An Elevator Meditation

I spent an hour - or at least it sure felt like an hour, it was probably more like 30 minutes - stuck in an elevator this morning. I was taking our darling dog, Bonnie, out for her morning constitution as I always do. I have morning duty and she knows it. She’ll lick me out of bed and then do a dance for me until I cave.

In any case, I’m pretty sure God was laughing at me today. So here’s a lesson in Karma. (I realize some of you may think I’m mixing and matching my religions like the old bartender from Boondock Saints mixes his metaphors at this point... “You know what they say, people in glass houses sink ships”... but they’re interchangeable in my world since they’re all ultimately pointing us towards the same trail of breadcrumbs.)

You can see the bartender in the first 60 sec of this clip. If you're me, you'll skip the fight.

So why is God laughing at me? Well, we still have 2+ feet of snow on the ground here in DC after getting dumped on the last few weeks. Personally I don’t think it’s all going to melt until April, and frankly, I’m tired of it. So I rebel in my own small ways. I’m tired of having to get all layered up with my socks and my boots every morning to go outside. Therefore today I reverted back to my raggedy old tennis shoes - untied - without socks. And like a triggered reaction, where does Bonnie insist on doing her business this AM? In 3 feet of snow!!

Now I’ve already established that I’m not a huge fan of the snow, so you can imagine how cheerful I am about having it in my shoes - my sock-less feet completely submerged. Needless to say I wasn’t feeling my Pollyanna Zen.

So maybe I was a little snappy with our sweet-as-can-be dog... maybe I could have shown a little more patience or graciousness for the fact that she has to wait on my lazy butt to be taken outside and go #2. And maybe someone ‘upstairs’ decided I needed a little time to think about this, like a kid in elementary school sent to the corner to ‘think about what you’ve done’ while you stare mindlessly at the artistic and never before noticed cracks in the wall just above the window.

This is how I felt as I noticed for the first time just how disgusting the carpet in our building’s elevator truly is. It’s, like, beyond casino carpet. It’s casino carpet that was torn up in the 70’s, left outside for about 20 years, and then reinstalled in our cheap-ass Arlington apartment building. And the smell - don’t even get me started. Usually your time in an elevator is brief, so its like a passing glance to your nose. But as soon as you realize those doors aren’t going to open in the next 30 seconds, it’s a full on assault to the senses.

I noticed all of this because when we got in the elevator to return to the apartment, the doors closed, it lurched, and then nothing. We were stuck.

So after hitting numerous buttons and jumping up and down a few times, I stopped to ponder. I apologized to the dog for my sins and transgressions and then began to replay my life in slow motion. (I was trying to drag it out because I was faced with the prospect of possibly needing to make it last all day. The emergency-call-button guy said he was still trying to find a mechanic. After all, it is Sunday morning. Wouldn’t want to disturb his morning coffee, would we?!?)

I begin to meditate. Then the conversation goes something like this:

‘Dear God, I know I haven’t really been going to church lately... and I’ve been given a plentitude of opportunities to take stock of my life. I promise to start doing it in a more intentional and reverent way if you’ll promise to let me do it in a slightly more pleasant environment.’

God just laughs and lets me sweat it out a little longer, getting pleasure from the fact, I’m sure, that I gave up my technologically advanced ways and have no smart phone (or any phone for that matter) to even tell the outside world about my saga while I’m in the midst of it. Instead, I continued to ponder the error of my ways in silence. At least I got to spend some quality time with the dog, whom I promise to be more patient with from now on and forever more. Amen.

A story without love is not worth telling...

I bought a piece of artwork with this message. I’m not one to normally buy ‘real art’, but it spoke loudly to me. In fact, shouted to me from the computer, 'Hey idiot, listen up! This applies to you.' It’s by Hugh MacLeod, a cartoonist and blogger I’ve been following ever since I read his book Ignore Everybody. For anyone working in a creative realm, I highly recommend you give it a read. And for those who have experienced the trauma of ‘pick up and move to a big city to follow your art’, particularly the big apple, you will find it hilarious.

Following the calling of your art can be a dark and lonely path. Playing to an audience of three can be a shockingly disheartening experience. While the random old man at the bar was indeed a new 'fan', he was more likely an alcoholic willing to sit through my set. And it’s hard to keep the game face on when he’s surrounded by empty bar stools. (I will be forever grateful to my dear Galia Arad, a fellow musician, who was not only in attendance that night, but signed my email list bobdylanwentthroughthis@f!*#it.com. You need all the levity you can muster on nights like those.)

But what was I doing in that lonely Lower East Side dive to begin with? It wasn’t for cheap drinks, that’s for sure. Is it just what an artist is supposed to go through? Maybe so, maybe not. Some people are luckier than others in that regard. But the point is that I sure as hell wasn’t having fun. And if you can’t have fun playing to nobody, then you may not have fun playing to a full room either. Because reality is things can always go wrong, and often do. Nothing is ever perfect.

A story without love is not worth telling.

This is very much my mantra these days and something I have to remind myself of constantly. (Hence the need for it to be hanging just above my keyboard. Sometimes subtle just doesn’t work for me.) I don’t know if this is an uncommon struggle, but I had gotten so caught up in the entrepreneurial side of trying to make music, I had managed to slowly but surely squeeze the joy right out of it. And then you have the rude awakening of waking up one day and wondering what the hell you’re doing. Or at least, I did.

Because if the love part of the equation is absent, you can’t hide from it. It shows in your music and it shows in people’s reaction to your music. Part of my struggle is that I’m never completely satisfied - there is always room to improve. But then I stop and listen to the music that I absolutely adore, and it’s not the raw skill that speaks to me. It’s the fact that you can hear the love in the story, in the voice, in the music. There’s no substitute for passion. Maybe it was the soundtrack to a passionate moment, who knows. But I guarantee it was the emotion that got to you.

So here’s to slowing down a bit and paying attention. To not making life any more complicated than it needs to be. If we LOVE what we do, and instill it in our art, in our actions, in our goals, then it will be heard. And I truly believe that is what people actually want to hear.

Stop and think about it. What’s your favorite song? Why? Feel free to comment and let me know.

Learn more about me and my music at http://www.brittneal.com

Just me, myself and a whole lot of snow

I sit down to write today as Mother Nature blows off a little steam outside. (I have now witnessed the definition of blizzard conditions - not a goal I ever aspired to, believe me.) But as the storm rages outside the window, just within, my life is as calm as it has ever been. In fact, despite all the snow-induced cancellations, my day-to-day activities haven’t really been drastically altered because I don’t wander too far these days. I will refrain from passing judgement on this - as that is one of my new mantras - and there are oh, so many feminist jokes I know my brother would love to insert here just to get a rise out of me - but reality is the upheaval created by my change of career, change of city and change of living arrangements has all been followed by an intense and enduring calm.

And while I am thankful, I do feel a bit like a stranger in a strange land - that land being myself, undistracted and undisturbed. To be perfectly honest, I’m not quite sure what to do with me. In having the luxury of time to very simply live and reflect, I’ve been waiting for my profound purpose to hit me upside the head. Something abrupt, you know, to get my attention. I thought the power of the universe would have more of a ‘straight between the eyes’ approach, but amazingly the quiet just continues.

Being the busybody that I am, I’ve had some difficulty settling in to this type of routine and believe you me I’ve attempted to distract myself with the mundane duties of suburban life. (If I could gain status in society by number of visits to Target, I would be golden!) But I needed it. Desperately. (The quiet that is, not the latest slotted plastic spatula.) The clutter and noise had seeped from the streets of Manhattan into my head and was wreaking havoc. Now, you city folk, don’t get me wrong - I will always love New York City and may even change my tune at some point. However, I used to think and argue out loud that ‘life’ was keeping me from my music. I was just too busy paying rent, ya know?

Well, I took that line of defense away - I’ll do anything to win an argument, even with myself - and it turns out I was wrong. Life is nothing but choices and I think I knew that all along. Turns out I’ve been the one keeping myself from my music. And we could do some significant psycho-analysis here to determine why, but I’ll spare you. We can instead sum it up to say that the clutter is gone. And now, ye followers of the blogosphere who put up with my philosophizing despite an inexcusable gap since my last rambling, I put that hat back on, pick up the hypothetical suitcase, and set back out on the journey with one less excuse to hide behind. The constant remains - the music cannot, must not, be denied.