Voice lessons are like therapy.
A singer friend once said this, and I remember chuckling, thinking back to my college years. It’s true, I probably spent more time talking about what I was going through in that moment and wiping away tears than actually singing inside that little voice studio.
My college voice teacher passed away this morning. She suffered from a stroke this past Friday. I’ve spent the last few days going in and out of a fog, reflecting on more recent memories of meeting up for lunch at Po’Shines and hearing about her new calling to visit and provide comfort to those in hospice. And I’ve drifted back to those hour long visits in her studio during some of my most difficult and growth-filled years of my life. I’ve always admitted that I was a terrible student in college. I was a skilled sight-reader and had a memory like a sponge, so I got away with not practicing nearly as much as I should have. After college I would kick myself and think about how much of a better singer and how many opportunities I could have had if I had only taken my vocal studies more seriously. But, now, I realize I was right where I needed to be. And I think Judith saw that too.
The beauty of a great teacher is that they always meet you right where you are. They can see the potential of where you’re going, but they don’t force you to go there before you’re ready. Instead, they gently and firmly guide you toward your ever-expanding self. They teach you about the tools you need for your journey, and they show you how to use them. But you are at the helm. I think this is the greatest gift Judith gave me, allowing me to grow in my own time. Sure, it might’ve taken me longer than I wanted, but look at all the nutrients I gathered along the way.
Since those undergrad years, I learned that I, too, have a calling to teach. I’ve had the joy of working with learners of all ages. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve said “yes” to too many things. I’ve experimented and explored with teaching in schools, forming a nonprofit, directing choirs, teaching lessons, coming up with new classes to teach, leading guided meditations. College me never in a million years would have dreamed of doing all these things. But a seed was planted one day, and the rest is history.
One day out of the blue, I was asked to lead a singing workshop with students who were visiting UP from the Lents school district. I had no idea what I was doing, but I had been in choir and was taking voice lessons, so I thought, “Eh, I have a few tricks up my sleeve!” I don’t even remember what the topic was or what I taught. All I remember is standing in the middle of a circle of students on the recital hall stage. Their eyes were on me, and my heart was beating out of my chest, but I knew if I smiled and breathed and kept going everything would be fine.
Afterward, Judith asked me how I thought it had gone and whether I had ever thought about being a teacher. “You’re a natural,” she said. Well, this was news to me! I, in fact, had not thought about it at all until that very moment.
It’s funny how we can be blind to our own strengths. It’s amusing that all it can take is one person we trust to point out what has been inside us all along. And, oh, what can unfold if we listen.
Death has always been. And as long as there is life, there, too, will be death. This is not news, but it is a hard truth to digest. A member of my meditation community shared the other day that they have been noticing the cycle of life highlighted recently through the death of their peers and also the new life entering the world through their younger friends. We hold these two miracles, these two very natural parts of the life cycle at the same time. We recognize the beauty of life and memories shared with the ones we love while being with the sorrow of letting go.
Voice lessons are like therapy: they can both involve a whole lotta talk and a whole lotta tears.
But my lessons with Judith were so much more than that. In those hours I felt heard. I felt held. I felt nurtured and seen. But I also felt a sense of self-determination budding, one that wouldn’t blossom until years later when the roots had grown strong. I am grateful for her patience and gentle guidance. And I’m grateful that she saw something in me I couldn’t see in myself. May she rest in peace.