The Comfortable Mountain of Fear

I had this thought yesterday that maybe the reason I stayed afraid (of anything) is because it was comfortable. When looking at the way I was raised, I realized I grew up with a healthy dose of fear. Fear of hell, fear of my parents, fear of making mistakes or failing, fear of darkness, etc. So now this place of "closed off" and afraid is a retreat from reality that I can easily return to when I'm not feeling robust - and the shell of protection that HIDING provides is an actual respite from the uncomfortable process of being seen or taking up space.

It's weird, I thought I liked taking up space. I'm somewhat theatrical, I like performing music and sharing art -- but at the same time none of that sounds true. I USED to be theatrical, I USED to perform music and share my art. But that was nearly ten years ago now. And now I'm almost 30 without any recent experience of "being seen" -- and the experiments I've conducted on myself in an effort to get more comfortable taking up space are few and I often judge myself harshly for my lack of bravado. In truth, I don't think I'm a performer. Despite my daydreaming thoughts of being entertaining, educational, funny, and talented -- I honestly think I'm dull.

A couple years ago I signed myself up for ukulele lessons and practiced nearly daily for a whole summer. I went into my lesson each week with questions (although sometimes I didn't practice as much as I should have and my questions were more stupid than usual) and I learned so many cover songs it was really fun to pick it up and play along with people famous songs that we all knew. I even wrote a few songs too! Well near the end of my time taking lessons, there was a recital at a famous jazz club in Kansas City called The Blue Room -- maybe you've heard of 18th and Vine? Well I got to play and sing at that famous jazz club along with all the other people taking lessons at Guitar Center (most of whom were children) and I thought it was SO fun cheering on every nervous child as they went up to perform their song -- only to watch them beam with pride after they finished. Some played guitar, some on drums, some sang and played and some didn't use their voices. I sang "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie (it's one of my husband and mine's "songs" - although if I knew we'd be at the Blue Room I might have picked a jazzier song) as I played it on my ukulele.

The chords were easy and I had memorized the words. But as I walked onto the stage and everyone became shadows behind the spotlight, I forgot the first words, the starting pitch, and altogether how to hold a ukulele. And maybe because I was wearing a cute hat and red lipstick, or because I was one of the 2 adults performing that day, or maybe I carried myself with more confidence than I realize -- but right as I sat down on my stool to play, I heard someone whisper a few rows back to someone next to them, "Oh she's done this before."

What an assumption, I thought, that I wish I hadn't heard. The expectation of being somewhat professional, and even worse that I would disappoint them with my amateur singing and playing when they were expecting a performance from an experienced musician. The pressure closed me up rather than opened me. So I sang. I got some opening chords and pitches off perhaps (old habits die hard) but the muscle memory kicked in after a few moments. Once the song got going, I felt I leaned into it rather well. I hit the notes, I got most of the chords right, and I smiled at the end. I was proud, but I wasn't beaming. The setting didn't feel right, with so many kids in the audience and my mother and sister there clapping too. I felt like a child. My mom recorded it on her phone, and after the show I watched the recording... or tried to. I was horrified at how scrunched up my body was on stage. "Did I even open my mouth?" was my very first thought. There was a voice coming out of the speakers but the mouth up to the microphone barely looked like it was moving. Where was my articulation, or my real voice, or the damn words? There was no story in my song -- if you would even call it a song.

I felt like I was singing a folksy love song that transcended romance, a powerful song to a nostalgic rhythm that everyone could connect to. I felt it - I felt the power and love in what I was doing, in what I was expressing. But watching myself on screen didn't seem powerful at all. It looked, sounded, and felt like something that wasn't entirely me. It looked like a creature at the end of a long compacted story -- her body squished into a box only to be cracked open just enough to perform this song. And then right before singing, she closed up again. Her body wasn't moving, her voice wasn't flowing, and her song was sad. Everything about the experience made me sad -- and yet I was proud. Proud of that baby step toward being seen, proud to take up JUST enough space for people to listen in silence, proud of the very real fear I sang through that day. But now it's time for something bigger.

Something bigger than playing at 18th and Vine? Something like performing for the whole world is in store for me, and I suppose it starts with writing out my thoughts and sharing them on the internet. And even now, the fear is bubbling up in me. Rewriting the story of performing ukulele for the first time is a gross feeling -- I remember being shocked that the way I presented myself wasn't at all how I felt inside. I guess at some point down the line, I began to shift my "presentation" to the world in order to cover up the intense emotional being that was writhing in pain on the inside. No one wanted to see my pain, my discomfort at the world, or my rage. It seemed like people couldn't connect to my anger or my vulnerability, and it seemed like I was alone. So I became flat, cold, distant, and small. And although this isn't true now, it proved a disconnection between my beliefs and reality. This disconnect has to be healed.

I want to say "no more" to this way of being although I know she is still there. There is no more of her in me as there is no more of the rockstar waiting to burst through and play some real jazz at the Blue Room. The song will keep playing, and I will keep dancing, and I can feel the stage is waiting for me even now.

"Just because every step is uncomfortable doesn't mean the mountain isn't worth climbing."

With Love,

sae-el