Passed Over

A few days ago I mentioned that folk festival season is coming up. Over the last few weeks, they've been announcing their lineups.

This year, because I deliberately wanted to concentrate on the subway as my primary performance venue, I didn't officially apply to very many events. By not applying to very many, I insulated myself somewhat from the disappointment of being turned down by all of them.

But I did apply to a few specific events which I would have been personally well-suited for. I sent out customized, personal packages to the artistic directors, feeling hopeful but not overly optimistic.

In Canada, there are probably enough excellent acoustic performers to grace a thousand folk festivals.

As always, I got the disappointing news by reading the festivals' lineup announcements. It seems nobody's sending out responses to applications anymore.

But I thought of an exception. For a period of time, I worked with a woman who had to turn down dozens of filmmakers applying for grants. She graciously and courageously phoned unsuccessful applicants, saying something along the lines of "I'm so sorry. We wanted to fit you in but just couldn't this time." In doing so, she earned the applicants' continued respect and ensured that they'd apply again. She understood the importance of acknowledging the people who reached out to her, even if she couldn't provide everything they wanted.

In the subway, when someone says "keep it up" or "good job" or simply nods in my direction instead of reaching in their pocket, I still appreciate it. It's worse to be simply ignored, as if one doesn't exist. Funny how the phrase "passed on" (they "took a pass" on me) is similar to what we say when someone dies. "He passed away". (The person turning away is the one doing the dying.)

Since I've been busking, I've noticed a definite change in my response to rejection. The thousands of mini-rejections are good practice for the bigger ones. So I didn't get booked to play EverybodyFest? That's okay, there'll be others. There's a toughness in my response now that wasn't there before--both a new toughness and a new flexibility. The calluses on my fingers are harder now too, allowing me to play longer and with more strength and assurance. In order to keep those calluses, I have to keep playing, to keep rubbing up against opposition.

So often, the losses aren't real anyway. They're "paper losses"--only wished-for expectations that don't exist in the here and now. When I see them for the mirages they really are, they evaporate into the air. I become more receptive to my actual experience, continually surprised by what's just around the corner and by the sources of support that reveal themselves.