On upcoming books

a month into the new semester, I thought I’d reflect on four things I’ve learned, and re-learned, the past four weeks.

  1. It is absolutely possible, and indeed necessary, to work hard without shriveling with stress. 

    In a school where harboring a cesspool of stress is considered a status symbol, that feeling of guilt when not doing something jabbed at my ribs for three years. It still creeps, squinting sinisterly in the shadows of my day, but no longer numbs my psyche like it once did, like an iron mass pressing inside my skull. So uncanny, isn’t it? Going through the motions day-by-day, without realizing we’ve turned a deaf ear to our bodies, until, almost unconsciously, we begin to perk up, jot down some notes, and feel the weight lift.It’s less that I was unhappy before, and more that I have never been as comfortable with happiness as I am now. I work better, I do better, I think, feel, am better, when I choose to listen to myself. When I stop frantically conjuring up the shame of sacrificing an hour of practicing to finish a few more pages of reading; when I just go the fuck to sleep already.

    In yoga, we fixate our breath on creating space within our bodies: between our organs, within deep, dark cavities, around tightly-locked joints. I’m only wishing so desperately that I had realized sooner the immense contentment creating space within our lives, even within a moment, can bring.

  2. There are three kinds of critics: those who are deathly afraid, those who are strong, and oneself. 

    The curious conglomerate of commitments I’ve embraced this semester have invited a whole battleground of feedback. Everything from “how are you going to prove that musical sexism is different than everyday sexism?” (thesis seminar), “whatever you do, do not hesitate” (anxiety-inducing fellowship nomination meeting), “make it uglier, turn your fingers into machines!” (a lesson on Prokofiev’s fiendish Toccata). I’m reminded ever more forcefully of just how transformative a poignant word of advice can be, and how devastatingly easy it is to validate one’s jealousy with one awful sentence. I hear my mother’s words of, “if you’re truly strong, you will lift others up” ringing in my ears, indicting me when my perfectionism gets the best of me, when I forget that, without listening to the ones who support me, I would scarcely be anything at all.

  3. Simply expressing what you love is not enough; the rhythm and the inflection of that expression is where the impact lies. 

    I’m often asked, “How do you have time for a social life with all the crazy shit you’re doing?” Usually, the answer is some variation on “I just pray,” but it almost always comes down to necessity. I have learned far more stuffing my face to the brim with food with a friend than I ever will even dehydrating on a bus to Prague, because I absolutely need to stuff my face with friends. Being with them, and meeting new ones, sharpens the edges of what I love, and challenges me to find better, clearer ways to articulate it. It’s not merely what I enjoy about my internship, or what I’m struggling to process for my tour, for example–it’s about structuring that enjoyment, or that struggle, or that passion, into something meaningful for the one taking time to listen to me.

  4. Being “too ambitious” is impossible–ambition wears many different masks; when stymied, it often creates its own cracks to seep into. 

    My thesis advisor recently prodded, “this may be a bit ambitious to include in this project.” (I’m writing on the structural and socio-psychological occupational barriers women face in the classical music industry). “Okay,” I replied, one finger running methodically along my chin. “Could I turn it into a book, then?” His resulting smile contained all the satisfaction of garlic flecks grazing oil at just the right temperature. So, yes, perhaps this amateur and rambly and nonsensical corner of the interwebs will prove useful in a few years. Remind me to keep my eyes peeled on Amazon Books.

On travel inconveniences

[POI: My little brother arriving a full day later than planned to the Aspen Music Festival due to the questionable efficiency of Delta Airlines]

“You seem like you’re hyperventilating rn 😂😂😂” – my brother

He wasn’t wrong. I was hyperventilating, pacing around the piano, already dripping with sweat from practicing (it’s averaging 90/day here in D.C.). He was under that most aggravating of travel mishaps, when there’s absolutely nothing one can do except wait and wallow. Delayed flights, lightning, and miscalculated fuel aside, my little brother was more than physically trapped en route for a day–he was psychologically stranded.

A year ago, I was also trapped on a FlixBus from Paris to Prague. It was the second one of my 24-hour odyssey-gone-wrong, a bus that arrived five hours late to scoop me up from a Brussels transfer station. Watching the sun rapidly dip “goodbye” under the spiky pines of German forest, my tongue was like sandpaper, my stomach gaping. I was supposed to arrive in Prague eight hours ago, around the time I also ran out of food and water. I barely remembered blowing my mentor a kiss after her Paris recital, from which I dashed straight to the midnight bus, too excited for the champagne to reach me. Strange, isn’t it? How time warps, the way it constricts and dilates. What if I never make it to Prague?

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