I got to feel like a super star. And I will never forget it.

Thank you and big love to all of you.

 It’s not every day that a woman gets to return to the small town where she grew up and perform a jazz concert in the same theater where she watched movies as a child. However, I have the privilege of doing exactly that. One week from tomorrow, I am hopping on a plane and flying to my hometown of Ponca City, OK to sing at the beautiful Poncan Theatre. The show takes place on May 11th.

 Ponca City is a small northern Oklahoma town that sits fairly close to the Oklahoma-Kansas border. It is named after the Ponca Indian Tribe, which was forcibly relocated to the area in 1877.  When I was growing up, the population of Ponca City was around 30,000.  At the time, the economic hub of the city was Conoco, which operated a research and development facility and a refinery in the south part of town. It seemed like almost everybody’s dad worked at Conoco, including my mine. My father Henry Bourne worked as a mechanical engineer with the company for most of his career.

  The Poncan Theatre is downtown on Grand Avenue. My friends and I used to go to Saturday matinees, usually to catch the latest Disney flick. As mortified as I am at being old enough to use the phrase “back in the day,” back in the day a box of miniature jawbreakers was a dime. I bought a box every time I went to a movie. I would eat most of them but would also roll a few on the floor underneath the seats just for good measure. Although I’m not sure how accurate they are, my memories of the Poncan are vivid all the same. The theater always held a sort of majestic grandeur to me. I recall fairly elaborate ornamentation, stunning light fixtures and, of course, the big sweeping balcony where we loved to sit. I can’t even begin to remember all of the films that I saw there when I was growing up, but a few come to mind. Every year around Halloween, the Poncan would screen “The Ghost and Mr. Chicken” with Don Knotts. This annual event was a very big deal that all the kids in town looked forward to. I also remember going to see “Westworld” with my father and watching Yul Brenner completely fill the screen as the scariest, bad ass cowboy robot that I’d ever seen. I never made out with a boy in this great old theater but I kind of wish I had. It would be a great detail for the narrative. Although I can’t recite the entirety of the Poncan’s history, I do know that it was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1985 and also that it underwent major renovations in the 1990s. In 1994, the theater celebrated its Grand Opening as a performing arts center.

 Randy Halberstadt, my musical director and pianist, will be traveling with me to Oklahoma. For our May 11^th concert at the Poncan, Randy and I will be joined by bassist Michael Geib and drummer David Hardman, both from the faculty of the University of Central Oklahoma School of Music. Seattle bassist Jeff Johnson was kind enough to connect me with Michael and David and I’m very much looking forward to playing with them. On the following evening, Randy and I will be performing as a duo for a private event in Oklahoma City. Never in a million years did I imagine that I would be heading back to Oklahoma to sing jazz. I’m thrilled, blessed and grateful.

 My performance at the Poncan is being presented by the Ponca City Arts & Humanities Council with funding from the Oklahoma Arts Council. Leslie Smith Schauvliege, the director of the Ponca City Arts & Humanities Council, has worked tirelessly and patiently to iron out all the details and to make this concert possible. I would like to give a big shout out to Leslie here and to say “thank you” for everything. She’s been a gem. My concert at the Poncan is free but I encourage anyone who attends to consider making a contribution to the Ponca City Arts and Humanities Council. (You can do that right here: http://www.poncacityarts-humanities.org/donor.html)

 My father died of pancreatic cancer in September of 2000 and my mother is now residing in an assisted living community in Oklahoma City. I am sad that they won’t be there for what is sure to be a very special evening. However, my sister Martha will be in attendance as will several very close friends, some of whom are traveling a long way just to be there. It is truly an honor to perform at the Poncan Theatre and to share this homecoming in a historic place that holds sweet memories for so many people.

 There was quite a flap last week over Democratic strategist Hilary Rosen’s remarks about Mitt Romney’s wife Ann. In case you missed it, here’s what she said:

 “What you have is Mitt Romney running around the country saying, ‘Well, you know, my wife tells me that what women really care about are economic issues, and when I listen to my wife, that’s what I’m hearing.’ Guess what? His wife has never actually worked a day in her life. She’s never really dealt with the kinds of economic issues that a majority of the women in this country are facing in terms of how do we feed our kids, how do we send them to school and how we do worry-and why we worry-about their future. I think, yes, it’s about these positions, and yes, I think there will be a war of words about the positions.”

 Needless to say, Rosen’s remarks kicked up big reactions. Twitter lit up like a Christmas tree, political pundits pontificated at length on cable news and the bloggers had a field day. (My favorite post on the subject came from Mary Elizabeth Williams at Salon.) Whether this is an authentic dust-up or merely a media contrived frenzy is hard to call, but it has reignited the debate as to what defines a “working mom” and which moms get to claim that title.

If I may offer my two cents on the matter…

First off, although I can’t claim to know exactly what was going on in Hilary Rosen’s head at the time she made this statement, my take on it is that she was speaking more to the economics of Mrs. Romney’s situation than the fact that she was a stay-at-home mom. Indeed, being a stay-at-home mom with piles of money is a far different thing than being a stay-at-home mom with limited resources. If Ms. Rosen’s statement was intended to speak to this discrepancy, then I believe it was valid and fair. Regardless of what Ms. Rosen was driving at, the whole incident has definitely stirred the decades old pot.

Nothing has kicked my ass more than motherhood. And as someone who has walked both worlds–staying at home with kids and working outside of the home–I can testify that each presents its own set of challenges. I might add that neither is nobler than the other.

There are a few reasons that I decided to stay home with my kids when they were young. Prior to having children, I was an actor who had worked a variety of day jobs. When it came down to whether or not to go back to work after my son Emmett was born, part of the decision was an economic one. Daycare was expensive and it wasn’t like I was a big earner. Whatever money I would have made in the workforce would have been completely eaten up in childcare costs. It didn’t make sense. But economics aside, I very much wanted to be home with my kid anyway and felt it was the right thing for our family. At the time, my husband agreed. Another factor that weighed heavily on my decision to stay home was the experience of losing my firstborn child. I was understandably nervous about my baby’s well being and, at the time, felt strongly that nobody could care for him as well as I could.

 My years at home with the children were a mixed bag. I loved being with my boys and we had lots of fun together. I was able to experience all the “firsts” and felt blessed that I had the space and time to fully engage in the day-to-day wonders of motherhood and family life. I loved the birthday parties, the field trips with the preschool and the lazy afternoons on the beach at Lake Washington. I really get how lucky I was. However, I also remember being exhausted most of the time. Being “on” all day with small children is perhaps one of the most physically and mentally demanding things I’ve ever experienced. I spent those years wandering around in a chronic state of semi-depletion. We didn’t have any family around, so there wasn’t a lot of respite. The other thing I remember about those days was a nagging identity crisis. I always had the gnawing sense that I wasn’t doing enough and that I was letting my career–whatever that was–fade into oblivion. Beyond the world of breastfeeding children and cleaning up poopy diapers, I wasn’t sure who I was.

 When the kids were older and comfortably settled in the neighborhood elementary school, I went back to work part-time. Although it definitely felt good to be back in the mainstream workforce, this situation presented a new set of challenges. In our particular family dynamic, the expectation was that I would still be available if one of the kids were sick and that I’d also be responsible for their care during school breaks and holidays. This resulted in a lot of harried juggling and one disasaterous summer involving a ne’re do well nanny with a nose ring and an attitude. Needless to say, I felt like I was busting ass and still failing in all directions.

I don’t know that my kids were any better off for my staying home with them and I believe that my years as an at-home mom ultimately put me at grave financial risk. When my husband and I divorced, re-entry into the full-time workforce was brutal. The time gap in my work history was like a bleeding sore on my resume. It didn’t matter what skills I had. It didn’t matter what volunteer work I’d done or how flipping much money I’d raised while chairing a fundraising committee for a nonprofit. It didn’t matter that my writing chops were in top form. The only thing that mattered was that I had been absent from the workforce to raise children.  That was a deal breaker­–a death sentence, actually–again and again. The only jobs that I was able to get were low paying ones at two different preschools. It was as if I’d come full circle; once again I was exhausted and questioning my identity.

I finally decided that if there wasn’t a job for me out there then I would make my own job. I threw my focus completely into my singing and writing. I recorded a CD and hustled like mad for gigs. I went back to school and received a certificate in Public Relations. I taught myself how to do stuff. Between evening workshops, help from friends and late hours of research on the Internet, I was able to cultivate a lot of new skills. I wooed clients and sometimes wrote for days at a time just to get things done. I took as many jazz gigs as I could possibly get. All the while, I was also parenting. At this point, the boys were both at different stages of adolescence. One was a tween and one was a teenager. In some ways, their day-to-day needs were less demanding, which made the time balance a little easier. But whatever advantages I gained on that side were tempered by the challenges of parenting a full-blown teenager. I was trying to pay bills and also navigate the extremely turbulent waters of my son’s very loud rebel yell. If that wasn’t “working,” I don’t know what is.

My fiscal days are a little easier now but I feel like I still have a long ways to go in terms of catching up on the ground I lost, economically speaking, from staying at home with my children. I understand that there are probably some at-home moms who might take exception to my sentiment that staying at home with kids can make a woman financially vulnerable down the road. My intent is not to offend but to speak honestly from my own experience. You never know what might happen.

When it comes to motherhood in this culture, there seems to be a damned if you do and damned if you don’t mentality. No matter what choices we make, we are scrutinized, judged and sometimes even penalized. I’m curious how the issue of working mothers is viewed in other countries that have more affordable day care options. Or is it even an issue?

I believe that ALL mothers are working mothers. And I actually agree with Ann Romney that women and moms do care about economic issues in this country. In fact, I’d say we care more about economic issues than we do about judging each other’s choices. If this newest flap does anything, it should remind women across the country that we need to stick up for each other, support each other and help each other. We need to continue to fight for economic equality, access to family planning and the right to self-determination. We deserve to live in a country that values us, no matter what choices we make.

We are working mothers. Let us do our jobs.

 The inspiration for this blog post came to me while I was driving home from my yoga class last night. I have no idea where it came from or why.  It doesn’t matter. The message is this:

  GET OUT THERE AND KICK SOME ASS TODAY.

  Actually, get out there and kick some ass every day.

 This will mean different things for different people. For some of you, this will mean maintaining a shit-eating grin while your incompetent boss blathers on incoherently. For others, it means biting the bullet and telling that pain in the ass relative–the one who is never going to stop being a pain in the ass–to piss off already. For some, kicking ass will mean pounding through another day of job-hunting or finally making that dreaded appointment. For still others, just getting out of bed and getting dressed in the morning is a courageous act of kick ass.

  Kicking ass is about knocking on doors, taking another run at it, flexing muscles, rocking warrior poses, picking up the damn phone,  pushing back and creating at all costs. It’s about tenacity and fire.

   It’s about standing up when you think you’re surely going to fall down and hanging on like a pit bull, even if you’re dangling on the edge of complete exhaustion. Kicking ass is slogging through the pain with nothing more than grit as your anesthesia. Think medieval dentistry.

  It doesn’t matter if it’s hard or you’re scared or you’re worried. It doesn’t matter what your circumstances are. In fact, sometimes it’s best not to overthink your life. Anyway, it isn’t finished until you’re dead. Maybe you think you can’t; that your story is too sad; that you’ve been on your back too long and that the universe doesn’t love you. All of these may be true. But dig into your reserves, find bigger boots and commence with the ass kicking anyway. 

 Don’t get me wrong. I’m all about flow and ease and beauty. But kicking ass is equally noble among these. Kicking ass is grace in a superhero cape. It’s not reckless abandon. It is firm and decisive.

 Need inspiration? Look around you. Other people are kicking ass every single day. Marshawn Lynch kicks ass whenever he touches a football. Rachel Maddow kicks ass on a nightly basis. The guy with cerebral palsy who works at the mini-mart is kicking ass. The Dalai Lama, in his calm and elegant way, is kicking ass. Even your grandma is probably kicking ass. (Or did kick ass.)  So why shouldn’t you?

 It doesn’t matter if your nose gets a little bloody or your clothes get dirty. Sometimes, it doesn’t necessarily even matter if people like you. What matters is getting it done. Whatever it is that needs to get started or finished or explored or fixed or healed, step up and get to it. Kick some ass right now

 In saying this to you, I am not preaching some kind of Norman Vincent Peale feel good yummy yummy. The truth of the matter is that I’m a weathered realist with a bit of an Eeyore complex. We don’t necessarily kick ass to feel better. We kick ass because we have to.

 Kicking ass is about roaring, shining and taking care of business. It’s about going for it, even if it’s against all odds. Kicking ass is an act of love.

 When you kick ass, you are unapologetically investing in your own survival.

***

“Not knowing how it will end and whether you’ll be able to pull it off is a mandatory part of the process.“

- Jonathan Fields

The New Orleans

 A few months ago, I had a gig at one of my favorite clubs. Leading up to the gig, I did all the requisite promo; I blasted through social media, sent emails to my distribution list, posted on my website and made sure the date was listed on all the local music calendars. Despite my efforts, the turnout was abysmal. As any sensitive artist would do, I left the club that night feeling crestfallen. Although the band and I had a great night musically speaking, the low draw nibbled at my psyche. I took the small turnout personally. I wondered what it said about my value as a vocalist or my relevance. The monkeys of doubt ran loose in my mind and chattered away with cruel abandon.  About a week after the gig, I had breakfast with my friend and colleague Jason Parker, his beautiful wife and fab photographer Darrah Parker and their daughter, the effervescent Zen girl-Sadie Rose. Over quiche and coffee, I relayed the sad story of my gig to J.P.  and shared the feelings of self-doubt that the experience had unleashed. J.P. listened patiently and then asked the following question: “Is it you or the room?” He went on to say that this particular place is a dark dive that a lot of people don’t like to hang out at. He added that I’m not alone and that many others of our peers have had trouble getting a draw at this particular venue. Needless to say, his perspective was heartening and helped to quiet the monkey ruckus in my head. Everyone needs a friend like J.P.

IS IT YOU OR THE ROOM?

This question has definitely lingered in my mind. Of course, it is incumbent on we musicians to do the work. We need to put in the time, practice and make sure we’re on our musical game. We also have to do our part to get the word out about our shows. But given that we’ve covered our bases, is it possible that the room itself impacts our ability to draw? If so, why?

 In pondering this notion, I have to think about the places where I seem to draw well and what characteristics they have. The first that comes to mind is the Fireside Room at the Sorrento Hotel.  My friends and fans really like to come out to the Fireside Room. It’s a truly gorgeous room with an elegant décor, comfortable seating throughout, friendly service and a big crackling fireplace. People like to sit around the piano, enjoy a glass of wine and listen. (Although not all crowds at the Fireside Room are there for the music, the past few times I’ve played there the audiences have been so attentive it felt like I was playing house concerts.) Everything about this room is inviting. The fact that the Sorrento is centrally situated on First Hill with ample street parking nearby certainly helps. Another room I tend to do well in is the North Bend jazz spot Boxley’s. On Saturday nights, we always play to a packed room, especially on our first set. The room is spacious and welcoming and has great sound.  The food is tasty and the staff couldn’t be friendlier. All of these seem to enhance our ability to draw. Admittedly, we may simply be accessories to the Saturday night dinner rush but there’s always a crowd all the same. While some may bemoan the fact that Boxley’s is in North Bend, the distance doesn’t neccesarily seem to be a factor. If it is, it doesn’t matter because the locals definitely support the scene there.

Boxley's

Tonight, I am playing the Happy Hour set at the Musicquarium at the Triple Door. I’ve only played there once before but we had a great draw that night. I think there were (and are) a lot of factors that contributed to the desirable draw. The Triple Door is located smack in the middle of the bustling downtown core and I think the room absorbs some of that lively energy. It’s a sleek and modern space with windows that look out on the busy sidewalk. A big tank with pretty fish accentuates the décor. It’s a pleasant place to unwind. The Happy Hour set is also appealing. Food and drink are discounted and I think my peeps like the option of going out and getting home relatively early.  I am very hopeful that we draw as well tonight as we did last time.

 The one thing that the Fireside Room, Boxley’s and the Musicquarium have in common is that they don’t charge a cover.  What role this plays in the ability to draw is probably significant. If my fans are more inclined to come out to a room without a cover, does this suggest that they aren’t willing to pay to hear me sing or is it more a matter of simple economics?  Door gigs have typically been hit or miss for me. Although there have been nights when the band has fared well and we’ve all gone home with a little extra jingle in our pockets, there have also been times when I’ve eaten it on the door and, after paying my musicians, have walked home with next to nothing. It’s a tricky dance and I’ve yet to identify a consistent algorithm between cover charges and the draw of the crowd.

If I am interested in hearing someone play, I’m not usually deterred by cover charges or what the room is like.  That said, if there’s no cover and the club is relatively accessible, then I am more inclined to pop in spontaneously. Along those lines, two of my favorite scenes are Wednesday nights with the Legacy Quartet at the New Orleans and Jazz & Sushi at Hiroshi’s.  In both of these, the vibe is casual and the music is front and center. The other thing I like about these rooms is that musicians tend to hang out in them, so even if I’m out by myself, I know I will run into friends. I might add that the food at both the New Orleans and Hiroshi’s is really good and really affordable. Again, I’m open to most rooms and circumstances and there are a lot of clubs in town that I love going to. The only real deal breaker for me with any room is if the people who work there are assholes. I don’t go to places that treat customers poorly. Unfortunately, there are a couple of nightspots in town that are off my list because they don’t have their act together in this respect.

  Whether we like it or not, our ability to draw a crowd to a room usually dictates whether we will get hired to play there again. It’s a simple fact of the business. But it is interesting and maybe even a little ironic to consider that the room itself may be a huge factor in whether or not we can get our peeps to come out. As such, should we pursue work accordingly?  When booking gigs, should we put more thought into the rooms we’re working and what qualities they have (or don’t have) that will influence our fan base? Or do the rooms really matter? Is the bottom line the quality of the music we’re making? Is it us or is it the room?

Hiroshi's

 I would really like to open this one up for discussion. I’d love for any musicians reading this to share thoughts on the “Is it you or the room?” question. How do the places you play impact your ability to draw? I would also love to hear from anyone who goes out to listen to music. How much does the venue impact your decision to go out and see a show?  Have you ever passed on seeing someone play because you didn’t like the club they were playing in? Conversely, have you ever been motivated to see a show based on the venue alone?

The comments are now open.

  The other day I was talking to a fellow musician who had recently experienced a disappointment on the career front. She was understandably upset and was deep in that very familiar pit of lamenting, second-guessing and self-doubt. She was questioning her worth as a musician and contemplating as to whether or not she should continue. I dangled my legs over the side of the pit and peered down. God, I’ve so been there. My friend continued her devastating query, moving on to skepticism about her ability to learn anymore. I extended my paw down to her and offered words of encouragement. I couldn’t change her upset in that moment but if nothing else, I could help pull her out of the pit and knock some of the dirt off her dress. Pain has a stubborn way of moving along at its own pace. It takes its own sweet time. And unfortunately, the pain of disappointment is something we all encounter in our creative lives. Although I will, no doubt, one day be back in the spot that my friend is in now, I would like to take advantage of the present moment of relative calm and offer up six tips for dealing with disappointment in your creative life.

1. DON’T MAKE ABSOLUTE DECISIONS

When you’ve just broken your arm and the ski patrol is carting you down the side of the mountain, it might not be the best moment to decide that you’re giving up skiing forever. The same is true when we’re toppled over from disappointment. When we’re in the throes, everything is really elevated and frantic or really muddy and dark. In either case, it is an inhospitable environment for big decision making. Anyway, absolutes declared in a moment of crisis rarely stick. Think of all the women who swore, at around 8 or 9 centimeters, that they would never have another baby and went on to have enough kids to fill a minivan.

2. GET THYSELF TO THE SHED

Go do your art or play your music or hunker down with your writing. The shed is a juicy place, full of wonder and discovery if approached with an open attitude. There are always basics to drill, new things to learn or problems to fix. Rolling up your sleeves and putting razor focus on your craft can do wonders. It snaps you back to the present moment and takes your hand-wringing mind off the upset at hand. After one bruising disappointment, I retreated to the shed and worked on breath control and increasing the muscularity of my head voice. Part of this involved singing along with Barbra Streisand recordings and trying to emulate her power and control. Trust me, that undertaking definitely took my mind off the disappointment that prompted it.  The shed is also a great place to lick your wounds. It’s womb- like and private. You’ve got nothing to prove there. You can just be.

3. CONNECT WITH YOUR TEACHER OR YOUR MENTOR

A few years ago, I experienced a particularly brutal musical situation. While I have enough self-preservation not to rip open that wound and share all the gory details, I’ll just say that I got my ass handed to me in front of God and everyone. A musician who was on the gig that night still refers to it as “the massacre.”  It was so painful that I not only considered giving up singing but also even contemplated moving someplace far, far away–like the Himalayas. Yeah, it was that bad. I didn’t have enough cash for an international escape, so I simply retreated to my bed and pulled the covers over my head for several days. When I emerged, I called my teacher.  She had actually been in attendance that wretched night and shared her angle on what went down. Interestingly, despite all my horrific imaginings, it was not as bad as I’d thought it was, not by a long stretch. This isn’t to say that she hadn’t observed some rough spots–she definitely had–but she was able to reel me back into a more realistic assessment of the evening. In her view, there was no cause for the lethal sense of humiliation that I was feeling.

 Your teacher/mentor has your best interests at heart and can offer perspective, something you might not have when you’re deep in the belly of a monster disappointment. More than likely, she has been through something similar before. Sometimes there is odd comfort in war stories. Your teacher sees all of you, not just the banged up soul who went all in and came up with nothing. (this time) She can hold up a mirror, come up with a game plan or simply lend a shoulder to snivel on. Just be careful not to slime her blouse.

4. EVOKE THE MASTERS

OK, here it is: I pray to Carmen McRae. It all started several years ago. I was going through a painful personal situation that involved the mother of all heartaches. My teacher, in her seemingly infinite wisdom, gave me a copy of “At Ratso’s,” a live recording of Carmen during stints at the famous Chicago jazz club. (See # 3) I spent an entire summer with my headphones on, listening to Carmen sing about life, love and blues. It felt as if an old broad who had seen it all was reaching through time to comfort me and to testify on behalf of the millions of women who have experienced what I was going through that summer. Laugh and point if you will, but it was a spiritual experience for me.

While I am not a God or Jesus type, I do, to this day, invoke the spirit of Carmen McRae if I’m going through something and especially if it involves a challenge in my creative life. When I think of Carmen and all the great vocalists that went before me, I feel certain that they too had their own trials, tribulations and disappointments along the way. Yet they endured and shared their gifts with the world. There is inspiration in that. The mere act of meditating on their humanity gives me a deep sense of grace and strength. When we pray to our predecessors, I like to think that we’re tapping into something timeless that can serve us in the here and now.

5. PRACTICE CREATIVE CROSS-POLLINATION

Dabble outside of your usual creative medium. If your thing is music, then dig your fingers into some clay and make something. If you’re a ballet dancer, write a short story. If your expression usually involves paint and canvas, crank up the tunes and get your funk on. The goal is to infuse your scene with some fresh energy and to possibly see things differently. Sometimes when we’re disappointed, we temporarily lose creative moxie in our own discipline. Trying a different means of expression can sometimes kick- start our flow again. And besides, it’s fun. I know I’ve made this suggestion in other  posts but I repeat it here it because it works. Thanks to the exquisitely inspiring photographer Darrah Parker, I’ve been carrying around a camera and taking photos for over a year now. Taking pictures has been liberating and life-changing. There is no pressure for my photos to “be” any certain way or for me to be particularly “good” at taking them. It is just the simple joy of visual expression. Joy is a powerful panacea for disappointment.

6. MAKE A LIST OF YOUR WINS

Disappointment, in part anyway, is a state of skewed perception. When you’re disappointed, your focus is on what you didn’t get or what didn’t happen. It’s like a canker sore of the psyche. But if you dig back into your history, there were, no doubt, times when you did nail the audition or get the gig or win the prize. Summon up the memories of these wins and make a list­­–physically write it down so you have a visual. When you can see your wins written out on paper, things become a little less lopsided. You remember than it’s not always this way. You can start to see your creative life with a more balanced overview.

Disappointment is part of our creative experience. If we’re putting ourselves out there, then inevitably setbacks and unhappy blows will happen from time to time. There will be periods of feeling like crap and questioning everything. However, our disappointments don’t define us. And when we accept that disappointment is just part of the dance, then we can quell the freakout just a little.

If all else fails, ask yourself the following questions:

• Do I have a roof over my head?
• Are my loved ones safe?
• Do I have clean water to drink?
• Do I have enough food to eat?
• Are there air strikes over my city at this very moment?

Disappointment happens and perspective is everything.

I can’t think of anything that would be more annoying than showing up for work in the morning and finding a bunch of priests conducting a vigil on the sidewalk in front of my place of employment. Equally annoying (and ridiculous) would be the sizable crowd of women, men and children holding horrific signs that accuse my co-workers and me of murder. Even more irritating would be the stress and worry that such an ugly crowd would cause my customers. Welcome to Martha’s world.

Martha is my marvelous big sister. She is also the V.P. of Public Affairs and Director of Security for Planned Parenthood of New Mexico. Every year during Lent, the anti-choice group 40 Days for Life stages daily protests in front of the PPNM surgical clinic and administrative offices. The atmosphere for these 40 days is circus-like: long processions of people walking past the building, militant anti-choice activists waving around giant posters with graphic images, little old ladies fingering rosaries, protesters blocking the entrance to the parking lot and scads of religious sorts kneeling in prayer. Each day, a different church from the Albuquerque area represents on behalf of the 40 Days movement. In years past, most of these have been from Catholic parishes, although this year, many are from evangelical Christian congregations. While protesters are part of the day-to-day for someone working for Planned Parenthood, the 40 Days picketers are the weekend warriors of protestors. Their annual showing is akin to amateur hour and they are particularly inept and obnoxious. For example, they park in the Planned Parenthood parking lot. When informed that they are trespassing and have to move their vehicles, they then ask Planned Parenthood staff for suggestions as to where they could park, after calling said staff “killers.” Just this week, a 40 Day protestor wandered into the Planned Parenthood administrative office and asked an employee where he was suppose to meet his fellow protestors. Insert facepalm here.

Rather than organize a counter protest, which would not be productive and could potentially create more headaches, the smart women of PPNM have turned this 40-day debacle into an annual fundraiser called “Pledge a Picket.”  Supporters can either donate a set figure or can pledge an amount per protestor on Good Friday, when picketers easily number into the hundreds. Whenever someone makes a donation, a brightly colored ribbon with his/her name on it is tied to the fence in front of the Planned Parenthood buildings. (Those who make their donation in person have their picture taken and posted on the PPNM Facebook page.) By the end of the 40 days, this fence is covered in ribbons. This not only serves as a visible symbol of the support for PPNM but also raises a lot of money for the organization and helps offset the closure of the medical clinic on Good Friday, when the sheer volume of protesters makes if difficult for patients to come and go from the facility. “Pledge a Picket” is an intelligent response to an outrageous situation.

While recent events such as the Congressional attempt to cut funds to Planned Parenthood, the bogus Stearns investigation and the Susan G. Komen fiasco have certainly garnered a great deal of attention, it should be noted that regional affiliates, like Planned Parenthood of New Mexico, are in the trenches every single day, fighting off similar attacks on the local level and tenaciously advocating for women’s health. At any given time, these affiliates are battling everything from funding cuts and parental consent laws to bills that would limit women’s access to affordable birth control.  Sadly, many of these affiliates are woefully underfunded. This is why drives like “Pledge a Picket” are so very important.

 Contrary to how the 40 Days for Life contingency would like to characterize her, my sister Martha is not a killer. In fact, she is one of the most compassionate people I know. She’s a mother, a wife, a cancer survivor, an animal lover and the best friend a sister could have. Martha has worked in the reproductive rights field for almost three decades and has been with Planned Parenthood for over 12 years. She cares deeply about women and their access to quality, affordable health care. Over the years, I’ve watched her work tirelessly in a political environment that is challenging, frustrating and, at times, potentially dangerous. Sometimes I worry about her. But every single day, I am proud of her; I’m proud of what she does and what she represents. I am proud to be her sister. I would like nothing more than to get in the face of each and every protester that harasses my sister and her co-workers, but I know that this ultimately would not be helpful.

That’s why I am planning to Pledge a Picket.  I very much hope you’ll join me.

To learn how you can “Pledge a Picket,” go here: http://www.plannedparenthood.org/new-mexico/events-13992.htm

Also, hop over to the Planned Parenthood of New Mexico’s Facebook page & thank Martha and the gang for a job well done: https://www.facebook.com/ppnewmex

MARTHA

Many people will be come home to a bouquet of roses tonight or will gaze across a candlelit dinner into the eyes of that special someone. For these lucky souls, Valentine’s Day is cause for celebration and an excuse, as if one is needed, to throw a little kindling on the romantic fire. For many others, however, Valentine’s Day is a kind of a dirge, a painful reminder of someone or something that is missing. Some of these individuals are deep in the ravages of a recent breakup and all the intensity that comes with it. Some are quietly enduring the dull loneliness of long unrequited love. Still others are simply ambling along alone in the world, left to fend for themselves in life’s vast existential plains. These tender spirits often watch Valentine’s Day from the sidelines.

For the heartbroken and lonely, I’ve compiled a list of eight songs. These reflect the other side of love and might be a good soundtrack for anyone who feels removed from today’s celebrations.

1. You Don’t Know What Love Is.

 This standard, composed by Don Raye and Gene de Paul, was originally written  for an Abbot and Costello movie. It went on to become one of the most popular tunes in the Great American songbook. It has one of my favorite lyrics of all time: “ You don’t know how hearts burn for a love that cannot live yet never dies.” That pretty much says it all.  In this clip, Chet Baker’s soft intensity soulfully conveys the deep ache within the song.

2. Deep Song

While “Good Morning Heartache” is certainly Billie Holiday’s quintessential anthem to pain, “Deep Song,” penned by George Cory and Douglas Cross, is equally as wrenching.

3. Everything Must Change

Love, like everything else, is subject to the laws of impermanence. I’ve always loved Karrin Allyson’s recording of this haunting composition by Bernard Ighner.

4. Inside a Silent Tear

Blossom Dearie penned this delicate and wistful tune. Carmen McRae is my all-time favorite jazz vocalist and does a beautiful job with this.

5. I Can Explain

Although I’ve featured this song in other posts, it’s most definitely worthy of inclusion here. Raw emotion from my hero Rachelle Ferrell. The perfect song for those days when you just have to weep.

6. A Thousand Beautiful Things

Although there is much buzz at present about Adele’s break-up inspired CD “21,” Annie Lennox’s 2003 recording “Bare” is the ultimate break-up album. “A Thousand Beautiful Things” is a fitting requiem for the end of a relationship.

7. Both Sides Now

Joni Mitchell has been a lifeline through many a heartbreak in my life. While there are so many of her songs that would be fitting for today, I guess I chose “Both Sides Now,” because it best communicates my senibilities in the here and now: “I really don’t know love at all.” This is Joni in all her majesty. Sigh.

8. Lush Life

No song in history probably encapsulates heartache and sadness as well as this classic. Composed and performed here by none other than the great Billie Strayhorn.

A few closing thoughts:

 Although I don’t have a significant other, I choose to view Valentine’s Day as a holiday for all kinds of love and tonight I will celebrate by making a nice meal for family and friends. While the day may be sad for some, we each have a choice as to what we project on it and how we deal with it.

Valentine’s Day is ultimately what we make of it.

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The comments section, as always, is wide open. I’d love to hear your thoughts about other songs that might be included on this list or anything you have to say about Valentine’s Day in general.

Courage

According to the Cowardly Lion, courage is “what makes the elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist or the dusky dusk.”  John Wayne said, “Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.” And the Merriam-Webster dictionary defines it as “mental or moral strength to venture, persevere and withstand danger, fear or difficulty.” Clearly, courage is a big subject. I think about it a lot.

I have spent the better part of my life standing on the edge of a high dive with my heart pounding furiously in my chest. I’ve made many a bold move while trembling in my boots. A lot of my friends describe me as “fearless,” although the truth of the matter is that I’m scared a lot of the time. Courage, in my experience, is when the desire to “go for it” is greater than the fear.

But as the Merriam-Webster definition says, courage is also the ability to endure difficulty. When my sister was undergoing chemotherapy, many people told her how courageous she was. They said the same thing to me while I was grieving the death of my baby, some twenty years ago. But all we were doing was putting one foot in front of the other, trying to find our way through painful and bewildering circumstances. What else could we do? It’s not like either of us were particularly extraordinary. Sometimes I think courage is simply the product of no other alternatives.

highly courageous

In our creative lives, I think that courage comes down to willingness: willingness to let the world really see you; willingness to expose your vulnerabilities; willingness to trust your own resilience and, finally, willingness to express your truth without apology. In my creative experience, courage is the love child of willingness and intention. My creative yearnings often take me out there “where angels fear to tread.” Yet if I want to realize all possibilities for expression, I have to be willing to be uncomfortable sometimes.

Courage isn’t a feeling. It’s a choice.

I’ve recently made the decision that I won’t shy away from writing about my political opinions here on this blog. I used to have a separate blog for political commentary. I was concerned that if I were too political here, it might cost me gigs or potential writing jobs. However, I found that keeping up with two blogs was extremely difficult. But more so, it became increasingly clear to me that the political activist, the writer, the jazz vocalist and the mom are not separate entities. I can’t compartmentalize my sensibilities. In the gathering political storm, I sense direct threats to my children and my family. As any mother animal would do, I respond accordingly. In my case, it starts with a roar and a blog post. I can’t worry about other people’s approval. As I said before, courage is the willingness to speak your truth without apology. Courage is also the willingness to go to any length to protect your family.

In our creative lives and beyond, every day is a stroll through the unknown.  Still, we go about our business. We write. We paint. We reach out. We take chances. We submit the proposal. We go to the audition. We call for the test results. We ask him/her out for coffee. We open our hearts. We endure. We make beautiful plans in a climate of obdurate ambiguity.

Courage is necessary.

OK peeps, I’ve got the ball rolling. It’s your turn now.  How do you define courage and what does it mean in your life?  Can you share a story or experience  about a time when you felt particularly courageous? Talk to me.

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Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.

– Anais Nin

 “There are certain things that government does that gives people privileges in order to promote activity that are healthy for society and are best for society. And those things we promote would give people advantages or benefits, government benefits because we think that is healthy activity. Mothers and fathers coming together, forming healthy marriages, having children and raising those children. Every American child has the right, and the government should support the right to have and know their mother and father and be raised by their mother and father.”

– Rick Santorum

This was Rick Santorum’s response to a woman who, at a political rally yesterday, asked why her gay son shouldn’t have the same rights as Santorum, a straight person, has.

Needless to say, my blood is boiling. I almost don’t know where to start.

 Perhaps a good jumping off point would be to address the notion of “healthy activity,” especially relative to homosexual people vs. heterosexual people. In the day-to-day, my gay friends are no different than me, a straight woman. They pay their bills and sign permission slips for their kids. They get the oil changed on their cars and mow their lawns. The volunteer in their communities and coach their kids’ soccer teams. They do yoga. The grow gardens. They stay up late with fussy babies. They juggle busy lives and hectic schedules. They have dinner with their families at night. I might add, Mr. Santorum, that they also vote. All of these activities are perfectly normal and easily fall under the definition of “healthy.” In fact, given my examples, I am hard pressed to find any difference between the “gay lifestyle” and the “straight lifestyle.” The only difference is what gay people do in the privacy of their bedrooms, which is nobody’s business, certainly not the government’s & definitely not Rick Santorum’s. And who are you, Mr. Santorum, to suggest that what gay people do in the privacy of their own bedrooms isn’t healthy? Who decides what “healthy” is anyway? To put the glove on the other hand if I may­, how do we know that what YOU do in your bedroom is “healthy,” Mr. Santorum? For all we know, you wear a diaper and get off on your wife tying you up and beating you with a Pepperidge Farm sausage.  Because you are a straight person, are we to assume that anything you do in your bedroom is healthy?  This seems to be what you’re suggesting. But what if I think you’re a freak? Should I get on my bandwagon and advocate that you should have, say, your parental rights stripped away?  While it is truly distasteful to ponder your sex life for even a second, I get, unlike you, that it’s none of my business. It’s nobody’s business. Gay people have that same right to privacy. But still, Mr. Santorum, you make what they do in their bedrooms–the only thing that distinguishes them in the day- to-day from straight people­–a major rationalization for denying them their due civil rights.

I also have a problem with the “we promote” that Mr. Santorum refers to in his statement. I am concerned about just who the “we” is. I am also concerned at the thought of a government that would impose a moralist definition of “healthy” and use that as a rationale for violating the human rights of certain segments of the population. The subtext is disturbing and sets an alarming precedent for horrific abuses. Ethnic cleansing comes to mind.

 The notion that allowing gays the right to marry somehow threatens the institution of marriage is preposterous, as is the idea that marriages between “one man and one woman” are superior and inherently more stable for children. This may come as a news flash to Mr. Santorum, but straight people have made a complete mess out of the institution of marriage. We’ve fumbled and bungled left and right. As painful as it is to share, my own failed marriage is a perfect example. My ex and I were married for twenty years. During the last several years, the environment in our home was often filled with conflict and stress. Our boys were frequently subjected to cold tension and an overbearing pall of sadness. Towards the very end, my ex and I were so distracted by the looming shipwreck that I know our kids didn’t always get the nurturing they would have in a normal, healthy situation. It is a grief that I will carry with me the rest of my life. Although we tried hard to save it, our marriage ended in divorce. We fucked this thing up entirely on our own. The functional, stable gay couples in our circle of friends had nothing to do with the demise of our marriage. In fact, my gay friends and their families were a great refuge and source of comfort during these difficult times. How dare you, Mr. Santorum, characterize a gay union as anything inferior.

 Of course, at its core, Santorum’s platform is built on fundamentalist Christian ideology. Although he is a Roman Catholic, his base is mainly lunatic evangelicals, who believe they have a God-given mandate to impose their religion on political policy. If his complete disregard for the establishment clause weren’t problematic enough, Mr. Santorum shows an alarming deficit when it comes to critical thinking. Rather than digging into the issues and creating an intelligent platform based on fact, Santorum chooses instead to simply employ religion–the grand fairy tale–as the basis for his positions. It’s a cop out. Critical thinking is tough. It involves the ability to navigate complex issues with intelligence; it involves the capacity to see things from a variety of perspectives; it demands the willingness to challenge your own assumptions. Critical thinking requires patience and intention. However, it is much easier to rely on a fantasy to explain away ambiguity or to eliminate the things that you are afraid of. But Mr. Santorum, just because the Bible tells you so, it doesn’t make it true. While fairy tales may be great for children’s story hour at the local library, they have no place in the executive branch of the United States government. By the way, Rick, the Earth really is round. I promise.

Apparently, it is OK for gays to pay taxes and to help fund the infrastructure of our country. It is also OK for gays to get their asses blown up while serving in the U.S. military, ostensibly protecting freedom as we know it.  However, if I understand Mr. Santorum correctly (and I think I do), these same people would be denied the basic civil rights that the rest of us enjoy. Clearly, Mr. Santorum and I have fundamentally different definitions of fairness and a radically different understanding of what this country is about.

Well here it is, Mr. Santorum:

 I am a U.S. citizen. I also have a say in what is “best for society.” I will not have you malign my gay brothers and sisters with your hatred, nor will I allow you to trample on their rights in the name of religion. I am also the mother of a gay son and will fight to the death for his safety, dignity and right to live as he sees fit. Mr. Santorum, be clear: As long as you continue your vile agenda, you will know my mom fangs and they are sharp. While you may have the delusional belief that you are fit to be President of the United States, the majority of the American people see you for what you are: a bigoted  religious zealot with an unhealthy fixation on what other people do in their bedrooms. You spread misinformation, lies and hatred. Of course, you have the right to believe what you want. (Or as my sister often says, in the United States, you have the right to be stupid.) You’re free to be hateful. You have the right to be a bigot. But you do not have the right to legislate your hatred and bigotry. Your chances of getting to the Oval Office are slim to none. You’ve made the egregious error of underestimating the fundamental decency and humanity of the American people. We don’t want you. And one final word, Mr. Santorum:

 “We the People” includes gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgenders. Get the fuck over it.

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Once again, the muse took me somewhere else this week. I honor my creative process enough to go where my passions lead me. That said, it is going to be a long political year and already I’m popping gaskets on an almost daily basis. I’m going to have to measure myself. Next week, I will return with a new post for “Our Creative Lives.” I promise. That is, provided some boneheaded politician doesn’t piss me off.