One Less Verse

When I write my weekly song for Take5 on CIUT 89.5 FM, I notice something interesting.

As I approach the end of the writing process, I can usually successfully complete the song by lopping off one verse. Sometimes I have to tweak the remaining verses to ensure that the song makes sense, but usually I don't have to change very much. I've now done this with many songs in a row. Just let a verse go, and voila, I'm done.

I realize that because I can do this each time, I must be doing a little more than necessary when I'm writing. I'm going a little overboard...even trying too hard, perhaps. But maybe it's important to do so.

I can't achieve the lightness and economy I'm looking for by simply under-writing. That approach feels withholding and tentative. It's better to start from too much, and then cut back, than to start with too little.

This awareness helps me with the rest of my life. I can appreciate the abundance of my life, even when it seems overly busy or somewhat cluttered, if I take the time to consciously let go of the things that don't fit.

I notice that in my life, I often "edit" without being conscious of it, and realizing only after the fact that I've chosen not to attend an event or follow up on a particular project. Sometimes when I realize I've left something unattended, I feel a twinge of guilt or panic.

Perhaps, in the same way I consciously let go of the unneeded (though interesting and clever!) verse in a song, I can honour the "task-let-go" as I release it, letting go of guilt and regret at the same time.

The stuff that stays is always what's necessary.

Rehearsing

Today I spent some time rehearsing for an upcoming show. I went through a whole set in order, which I confess is something I often don't do. It's more common for me to play a song or two...take time away for another activity...then do a couple of other songs. I can keep the songs fresh that way, but I don't experience the full flow and rhythm and shape of a whole show, which I need to do to be fully prepared. Over the last few days, I've been taking that time to rehearse the show completely.

I think of the word "rehearsing" as looking ahead to the future: preparing for a show, visualizing it in advance. But when I'm actually singing the songs on my own, today, the experience feels more like reminding or reconnecting...a referring back to songs I love and the feelings I had when I wrote them.

Just now I wondered what the origins of the word "rehearse" are. I found out something interesting. The word is said to mean "to repeat" (that's true: we repeat the songs over and over to improve our performance) but the origin of the word comes from "re" plus "hercier" which means "to strike" or (here's the interesting part) "to harrow".

"Harrow", a word I wasn't familiar with, is an agricultural term referring to a tool with spikelike teeth which is drawn over plowed land to level it, or break up clods, root up weeds and so on.

So...to rehearse, then, is to re-disturb the earth...to unearth again..to stir up deep-rooted feelings that have perhaps been smoothed over or tamped down under the pressure of our daily walk.

Now that's more like it...that's what rehearsal feels like to me.

It feels like digging in the ground and finding something new again.

Delegating to the Unconscious Mind

I notice that when I wake up in the morning, I often have lyrics clear and ready to go, ones that I might have been fruitlessly working on the night before. When I wake up, my mind is refreshed and clear, my ideas lucid and flowing.

On any given day, I'll be working on a variety of diverse tasks--everything from writing a song to planning dinner to researching an article. I like being busy. Also, I like the fact that cross-pollination occurs between projects and even across disciplines. For example, the newsletter story I'm writing for the YMCA may give me an idea for whatever song is underway.

But on the other hand, sometimes this bubbling-over of creativity can turn into a sort of "idea clutter" that backfires. It tends to happen when I start to worry about whether I can handle many tasks at once. That fearful thought has nothing to do with whether or not such complexity and creativity is possible (because it usually is) but it certainly can get in the way of bringing it to fruition.

Starting from that worried "how will I do this?" place, I often start to unconciously "multi-task". Even as I'm congratulating myself for being so all-powerful and creative, I'm grabbing onto more and more threads of interest and concern, instead of gently noticing each task and stepping lightly from one to another. Before I know it, I'm feeling overstretched, inadequate and anxious...a big unproductive ball of fear.

If I find ways to clear my mind periodically, through a brief meditation, a walk, or simply noticing the thought and letting it go, I allow my unconscious mind to do the work for me. Pema Chodron recommends that we notice a thought and label it, "thinking". My worry ("I need a rhyming line for the bridge!" or "Oh no, I have to finish this article by Wednesday!") is not a real and scary thing. It's a thought. I can notice it and let it go.

Noticing the natural, unthinking abundance of the natural world helps me trust that my unconscious mind does know how to create. If I work with it, in a playful dance of conscious and unconscious awareness, I find myself being more productive and more calm.

The Next Level

A few days ago I was in a roomful of musicians, listening to the brilliantly engaging Derek Sivers of CD Baby share what he knows about the independent music business (which is to say, a whole lot). While candidly sharing his wealth of knowledge, he invited the people in the room to introduce themselves and connect with others who might be able to help them in their careers.

So, people started introducing themselves to the warm, supportive and very crowded room. Some said they wanted to take their careers "to the next level".

I just searched the phrase "take your music career to the next level" on Google. It returned 5,510,000 entries.

Even if we didn't hear that phrase so often in independent music, it would be natural for us to think in terms of "levels". From the time we're kids, we focus on grades of achievement and levels of status, income and success.

Unfortunately, most creative careers don't ascend those levels in predictable ways. Even the most highly-skilled musicians find themselves in a fragmented marketplace that cannot financially support them. Today, the commercial music industry is in decline, at the same time more independent musicians are in business.

So, what if there's no "next level"?

For many of us, there will not be. Our audience will remain more or less the size it is now. We will not receive the critical praise we seek or feel we deserve. We will not be able to support ourselves on our creative work. Some of this may be our own doing, as we fail to achieve certain artistic or business skills, or choose to spend time raising a family or maintaining another source of income. Other factors may be completely beyond our control, such as the current state of the music industry.

Needless to say, if we're unable to rise to "the next level", we're not alone among artists, either today or throughout history.

But if there is no next level, there may be a silver lining. In fact, as Thomas Moore writes in his book Care of the Soul, "failure is a mystery, not a problem". As a mystery, it can deepen the heart and soul...strengthening our song and preventing us from wallowing in self-pity or clinging to fantasies.

Once out of the picture, perhaps "the next level" can be replaced with a deeper commitment to artistic practice itself, to service to others, to the present moment, to life itself.

A technique I often use in performance is to imagine that the song I'm singing is the last I will ever sing. I find that that perspective gives me renewed energy and focus, and I often use it when I feel I am losing ground...not quite hitting the mark.

It allows me to let go of the next level--even the next moment--and simply give what I have. Now. And without expectation.

Embracing Limitation

At a songwriting workshop recently, I found myself telling the students that sometimes the “problems” that arise in songs actually turn out to be blessings. The length of phrases can be challenging, for instance, as I try to fit a complicated idea into only 12 syllables. (Maybe the idea’s too complicated.) Or perhaps there’s a line I’m hooked on that ends in a word like “orange”. (When I rewrite the line, I find my meaning is clearer—and a rhyme is there.)

Songs can be maddeningly confining structures at times, especially when we feel like letting our emotions hang out and telling our life stories in song. Songs don’t let us do that in an undisciplined way. If we ignore the demands of structure, we end up with sprawling, unfocused writing that no one (not even we) want to listen to again. The process might be cathartic, but the results will not be inspiring.

I’ve come to appreciate the limitations offered by songs; it’s the limitations of life that sometimes get me down. I sometimes feel frustrated that I don’t have more time to create, and complain that it’s impossible to meet multiple demands of work, family and art at the same time. It reminds me of being stuck on a lyric. How can I possibility fit everything into one short lyric phrase (that is my life)? Where’s the rhyme (and the source of harmony in my day)? What’s this song really about?

I’ve heard it said that art is a microcosm of life: we re-create the universe in miniature each time we paint a picture or write a song. The structures of art mirror those of the natural world—and perhaps one reason we are so moved by art is that it reminds us of the infinite amount of creative possibility contained within the limitations we all share. We all have limited time, limited resources. But, listen…so does this song. But, look…so does this painting.

By appreciating the blessings contained in the constraints of my art form, I can begin to appreciate that perhaps the structures of my life (work, family, marriage…) are not limitations, but blessings. By understanding that my life is “framed” in certain ways, I can make better use of the space within it.