I learned a tough lesson yesterday, really tough: sometimes my “best” is simply not possible. Especially after I’ve neglected my health, my well-being, and, well, myself.
I was this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Ra7U547z-w but now I’m someone that has to wear a back brace to sing simple songs.
Listen, don’t cry for me Argentina. I have no doubt that Mimi, Contessa, Pamina, Fiordiligi, Euridice, a wicked Callas impression, etc. are all still hidden in my body somewhere. I know I can find them again someday, if I want to.
But it sure as hell won’t happen Sunday. My best for Sunday was really broken down yesterday by my amazing collaborator, Iryna. Where am I now? What is my best today, not in 2007 or 2009 or even 2012?
That was a hard moment for me. My best today looks nothing like my best from just one year ago. Before, it was just stress. Now? I can’t walk sometimes.
Bach wrote SDG at the end of a many of his works – Soli Deo Gloria – “to God alone be the glory.” That’s part of my “best” and my best because both the inflated version of what I can do and the ground-level-getting-real version purpose together to meet that goal: give it to God.
My best for Sunday will be singing a nice concert. It won’t be singing my beloved arias because my body simply cannot do it. It won’t be looking super glamorous because I look exactly how I feel, which is hopeful but tired. The hardest “it won’t be” is that this concert won’t be what I want.
But the event will be exactly what I want. My friends, the good ones that don’t say “uh, I’m just, uh, not feeling, uh”…they will be there. Probably one or two strangers will be there. Iryna will be there. God bless him, Canon José Mittaz of Grand St. Bernard will come down from a mountain, take a 4-hour journey…and be there. Everyone will be talking about the place I love: the Hospice du Grand St. Bernard.
So, it was enough of a reason to drag my body out of bed, to the couch, turn on the heating pad (my boyfriend), and type these words. I see my phone and want to SMS Jackson (“Snow” will be amazing) and also get a cup of coffee, but Jessica Fletcher needs to stay on her heating pad.
One thought on “I am not Maria Callas, I am Jessica Fletcher from Murder She Wrote”
:(. Xoxo P & M