I’ve got a gig tonight at Savona’s, a great Italian restaurant in the Rondout of Kingston. We’re just performing for two hours in the bar, from 6:30 pm to 8:30 pm, but I’m nervous. I guess I always get a little nervous on gig day. But for some reason, I’m a little more nervous than usual.

Gig days are weird. I try to focus on work and what needs doing, but there is always a part of my internal energy that is shooting out ahead of the present moment to anticipate what’s coming. Am I prepared? What about the verse on that one tune? Do I really want to do “I Concentrate on You” as a duet with the bass player? What am I going to wear? How much time do I need to get ready, haul equipment, warm up and not feel rushed?

I’m singing with jazz guitarist Dennis Winge, and bass player, Jim Curtin. I’ve only performed with Dennis once before and it went really well. I’ve never performed with Jim, but he’s a player; he knows what to do. Yet I can’t help but feel antsy, uncertain.

Sometimes, like today, nervous anticipation disguises itself as fatigue. I get tired, sleepy, and I feel exposed and vulnerable. I tuck myself inside to hide a bit before I need to come out in performance.

I was talking to my friend Terese Genecco who performs regularly at the Iridium in New York City. She never gets nervous. She gets amped up, but not anxious. But at her last performance at the Iridium, there was a talent scout coming to see her, and while she claims she wasn’t nervous, I was with her just before she left her apartment to go do that show, and she was nervous.

And it was one of the best nights she ever had. She told me her voice would do anything she wanted it to. She was wild, alive and free to go full out and beyond. Her band was hot and playing their best in order to impress her guest drummer, Michael Berkowitz. It was magic on steroids.

I guess that’s it. As singers we wonder, Will my voice let me do whatever I want tonight? What limitations or compromises will I be presented with? The performance space? The ability to hear myself? The moodiness of my instrument? It’s these unknowns that spark the inner jitters.

I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight. I never do. My intention is to show up, be fully present inside each song, listen to my boys and ride the music. Meanwhile, I need to get back to work.

Why fight it? Why try to make it other than it is?

Since I’ve been in New York I wake up around 7:00 or 8:00 am. And it bugs me. That feels late to me. When I was in California, I used to get up around 6:00 am at the latest. I used to always wake up with the sun as the birds starting singing. But here, I go to bed later, and wake up later.

Enough of this, I’ve been thinking. It’s time to get back on schedule. I’ve had enough time to acclamate to strange time zone. It’s time to wake up earlier, the way I used to, and have those quiet morning hours.

So, I tried it yesterday. And my whole day sucked. I felt off kilter and almost ill. So, this morning, I woke with the sun, around 7:00 am. And while I wish I had those few precious early hours of morning I used to have in California, I figure, come summer, when the sun rises earlier (the sun does rise earlier in the summer in New York, doesn’t it? Or is this an entirely different planet with a different sun, moon and rotation?), I’ll wake up earlier. Or not. I’ll let the wisdom of my body decide.

As for the title of this post, it comes from a poem by Theodore Roethke, The Waking. It’s written in a specific type of form, the name of which I’ve forgotten. AP English was a long time ago, baby! Here it is:

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

I moved. Again.

Three blocks up, two blocks over to a truly great space on Hone Street.

And in many ways, this move was more dramatic than my move cross country.

I’m still in the neighborhood I love, the Rondout, but I no longer have to suffer through the noisy DJ parties that Mariners and Ship To Shore would have on Friday or Saturday nights to all hours of the morning. No more am I awoken by rumbling trucks on the way to the salvage yard or by the uber obnoxious Harleys with straight pipes. No, now I live above an architect’s office in an 1800’s brick building surrounding by churches that chime sweetly on the hour. But not ALL hours!

And I signed a year lease this time. Made a commitment to stay. And the same week I moved into my new and amazing place, my husband made the first payment to buy me out of our house in Sebastopol. The timing was uncanny. Symbolic. And at times, hard to handle.

As I took a walk this morning, my first in a long while because the weather has been snowy and slick, I realized, I live here now. I really am here, if not for good then for a good long while. I visited my favorite cemetery, now covered in snow, and I took the photo you see here on this post. “This Way Out.” Great sign to post in a cemetery, don’t you think?

When I got back to my new space, the New York Times (the weekend edition) was waiting for me. My first at-home delivery. I curled up on the couch in the stream of the sun coming through the tall living room windows, drank coffee and read about Corrine Baily Rae and all the new movies coming out. Maxie cat joined me in the sun while Mark connected cables to his console in the studio.

My new home.

Like angels bending down to kiss me, the most magical snow fell late last night, Christmas night, giving this California girl her first white Christmas. Big, fluffy flakes as big as mice floated slowly out of the dark sky to cover everything, quiet everything. After a day of watching a pay-per-view movie (“Julie & Julia” – which was great, by the way), eating popcorn and feeling ever so slightly sorry for myself, this opulent snow, unexpected, unpredicted by any online weather service, swirled gracefully down to whisper, “Ah, all is well. All is beautiful. Shush now, shush now. No worries now.”

Wasting no time, I slipped my fluffy-sock shod feet into a pair of clogs, threw on my coat and hat, and bolted out into the snow. The silence, as if the air had thickened into unseen insulation, hit me first. Then, the beauty of white butterflies falling, twirling to the ground. I stomped into the fluffy white, listening to the sound of my steps as they crunched into the freshly fallen snow… a sound unlike any other.

When it snows late at night, the dark streets become completely white, blending into the sidewalks, curbs and meridians. Snow ploughs and cars haven’t yet had the chance to slash through the smooth, snowy cover. And the light from street lamps seems to sprinkle the snow with sparkles.

Even after going back inside, my hat and coat covered in white, I sat by my window, looking straight up into the sky, watching the slow dance of snow fall from the darkness. I wanted to save it, to capture it, to make it forever mine, this magical sight. This Christmas gift from the angels.

Shush now. Quiet your heart. All is well.

It started snowing this afternoon!!!

The first winter snow of the season.

So, I HAD to go outside and take a little video… just for you!

New York is so dramatic.

As if with a wave of a magic wand, Fall swooped in and turned leaves crimson, orange and gold. Now, winter has announced itself, and the trees are almost completely bare, waiting for their first skim of snow. It’s time to pack away the t-shirts, shorts and sun dresses and haul out sweaters, gloves and woolly socks.

Of course, I expected a change of seasons. But such a dramatic one? It’s as if God flips a switch and, poof! We’re jolted into a new sensory landscape.

During the Spring, Summer and even the beginning of Fall, there’s a noise and energy here in the Rondout of Kingston. Those seasons are filled with festivals, parades, and outdoor concerts that attract big crowds of locals and tourists. The streets fill with people. Motorcycles roar up and down Broadway (driving me crazy), and restaurants line the sidewalks with tables and chairs so they can serve alfresco. Every couple of hours, you hear the Rip Van Winkle, a large ferry boat that tours the Hudson River, sound its horn, bell and toot before pulling away from the dock.

But now, all the docks in the marina have been taken out of the water. The Rip Van Winkle is tied to the shore for its long winter nap. There is hush in the air, a strange, sudden silence that is both welcome and sad. Brian, the hot dog man, still shows up almost every day with his cart, trying to make the most of the time he has left before it’s be too cold to be outside all day.

This will be my first New York Winter, and I eagerly await the first flurries of snow. While I’m dreading the idea of driving in snow and ice, I’m honestly looking forward to this season. It was in Winter that I fell in love with New York and decided, yes, I have to live here. I fell in love with the cold and the snow. And the silence.

Winters announce the end of things, and this winter brings with it the end of my 25-year marriage. My husband and I are at the beginning of a 6-month process that will end in divorce. I filed the petition while I was in California earlier this month. There is no battle, no argument, no anger, no animosity. We are walking this path with understanding, respect and love.

I know this end of our 25-year season promises glorious beginnings for both of us, just as Winter promises Spring. But I can feel the promise and still mourn the loss. No matter how right this choice is for me or for him, it is an ending, a dismantling of something that once was everything.

So come now, Winter, with your short days and long nights. Come bring me that first muffling blanket of icy white. I’m ready.

I have a ton of work to do today. I should be writing a proposal for a client. Actually, I need to write 3 different proposals today. But I can’t get started. I can’t dig in.

Something happened last night. Something that shifted me into a new place and allowed me to relocate a part of myself I’ve been missing since I moved to New York.

I got to sing in public.

Jazz guitarist Dennis Winge, whom I’ve just started to work with a little, invited me to sit in at his regular Friday night gig at Isabella’s in Ossining. So, my friend Mark and I drove down last night, in spite of the fact I had had an emotionally exhausting day and felt ambivalent about everything, including my ability to sing in any kind of remotely decent manner.

But I knew I had to go, no matter how I felt. I had to stand up and sing in public in this strange new land I live in: the Hudson Valley of New York. I had to claim myself as a singer here, to start somewhere, in this small, under-the-radar way. My fear was that I’d buckle in on myself, that the heavy emotions of the day and the intense vulnerability left in its wake would consume me, drag me under, and I’d sing badly, then fall apart.

But when we got to Isabella’s, a small, brightly lit Italian restaurant (with really good pasta, by the way), I knew I’d be okay. Dennis was sitting and playing at the far end of the restaurant. Mark and I joined Dennis’s wonderful wife, Caroline, and their son, Max, who were sitting at a table up front. There was hardly anyone in the restaurant; the place was so quiet. Except for Max, who would break out into loud, joy-filled screams every so often.

I won’t bore you with the whole story. I’ll just say that I got to sit in twice, singing a total of three songs, and it felt great. I sang well, felt anchored in each song, and got to connect with sweet people sitting at the table on the right. And this simple act of of standing up in front of any kind of audience, large or small, attentive or distracted, reconnected me to a part of myself I’d been missing, the part that hasn’t had a chance to show up since I got to New York. The part of me that loves making music and sharing it with an audience.

Sure, I had that guest spot in Jason Britton’s show in New York City back in July, which was an honor. But to be honest, I didn’t sing so well then. I was disappointed in my performance. But last night, I did okay. And now to have found this amazing guitarist to work with, after searching in vain for a pianist, well, I feel like more of me has found its way to the Hudson Valley, that I pushed through the membrane of geographical resistance, and now, now, it all starts.

Be careful what you ask for. Even in the secret whispers of your heart. You just may get it.

Last night, a songwriter/musician whom I admire asked me a question that stopped my heart. He asked me if he wrote a song for me to sing, would I accept his instruction when it came time to record it. In essence, would I sing the song the way he wanted me to. Would I do my best to produce the kind of sound he heard in his head.

Now, usually, this would be a no-brainer answer: “Uh, yeah, sure I would. I love what you do. Let’s go!” But I didn’t say that. I said something lame, like “Maybe it’s best if we keep our musical lives separate.” See, this songwriter is also a dear friend. I love him like crazy. We have a great rapport and relationship outside of music, and I’d like to keep it that way.

But that’s not the real reason I blew him off. The real reason is, I’m scared. Not of singing the song, but of what might happen to me while he’s telling me HOW to sing it.

I remember long ago when I was working on the song, “Lover Man” with my piano man, John Simon. It was in the days when I sang every song too high because of my training and the ignorance that came with that kind of training. John, during the course of our rehearsal, tried to get me to sing it lower and grittier, with more chest voice, which made total sense for this song.

I couldn’t do it.

I tried, but I couldn’t. I could do it NOW, but I couldn’t do it then. I was so locked in to my old ways of singing. I sang the way I sang, right or wrong, gritty or not gritty. But it hurt that I couldn’t produce the sound John heard in his head. It hurt, because to me it meant I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t the singer he wanted me to be, a singer he’d like to listen to.

As artists, or would-be artists, there are certain people in our lives from whom praise and appreciation mean the world. To have their respect and admiration sends us over the moon and back. It makes us feel invincible. I’m not talking about critics or music reviewers; I’m talking about people we have a personal relationship with. Lovers, parents, teachers, dear friends. People we love and respect and admire.

And when those people don’t like what we do or who we are as artists, or they say things that feel belittling or dismissive of what we love, it cuts deep. And leaves a scar. I know. I’ve got several of them.

But as artists, we keep on doing what we love despite what others may say or think. We do it because we love it, because it’s a part of who we are. And if we’re lucky, we get the support and confidence of those we hold dear. If we’re lucky, what we do shakes the dust from someone’s heart so they can feel what’s true.

Now, one of my favorite songwriters whose work I admire and whose friendship I treasure, has offered me an opportunity that has the potential to sting like a son-of-a-bitch. The stakes feel higher than ever, because I’ll tell you a secret: I’ve longed to have this songwriter/musician friend ASK me to sing something he’s written. I’ve always wished he would. And now that it’s a possibility, I’m scared. Scared of how deeply it might hurt if I can’t cut the mustard, if I can’t create the sound he wants me to create.

Oh, how fragile is this singer’s ego sometimes! How easily I can be blown off course by a nonchalant comment, a suggestion, an opinion… or lack of one.

But you know what? I’m even more scared of letting this opportunity pass me by than I am of the possible ego-shattering fallout sure to ensue should this project fail to turn out well. Hey, I’ve been blasted apart before and somehow, I’m still here. Still singing. Though a bit more self-consciously.

My friend Jeff from Sebastopol gave me the bad news last night.

Upper Fourth is closed.

For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, Upper Fourth is, or rather, was a beautiful, classy bar in Santa Rosa that offered adults the perfect place to meet, have a drink, talk quietly, laugh loudly and listen to some live jazz every now and then. It was sorely needed, but obviously not well enough appreciated, in a town filled with either seedy bars or loud dance clubs frequented by twenty-somethings.

But my sadness around its closing is personal. Upper Fourth and its owner Molly Gallaher changed my life by offering me the opportunity to make music there every second Friday of the month from 5:00 pm to 8:00 pm. To have a steady gig in a sweet environment where people actually listened was a huge gift to me and my musical life. It made me a better singer, a better musician and a better performer. And when I left California to move to New York, one of the biggest losses for me was letting go of that monthly gig.

Just the other day I was bragging about Upper Fourth to my friend Paul who was bemoaning the fact that Kingston doesn’t have a place where one can go, have a drink in an inviting, quiet environment and connect with other people in the community. I told him that I knew of a place like that in Santa Rosa, CA: Upper Fourth.

From the comments on the BiteClub blog, people are saying ugly things about Molly and Upper Fourth. I have no idea if any of them are true and I don’t care. My experience of Upper Fourth and Molly was only positive. I watched her work hard to make Upper Fourth a great bar, not just another bar. She rarely took a day off. And all of her employees were kind, helpful and considerate.

And she supported live music. She understood how booking a live jazz group in the early evening hours would help business, bring in more people and create something special for her patrons. Late on Fridays and Saturdays she booked a DJ and brought in the younger crowd who would stay there until closing. She was smart to do so.

Thank you, Molly. Thank you for Upper Fourth. I’ll never forget my time there, and I’ll always be eternally grateful to you for giving me my first steady gig and supporting live music.

Hey Gang!

Here’s my first video blog, inspired by the fact that I’ve been too damned busy to write an issue of Diva News, or even a blog post for that matter.

Just to catch you up as I enter my 6th month in New York.