Are You a Woman or a Mouse?

APRIL 13, 2020

In light of the preceding post I’d like to write about why I’ve chosen to keep a blog as part of my music project.

Let’s start with a flashback from 8 months ago…

Last summer my family gave me the most amazing birthday present: a week-long stay at a tiny house on a small farm. It was impossibly affordable and within driving distance. I filled my car with watercolors, notepads, sketching materials, speakers, a new midi, a banjo, a guitar, a harmonica, a bathing suit, a camera and twinkle lights to hang inside—to have the supplies to pursue whatever creative whimsy came my way. My sister encouraged me to read Annie Dillard's The Writing Life while on this retreat—a book that has meant a lot to her as someone who writes for a living. I was excited to see what the book would mean to me.  Looking towards a year of music I strangely felt a pull not just to continue honing the skill of writing lyrics but to also write posts documenting and reflecting on the process ahead. I didn’t understand why but I felt strongly that I should. 

I wanted to be mindful of the work, the struggle, and the joys of making art— something I had never given priority to before. They say writing is thinking and thinking is writing, and I wanted the opportunity to more fully experience all that lay ahead: to make explicit the jumble of thoughts and feelings that would emerge on this new endeavor. That is why I was particularly struck by Annie’s concluding words in a section about letting go and starting over. She talks about how important revisions are when you find yourself attached to an out of place section. These revisions, however, must be done to make the work coherent. She speaks about the courage and bravery to start over and let go of these precious paragraphs in order to move on towards the clarity and service of the larger project. She empathizes with the pain of it and then writes:

“Are you a woman or a mouse?”

A fair question for a person starting on a new life journey. A fair question for an insecure artist on the edge of releasing her first album. A fair question for any woman. I wanted my answer to be clear but it wasn’t. As with most every aspect of this new adventure, I felt very afraid to start over and to embrace a new way of being. Writing down the process meant being accountable to the reader by making a continual record of the restructuring and reformation of my life . As I’ve said, I was afraid to be exposed as silly, un-thoughtful, or (heaven forbid) a bad writer. Yet, I still felt the pull. 

Then on I read:
“How we spend our days, of course, is how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing.” 

At this point the sun is rising high. My body warms as the coffee slowly cools. I pull my knees up to my chest and take a moment to appreciate that I am currently doing with this moment what I truly want to do with my life: wonder, create, and be present in the world. I feel the air thicken, clouds slowly dissipate overhead. And another thought comes to mind...

I want to be brave.

I want to be brave in my art, I thought, as in my life. For a few years leading up to that time, I had been working through my commitment to be transparent in my professional and personal life, especially when it came to facing stigma around mental illness. When it came to music, however, I was very timid about exposing anything too personal about myself: mental illness, political commitments, etc. In my prior work I was open with anyone who asked or I felt needed to know about my mental health struggles. After a mourning period, I also shared news of my separation. I spoke about my commitments to an anti-racist, anti-sexist, anti-classist society, and I worked hard to find the courage to speak up when I saw these prejudices arising around me. I also worked hard to confront them openly/publicly in myself by being accountable to others. 

It was through investigating what an authentic life looked like for me that I unearthed how much suppressed creativity was beneath my troubled surface.  I realized that making music meant transparency, and a transparent life (authentic and coherent life) meant making music. While working on music seriously and sharing it publicly was a HUGE commitment to vulnerability it became clear that I would also need to expose the reasons behind my timidity.

And then, as I sipped more coffee:

 “There is no shortage of good days. It is good lives that are hard to come by…Who would call a day spent reading a good day? … But a life spent reading—that is a good life.” 

Who would call a day spent creating a good day? But a life spent creating—that is a good life. For me the work of making music is — at least for now— tied up in the work of the vulnerability that comes from being transparent. Not just to spend a life making music, but to spend a life building courage, facing the challenge that is not only standing in front of bodies at a gig, but “standing in front of" critical eyes reading these words on a screen, and also standing in front of my own insecurities and the voices in my head that say “No one will listen to your music if they know who you really are”. It means standing in front of fear, rising to meet it and by doing so feeling the sweat of work I can embrace as good and authentic.

Tomorrow I could lose the ability to sing, and my current music project would have to shift dramatically. But the practice of growing in courage, if continually honed, will allow me to tap into whatever new horizon of calling and interest comes after.

The chorus from a song long kept on my shelf comes to mind:

My hands, they tremble when
I feel the salt and sand
But my heart calls to the sea
Where the fearsome waits for me.

So I will keep trying to be present with you, dear reader, in this time of exploration and vulnerability as I face the fear. Because it isn't only what I fear that waits...waiting too are hope and revelation and a life worth living. 

Until Soon, 

Remona Jeannine