Nowhere is the New Somewhere

“Teach us to care and not to care.
Teach us to sit still.”
- From “Ash Wednesday”, T.S. Eliot

For a couple of years, I worked semi-regularly on the Toronto subway system as a busker. I played my songs with my guitar case open, while people streamed by. Sometimes they offered a few coins or words of encouragement, but for the most part it was a non-paying gig. It was also a “fish-out-of-water” experience: I was deliberately placing myself in a situation where my music would most likely be ignored, to see if I could make peace with that experience.

It was my belief then, as it is now, that most individual singer-songwriters (if not most artists of any kind) will do their work outside the commercial marketplace and will, as a result, need to find a different way to assess the value of their work. We will need to “make peace with” in two ways: become reconciled to any level of success or lack of it we achieve, while creating peace in the world at the same time.

One of the most powerful elements of the subway experience, for me, was the sensation of standing still, when the rest of the world was moving fast, headed somewhere. I, by contrast, was going nowhere, both literally and figuratively. In fact, I appeared to many observers to occupy the lowest rung of going nowhere, because to them I looked like a beggar. The truth is that in Toronto, subway musicians are selected through a formal audition process and receive official licenses; the vast majority of performers have other sources of income and are not busking for financial survival. But I could tell that many passers-by didn’t know that, because even though I was well-dressed, attractive and professional, I often received looks of pity—and sometimes even donations of food! It sometimes seemed that the open guitar case, with its connotations of desperation or hopelessness, made more of an impression than the music itself.

Because of that public perception, busking became an opportunity to practice letting go of status and importance…to play with the idea that I was both important and unimportant at the same time, that I was both visible and invisible, and that my songs were both very loud (thanks to the natural amplification of the tiled corridors) and virtually unheard. I was experimenting with—in fact, challenging—my own perceptions of status and value in society, improvising ways to adjust to a situation where I was not valued as highly as I wanted to be, while playing my instrument. (When I felt comfortable and relaxed while busking, I could also say that I was feeling playful and having fun, but I have to admit, those times were rare.)

In the past, when I saw my songs as vehicles to “get me somewhere” or to attract attention, I was unable to play with—to dance with—the fact of my songs’ unimportance. I wanted “official” performance settings, prestigious stages, stamps of approval from influential people in the entertainment industry. I saw songwriting and performance as a transaction: I write the song and sing it for you; you applaud and pay me! If the applause and payment weren’t forthcoming, perhaps I just had to write a little differently or sing a little better. Or connect more regularly with more fans, or get played on a different radio show, or fix up my MySpace page, or…the list went on.

When I was busking, I saw it as a transaction at first, too. I expected there to be a clear relationship between the song I sang and the amount of money dropped into the case. For much of the time, I was engaged in a continual adjustment of myself to attract more of those elusive coins. Every once in awhile, though, the sheer joy of playing (as a child plays) would lift me out of my constant state of evaluation and expectation, to simply be in the moment and offer up my song. Sometimes that effervescence would attract someone’s attention and gratitude and sometimes it wouldn’t; the point, though, was that the lighter and less-attached offering was truly bigger and more valuable than the reward offered by the economic currency of that moment. The heart-expanding experience of allowing a song to fill an empty space without expectation of reward made the reward itself virtually insignificant.

If you are an artist, you don’t have to work as a busker to understand the feeling of “going nowhere” in our society’s eyes. As artists, we often find ourselves in situations that seem low-status in an economically-driven world. Some of these situations are very well-described, in works of art that reflect their own creators’ quest for meaning and desire to be valued. For example, we can all picture the musician playing to the near-empty bar in Billy Joel’s classic song “Piano Man”—the artist so fine, everyone wonders why he isn’t famous.

But there are other places, too, less stereotyped and familiar, where artists experience this “going nowhere”. Formal rejections and un-won contests can trigger feelings of immobility and isolation, as can countless other more personal experiences. It’s easy to feel you’re going nowhere when you’re singing at a family gathering and a relative turns away and starts checking his email. Or when you volunteer at a local library and one person shows up for your performance…by mistake! Or even when you offer to sing for a seriously ill friend, and she cannot accept your gift because she is too uncomfortable and sensitive to sound to listen.

These are “going nowhere” situations. No matter how “good” we get at what we do—how proficient we become at our craft, how skilled we become at networking—we will keep finding ourselves in that state of uncomfortable nowhere. It’s not only the artist’s life, it’s the human one. We tend not to get to where we think we’re going…to where we think we want to go. We tend to end up somewhere else. Inevitably, despite all of our efforts, we end up exactly where we are: inside our own skin. Until we really inhabit that place, the ordinariness that has nothing to do with glamour or praise or fame or money, we will neither be fulfilled as songwriters nor will we write meaningful songs.

Meditation practice can help us learn to be at peace in the “nowhere”—in the persistent lack of whatever “somewhere” we seek. When we sit still, focusing on our breathing, we learn to remain in lack of movement, in stillness. The world passes by, thoughts come and go (as do people and events) and we sit, in acceptance, taking up a limited but distinct space within the world. In one guided meditation I learned recently, the teacher invited us to imagine ourselves surrounded by a bell shape, and to fill that space with our breath. For me, the metaphor of a bell was especially powerful, because I could envision a song within that did not extend beyond borders, one that was perfectly balanced and full and resonant yet still.

If we learn let go of the constant quest to “get somewhere” with our music, we can relax into our present experience and let feelings of disappointment and failure fall away. When that happens, we might notice that the overlay of constant striving, the continual evaluation of where we are on some kind of imaginary map, distracts us from simply observing and experiencing the life that we have: a life that would, if we let it, inspire songs rich in meaning and depth.

Performance as Leadership

Lots of people are talking about leadership these days. Maybe it's all because of Barack Obama...or maybe it's that the world's problems are so significant we know we need leaders right now.

Let's be honest. Little-known singer-songwriters are seldom thought of as leaders.

But it seems to me that if we want to get better at what we do -- to truly offer something of value -- we'd better get better at leadership.

That doesn't mean we have to turn into singing politicians. But it does mean we have to accept the leadership responsibility that's conferred on us the minute we step on stage.

I notice that a lot of aspiring performers seem to have no idea they're leaders. In fact, some of them seem to make the audience their leader: depending on applause or a certain level of quiet in the room, or worrying about what people might think of them. (I used to do that a lot.) Some performers close their eyes while they're singing, appearing to sing only for themselves.

Maybe we think that because we're not financially successful or famous, we're not entitled to be leaders? And yet, the minute we step on a stage, even if it's at a humble open mic, that's exactly what we become. We're all lit up, people are watching and listening. They're hoping that we will lead.

So...what do leaders do?

First, they make a respectful connection with the audience, in a sense inviting them to go on a shared journey. Next, they communicate stuff that matters to people. In other words, the songs may arise out of personal experience (there's a place for personal anecdotes even in presidential speeches) but they need to address universal human needs.

Songwriters who are effective leaders provide messages of empowerment ( "you can make it", "change is possible" ), inspiration ("be uplifted with me", "join me on this journey" ), reassurance ( "you are not alone" and ultra-leader Bob Marley's "everything's gonna be alright" ), identification ( "I've been where you are" )...the list goes on. Every element of a song can be put to the leadership test. Does it (the lyric, melody, chord structure) challenge? Or wake up? Or motivate?

The leadership does not have to be limited to the song itself. Between songs, leader-songwriters offer truthful insight about themselves and their life experience. "My teenage nephew is going through a hard time. This song is hopeful and I'm thinking of him right now". (The messages might be "don't lose hope" or "care for each other" . The song doesn't have to be about the specific circumstances and it could even be a cover tune.) Or "I wrote this at a time in my life when my priorities weren't really straight. I dunno if they're any straighter now, but I still like the song!" (Message: "I'm still striving to become a better person." )

A good performer takes the audience by the hand, says "I'll take you where you want to go" and leads them there...or as close as she can get. That requires both confidence and humility.

The confidence comes, I think, from going to that "place we want to go" ourselves. From finding beauty, energy, truth, inspiration through the songs and then offering that back to others in a spirit of community.

The humility comes from knowing that no song can take people where they want to go forever and that our songs may fall short of offering everything we hoped they would.

Still, with confidence and humility, we can lead. ( "Yes we can!" )

If we do, our songs will get better, people will listen, and we will know our songs have a place in the world.

Life is a Song: Overcommitted

I started to write a song yesterday called "Overcommitted". I didn't get very far, because I was pulled into several other directions. As it turned out, the song wasn't the only personal priority that went un-met that day. Ultimately I went to bed early, feeling frustrated that couldn't keep anything on-course.

If yesterday were a song, it would have been unfocused and under-confident, lurching along in stops and starts. An idea started in one lyric line would be abandoned in the next. It would be riddled with non-rhymes. It would be neither singable, nor memorable! No wonder I went to bed early.

I know how to keep my songs from being overcommitted, from trying to do many things at once and trying to be all things to all people. So how can I apply that knowledge to my life?

In a song, it's important to:

1) Commit to one idea at a time. The song about trying to connect with my daughter is not the same song as the one expressing optimism because of the changing political landscape. Each song is about one clear idea, the simpler and more specific the better. Life lesson: Tackle one project at a time. Multi-tasking leads to unfocused, anxious activity.

2) Go deeper. To write a good song, I need to really care about the subject: to dig into it deeply, get to know it, mine the emotional depth of it. If I'm not going deep, the song doesn't go anywhere. In life, this idea is expressed by the Outward Bound slogan, "If you can't get out of it, get into it". The only way out of a situation is "in" and "through". Surface attempts don't work, and neither does avoidance. If I find myself in the midst of any problem (even the problem of overcommitment itself), I need to fully commit to understanding it in order to sort it out. (That's why I'm writing this blog, I guess, and could now finish the song!)

3) Commit to Harmony. One of the most important elements of a successful song, in my view, is harmony. The chords have to complement the melody, and the melody itself has to be pleasing. I find that when I listen to music, I'm attracted to harmony, and that's what I want to offer in my own songs. By the same token, harmony matters in life . If activities are jarring and dissonant, I have to choose which ones truly create harmony.

Singular Focus in a Multiple Input World

Why are so many people driven to create these days?

I wonder if it's because it's a natural way to focus on one thing at a time, and to engage deeply in it.

This type of activity may be especially important for introverts, who often experience sensory overload. The focused attention required to reproduce a landscape accurately in a painting, or to express a complex idea in the limited rhyming verses of a song, provides a kind of respite from a world that seems to lack focus.

Just the act of "ordering" itself, as was recently pointed out in an article called "Writing Through Adversity", written by Paula Guran and shared in Writers.com, can be therapeutic, either serving as a proxy for a disordered world or, perhaps, creating a blueprint for ordering the life we find ourselves in.

Art can offer a narrative, a cohesive story. When our lives don't seem to have that purpose and story and meaning, we create new ones, either as substitutes for the real thing or to teach ourselves how it's done.

I notice in my own life, I've used songwriting and performance as a way of enforced life simplification. When I'm singing on a stage, I can't do anything else. When I have to write a song on a deadline, I have to stay fully focused on it. Everything else falls away, which is good, because there's so much of that "everything else", I can't keep up with it anyway!

I'm happy to be writing songs, and I think they serve a purpose in the world. But I also suspect that if I lived in a slowed-down, simpler culture, I could live more comfortably without needing to escape into creative activity quite so often. As I write this, I feel it's a kind of heresy: isn't it good to be prolific? Yes, it's life-affirming and healing.

But maybe I can more often recognize the activity as a form of meditation, which is valuable in and of itself, without requiring a whole lot of other activities surrounding it which end up being clutter.

As in every song I write, the question remains: what is essential, and what can be let go?