Unattainable

To love something unattainable is hell.

That's what I decided today after breaking down into tears on my voice teacher's front porch. I quickly had to mentally edit the sentence--not to exclude the word hell, which I don't think is meant in a profane way here, but to clarify the thought.

To love something unattainable is just part of life. We can love the sight of a distant mountain peak with the sure knowledge that it will never belong to us, and that type of love causes no pain.

To love and desire something unattainable is hell. It's a mental contradiction that should never be toyed with, to want something that you know you can't have. This is a lesson we learn when we're toddlers--accept the limits of what you cannot have and don't throw a temper tantrum about it. The hard part is to recognize when your desires are unreasonable so that you can bring your feet back to earth and adjust your attitude.

In church last week, the discussion turned to the talents that we develop. It is the belief in my church, for those who don't already know, that we are born with some talents that we began developing before we were born. Some people just seem to be born patient or artistic or good with words or musical. I wondered vaguely is some might mistakenly guess that music is a gift that I was born with.

The answer is a resounding no, but it is worse than that. I was born with an unflinching love of music--but no natural talent for it. Hence my initial sentiment above. I cry when I hear beautiful music because of the way it reaches inside and echoes deep within me--but also because I want so badly to create that beauty for myself instead of depending on others for it.

(I have to pause here to apologize to those who have read these frustrations of mine before. They are on my mind a lot and blogging about them is a good way to work through them.)

If I didn't love music so much, it would be so simple for me to accept my own limitations (which are many) with regard to singing. When I listen to women with ethereal, lyrical voices I am absolutely enchanted. Those are the voices that people want to listen to. There is nothing ethereal and lyrical about my voice. It's more of a train running at full speed than a canoe lifting gently on the waves of a river. This is why I broke into tears as I was leaving my voice lesson today. I was waffling about whether or not to enter the annual singing competition again. I said to my teacher, "I don't know why I have such a hard time singing in front of other people, but it's just really, really hard for me."

Then it hit me suddenly. I knew why I'm scared to death of performing. "I guess it's because nobody tells me they like to hear me sing," I said to her as the tears started forming against my wishes. It's not that I want people to fawn on me and shower me with compliments. That would just embarrass me. A little encouragement, however, is always appreciated. After all, I've devoted a lot of hours to voice lessons over the last 10 years--and a few thousand dollars. I have done it for my love of music and not because I expect any greatness, but frustration still creeps in when I feel like I cause other people pain when I'm doing what I love.

My voice is overpoweringly big. I cannot make it small except when I sing in a very small, comfortable range.  I have heard people often mock "those women in church who show off and think they're the only ones in the room." This kind of comment is always met with the nodding of heads and murmurs of assent. Apparently those of us born with big voices are legitimate targets of ridicule--we ought to know better than to sing loudly. It's just that I never asked for the Great Big Voice--and I would have to be really, really GOOD to rein this voice in. I try to blend in--I really do--and sometimes I give up and just close the hymnbook in frustration.  Ward choir is a bit of a travesty, especially when the numbers are small. Every mistake stands out with a capital M.

I have anxiety that others think I'm showing off when I'm just doing what I love.

I have anxiety that others hear my frequent pitch problems or know that I'm breathing exactly where the choir director told me NOT to breathe or that others hear me break on the high notes because I just don't blend in.

I have anxiety that others expect a lot from me because my voice is so big and rich, not knowing that you need a certain level of skill to make the most of a voice like this. The Great Big Voice + a lot of talent produces opera stage prima donnas, not ward choir blender-inners. The Great Big Voice without a Great Big Talent is just a train wreck.

I just feel scared when I sing most of the time, but I keep doing it because of that unforgivable love of music. It is so much fun when I can quiet the anxiety. It is so relaxing when it's not the opposite. It's so rewarding when my insecurities are not overwhelming my every thought like they are today. I keep thinking, "Someday all this frustration will result in something wonderful" so I keep on singing. And I keep hoping. I keep thinking that maybe someday a miracle will occur and I will actually like the color of my singing voice. I'll listen to it and feel at peace because I really enjoy that sound I'm creating. Is that such an unreasonable desire?

After all, there are magical moments in my singing when the hair on my arms stands on end and the room is spinning because everything came together so well and I know I had a Moment. A beautiful, magical Moment that makes me giddy and dizzy. I clearly remember having one of those Moments when I sang "Memory" last year and knew I had absolutely nailed it. It wasn't good--it was great. I remember once having a Moment singing "I Dreamed a Dream." It wasn't amazing except that I knew I had sung it as perfectly as I ever could sing it and who can really ask for more than that?

Today, however, I'm struggling against one of those "I GIVE UP. NOW AND FOREVER!" moments. I am feeling so fragile and so frustrated. It was hard to write the check that enters me in the singing competition next month. But I made a promise and I want to stick to it. Even if I feel apologetic about unleashing the Great Big Voice on unsuspecting listeners. Even if I'll be 6 1/2 months pregnant and my heart will absolutely go CRAZY when I'm on stage and then I know I won't be able to breathe. Even if I'm so scared that I keep bursting into tears at the thought of it.

Because I want to respect myself, and I'm not ready to accept that my dream is unattainable. Not yet. I'm willing to live with my own personal hell just a little bit longer.