Ways to Relax.

This blog takes on a tone of its own depending on what my life is doing, I've noticed, so I figured I might as well roll with the way life is right now and post about something very near and dear to my heart: 

Chillin the *bleep* out. 

Stress has shown up in my life in many different ways: First and foremost, insomnia. If there is something on my mind, I will lie awake and toss and turn as if I just drank three espressos. From insomnia (and lowered immunity due to the stress itself), I will catch a cold. Depending on my level of stress and exhaustion, that cold can sometimes linger for weeks or turn into something much worse. 

I would not by any means describe my life in Amsterdam as stressful, however events do arise no matter where I am in the world that impact me like anyone else. In January, my grandfather passed away on my birthday, which was painful enough to deal with while living so far from my family. Then,  in the immediate weeks and months following, I went through a stressful and aggravating (annoying) personal issue with someone in my life at the time that made me feel powerless, insecure and overall miserable. I had a very difficult time sleeping and developed a chest cold that lasted weeks, made me lose my voice, and eventually led to my being out of the game for over a month. There is a lesson to be learned here, big time: life should never have to be put on hold due to stress. 

So during that time, I decided to learn how to protect myself from the toxic energy that can arise as a result of these circumstances. In my opinion (and experience), it is a choice to let ourselves lean into the negativity. But sometimes we're just too damn exhausted or overwhelmed by the issues at hand to combat them with our otherwise badass mentalities. 

Since I was in Europe, I decided to stop laying in bed feeling sick all the time, and I got out there. I spent a weekend taking care of myself - whatever that meant to me at the time - and ignoring my cell phone, my worries, and the list of things I "should get to." I had the apartment to myself, a rare thing, and I hopped on the tram with my ear buds in, setting out into the center of Amsterdam without much of a plan except to enjoy myself. I wandered to Museumplein where the Rijksmuseum and Van Goh Museum are, and then headed towards Spui - an area filled with shopping, coffee shops, cafes (there's a big difference here, by the way), and grabbed some coffee while I wandered. I wound up heading home with a couple of Lush "Bath Bombs", a bottle of wine, some veggies from Albert Heijn and a plan to fully relax that evening. By the end of the weekend I had pampered, Netflix'd, and cooked myself into a completely different human and I was ready to hit the ground running the very next week with a new lease on life.

I made it my mission after that dark winter month to find ways, no matter what, of keeping myself grounded and removed from stress and anxiety. I was seeing the negative impact that had on my overall wellbeing. I saw the repercussions in my interactions with the humans in my life - both big and tiny (I babysit for my friends' kids every week). I watched my energy decline in my runs, yoga sessions, and especially in my singing. In the past, being busy (and even stressed) was always something people bragged about when they were supposedly doing really well in their ambitions. But I realized that, for me, this significantly cut down my productivity and made me a pretty pathetic human being. So, no more. 

And, if I still have your attention, here are some of my standby ways of relaxing - no matter how stressful life gets:

Pillows and Tea are not on this list, although they are a good place to begin.

Do Not Try To Figure It Out Right Now.

This may be controversial - but it works for me, so I'm going to put it down in the first spot. 

Whenever stress hits - be it due to some crisis in your life, a build up of way too many things going on, a personal relationship giving you grief or financial struggle (or all of the above) - we tend to want to fix it immediately. At least, I do. I want to find solutions, resolve everything, understand what went wrong, basically dissect the crap out of what is happening instead of waiting for solutions to pop up. 

On one hand, this is a good thing. It's never great to be complacent and allow unhealthy situations to perpetuate themselves in our lives. Being action-oriented has never failed me. But sometimes, the solution just isn't available immediately and trying to put out every single fire is not possible. Focusing in on all of the things going wrong is going to undermine your confidence, potential to find the right  solution, rather than just the quickest, and can build up longterm depression. 

So, just for a day or two, (unless there is a life-or-death situation on the line), give it a rest. You do not have to break up with that person immediately if you are feeling on the fence and confused - and frankly, you shouldn't if you are in that state anyway. You do not need to apply for a loan at the bank this very second if you're not sure of all the numbers and figures. You can decide to quit your job next week. Or, you can meet with your boss when you're in a better mindset to go over what is going wrong at your job tomorrow. But today, just temporarily, stop the thoughts from flowing. Do whatever it takes to find a release from the worries. Turn off your cell phone. Meditate. Go for a run or to a yoga class. Decide to go to bed three hours earlier. Cancel any plans with others (unless seeing people will help distract you from your worries for a little while). Whatever will help you let go, do it. (Without going overboard or harming yourself with drugs and alcohol).

Clean (or meditate).

Again, this is my list. So just go with it, please. ;)

All my life (or, the last three years), I have tried to meditate as often as I can remember to. I see an immediate difference if I do - the fog lifts, I feel grounded in my body, and I generally find it easier to pick apart the negative thoughts from the positive ones and clear up whatever is bothering me much faster. But to be completely honest with you: It's not my favorite way to calm down. When I'm at 9 on a scale of 1-10 (10 being my head is exploding), it's very hard for me to find the quiet within myself to shrink down to a 3 or 4. I still have that restless energy. I still need to do something. 

I have often said that the state of my room reflects the inside of my head. So, I clean. I will get every rag we have out, with all of our cleaning products. I will toss clutter into trash bags, take every item off of table tops and other various surfaces, and wipe them down, scrubbing at any stubborn spots. Any dish not inside a cupboard or the dishwasher will be tackled with a sponge and dish soap until it is put safely home again. I'll do all my laundry and vacuum and mop the floors. This becomes meditative for me: I put on music (usually instrumental), and focus on the previously cluttered or messy spaces now clearing up - each item of clothing, paper or dish being removed and placed somewhere better. As I do this, I not only begin to feel calmer, but I also feel re-energized to get back to work the next day, waking up in a house that is organized, cleaned from top to bottom and ready for my work mode. 

Honestly, this ritual just makes me feel like an adult again. Like I have my ish together, and don't need to be stressed about any additional challenges in my life. In the end, I'll usually light a candle or go buy a blanket to throw on my bed and sink into the relief of the new home. While being clean in general is normal, going through the house like this is a different practice, and one I use as often as I can.


Write.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that I use this one the most. It helps, but there is a caveat: Know when to stop writing about the problems you are facing.

I use this in a variety of ways. I have many drafts in these bloggers (I have two accounts, as you may have noticed from my page if you were curious enough to look that far :) ), most of which I do not ever post. I sit down to type whatever strikes me once or twice a day when I have a break to drink some tea and answer emails. It has become a therapeutic practice unlike any other. Sometimes, I will glance back over the drafts and pull one up, edit it for public use, and post it here. But most of the time, Blogger is a place for me to dump ideas, thoughts, or worries. 

Then, there is the "real" writing: by hand, on whatever paper I can get in the moment. This method is used for those times when I cannot get a thought out of my head and need to physically take it and put it down and forget about it. Whenever I've had worries about things I just simply cannot control, this has worked best. Left a message for my boss about something that needed help asap, and haven't heard back yet? Let it go. Use real writing as your practical technique for handling a situation. 

My favorite thing to do when faced with a major issue in life is to make a 'Solution Map'. This works as follows:

Top of the page: The Problem. (Example: "I can't find a job.") Circle your problem so that it is surrounded by a bubble (a thought bubble, if you will), then draw about 5-10 lines downward. Beneath each of those vertical lines, write a possible solution to the main problem. (Such as: "Contact three professionals I know today who can help me get a leg up" or "Update Linkedin and bookmark positions I am interested in", etc. ) Encircle those with bubbles, too.  Then from each of those, more vertical lines. These are your Action Items. (For instance: Under "Contact three professionals I know..." you can write their names and email addresses and a time you will email them that day, to hold yourself accountable.)

This starts to show you what your next steps are to conquering your problem, or - as frustrating as it may be - it will show you if you simply don't have control of this one, and the only real Action Item is to wait. For me, it gives permission to let go when I otherwise want to control, change, and impact the result. Sometimes I can't. Sometimes it takes going to the effort of mapping out whatever is possible before I come to that conclusion. No matter what, if I do this, I start to feel better.

Back to the earlier point: with journaling- both online and by hand- there comes a point where you need to stop focusing on the problems. You perpetuate your own reality as much as you want to. If you're unhappy about the same thing and keep writing or talking about it, it is going to stay put as a worry in your life. That can make it very hard to move on. A good way to go is to simply write it down and decide that it is out of your hands, except for the action items you have given yourself. If it's an emotional issue, you decide how much processing time you want to give it. Try to keep it moving rather than rooted in the same cycle. You should be able to look back at your writing and see progression and growth, rather than be dragged back into darkness. 

Move.

For me, moving means getting my butt out there - running by the river, or jumping on the tram to the center of Amsterdam to see some canals and grab some street food and a coffee and shake myself out of my own funk.

On the rarest of rare occasions, moving meant literally moving. I was unhappy where I was living, or in the job I was in, and felt like I absolutely had to leave in order to get out of that negativity. I didn't do this until I had vetted all other options (using the above method of Solution Mapping),  but at least one of my major moves in life (moving to New York City after Graduate School, for instance), came from this. I was ready to move on and start a new chapter.

On a smaller scale, however, moving can be something as simple as packing up and going to a new apartment or neighborhood in the town you live in. It can be similar to "Clean", above, where you take all of your items and move them to new homes in your house - or outdoors. 

As a travel lover, with extreme wanderlust, TRAVELING always seems to do the trick. Living in Europe is the best place for me, because the fact that I can hop on a train and spend an afternoon in Lille, France, is pretty amazing to me and helps me get a whole new perspective on life. It doesn't have to even be that far; your own State or town has sights to see. Go for a hike in woods nearby. Take a 20 minute jog. Drive across town, making sure to blast the right music and go by places you like to see. Find a way to inspire yourself and get out of your rut. It's a choice - stay rooted, or move. I almost always pick move.

Make Over.

This is really dependent on you and whatever way you lean. For some, this can be a typical makeover - getting a facial and doing your nails, buying new clothes, whatever you can think of.

For me, this usually is more of a spiritual practice. Whenever I feel a lot of negative energy, I know there is something out of whack in me. Either something major has happened to cause it, or I'm not taking care of myself a certain way. I'm not taking the time to adapt and change to the current environment, and I am looking at the past with longing. I've been thinking a lot lately about a quote I heard (and cannot remember where) that goes "Adapt or die." It was probably in regards to evolution - how we, as a species, need to adapt to the new conditions of our planet or risk dying out. I believe this applies to our evolution on personal levels as well. 

How much of your stress is learned, for instance? Are you really scared about having enough money, or are you getting by just fine and allowing your nerves to be frayed over your budget because it is a habit you've perpetuated through the years? Were your parents so obsessed with making enough money while you were growing up, that being nervous about finances was the norm and therefore being calm about it is not something that comes naturally to you? 

Did you know that it can become something you're relaxed about, rather than scared or anxious? Because that is a choice. No one is putting you in handcuffs. You have a roof over your head. You have the internet in some form, because you are reading this. You can change this side of yourself.

For years, I have let myself be controlled in some way by everyones' opinion of me. At work, especially as a musician, this dictated what I did from one day to the next. I would select the pieces of music I believed would impress others, even if I didn't particularly like singing them. I would spend 12 hours checking emails and attempting to put fires out left and right on the job, even if I was the only one really noticing my work - and was not actually making progress anywhere (especially not in my own sanity). I would always try to hang on to what I had learned was expected of me, rather than growing in an honest way - allowing myself to adapt and change as some circumstances no longer worked for me. The result was - you guessed it - utter failure, and me crumpled up in my bed wondering why I couldn't get anywhere in my life. (This is an overdramatization. But you get the gist).

Maybe I don't sing the way I did when I was 28 anymore. That's okay, because I don't want to be that person anymore either. I'm different. I've learned new languages, new repertoire and new and interesting pieces of music. I've walked in new lands and met new faces. Maybe I don't look the same as I did then. Maybe I can't eat the same foods, or budget my time in exactly the same way. Maybe I am just different now, and I can resist that, or I can evolve.

I think that, by the age of 30, most of us are a combination of habits we developed in our upbringing and school (and work), and the other side of us that is entirely genuine and unique, always open to what comes next. THAT is the side I think needs more attention. Half the time, when I am very stressed about a particular subject in my life, I come to the conclusion that I'm worried about it mainly because it's an area I have always reacted to in stress, without knowing why exactly. A bear is not usually chasing me down the street, so my stress reaction isn't (most of the time) a protective response to my environment, saving me from dire straits or imminent danger.

So how does this have to do with a "makeover"? Simple, really: You've always whined about not having a boyfriend? So, stop. Decide right now that you're going to enjoy what you have, keep trying to live the good life you are living and put yourself out there. And if you meet someone amazing and fall in love, awesome. And if you don't, at least you're not like everyone else, stressing about having a boyfriend. You're making something of your life, which is, by the way, going to run with or without a man by your side. 

If you're scared about finances, you're unlikely to actually make any moves towards improving it. So, find a way to make over your outlook. Stop getting scared, start getting motivated, and look for ways you are wealthy already. They're there - you're just too busy looking at what you do not have.

Obviously I'm not saying that you cannot react to real problems in life with stress and worry; but life is always changing and evolving. It will never stop doing so. You can get a lot further riding the wave than fighting it in the undertow. 

These are (some) ways I find work for me, and there are hundreds more that come with the territory. If you've read them all, hope they help a little. Happy relaxing.

Did 9/11 Traumatize This Whole Generation?

I've thought about this a lot throughout the years. I know how 9/11 changed my life; my perception of safety, my innocence, and my level of patriotism. But I wonder about the rest of my colleagues and friends. Those who weren't lucky that day; who lost someone they loved.

The other night, Bruno and I watched the movie "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close." I shouldn't review the movie here, although I will say it gave good performances but was otherwise a very flawed movie and padded its impact with some horrific details of that day. I actually felt somewhat emotionally assaulted afterwards, and in my opinion, they used the events of 9/11 to draw a crowd to see the movie. It didn't really honor the subject matter at hand, and I found myself confused and annoyed more often than not. But, I digress (that wasn't the point of this blog post)...

Bruno fell asleep shortly into the movie, and I decided to watch it to the end (hoping it would improve), dragged us both off to sleep after, and then sat up in bed for about two hours, haunted by my own memories of 9/11 and trying to shut out the thoughts of "what must that have been like for victims..?".

Turns out, movies depicting that day fall into the same category, for me, as "Saw" or any Holocaust movies: just don't go there.

I remember that day too vividly. Or, actually, what I remember most are my feelings about it at the time, the way so many memories work. I was 16 years old and starting my Junior Year of high school, just a few months before my family and I were set to move to Albany, NY. It was a hectic time.

I felt confused when my gym teacher told the group as we left class at 9AM that, "a plane crashed into the WTC". What was the WTC, again? World Trade Center... that's right, I had a cousin who worked there - a lot of my Dad's side of the family lived near New York City. But, being about 7 hours away in Baldwinsville, New York, I felt like that was a different country.

At the time I remember thinking, "wow that's an insane plane crash, I wonder if the pilot fell asleep?" Or something along those lines.

They made an announcement on the PA System, saying nothing more except: "We will keep you informed." I still didn't get it. I guess a huge part of me was trying to enjoy the day (which was, famously, one of the prettiest days of the year), and cling to my innocence as something much bigger than I'd ever experienced in my lifetime started to unfold.

By the time I got to my Social Studies class, I knew something was going on, because it was extremely quiet, and incredibly tense. My teacher started the hour by saying, "I am not going to comment on what is happening right now, because I don't have enough information, but let's try to get through class." This sentence let me know:

Something big was happening.
Something really bad.

I shifted nervously with the rest of my classmates all throughout that period until it was time for chorus. Chorus was my biggest class - at least 75 students - and when I walked into the room, it felt like stepping into an alternate universe. On the TV screens above our heads (the chorus room was a sort of media center in the building, filled with recording equipment, mics, TVs and radios), I saw two burning buildings, and in glancing around the room saw that my fellow classmates were either in tears or staring in shock at the Television. No one was talking, except in a whisper, but the whole room felt ...Loud. Our director said nothing. I think she must have told us we would not be singing that day - I can't remember. Everyone was lost in our seats, not knowing what to do, therefore doing nothing.

I found my seat, next to my friend Justine, who was usually a very happy and bubbly person but her face was white as she whispered to me, "four acts of terrorism have been carried out in the past two hours." Then she ticked them off: Two planes into the WTC. Another into the pentagon. Another crashed in a Pennsylvania field. We were under attack - on our own soil; in what felt like our own back yard.

This had always been one of my biggest fears growing up, and panic rose in my chest. I looked up at the TVs and watched, with the entire room crying out as the South Tower crashed to the ground. There was another stunned silence and the phone rang next to the doors. Our teacher went to answer it and then looked up at me - my heart sank. "Julie, it's for you."

I remember getting up to answer the phone in surprise, and hearing people gasp, "It's for Julie..." I knew they all expected it was about the attacks. I knew my cousin worked in the World Trade Center, but he was my father's age and I did not know him well - even if something happened to him I doubted anyone would let me know until later in the day, after school. Still, at this point, I believed anything of nightmare-level could happen and that no one was safe. I think we all felt like that for a while.

I got to the phone and it was the guidance office, asking me to come down. I grabbed my bags without looking at my classmates, who were staring at me, and booked it to the office.

There, I remember feeling like I was in some kind of dream or bubble. Everyone was chipper with me, calm and very kind. But I was shaking as I sat down in the counselor's office, waiting for her to drop some other horrible news on me. Instead, she pulled out a file and said "I understand you are transferring to your new high school in November, right...?" I stared at her. "Are you okay?" she asked me, and I stuttered back that I was just overwhelmed and, "...the news today..." "I know." She said, "Let's try to focus on this and then you can just go home."

That's all I remember about school that day. I have no idea what we accomplished in her office. I remember feeling cold and sick as I took the bus home with the rest of my classmates around lunch time. My brother was also home when I got there, much to my relief. I remember we both were terrified and did not want to turn on the TV. There was a feeling of uncomfortable vulnerability, even at home.

The scariest part of the day occurred for me when my next door neighbor, who was also one of my teachers, came running over, tears running down her face, and hugged us tight. "Oh this is the most horrible day. I'm so terrified. All those people! Are your parents coming home?" My Dad came home shortly after, looking drained. He was an administrator at the high school he taught at, and, I imagine, had suffered a lot that day. I was relieved when he got home because my father was never afraid of anything. My Dad is always tough. Seeing the "grown-ups" losing their cool all day was the worst part of the whole experience for me. They were supposed to calm us down, explain why this was happening and what would happen next. They were supposed to have the answers, but they didn't. We were all in the same boat.

My Dad wandered into the living room in silence, turned on the TV my brother and I had been avoiding, and stood, still, as he watched them play and replay the towers collapsing. I remember him saying only one sentence: "My God, these shots...."

That night was tense until we heard that Tom, our cousin, had made it out of the second tower okay. My Dad relaxed, and I approached him to ask why this happened. What was happening next? Was this World War 3?

I don't remember much of what he said, except that he seemed to feel confident and safe. So I did too. I knew somewhere deep down that no one had any clue what was going to happen. But it felt like, at least for the moment, we were all okay.

In spite of this, I went to sleep that night with images from TV all day speeding through my mind as if I had stood there. Images that were not from a horror film I had watched against my better judgment, even though I wished they were. They were real. This monstrous event had actually happened - not in my nightmares. I knew this impacted me permanently.

As I said before, I believe most of my generation lost some of our innocence that day, no matter where we were. We watched, feeling like we were intruding on something very adult and not permitted for our eyes, as towers filled with everyday working human beings fell to the ground in clouds of smoke - because of enemies none of us even really knew about. Since most of the reports were being live-streamed, nothing was edited out, and we watched in horror as people fell and jumped out of the towers - knowing they were falling to their deaths. It seemed completely inappropriate, and beyond morbid, to be watching these things.

It has been 15 years since that day, and that day still does not quite make sense to me. Yet some part of me internalized it enough to realize that humans can do horrible things. The magnitude of that tragedy - the generations of devastation it caused - was irreversible. Of course I realized that others on the planet were already unfortunately familiar with this level of devastation. But little me in my small town New York home surrounded by a family of teachers and musicians, did not know such destruction so up close.

I can't speak for prior generations, who lived through Pearl Harbor, JFK's assassination or Martin Luther King Jr.'s, or any other such traumatizing events. But, for me, seeing these evil forces destroying thousands of lives, on repeat for hours and days straight, was something that shifted my focus. Watching replays of people screaming and falling to their deaths was... unnecessary, to put it mildly.

But I felt a desperate grief for the victims, and it was as if watching somehow created solidarity. So I watched, and watched, and watched... We all did. But I believe, at some point... we needed to stop.

I knew we were no longer living in a time where we could just get on the train and feel safe getting to our destination. I knew no amount of patriotism, no number of concerts sung for America that fall, could heal the wounds everyone faced that day - especially those who lost loved ones, their lives, or their coworkers as they ran from the buildings. A big part of me learned that I simply couldn't trust that our country was safe anymore.

As I've gone through the 15 years since 9/11 - many of those years spent attending school near NYC, and living for 5 years there while working in midtown Manhattan - I've thought a lot about how different our lives would be if 9/11 had never happened. Surely something else could have happened (or would have), but imagine how much more courageous we could be?

I wonder all the time how my classmates have handled their lives post-9/11. Many of them have children now. Many are living right in Manhattan. How is life different? Do they have knee-jerk reactions when seeing anything they could deem suspicious on an airplane? Do they think about their safety when they sit in office cubicles?

Now I live here, in Amsterdam, next to countries who've been the targets of similar acts of gruesome violence. I am no stranger to terrorism anymore, even though I've (thank God) never been on the scene in person. But reports have come out saying that just viewing these acts on tv or through social media has created the very feeling the enemy hopes for: terror. They go on to say that by witnessing these kinds of attacks, we actually live them out in some way and suffer emotional trauma. We forget this, while we hunker down watching horror films for entertainment or binge-watching 'Stranger Things' on Netflix. We don't realize that it is a very different thing to view our real life fellow men and women being mowed down by ISIS, other terrorists, or just a local psychopath. Some part of the brain cannot be fooled: That's real. That could have been me, or my family or friends.

Every time something terrifying happens, it pours in within seconds - now, not just in the news on TV, but on my phone in the form of Facebook posts, Youtube, Instagram, Twitter... you can't run away from it. And it's almost as if I was trained in that day that the way to control the fear and "deal with" the events at play was to watch it, and get as much information as possible. I'm realizing how unhealthy it actually is.

Research has shown that those suffering PTSD after 9/11 include not only the victims and those at the scenes, but a hefty percentage of those who were just at home, like you and me, obssessively viewing footage of these acts. It sounds lame to admit that I think I was traumatized just by watching stuff on TV, but it hit another level. The problem isn't just that the footage is available constantly - it's that people often cannot help themselves from watching, even when they know it will be damaging to them.

In one of the replays, it even occurred to me that I was beginning to analyze things from the perspective of what these terror groups were thinking. Each of the news reports had a time stamp on them - "8:30 AM, 8:31 AM, 8:32 AM..." When watching the replays, I would notice the time stamp, knowing that the plane crashes would show up at certain times. I realized, that may have been exactly what Osama Bin Laden had hoped for: our eyes would be on our TVs, staring at WTC after the first crash, dissecting what the heck was going on. Then, plane number 2 was going to hit, just long enough after for everyone to be tuned in, but not so long that people weren't still staring. It was gruesomely brilliant. It captivated us all in the worst ways. And, worse yet - in my opinion showed how much these people enjoyed creating the absolute largest amount of fear.

After MSNBC decided to start annually streaming the live footage from that day every year on the anniversary, a report came out requesting the replays stop. (Slate.com report, September 8, 2016).  Simply put: This is not a Hallmark moment. When we flipped on the TV in Hilversum, Netherlands, and saw that there was literally an entire days' worth of movies and shows about 9/11, Bruno looked at me in surprise "Seriously? Who wants to watch all of this?" I shook my head, knowing that, sadly, this has been the case for years.

I'm angry for everyone, really. I'm sad we live in this world. But it's hard to say what the right way to grieve is. Some people would argue that if we hadn't seen the footage, we wouldn't be there to support everyone. Who knows, I have a feeling it is in our nature to need to absorb as much info as possible. We perceive the threats and want to understand them as much as we can to protect ourselves from future attacks.

But, the reality is that none of us is immune to danger, and never was. Maybe we are an older, wiser generation. Or maybe we are simply more fearful. But I hope in time, we will show ourselves to be stronger, more peace-loving people, and somehow find ways of growing in spite of so much tragedy and terror.

Time Traveling

Here we are at September - embarking on my absolute favorite time of year (particularly in the Netherlands), and diving into action.

This morning I find myself in Hilversum (by way of Amsterdam), securing some of the final steps of my Visa paperwork and beyond excited for every next step. After a way-too-short two week long vacation in the USA with my family and boyfriend, whom had never been there before, it feels a little like that trip was all a dream. The last time I recall consciously thinking "in no time, I'll be back in Amsterdam again", was somewhere along the coast of Maine a couple weeks ago. Almighty Time will never cease to amaze, especially when it comes to literally hopping across different time zones.

So where do I begin?

Months ago, late April to be exact, I was back in New York for three weeks to visit my family, when Bruno, (boyfriend), started talking about joining me for the next trip back home. Even though our relationship had just begun, (with many months of close friendship preceding), I felt confident that this was going to happen. I mentioned in a last post that he's Belgian, and he had never been to the USA, so I figured - what better time than the midst of Trump madness and political upheaval? Let's give him all those American extremes!

Just kidding. In reality, I prayed that we would be able to plan our trip back around my family's summer Maine vacation and he could hopefully hide among the craggy ocean shores eating Lobster and discussing New England's colorful history with my father. That's closer to what happened.

The weekend we boarded our flight(s) to Boston was Gay Pride in Amsterdam, the celebration for Euro Pride, and the most annoying train construction I've ever experienced. We grabbed a bus to Schiphol Airport rather than our usual 10 minute train ride, stood in a huge line to check in, and then calmly awaited boarding time. That trip was filled with delays - an hour delay from Amsterdam to Iceland, an hour delay from Iceland to Boston... But somehow this didn't cramp our style. We laughed and goofed off and chomped on cucumber slices and carrots we had packed in our carry-ons and the next thing I knew we were descending over Boston. Yay!!!! America!!

It was a very strange experience to bring Bruno, who was such an established part of my 'other world' (not to get too 'Vampire Diaries' on you), to meet my parents, in the USA, where I was raised in all of my quirky, crazy, rollercoaster-ride goodness. He already had an intermediate knowledge of my family from the crazy amount of stories I had told (and the unfortunate exposure to my brother and sister's nicknames for me via Facebook), but still, it was a little nuts! I think everyone was shell-shocked at first, but we headed to an Airport restaurant and started the two week journey through New York and New England. Bruno had his first ever 'clam chowda', I had a regrettable Sam Summer (which led to me passing out shortly after dinner), and my parents were beaming and excited to start showing Bruno the Norman version of America.

It became immediately apparent to me upon arriving that this was going to be a trip home unlike any trip home before. Part of this was, of course, I was bringing somebody to share it with me. But actually a lot of it had to do with how much had changed since the last time.

As I know I've said before, and at the risk of sounding terribly redundant... I never expected to wind up living in the Netherlands for more than a few months. I thought that I would maybe stay here for some time, audition and wind up in another European city by the end of my visa or back home in New York - which would be fine with me! And maybe it's because I had such a temporary approach to things, but all of a sudden now I'm looking at staying at least this next year, maybe (probably) a lot longer, and creating a foundation for a life I already love. That happened fast, unexpectedly, and perhaps... slightly before I felt 'ready' for it.

This time last year, I was back in New York packing my things up, taking a lot of deep breaths and making a lot of to-do lists, and saying "okay, see you in a few months" to my friends and loved ones. I felt rebellious doing it, as if I were cheating the system or playing hooky somehow, and also completely up for whatever came. This time, I felt the strength of what had changed right away: I was back with my family, in a place I will always call 'Home', but very aware that this time... my home is indefinitely in Europe.

None of this is a huge shock to me. I fell in love with Europe back in 2008 when I spent the summer babysitting and singing in Paris, alongside the same best friend who gave me a place to start a life in Amsterdam, babysitting (her girls) and singing here. Not everyone would look at this path and see how it works. But I did - I always have. I have found more profound meaning in sorting a tantrum out with a three year old and discussing why butterflies only come out in summer (all managed in more than one language), than some of the longest hours of my life spent in meetings and conference calls.

That doesn't mean I don't attend meetings or hold conference calls anymore. But they don't run my life - they're in attendance. They are accompanying the train rides, horrific attempts at Dutch, the hours writing in a journal and holding hands with the little kids, and big kids, of my life all day, singing through nerves in front of crowds of people who probably really don't understand me, and constantly, daily standing in awe of this world.

Last night, Bruno and I biked along the canal to get to our dinner reservation at 8:30 in a hopping neighbourhood near the red light district. The sun was setting, casting a pink glow on the water beside us and as I followed close behind him I said "sometimes I'm so amazed by the beauty of this place that I don't even care if I accidentally fall in." I'm pretty sure these words invited future attempts of Bruno dumping me into the canal... but I meant it in more ways than one. I've fallen hard for this city. For the way it has welcomed me. For the quirky, dry sense of humor found on every street. For its persistent acceptance of every human being. For the days I wondered what the hell I was doing here, only to look around me and see 100 reasons staring back. Europe may be a complicated place, but it has never once failed to show me solutions I didn't think of. Or, even more adventurous, who I really am.

So this time, when we hugged goodbye in Boston and I broke down trying to thank my incredibly generous parents for everything they did for us in two weeks time, I was able to laugh at how cheesy I am and know that this is manageable. I wish I had a private jet to go see my family every weekend, but the distance is easily bridged and the home on either side is more than I ever expected for myself. The uncertainty and adventure of this time has been worth it in more ways than I can count. And all this before being fluent enough to understand what people are really saying around me each day....

Language Barriers

Here is what I'm learning about my life so far: Once I declare a certain path, life tends to take me down a different one, all for the same exact goal I had to start off.

So, I haven't fully addressed a lot of different things here - mainly because this is, well, a blog. Not my diary, and not an autobiography. What I have noticed about people, no matter where I go in the world, is that they like to know (and understand) WHY I decided to move to Europe. Or, why I moved to NYC back in the day. Why I uprooted myself to come here. I never really know what answer to give them, because I have at least 5 different ones.

In the end, yes, I moved to Amsterdam because someone said to me "Hey, you should come here and sing more opera!" and then someone else said "Oh and here is a steady job to give you a visa and keep you here". Fine, that was the zero-hour, decision-making reason, and I've told that story many times.

But the real, personal reason: I wanted to see just how much could happen if I left what I knew in the States and made a huge leap to come to Europe. I gave up the reigns of control in NYC (which of course were imaginary), and gave my total faith to the 'crazier' option. There were absolutely no guarantees when I came here. I was not promised success, financial wealth, or that I would survive the depths of darkness that were the winter months. But I had faith that my path had led me here for bigger reasons, and that has been proven true time and time again in the year since.

But how often do we find ourselves tailoring how we tell our stories to people based off of what we think they want to hear? Or based off of how we want to be perceived? I never knew how much I did this until recently, and it's now becoming my personal mission to stop doing that as much as possible.

Over the weekend, I visited my boyfriends' wonderful family in Grimbergen, Belgium, to celebrate a birthday, meet his inspiring Grandmothers, and stumble all over my very amateur French. Bruno is originally from there, which makes him Flemish, and he is constantly astounding me with his ability to swiftly jump from English to French to Dutch (and Flemish) and communicate with pretty much anyone he wants to. A superpower I can only hope to achieve half of in my life - maybe by standing near him a lot I'll succeed through osmosis? 

Bruno, his beautiful Mom and Grandma, in Belgium. 

I therefore struggled a lot this weekend with "how I am perceived." Where I normally would gush thanks to my hosts for letting me stay in their home, feeding me, handing me slippers or a sweater if I got cold, filling my glasses with wine and champagne and just, in general, making me feel like part of their family... I was forced to repeat my basic phrases, desperate for another way of showing gratitude. I couldn't ask all of the questions I wanted to, and found myself catching the topics of conversation about five minutes after the topic had passed, time and time again. (Suddenly laughing out loud at a joke that had been made 15 minutes earlier, though well-intended, can make one seem crazy rather than friendly...) 

I eventually gave up on 'seeming' anything and decided to let it go. But it showed me just how often I am conscious of how others might think of me. How often I talk about certain things so that I 'come across' strong, or intelligent, or interesting, or successful, or [insert personal goal here]. 

Bruno, being not only multi-lingual but also quite wise, reminded me throughout the weekend that I cannot expect perfection of myself, and that people can tell a lot about each other despite the language barriers. I know this is true because I often gain a similar sense of who a person is at heart before even exchanging words - but it is so difficult to remember that when you yourself feel potentially judged. But to step outside of my insecure, self-conscious little bubble is a little like giving up the reigns of 'control.' It's scary and requires that I have a lot more faith in myself than I allow myself to have sometimes. 

Life here is filled with challenges I didn't even see coming - but the reward is in standing at the point I am at right now and looking down at the view: learning (and speaking) new languages, singing in foreign places I never anticipated singing in, falling in love with someone I would not have met if I hadn't realllyyy moved past my life in New York, my 'comfort zone' and my control, and so many more. No matter what story I tell people about why and how I moved to the Netherlands, I do know that the risk was ultimately far more rewarding than staying put would have been. 

Anyway, today I investigate classes in Dutch for the fall ;), and am setting a personal goal to stop the self-criticism. The barriers seem to always be imaginary, or put there by myself. 

Terrorists.

This morning I woke up to my overly-chipper alarm after a nightmare in which I was running in circles in a building, attempting not to get shot by some invisible force behind me.

This was a nightmare I had after scrolling through Facebook and reading all-too-vivid news reports of the Orlando shooting. I wasn't at all surprised I had this dream.

When the Paris attacks happened in November, I remember a similar sickened feeling as I read survival accounts of what took place at the Bataclan during a concert. A war zone at an event filled with innocent people, most of whom would absolutely never go to war or harm another living soul.

Most of us never want to hurt anyone.

But so many of us are getting hurt.

A wealthy privileged Stanford athlete gets away with 6 months in jail after violently sexually assaulting a woman at a party... but 50 + innocent, most likely loving, non-violent party-goers are sentenced to immediate death in a nightclub. Just for living their lives. For loving who they love. For being who they are - who they have every right to be.

What disturbs me the most is that not everyone sees how wrong this is. Not everyone sees how these deaths, even if they were gay, a different religion, a different race from you, effect EVERYONE. It means none of us is safe. This kind of mass murder has happened in Kindergartens, in mosques, in colleges, in nightclubs, in public parks, in restaurants in Paris, in stadiums, no matter who you are, no matter what you believe, we live in an era where we are killing one another for no reason. No matter what sins or crimes you committed - even if you've lived your life without doing a single wrong to another human being. You are a target - everyone is. Everyone.

This is the time we live in: we are the terrorists. Not ISIS, or the mentally unstable who shoot up 26 people in an elementary school, or the police, or whomever-else-you-want-to-blame. Humans have become terrorists.

Electing Donald Trump is not a fix.

Facebooking your political, religious, or just plain ignorant opinion of how people should live their lives is not a fix.

Getting rid of guns will not be a fix (although, it would've helped if that asshole couldn't get his hands on an AR-15-type assault rifle. But whatever, details.)

Me writing this post is (obviously) not a fix.

Moving away is not a fix (believe me).

As long as we hold onto our ignorant, limited, hateful views of one another, this will continue. It may not be the same group of people inflicting pain each time, but it will always be linked with one thing: Hate. Judgment of others. A need to be right, to control, to condemn.

The only fix I can see is to look inside ourselves and find the ways WE each are terrorists. Who do you judge, blame, hate, dislike, or hold anger towards? Who have you imagined hurting, even just a little, even just with words?

All it takes is that small amount of hostility within each of us. Born of fear, bred into the worst kind of evil. Not one of us is right, or purely good. I'm not - I'll admit I've held on to blind anger towards others, even hatred. Maybe I've never wanted to make anyone suffer, but it's there, and without dealing with that accurately or in a healthy way, it goes wild. I'm just one person, and I've been given a life filled with therapy, self-observation and encouragement to view others with as much of an open mind as possible.

Maybe we didn't carry the assault weapons, or carry out the attacks.. But we are all guilty, and we are all responsible. And today, to say "I'm sorry" for the hundreds of brothers and sisters I have lost in the past year feels pathetic. I'm not sorry. I'm angry - at myself, at humans, and at our inability to evolve as a race. It's on us at this point if we want to survive or dwindle into extinction.

One Year in Amsterdam

When I think back on this week a year ago, it reminds me of the first week in college, or at summer camp. Even though I was 30, had toughed it out in NYC for almost five years, and certainly didn't feel new to traveling alone or in a European city... I felt tiny and vulnerable walking around Amsterdam - my new home. 

My first realization was that I had picked a country where the worlds' tallest human beings dwell (I am barely over 5'). My second was that Dutch is an extremely complicated language to pick up if you've only spoken English and smatterings of French for your entire life. Life challenges: Go!

On June 8th, (my first full day in the Netherlands) I woke up jetlagged and groggy to a few notes Sera left for me, and however many Nespresso pods I could get my hands on. I didn't really have anything to do except settle in, get my apartment keys made, and so on, but I still felt overwhelmed. "The bakery is on Maasstraat. Keys are across from Blokker." Her notes read simply and clearly, typical of Sera, so I set out on my way, day 1 of this Dutch experience, no idea what was in store for me. 

Coming from the routine of my NYC life (wake up, work at 10AM, home around 7, maybe yoga, maybe dinner out, probably some laundry or something, blah blah blah), with its stable income and predictable day-to-day, this entirely new world at my fingertips was something I still can't wrap my head around or describe. It sounds awesome (and, of course, it was), but at the time I just kept thinking... "what the hell am I doing???" I felt like I was skipping school, breaking the rules, rebelling. I was aware of how very far away my entire life was... and if I'm honest, that was the main thing comforting me alongside Amsterdam's insane beauty and the Stroopwaffles on every store shelf.

I have always been proud of my life and what's been given to me, but I was not a happy person when I left the States, and embarking on an adventure this large felt slightly reckless at the time. I had just been suddenly laid off, felt completely rejected by many aspects of my life in NYC, and was very unsure of what to trust in the world. I saw myself, at 30 years old, settling for things that made me feel miserable or helpless. Seeing some truly messed up behaviors in others, and shrugging it off because "well, that's just how it goes..." 

I felt like I was experiencing things that didn't (and shouldn't) fit my life at all. Colleagues in my profession who judged and shamed one another as if they were still in high school. A dating scene filled with self-proclaimed 'ballers' (players), who cheated and lied and shamelessly disrespected women - it seems like anyone from NYC adjusts to that as a dating 'norm', but I could not handle it as a reality of relationships in our culture. 'Words' like 'ghosting,' 'negging,' 'dtf', 'side piece,' and so on were all a part of regular conversation while I lived in that city, and it's sad to look back on now. We laughed when we found out about the double lives led by people who had been intimate with us, because what else would we do? Cry into our drinks in silence? I guess at times we did that, too. I suppose a city that large, with so many mixed viewpoints and cultures, is bound to create a lot of challenges to the dating scene... but what amazed me were the repeat examples of just a lack of human decency, which should be a fundamental concept at this point. These things made my life in NY feel heavy, confusing, and way too complicated.

There are so many things in New York that I love, and I will always think of it as my first home... but when I left for Europe, I felt eager to fully start over. Maybe it was just an end of a chapter that made me 'one, two, step' outta there, but if I'm going to share the motivating thoughts that made me want to find a new way of life, well, here they are (were). 

Well, that, and the fact that I suddenly had months ahead of me to use wisely, and when someone presents an opportunity like "Come to Europe, sing some opera, decide what you want to do from there" and you have severance pay and nothing keeping you rooted ---- you go to Europe. 

Running off to be an Expat wasn't a traditional game plan for moving on, but it actually wasn't even the plan at the time. I just kept thinking 'What better way to strengthen who I am, and what I've done with my life, than to go learn from new worlds/ cultures/ languages??' And that was my motivation. After day one, keys made, connections laid out and a few quick gigs to keep me on my feet, one week quickly led to the next, and the next. Suddenly, I was in a movement class in a Dutch National Opera rehearsal room, and coaching 'Caro Nome' with their Opera Studio vocal coach. I was learning how to mime as part of their opera workshop. I was presenting my materials in the small theater, and then being told over coffee by the director of that summer program that I should stay in Europe and sing. And when a director of an opera program in Europe recommends that you move to Europe to continue singing as a professional ---- you move to Europe. Especially if you already love it there. 

What I have to wholeheartedly celebrate is what happened after those first days and weeks here. The months that unfolded last summer empowered me in ways I had never known before. I kept finding myself walking down the streets to a rehearsal or audition without stress or concern, even when I was running late. If I missed the tram, it was okay, I hopped on a bike. If my friends proposed we go to Spain for a week or London and I could afford it, I went, eager to find out what that would show me. I stopped setting out to 'make something happen,' and I started waiting to see what was supposed to happen. I opted, always, to do what felt best to me. To step out of my comfort zone, as long as that outer area still felt right to me. I started standing up to people who had walked all over me. I stopped holding myself back.

To describe the lessons and experiences of this past year in full would be to sit down and write a novel -- and perhaps I will one day. In spite of homesickness for my family and friends in the US, I found a home here in Amsterdam that I truly have never had before. I fell in love with the streets around me, the pace of the city, the language (as impossible as it feels to learn), the friends I made here, the family I established here, and the person I am, who maybe didn't fit in as well to the home I made in New York, but is who she is because of it.

So, here I go into year two - not just of living in Europe, but of living in this era of my life. I hope that anyone reading this wondering if they can really go after their craziest dreams will consider taking the risk. It doesn't have to be with a full year in mind; it can be as simple as saying "For this month, I'm going to try to make this one thing happen that I've never done but wanted to." For me, that one month led to this blog post. 

Thanks for sharing the ride with me. 

When Your Instrument Is Gone

When I was in High School, my Dad, the music Supervisor in my school, liked to torment me. Or, maybe we tormented each other in that year and a half in Bethlehem Central Sr. High School - I would take so long getting ready for school that he would get pulled over for speeding on the way, and he would show up in my Music Theory classes when I had a presentation, to 'observe' that day. At the time, I'm sure I complained about how uncool this was, but secretly I loved it - especially when he interrupted one of my finals to let me know that I had gotten into my first choice College.

However, as is his way in life, Dad liked to teach me certain lessons in... shall we say, creative ways. I was over-extended with classes, rehearsals for the school musical, applications for college, and my way too important social life, and frequently forgot/refused to lock my violin in its locker in the band room after Orchestra rehearsals during the day. My violin, which was passed down to me and had been fine-tuned many times throughout the years, was quite valuable and expensive and my father made a point of lecturing me frequently to lock it up during the day. "But no one locks their instruments, Dad, and who is going to steal my violin in the middle of a high school during the day?" I would roll my eyes, but then promise to lock it up and continue to forget.

One day, after a particularly crazy load of classes and rehearsals, I went to pick up my violin before leaving school at 3:30pm, and it wasn't there. I could not even remember if I'd put it back in the locker, or if I'd taken it with me to my next period class after rehearsal that day. My eyes scanned the cluttered band room, landing on every instrument and not finding mine. I bolted down the hall and through the school from one classroom to the next in search of my lost violin. After about 45 minutes of racing around checking library, gymnasium, bathrooms, locker rooms, and so on, I finally went to my Dad's office out of breath and said

 "Have you seen my violin?"

The look on his face when he looked up at me meant Doomsday, and I felt my heart sink. A long, tense silence and then: "...Shouldn't it be in your locker where you locked it today?" I shook my head, feeling a sense of dread like no other. "I forgot to lock it." "Then we have a problem." He told me; an understatement. He made me hunt for it again, and I embarked on my search party one last time to find my beloved instrument with no success. He barely said a word to me when I returned to his office empty-handed, and I panicked in the car to my Mom the whole drive home.

About an hour after we got home, Dad showed up with my violin. He had taken it when he noticed I had failed to lock it up like I promised for the 100th time. I was instantly furious, and he cracked a smile, but the lesson was learned and as a result I'm more than paranoid about locking my things up.

Anyway, this memory has played over in my head for at least two weeks now, as I realize I have once again lost my instrument. Over the last few weeks, due to cold and viruses, travel and maybe some stress I've overlooked, my voice is gone, making it impossible to rehearse, other than reviewing my music and listening to recordings. It isn't the first time I've lost my voice, of course, but it's the first time it has lasted this long and even trips to the doctor, allergy meds and as much rest as I can give it are not providing an end in sight.

I realize how much I long for the days when to feel like an adequate musician, I could reach for my violin, tune it, and practice. Even if I was sick with the flu or had no voice, I was able to work on the craft and see results. Of course there were other obstacles involved with violin, and in the end it was not my dream to be a violinist, but right now it is difficult not to feel more than a little held back by my own physical limitations.

What a danger it is to tie ones' career into their physical body - for athletes, dancers, models, performers of all kinds... this is the risk we take. There are risks to all career tracks, but the stress of knowing we have to PERFORM with our physical being when all we want (and need) to do is rest only adds to the infections and injuries we fight.

In the 10 years I've sung opera, I have lost my ability to sing due to allergies, acid reflux, common colds and viruses, recurring strep and tonsils infections, a resulting tonsillectomy, and now: just another virus I have to get over with fluids, ibuprofen and sleep. I stare at my calendar as the days tick by towards my next recital (May 29th), and I wonder where my instrument is and when I'll be able to use it and fine tune it again, and what kind of shape it'll be in when it gets here. It's a very dramatic way of putting it, and the logical side of me is rolling my eyes while I ingest every natural health remedy known to man and wait patiently for things to just run their course.

But nevertheless, today, and possibly tomorrow, I wish I were a violinist again. Or that my Dad could somehow hand me my voice with a smile and say "gotcha!" But I'd never trade places with High School me, and I know somehow this will all seem (almost) as funny as that incident was in no time.