Singing For the Belly Dancers

I did something tonight I haven't done for years.  I sang and played the guitar at a once-a-month-downtown-stays-up-late event called First Friday.  I set up in my old place, but other than the buildings looking the same, it wasn't anything like it used to be.  Now, there's an approval process, obtaining and posting your permit, snow cones, kettle corn, clowns, musicians scattered about, and lots and lots of people.

As I continually discern God's will for my life, I consistently have the feeling that music is supposed to be part of what I'm doing.  But, it is so easy to talk myself out of it.  I keep asking myself, "Can a simple girl like me, singing simple songs, with a simple guitar played very simply, really glorify the Lord?  I'm sure the answer is yes.  At least I'm sure in my head.  Or is it in my heart that I'm sure?  I'm not really sure where I'm sure, I guess.  But, I'm pretty sure.

When you're only one person and you can't agree with yourself, I think it is important to make an effort to stay as objective as possible.  To that end, I've kept a little book for several months now of reasons I should keep singing.  It starts with a note to myself, and is slowly being filled with encouragement to praise God, for as many reasons as there are ways.

                                                         

With the exception of one entry, it is all Scripture.  The exception is pretty exceptional, though, and my mind returns to it often.

When we sing, we repossess some of the Eden that we lost when Adam fell...Music stirs our hearts and engages our souls in ways we can't describe.  When this happens, we are taken beyond our earthly banishment back to the divine melody Adam knew when he sang with the angels, when he was whole in God, before his exile...the devil...forever plots how to make humanity stop singing...The devil wants to thwart confession, stop forgiveness, and silence our songs of praise, because they frighten him.  
-St. Hildegard of Bingen

And so, I sing.  Opportunities come up here and there, things go well, and momentum builds.  And instead of just accepting opportunities that come, you start looking for them.  And you end up at First Friday, because you can and it's free.

And you come without a microphone or amplifier because you can't remember if you need all of that. You don't have it anyway, so going without makes a lot of sense.  The open parking spot, a stone's throw from where I was supposed to set up, was a sure sign of God's providence.  With my first tune underway, I noticed some activity across the street.  A sound check was proof their amplifier was working.  The shimmery skirts, bare midriffs, and cameras were working, too.

Oh, man.  Maybe I was a little premature about crediting providence for my parking spot, because I was pretty sure this wasn't where I wanted to be.  Do you know that feeling when a beautiful girl walks in the room and you go from feeling normal/great/beautiful to ugly?  Blech.  Have you seen Monsters Inc.?  I felt like Randy, the purple chameleon, blending into the wall of the St. Vincent de Paul Thrift Store.

How those girls have that kind of courage and move like that, I have no earthly idea.  Sheesh!  No wonder Herod offered half his kingdom! I'm pretty sure it was after watching something like this.  And I had to submit a video to make sure my music was family-friendly?!

So much for repossessing some of Eden before Adam fell.  I think he fell a bunch of times tonight.

And there I was, moving in and out of invisibility, wondering where I misunderstood what God was asking of me.  Until friends showed up.  And show up they did, in a steady trickle throughout the two-and-a-half hours I was there.  A pleasant surprise, every one of them.  In those moments, I felt like maybe I hadn't gotten it all wrong.

I was really grateful for those moments, too, because there were others that were as cringe-worthy as the friend-moments were terrific.  Like when the guy on a bicycle parked two feet from my face and told me I needed a pick, smack in the middle of nailing Amazing Grace.  Or when the little boy looked in my guitar case and said, "You only have one dollar in there.  We saw another guy who had a $20 bill in his."  And later, "You only have two dollars in there."  If only I needed an accountant.

His report got me thinking, though.  Either they're being very generous "over there", or I must suck, or he put that money in there himself.  This made me consider putting some of my own money in, to encourage other people to put their money in, but even the thought made me feel kind of sleazy.

So, I played until my fingers rebelled and my pride was begging me to go.  I laid my guitar on top of the four dollars in my case and saw somebody approaching out of the corner of my eye.  It was one of the belly dancers.  She introduced herself by saying, "We were across the street."  I wanted to laugh out loud.  I'm pretty sure everyone knew where they were.  I certainly did.  She offered me a dollar tip for my beautiful music and a sweet apology for their music being a little loud.  I was as charmed as I was flabbergasted.

It is easy to equate stares and applause with being observed, and assume that if we don't see ourselves being observed, then we're not being observed!  I would have bet any amount of money they neither saw nor heard me.  It's a good thing I didn't.

And that's the thing.  You just don't know.

So, you dance like nobody's watching, and you sing like you're in the Garden of Eden, and you beg God for the courage to do it again, and get chicken strips and an icy Coke on the way home because you're proud of yourself for trying, even if it wasn't anything at all like what you imagined it would be, and you're glad it's over, and you've been reminded that friends and carbonated drinks make everything better.    


 
  

Doing Your Beautiful Thing

It is astounding how much you can learn when you aren't using words.  In the silence of my weekend retreat, I learned something about myself.  And maybe something about you, but I'll stick with the safer of the two, for now. 

On Thursday, before my retreat began, my guitar teacher published a very first audio/video recording of me singing and playing the guitar, under the heading, "Student of the Month".  If we are friends on Facebook, you were probably one of the nice people who said nice things.  Thank you.  

As I went into the weekend after my "reveal", I was acutely aware of how vulnerable I felt. During the retreat, I led the songs for each of the Masses, and afterward, was acutely aware of my mistakes and my vulnerability (again).  

A little over halfway into the retreat, considering what this vulnerability was really about, I came to a conclusion, and wrote it exactly this way:  I inherently believe in my value as a caregiver/nurturer.  I inherently disbelieve in my value as a writer/singer.

Hmmm.  Why one and not the other?

I listed a few possible answers, did a lot more soul searching, and accepted God's gift of the woman with the alabaster jar, from smack in the middle of nowhere.  

Are you familiar with her, in Mark 14:3-9?

When he was in Bethany reclining at table in the house of Simon the leper,^b a woman came with an alabaster jar of perfumed oil, costly genuine spikenard. She broke the alabaster jar and poured it on his head.4
There were some who were indignant. “Why has there been this waste of perfumed oil?5
It could have been sold for more than three hundred days’ wages and the money given to the poor.” They were infuriated with her.6
Jesus said, “Let her alone. Why do you make trouble for her? She has done a good [beautiful]thing for me.7
The poor you will always have with you, and whenever you wish you can do good to them, but you will not always have me.8
She has done what she could. She has anticipated anointing my body for burial.9
Amen, I say to you, wherever the gospel is proclaimed to the whole world, what she has done will be told in memory of her.”

http://www.usccb.org/bible/mark/14

I figured that if God dropped this story in my lap, it was going to be useful to me.  And if this story was going to be useful to me, I should put myself in it.  So, I did.  It came out like this...

I came with my writing, music, and good intent - very costly, because I can see all at table but Christ. I offer what I have.  Some say to themselves, "Why is she bothering?  Why does she think this is a good idea?  Their silence feels like a reproach.  But, Jesus said, "Let them alone; why do you trouble with them?  You have done a beautiful thing to me.  You have done what you could.  

And so, I resolve to sing, and play, and write, because I can.  I want to.  I have something to offer, and I can imagine Christ being pleased with my willingness to do so, even though the vulnerability is costly.

scrapingraisins.blogspot.com

I mentioned this briefly, as we went around the group to share something of what we received over the weekend.  In short time, several women mentioned their fear when it comes to being creative.  What if it's not good?  What if someone else could do it better?  What if no one likes it?  What if?   What if?  What if?  What if?  What if?  What if?  What if?  What if?  What if?  What if?  What if?

Their questions are my own.  But, there's another question.  A better question.  

What IF your offering of music, writing, art, food, dance, ________________  is an expression of your heart, and God loves it?!!!  

What is that thing that you can offer Christ (and the world) about which He will be able to say...

You have done a beautiful thing to me.  You have done what you could.