20 Life Lessons From My Best Friend's Toddlers

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 

It's been over 6 months since I first arrived in Amsterdam. I have been living with my best friend and her 2 and 3-year-old, so needless to say, we are all very well-acquainted at this point. I feel like a big sister/ faux-mommy/ babysitter/ Court Jester/ Magician/ DJ... you name it. It's awesome. If I'd wound up anywhere else during this transition in Europe, I'm pretty sure I would have gone back home by now. It can be just as lonely, confusing, nerve-wracking as it is inspiring and wonderful to make a leap to a new city for a year, so I feel lucky that I am making mine with the support of this little adorable family.

My time with these girls is spent playing dress up, singing songs, having dance parties, and often debating the inner workings of inanimate objects. It's silly the majority of the time, and as much as I'd love to say I help to guide them in some logical way while their mama is at work, it turns out that they are the perfect little tutors for me during this quirky time. Lest I forget the unparalleled wisdom of my time with these two little gurus...

 I shall try to compile some of the most important lessons they have shared with me in my life in Amsterdam for you here:  Enjoy.

#1. There is nothing wrong with singing and talking to yourself all day.

2. There are many languages in this world, but hugs are universal. (I should warn you now that some of these will be sappy.)

3. When all else fails, put on a Princess Dress. Run around naked. LIBERATE THYSELF!

Sorry, future Margot and Babette...

4. Never neglect a wish-making opportunity...

5. It is only a Monster if you believe it is. (Or want it to be). This can include, but is not limited to: Sprinkles, the stringy things on bananas and oranges, very tall male strangers in the grocery store line, and/or the family cat. And not all monsters are bad. 

6. A bike can get you anywhere....

7. Reading is important.

8. Sometimes the best remedy is a nap...

9. Laugh it out.

10. Never forget about fashion.

11. A kiss can heal almost all pains.

12. One man's makeup case is another man (or little girl)'s set of crayola markers. (I really wish I'd gotten a picture for this one before scrubbing the green marker full beard off of Margot's face...)

13. There is nothing wrong with striking up conversation with the nearest strangers about how bald they are. (Use your judgment with this one).

14. Hide and "Sook" is an excellent way to pass an entire afternoon when it is too rainy out for the park.

15. There is no reason to worry about what happens next. All that matters is that all the mommies and babies are present in the doll house right now.

16. When in doubt, just make the word up.

'Lekker...?' 'Doolicious?' 'Deeelooosus?'

17. "Please" can get you almost anything. Bonus points for every 'thankss you', too.

18. If picking up your things the normal way is too boring, adding a magic wand can go a long way.

19. There are always good reasons to party.

Pyjamas! Balloons! Monday!!!!

And lastly, (For Now)......

20. Sometimes all it takes is a deep breath to be ready to play again.

What It Means To 'Be Safe'

Clearly, I don't need to go into any description about Paris and what happened there last night. It doesn't matter who you are, or where you are in the world, it shakes us all. It should shake us all.

As soon as these attacks made international news, I received the whatsapp messages from my mother that I expected: "How are you? Hearing the news of France, glad you weren't there..." and so on.  I reassured her that Amsterdam is safe, and my friends and I are completely fine, but the overwhelming theme of the conversation was, simply, "are you really safe?"

And then, what seems to be the most prevalent question of the day today:

"Who is next?"

I'm not safe... none of us is really safe. We are not safe walking down the streets of our cities and hometowns without the weapons that would maybe protect us from AK-47s. We are not safe sitting at restaurants with loved ones without a lock on the door of the establishment and security in place to make sure those entering are not wearing a weapon. We aren't safe on our airplanes, our trains. We aren't safe in concert halls, losing ourselves so much in the music that we don't realize the shots ringing out aren't just a part of the show.

It doesn't matter if I am in Amsterdam, Paris, London, somewhere in Germany, NYC, or just back home to sweet little Delmar, NY. There is a threat to my security just for being alive, being human, and daring to walk out onto the streets unarmed.

I don't mean to be fatalistic or depressive. My point is this: we run this risk to our lives in order to actually live our lives. We have street smarts and learn how to take extra precautions, but the real tragedy is the fear we are learning to cloak ourselves in. No one can strap us into army gear and teach us how to defend ourselves against a bomb exploding outside a stadium where we were just trying to watch a football game. To really be ready for defense, we would have to be anticipating these types of attacks around every corner. And to really anticipate that, we would have to live every minute in fear of it occurring - watching like hawks for any potential criminal behavior, and sacrificing the moments of our lives entirely.

That's what I am most afraid of now. Not that I'll be attacked at Dam Square trying to take in the history of Amsterdam or buying Bitterballen from a street cart. I'm afraid of spending this time in Europe, with newfound and longtime incredible friends and colleagues, looking over my shoulder constantly or hiding from the world. Fear becomes a veil we all start wearing, darkening our view of the world entirely, forcing us to hide from the light.

I am devastated by what happened in the beloved city that taught me who I was 7 years ago. Paris taught me how to be free in my own skin; it was where I felt safest walking by the same streets that had so much bloodshed last night, all by myself. Never once did I look around for someone pointing a gun in my face - I never felt the need to. I am devastated for the lives lost, for the friends there who lost loved ones, and above all, for how this will (has already) change how people look at their safety in that city. But I realize that, as a civilian with very little power over most every day occurrences... there's almost nothing I can do to ensure I don't wind up harmed at some point at the hand of terrorism of ANY kind. There is simply no guarantee, and the best we can do is carry on in unity with the same goal of peace.

So, really, all we can do to survive (and overcome) this again and again is to keep living. For the sake of what it means to really live our lives to the absolute fullest while we have them, knowing that there IS no safe zone, we need to go to our restaurants anyway without armor; without guns and weapons to 'protect us.' We have to walk bravely down the street, taking in the world around us without the veil of fear obstructing our view. We must celebrate our friendships and family and loved ones openly, at stadiums, at concerts, by landmarks. Because to stop doing so, collectively, out of fear, would mean we've all surrendered our freedom and our lives to this monster.

Germany Audition

Last week was a completely new level of audition insanity when I fled Amsterdam to Munich for an audition in the midst of Bavaria. Like you do...

This is where performing becomes a little bit of a contradiction to the rest of my life so far: I have never loved to leave my comfort zone for anything. Suddenly, that is changing by leaps and bounds; nothing ever stays the same. One day I'm running around with toddlers, dancing to the Mulan soundtrack and baking three-ingredient cookies (these are some of my favorite days), the next I am on a train, a plane, another train and a cab to an audition in a country I've never even visited before.

It's by no means a complaint, but just a wee bit different.

So last Thursday I had an audition in Germany. I was one of four sopranos that day, which was terrifying and wonderful because not a single one of us was the same fach. There was a Despina soprano, a Wagnerian soprano, a full lyric (Governess) soprano, and me - a crazy one, who decided to bring Zerbinetta that day. For those of you who are not opera people, and therefore have no clue what any of this means, it basically just means we were not competing for any roles even though we were all technically sopranos. There are many reasons for this, but it took the pressure off a great deal and we were able to just support one another, no knives in backs (as far as I could tell).

I flew into Munich on Wednesday night, heart pounding through my chest, and checked into an amazingly swanky hotel (a recommendation from a friend of mine who is from Germany). I had originally "hemmed and hawed" over the price of this hotel, but had decided that my emotional stability was more important than attempting to navigate my way to a town an hour away from Munich at midnight after my flight. In hindsight, I'm glad I threw a little money at the situation for this place. I settled in, texted everyone that I was safe, put on the big white fluffy robe in my room, poured a glass of red wine (I don't normally drink before an audition), took a long-ass shower and then passed out in the king-sized bed. Obviously not one part of that was outside of my comfort zone.

I slept way TOO well that night, and woke up an hour later than I intended to (still early enough, thankfully), with an imprint of the pillowcase embedded in my cheek. I frantically got ready for life, anxious about the train schedule from the airport, and buzzing and warming up quietly in the room. Another cab ride and then two amazingly simple train rides later, I was in Augsburg, a city that resembled a beautiful New England town to me, and at the same time reminded me of absolutely nowhere I'd been before. It was a perfect fall day - every tree was orange or yellow, and it was warm enough to barely need a coat over my audition dress. But, now came the fun part: I knew I needed to speak German in this house. I've studied enough German to comprehend it easily, but formulating coherent sentences is not as natural to me just yet. I've been told many times that this is a deal breaker for most companies in Germany, so I had prepared what I'd say.

When I finally figured out where the stage door was, I walked in boldly stating "Ich habe ein vorsingen!" ("I have an audition", I think). The guy kinda blinked at me and then said "Wie heisst du?" I gave him my name, proud that he responded in German instead of switching straight to English (I must have sounded sooo German!) Then he handed me two lengthy documents to fill in... with every field in German.

Crap.

I started texting Philip, (said friend from earlier who is from Germany), random questions like "What does 'geb.' mean!??!!" (Geburtstag. Birthday. Duh). I launched Google translate from my phone, shielding what I was doing from everyone around me so they would not catch on...

Another soprano walked in and spoke a flurry of excellent German to the same guy, then sat down beside me. "If you need any help with this, let me know" she said, kindly. My impulse was to laugh and be all "ohh totally unnecessary, but thanks!" But instead I sighed in relief and pointed to three fields I needed her help with.

The rest of the time was amazingly pleasant. I'm used to the New York City audition circuit: everyone sizing you up, a feeling of emotional warfare in the waiting areas where everyone is mumbling to themselves or doing jaw/arm stretches and making burbling, squealing noises like an infant. I'm accustomed to feeling like cattle, being shoved into the audition room, singing for five minutes without saying anything about myself to the judges, and then being brusquely cut off and sent out again. Generally, it's a chilly, insensitive world I've gotten used to. This was nothing like that.

We rehearsed with the accompanists shortly before, reviewing tempi and discussing moments of artistic schmultz we wanted added in. I kept trying to speak German to these people, to which they responded in English, so I finally gave up on the mission (hey, if they're going to opt for English who am I to stop 'em??). Then, it was audition time, and I was last of the four.

I hate being last to go on in an audition setting with. a. passion. I stood back stage watching the three before me, enjoying their performances, while overthinking absolutely everything about my upcoming 15 minutes of fame on that stage. Was starting with the aria from Baby Doe really the way to go? My Mozart was much stronger that day... shouldn't I do that instead? But the pianist had said I should stick with Baby Doe, so I should do that... But then they're going to definitely ask for Zerbinetta, and we hardly had time to go over that...

Zo calm.

Then it was my turn. I was excited and filled with dread all at once (a common problem for me). Hopping on the stage and looking out over the dusty, guilded, gorgeous hall, I saw about four little heads out in the audience. "Ich heisse - " "Julie Norman? Shall we conduct your audition in English?" "Uhm... Okay! If that is comfortable for everyone!"

And so, all prepared German phrases out the window, we began. One thing I noticed was that the pianist was in the pit, where the orchestra normally is. This was troubling because I was way up on stage, singing out over his sound, hearing my own voice as LOUDLY AS POSSIBLE. The piano sounded very far away, and there was a delay. I'm sure this was on purpose, to see how the singers could handle the quirk. But, since we had hardly rehearsed and I was still not fully in my body in the space yet, it was more than a little strange. Still, I loved the space, and I felt as solid as I could in that moment.

As predicted, however, they asked for Zerbinetta's aria next. For those of you unfamiliar with this piece, it is a rhythmically, mentally, musically challenging role that requires you to be very tight with the accompaniment. It doesn't work if that isn't there. So, right off the bat, not being able to really hear the pianist was a ... challenge. We got off twice, at least, and then it was over. They thanked me, I left, breathed a sigh of relief, and then headed to the train.

There is never any way of knowing how these things go. So often the emotion or feeling behind the day is what you are left with as a singer, rather than any feedback or result. For me, I just felt glad to have done it, proud of myself for not getting lost in Germany or showing up hours late, and beyond grateful that this is my life lately. I found a little Bavarian restaurant near the train, got some sausage, a pretzel and a beer (of course), and then was off to my plane tipsy and happy. (And exhausted).

Oh hi, Bavarian food. Get in mah belly.

I look forward to more of this type of experience, but I think what sticks out most to me about this current phase of life is how much it is forcing me to loosen up. It would have been easy at any moment last week, for me to completely fall apart over the details. Finances are tight, I am very far from home, and I miss my voice teacher some days more than anyone else. But, then, at the end of the day, it is just another experience. Whatever comes of these things, what matters most is that I got to sing - something I love more than almost anything else - and I got to witness a whole new way of life in a totally new place. And that, for me, is the number 1 reason to tackle this profession if you have a dream to.

Moving to Europe.

It is full-on fall in Amsterdam. These past two weeks have been suddenly filled with candles, scarves and (light) sweaters. It's been crisp and sunny, beautiful, but at least 20 degrees colder than it was just two weeks ago, when I was in New York City.

I have moved, officially, here to Amsterdam.

WHAT.

So, since my last post, it has been a whirlwind of paperwork, music to learn, emotions and heavy-lifting. I've packed, unpacked, re-packed all my belongings so many times I'm sick of looking at them. On the 24th of August, I hopped on a plane in Amsterdam and landed at JFK in NYC 8 hours later. Even though I was eager to see my family, I decided to spend that first week tying up everything I could to say goodbye to that chapter in NYC.

Being in Astoria, specifically, was a total shock to the system after months in Holland and traveling. In just a couple of days' time, I packed up my room there, attempted to gather all my belongings, figured out a moving van (which, to my parents' shock, I was planning to drive up to Albany at the end of that week. Yes Mom and Dad, I STILL KNOW HOW TO DRIVE.) Thankfully there was Jennie, who was there to take me for runs in the morning, yoga classes, and fill me with nutritious smoothies and vitamin cocktails for the entire week (never mind just being awesome, therapeutic company each day as I battled severe reverse culture-shock and moving anxieties). The day of my actual move, she challenged me to run all the way into Brooklyn to pick up the moving van (we ran 6 miles there), then she helped my parents and I lug all my boxes into the moving van for the rest of the day. Did I mention I owe her my first born? Yeah.

Truthfully, I didn't get to say goodbye to as many of my friends as I originally planned. I'm not sure if this is common knowledge, but moving outside of the country is... complicated. I felt 145% sure that I wanted to move here, but in case it isn't already established by the very existence of this blog, I am a sentimental woman. I love my family. I loved my years in New York, and all of my friends made there. Sure, I was ready to move on in this moment, but the endless list of to-dos (including things as nutty as tracking down my original Birth Certificate in my birth town all the way upstate, and then having the State apostille it so I can get residency, about 50 documents to fill out, some in Dutch, a police background check on myself, and so on...) made the act of meeting up with everyone I wanted to see somewhat impossible. Two weeks is nothing. I had some excellent heart to hearts before doing so (only a few of which included me bursting into tears like a crazy woman), but there was no way to prepare for how surreal it was all going to feel.

Dinner with Dad  (and Mom, not pictured) = instant therapy

 Luckily, I had the second week with my family up in Albany. I was irritable, energetic, list-making, and eating them completely out of their home, but at least there I knew I could turn 'off' a little and actually get ready. Mom was there to help me pack and think of the practical things I would not have otherwise. Dad was there to get me on my bike and ride across town with him. The last two days I visited my brother at his apartment, swinging on his porch swing at sunset with a beer in hand, feeling, somehow, better and more emotional all at once. Then it was off to my older sister and her husbands' for lunch the next day, where they pep talked the crap out of me and reminded me that this was, in fact, the right call.

I told you it was complicated.

I love my siblings, even if they stole the height in the family.

But, once the plane landed in Amsterdam and I was greeted by friends and little toddlers I love so much here... I felt better. Now, it's a life filled with performances, auditions, and seemingly endless musical preparation. I take long bike rides, and the days are filled with more Disney, dance parties, Stroopwafles, games in the park, and rehearsals at night. I am home, somehow. Homesick for my friends and family always... but home in this strange, foreign, incredible world.

I Am Allergic to Amsterdam

There are a lot of things I want to say about my time in Europe this summer, but for some reason on this humid Saturday the best I can do to start is to say that my allergies are just thriving in this world of old dusty buildings and trees.

I am the world's biggest red-eyed, sneezing fan of Europe. Seriously.

Epic mosquito bites that turn into welts because, I guess, Dutch mosquitoes carry an infinitely more powerful bite than American ones... the leaves on all these foreign trees, the flowers in Spain my sinuses could not handle, the mold inside amazing, ancient cathedrals. All of this has turned me into a pill-popping, puffy, splotchy, caffeine-addicted Goddess. Sex-ayyyy.

Well anyway, other than that there's not a lot to say.

JUST kidding!

Nearing the three-month mark on my Tourist Visa in Europe, I feel like an entirely different person. This summer has been like a musical and personal boot camp for me. I came out here with one intention: to travel a little and see what would unfold this summer with the one or two opera projects I was set out for. I'm ending the summer with an entirely new chapter unfolding.

One thing I've learned is that the goals we set for ourselves are no joke. I have, in the past, set 'goals' that were unreachable at the time, or simply out of my control. When I couldn't reach them I was inevitably angry at the world and myself, feeling incapable of achieving my dreams. That word, too, has plagued me for my whole life. "Dream" always seems to imply that one enormous, un-gettable thing you want that is impractical or slightly too incredible. Singing is not a "dream". I have been singing since before I could speak full sentences. Singing as my sole career track? Sure, that has been my dream for a long time, especially when I was in school and not yet ready for the demands.

Now, making that career happen is not a dream. Your ambition in life is not a fantasy; it is a reality - even when the track you are aiming for seems unattainable, like becoming a movie star or an astronaut. If you want to become British Royalty, well, that might be a different story... but Prince Harry IS still single (I think?). Still, no one gets to decide that for you anyway. I have spent many years trying to change my goals to please others, and all it did was delay what I really wanted.

Having a performing career was the next step in the journey, and I had to come to terms with that in my own time. There are about a million ways to make an operatic career realistic. It entails day jobs, or taking gigs so that there's growth and a little cash flow. It means teaching lessons sometimes. For awhile for me it meant gaining skills in the music business world and working in that environment as I performed on weekends for a few years. I have no regrets about those experiences, but I will admit, impatience has often been the undercurrent of my life.

Coaching at the DNO for the summer program.

So this summer I made the leap to Europe. I start this journey of auditions, gigs, performances and immersion into the European culture in Amsterdam while living with one of my best friends (a sister, truthfully, at this point) and her two beautiful girls. My Dutch life has been filled wonderfully by two worlds: one involves playing dress up with those mini Princesses while they run around with jam on their faces and a strong love of drawing, pink, and games of piggy-back... it is filled with tons of love and laughter. The other is consisting of hours of memorizing music, going to coach that music, performing/ rehearsing/ learning at the opera house and preparing for a future that includes possibilities expanding wildly before my eyes.

A year ago, as I was recovering from a tonsillectomy and feeling wiped out by the push and pull of NYC life, if you had told me this was the future, I would have laughed in your face...but I'm so glad it is.

I realize that while my career is just one aspect of my life, and not always an easy or glamorous road... It is paved by dreams I find myself able to fulfill very often, so I know it is the right path. Those dreams include being able to play with my loved ones all over the world. Getting to travel. Learning new cultures and languages. Finding out how strong I can be and learning from the strength of the incredible people who cross that path. Sometimes it's also marked with loneliness, uncertainty and fear... but those things are a part of everything important in life, and not enough to give up.

So, regardless of where this year goes, I'll try to tell the little stories as often as I can. Thanks for being a part of the madness if you're reading.

Now on to a whole new chapter...

Voice Teacher

"With one hand, the past moves us forward, while with the other the past holds us back."

I keep trying to find the exact origin of this quote, but the only reference I can give it is to a line from 'Frasier', a show I tend to watch whenever I am bored/stressed/depressed/in need of some snooty, dry humor...

For some reason this quote haunts me a lot as I 'grow up'. (Or, am I grown yet? ::continues eating nutella out of jar::).

The other day, I was rifling through my drawers to find the proper 'shape wear' for under the gown I am wearing as part of my costume in 'Die Fledermaus,' a production I am singing in in November. As I was searching for underthings, I pulled out a girdle trapped in the back of the drawers and immediately felt choked up. < I am aware that's the weirdest thing you've read today, yes. You're welcome.

This girdle is not a silky, fancy Victoria's Secret shaper designed to make you feel pretty while it sucks in all your 'wobbly bits' (shout out to any 'Bridget Jones' fans out there). It is a weird-looking, bumpy, scratchy velcro thing designed ONLY for one purpose: To help support your breathing as you prepare your roles as a coloratura soprano. And not only was it borrowed, and about three years delayed in its return to its original owner -- but its owner was the originator of my career as an opera singer: Rita Shane. My voice teacher. Who passed away just a couple of weeks ago after a very short battle with Pancreatic and Liver cancer.

No one really prepares you, when you enter college as a voice performance major, for what your relationship with your voice teacher may turn out to be like. You worry about what opera productions are going to be put on (or musical theatre shows, if that's your focus). You stress about auditions and the competition you're facing in your peers. Or, I suppose, that was what I worried about. I have always been given amazing luck with voice teachers in my life... but being picked by Rita for her studio at Eastman in 2007 was by far one of the luckiest  things to happen to me in all my life.

Eastman was a very scary journey for me at first. I was coming from an intense choral background, and entered Rita's studio knowing how to use about a third of my voice, straight-tone, with so much shoulder tension I probably looked like I was disabled when I sang. My graduate student classmates were all unbelievably talented, and it took me less than a week to work myself into a bit of a panic about the work I had to do. I had support in the opera department staff who had faith in me, but I was a ball of nerves every time I sang for just about anyone. Rita, with a stoic, practical kindness, made it her mission to break my voice down to square one - an 'organic place' - remove the habits and find what my instrument truly was. I sang Mozart and various lieder for several months in just my middle range. I sang scales up to my highest register - which was much higher than I realized, with her prodding - hanging upside down with her hand on my back. I never stopped practicing. She became my coach/mother/grandmother/mentor/therapist in a very short period of time and we just kept working. When I was a small role in the opera and many of my friends were leading parts, she insisted she was not worried about me and we would just work. When I did not make the finals for the big competition we were preparing for, she finally said "You may cry over this," and let me fall apart in one lesson. (And that was the last lesson I did that in. I believe that was February of 2008). She hugged me. And then she said for the fiftieth time, "It's going to be okay Julie. You are getting there. We will just work."

And, sure enough, things started to work. I started to realize how easy singing can be with your true voice - a voice I didn't know I had, using a technique that hardly felt like working at all. Suddenly, every lesson included a breakthrough, and a moment where I'd cry "Oh, that's so much easier now!!" to which she'd reply, "Oh, imagine THAT! It's easier!!!" Nerves were replaced with an excited confidence in each audition. Then came some roles, some competitions where I did make finals, and some awards. And then... life after school, shutting the door on the fastest and most rewarding two years in my musical life.

I'll never forget my last lesson with her at Eastman. I struggled to find the right words for how much I wanted to continue working with her, afraid that I'd be told it was time to move on to someone new. Instead, she said to me "I remember when I worked with Beverly [Peck Johnson], and it just worked. I never left her. I was still her student when she died." With relief I planned my move to NYC for the following year, and eagerly prepared for the next phase in all of the singing madness.

Over the last few years, our lessons grew into lunches, walks in the park and endless talks as I attempted to maneuver this side of life the best way I could. She was there to push me forward when auditions did not lead to jobs, jobs led to sudden joblessness, family members passed away and relationships ended. She would walk beside me, listening, and then responding in a way that would swiftly make whatever problems I was over-dramatizing suddenly feel very small and manageable. Like her teaching style, her approach to life made everything easier, while I constantly tried (and still seem to try) to make it more complicated. Truly, no one was more capable of sharpening the focus in a big chaotic mess, when I was going through it. She would simultaneously sympathize ("I just don't know what they are looking for with that company anymore, Julie!") while quieting my silly worries ("Just don't audition for them anymore! Here, try this one, they do auditions in March...").

This fall, while rehearsing with some of the most talented singers I've ever worked with - many of which are her students - I have felt unbelievably grateful to have had these years and to be one of the thousands of lives she touched. With my singer family, I feel allowed to miss her - to mention her name and know I'm not the only one feeling a hole in the pit of my stomach when I work on the crazy coloratura lines and don't have her to tell me ''it's fine!!!" (Or tell me it's not on the voice, and force me to 'nang nang nang' my way back into the core). But I feel comfort in knowing I will absolutely always be her student, in more ways than just as a vocalist, and my life is not at all the same since I met her all those years ago.

And now it is up to me to find a way to make it all just a little bit easier while just doing the work...

Happy New Year Father Time

So, here we are. In just a handful of hours, no more lucky ‘13, and onto the first day of a whole new ...twelve months of life.

It’s kind of funny that humans have to block things off in this way. It’s so ingrained in me that the first of January is the first of the year that it doesn’t often occur to me to think about how we, as humans, built that. We made up time. “Time” is a concept we need in order to understand cycles, aging, beginnings and ends of things. That was man-made, like automobiles and the internet. Without us, time doesn’t actually exist in the way we use it. Like – it doesn’t really exist at all. !!!

But time is very precious to us – to me. As I embark on this new year, and -in a few weeks - a new age to call myself, along with some enormous, “big-girl-pants” life changes, I have to say… time has been my best friend. Sure, I’m not a huge fan when I wake up late and have to rush to the train station, only to miss the 7:16 train because it decided to come at 7:14, and I gazed up at it from the street below, helpless (If only I had a lasso). But other than the rushing of it, time has been there for me in ways no human could be.

It makes sense to me that we call it “Father Time.” It’s as if Time understands something we do not, and pushes us forward while we resist it. Our ages. Our memories. We cling and hang on and try not to change like insolent children refusing to go to bed when we’re told, and we lose – every time.

But, as we grow, we recognize how it was all for our own good. We learn to appreciate him. Time has helped me learn how to continue to move on, no matter how much I wanted to cling to a moment of it. Time has helped me move on when every fiber of my being was filled with heartache and I couldn’t imagine feeling otherwise. With each day ending, and each new one beginning, he cleaned the slate for me. Time has been there to accompany me in the excruciatingly slow moments before an audition or performance, giving me a second to stop my pounding heart and clear my head. Time has been the parental figure allowing me to grow into my own, to blossom, to develop. And the hand on my shoulder, guiding me surely into the next step... The next year.

There is something nice about that divide from December to January. I’m perhaps a little superstitious, but I do believe how we enter in makes a difference in the year. Last year, I went into the new year cautiously… and I had a year of tentativeness in the midst of all the chaos. This year, I already have big plans for the upcoming months, and truly feel grateful for everything that ended in 2013, and everything waiting. No more caution. No more nervousness. Let time move us forward.

I hope everyone of you reading this finds the year ahead to be the greatest, most life-changing of years. I hope you ring it in joyfully, however you choose to. 

Happy New Year, my friends.